Beat the Band (9 page)

“WE ARE VERY PROUD
to announce the four bands that will be performing in Lower Rockville High’s illustrious Battle of the Bands this year.” Mr. Grossman’s melodious commercial-ready voice pops and crackles over the school’s cheap-ass PA system like he’s speaking over a bowl of Rice Krispies.

I’m biting the hell out of my thumbnail as I sit on the edge of my seat in homeroom. There’s the sting of a ripped cuticle and the aluminum-foil taste of blood on the tip of my tongue. This ought to be the danger sign that tells me to stop gnawing on myself, but it’s been a pretty hang-cliff morning and I’m vibrating with nervous energy, so I just move on to another finger.

I skipped out on meeting Helen at the library on Sunday. Not on purpose. It just slipped my mind because I was so caught up in trying to learn to play our demo songs on the drums. They’re not as easy as I thought they’d be. I started practicing right after my bowl of Chocolate Lucky Charms and didn’t stop until after three. And by then, of course, it was too late. But it’s chill. I know Helen won’t narc me out, otherwise she risks getting us both three months of detention.

“First off, we’d like to thank all of the participants who entered a demonstration CD,” Mr. Grossman continues. “We were quite impressed with the high caliber of the performances submitted. Although, in one particular band’s case, we found their original song to be
not
so original, I’m afraid. I won’t name names at the moment. But I can assure you, we will be conducting a thorough investigation into what appears to be a case of blatant plagiarism.”

“Oooooooooh,” the class collectively responds.

Fuuuuck me.

I break out in a cold full-body sweat. My ears
wah-wahing
.

“And now, on to the announcements.” Mr. Grossman’s voice sounds like it’s echoing down a long tunnel. All of a sudden, I feel like Luke Skywalker trapped in the trash compactor. The walls closing in around me. “Our first band is an all-girl group, consisting of students Kelly West, Gina Lagotta, Bronte Hastings, and Prudence Nash. The Wicked.”

There are loud catcalls and enthusiastic desk smackings from most of the guys in the room. At any other time in my life, the thought of those four gorgeous girls singing and gyrating onstage would be giving me a blue steeler. But right now, I feel like I’ve just come down with the world’s worst flu.

“Our second band, whose members include Larry Fungfeld, Ernie Plingus, Greggory Zuzzansky, and Andrew Bennett, is Mjöllnir.”

I barely register the names of some of the school’s biggest losers. I can’t breathe. I stare at the door to the classroom. How obvious would it seem if I bolted?

Just take a pill, Coop. There’s no proof you stole those songs. They’re just going ask some questions. If you play it chill, you’ll glide right over this thing. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.

I look down and read the words
DESK OF THE YEAR
’06 that somebody shakily carved into my desktop a million years ago. Well, there now, see? I’m sitting at an award-winning desk. Things are looking up already.

“Our third band, comprised of students Justin Sneep, Lucas Izzi, and Brody Carson, is Cheeba Pet.”

This gets a chuckle from about half the class. How did
that
get past the censors? Obviously, Mr. Grossman neglected to google “cheeba.” And yet, he somehow managed to find Understain — the most obscure amateur Canadian band possible — on MySpace.

I lay my head down on the desk. The wood veneer is cool on my cheek. I don’t know why I thought that this would go my way. Tenth grade is obviously going to be my year of disgrace.

“And our fourth and final band that will be competing in December sixteenth’s Battle of the Bands is . . .”

I wonder if I’ll even be able to get into another school. And if I do, will I get to start off fresh? Or will my new Corn Dog reputation trail me there like a bad smell?

“Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare!”

I guess I had to get called out someday. I mean, Christ, I’ve gotten away with so much stuff in my life already. It’s just the odds, plain and simple.

“Featuring Cooper Redmond, Matthew Gratton, and Sean Hance.”

Wait, did he just say . . . ? I bolt upright. Holy crap. He did. He said our names.

We’re in.

We’re
in
!

They bought it! Ha! I knew it would work.

A wave of pure relief washes over me.

Dean Scragliano beans me with his beaten-up copy of
Lord of Flies
. “Nice band name, Corn Dog. Bologna Dare?” He laughs. “Way to keep it in the meat family. You guys should play some Meat Puppets. Or Meat Loaf.”

“Yeah, and you should go play your meat whistle,” I say, suddenly feeling invincible. “I hear you’ve been practicing a lot on your wrestling buds.”

Dean leaps to his feet just as the bell rings.

I’m out the door and lost in the crowd before he can come after me.

My phone vibrates. I grab it from my pants pocket and check the screen. A
wtf?
text from Sean and an
r u hI?
from Matt.

I text them both back:
mEt n hOl.

I’m going to have to do a bit of explaining. And a lot of convincing.

This should be interesting.

LAST YEAR, ME, MATT, AND SEAN
found an old storage room — the Hole — in the basement of the school that nobody seems to know about. Or at least, that no one uses much anymore. It’s always unlocked and filled with old school furniture and moldy boxes of crap that look like they haven’t been opened since the Civil War. It’s the perfect hangout where we can play our PSPs and not be hassled by the Man. It’s also the ideal location for spur-of-the-moment meetings like this one.

That’s where I’m standing, watching a daddy longlegs climb a rusty file cabinet, when Sean storms through the door, his head and chest jutting forward like a cartoon wrestler going in for the kill. “You assbag!” he shouts.

He’s all red-faced and googly-eyed. It’s too funny. I know he’s uber-pissed, but I can’t help cracking up. It’s my nerves as much as anything else. Still, it doesn’t help the situation.

I clap my hand over my mouth but my body still shakes.

“You think this is
funny
? You think this is something to
laugh
about?”

“No,” I say, laughing.

“You’re a prick, you know that? A selfish, egotistical, narcissistic prick!”

I dodge the spittle that flies from his frothing mouth. “Jesus, did you get a thesaurus for your birthday, Sean?”

A moment later, Matt pushes open the storage room door, shaking his head and looking weary.

“Tell him, Matt,” Sean says, swatting Matt’s arm. “People congratulating us. Offering fist pounds. And us having to pretend like we were totally stoked. It was so freakin’ humiliating.”

“Look, I would have told you guys I was handing in a demo,” I say, “but I wanted to keep you dawgs insulated in case anything went down. It was like a million-to-one shot. I didn’t think it was actually going to be an ish.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a
major
ish now, buttleak!” Sean kicks one of the old stacked-up boxes, and his foot sinks deep into the cardboard. “How are we supposed to bail out now with everyone being all kudos and cheers?” He tries — and fails — to pull his foot free. “The whole school heard that announcement. We’re gonna look like a bunch of tool bags.” Sean’s as angry as I’ve ever seen him, but I have to say, with him shaking his leg, struggling to extricate his foot from that box, it’s hard to take him seriously.

“There’s a simple answer to that. We don’t bail.”

Matt sits on an old wooden dugout bench. “How’d you do it? What’d you hand in?”

I shrug. Try to look caszh. “I jacked some songs off MySpace. Some nobody band. It’s totally airtight.”

“That’s called plagiarism, idiot,” Sean says, jerking his foot back hard from the box. “Could you be any stupider?” When his foot finally comes free, it does so without his sneaker. The sock that dangles there is gray and holey.

I bust up. “Dude.”

“Dude yourself. You heard Mr. Grossman. They already called out one band that handed in a fake demo. When they find out you jacked those songs, we’ll be expelled.” He shoves his hand into the box and digs around for his shoe. “If you want to get yourself thrown out of school, be my guest. But do me a favor, huh? Leave me out of it.”

“The band I cribbed is called Understain,” I say. “You ever hear of them?” I don’t bother waiting for an answer. “Neither has anyone else on the planet, except maybe their parents. Who, I’m assuming, live in
Canada
. Which is where they’re from. So untwist your tighty-whities, Sean.”

He wrenches his sneaker from the box. “
You
untwist them, Coop! How about that? Untwist them straight to hell.” He hurls his shoe at me but misses by a good two feet.

“Jeez, do some yoga, dawg,” I say.

“Don’t tell me what to do! I’ve put up with all your idiot schemes in the past because at least you had the decency to tell us about them. But going behind our backs like this? That’s totally screwed.”

I look over at Matt, who shrugs like Sean’s got a point here.

Sean retrieves his sneaker, then plops down on the dugout bench to pull it on.

I take a deep breath. “Okay. Look. Just hear me out for a sec. I’m totally sorry I wasn’t upfront about this. Seriously. It was wrong. I know. And I’ll never do it again. I promise. But you’re looking at this the wrong way. We’ve been handed an opportunity to be rock stars in our school. I mean, look at the reaction you got just for getting into the Battle of the Bands.” Of course, I don’t mention the reaction I got from Dean Scragliano. But we can deal with that later. “Just think about all the babes who’ll be hurling their thongs at us when we’re rocking out onstage.”

“Maybe just hurling,” Matt says. “When they hear how bad we sound.”

Matt seems way more chillaxed than Sean. Which is good. I think I can turn him. As long as Valerie doesn’t get in the way. And if Matt signs on, Sean’ll tag along.

“So what if we can’t play right now?” I start to pace. “We’ll get better. It’s just gonna take some practice. My dad said he’d help us out. He had a band in high school and they were like superstars.”

“No. I’m not listening to this. You’re just doing your whoopty-doopty-loopty-doos again.” Sean twirls his hands in the air like a crazy man. “Spinning things around. Making yourself come out all sweet and clean.”

I keep my voice calm. “We’ve been presented with the chance of a lifetime here, boys. We talked about forming this band two years ago. But talk is cut-rate. I took action. That’s what’s so great about us being friends. I need your talent and smarts, and you need my good looks and screw-the-consequences attitude. Otherwise we’d never do anything. It’s like you’re little baby ducklings that I have to scoot into the water. Because
I
know you can swim.
I
have faith in your greatness, even if
you
don’t have it in yourselves. I mean, think about all my other plum plans. You’ve never regretted joining in.”

“Oh, no?” Matt says. “What about the time you convinced us to jack that coffin lid from the funeral home Dumpster and use it as a toboggan?”

“Okay. So
one
time things didn’t go . . . exactly as planned.”

“Really?” Sean says, sarcastically. “How about when you had us jump off your roof using an umbrella as a parachute?”

“Christ! Are you guys gonna live in the past forever? I’m talking about the here and now.”

Sean points at me. “And then there was that time when we were six and you talked me into eating all that Play-Doh to see if my duke would come out different colors.”

Matt and I glance at each other and bust up.

“Now
that
was dope,” Matt snorts. “It came out like a rainbow roll.”

Sean suppresses a smile. “More like a tie-dyed PayDay.” His face isn’t nearly as red as before. Which is good.

“Okay, look,” I say, sitting down between Matt and Sean, one arm around each of them. “I’m gonna lay it on the line, dawgs. This Helen thing is going to kill me. Everyone calling me Corn Dog all the time. Getting slammed in the hallways. Doused in niblets. I mean, forget about rounding any bases, I just don’t think I can handle this much longer. Mentally. I’m serious. I might even have to get my family to move. Which would totally suck, because I’d miss you guys.”

Matt and Sean both look at me.

“I don’t know what else to say. I’m begging you. If you won’t do it for yourselves, then do it for me.”

Sean takes a deep breath and lets it out loudly.

“Think about it,” I continue. “If we win this thing, we instantly become the coolest kids in school. Nobody will be able to make fun of us. There won’t be a party we won’t be invited to. The hottest girls in the school will want to shack up with us, then steal our underwear and sell them on eBay. What’s so bad about that?” I squeeze the backs of their necks. “And I promise, if any heat comes down about the demo, I’ll take the full brunt. You know I will. But I’m telling you, if you bail on this you’re going to regret it for the rest of your lives.”