Beat the Band

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents are either products of the author’s

  imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2010 by Don Calame

  Cover illustration copyright © 2009 by iStockphoto

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

  transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system

  in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or

  mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording,

  without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First electronic edition 2010

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Calame, Don.

  Beat the band / Don Calame. —1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  Sequel to: Swim the fly.

  Summary: Paired with the infamous “Hot Dog” Helen for a

  health class presentation on safe sex, tenth-grader Coop tries

  to regain his “cool” by entering his musically challenged

  rock group in the “Battle of the Bands” competition.

  ISBN 978-0-7636-4633-2 (hardcover)

  [1. Popularity—Fiction. 2. Rock groups—Fiction.

  3. High schools—Fiction. 4. Schools—Fiction.

  5. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.C1241Be 2010

  [Fic]—dc22 2010006607

  ISBN 978-0-7636-5209-8 (electronic)

  Candlewick Press

  99 Dover Street

  Somerville, Massachusetts 02144

  visit us at www.candlewick.com

  “THIS IS IT, DAWGS,” I say. “From boys to men. Tenth grade is the year we tag all the bases. First, second, third, and then we slide into home.”

  “I’d just be happy to step into the batter’s box again,” Sean says.

  I shoot him a gimme-a-break look. “Don’t be so mopey, dude. Tianna was just a practice swing. Now you’re primed to aim for the fences.”

  Me, Matt, and Sean shortcut across Dreyfus Park, our bikes kicking up the dust that settled over the summer as we head toward the beige brick building of Lower Rockville High that looms like a penitentiary. A penitentiary chock with hotties, to be sure, but a lockup for most of the daylight hours, nonetheless.

  “I don’t know,” Sean says. “I don’t think I’m over her yet.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” Matt consoles. “It’s only been a week since you split up.”

  I laugh. “Are you kidding me? They were only going out for a month. A week is more than enough time to get over it. It’s standard formula: One day of angst for every week you were dating. Four weeks, four days. Over and out. Any more time is just a wank.”

  Matt looks at me in disbelief. “Where do you get these things?”

  “It’s common knowledge, dude. Google it.”

  “What do I do if I see her in the hall?” Sean asks.

  “What do you mean, if?” I say, pumping the pedals on my creaky mountain bike, feeling the strain in my legs as we split the goalposts and ride over the football field. “You are going to see her in the hall. She might even be in a bunch of your classes. Who gives a crap?”

  “Just say hi,” Matt offers.

  “No.” I glare at Matt. “Wrong. Do not take advice from the Whipped One.” I turn to Sean. “You say nothing. She dumped you, so she no longer exists. Simple as that.”

  “Ignore her?” Sean says. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  I sigh, exasperated. “Look, Sean. You’re a changed man. We all are. This past summer was epic. Look at all we accomplished. Our first party, yours and Matt’s first girlfriends, Matt kicking ass in the butterfly, seeing our first naked babe —”

  Sean cringes. “Please. Do not bring that up ever again. I’m still having nightmares about Ms. Luntz threatening to suffocate me with her gargantuan gazongas unless I swim a thousand laps.”

  “What I’m trying to say is, you’re no longer wet behind the ears. Tianna breaking up with you is the best thing that could have happened. I mean, seriously, why would you want to waste the best years of your life tied to just one babe? No offense, Matt.”

  “Why would I be offended?” Matt says. “It’s not like me and Valerie are getting married.”

  “No,” I say. “You’re just having her baby.”

  Matt scowls. “You’re so full of it, Coop.”

  “Sean-o? A little backup here. Matthew is, in fact, carrying Valerie’s baby, is he not?”

  “Leave me out of it,” Sean says, the wind whipping his hair.

  I raise my eyebrows at Matt, like “Need I say more?”

  “Jealous much?” Matt says.

  “Oh, yeah, without a doubt. Green as hell. Aren’t we, Sean? We’d love to have to ask permission anytime we want to do something. And be dragged to every chick flick that comes out. And have to drop everything whenever our ‘honeykins’ calls.”

  Matt shakes his head. “Everything you just said is total bullshit. And you know it.”

  I smirk. “Then why is your face getting red?”

  “Because it isn’t.”

  I glance at Sean. “Sean-o?”

  Sean looks off in the distance. “I said, leave me out of it.”

  Matt rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you guys have really matured this summer. It’s staggering.”

  We hop the curb into the student parking lot and pedal toward the bike racks. The lot is already full. I don’t have my driver’s license yet — another thing I need to get started on this year — but everyone knows that if you want to nab a parking space you have to get to school at least twenty minutes early. We pass my sister Angela’s car, recognizable by the fact that it’s the only one in the lot with a car cover. It’s her sickness. One of many.

  “Look, Matt,” I say. “You’re acting like we think it’s a bad thing. So, Valerie’s got a tight grip on your Mr. BoDangles. At least you’re getting some. Some of what, I’m not sure. But you seem comfortable with the trade-off. Personally, I wouldn’t be. And I’d be lying if I said Sean and I don’t miss you sometimes. But we get by. Don’t we, Sean?”

  Sean says nothing. Jesus, I hope he’s not going to use this Tianna thing as an excuse to be such a soggy turd all year long.

  The three of us coast up to the bike racks and leap off our bikes.

  “All I’m saying is, we have an opportunity here.” I pull a key from the pocket of my jeans, unlock my bike lock, and unravel the chain from around the seat post. “Our summer goal was a success. We saw a live naked —”

  “Hey!” Sean shouts, waving a yellow coil lock at me like a weapon. “Did I not just ask you never to bring that up again?”

  I laugh. “Sorry. But remember what I told you at the beginning of the summer? About the natural order of things? Internet porn, live naked girl, and then the dirty deed? Well, we’re ready to take that next step.”

  “Would you stop it with that stupid theory of yours?” Matt says. “You wouldn’t know the natural order of things if it crapped on your head.”

  Sean snickers. I ignore him and give Matt a you-can’t-be-serious look. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, Matt. Maybe I shouldn’t be including you with me and Sean. Maybe you’ve already rounded all the bases. If you have, just say so.”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” Matt says, snapping his lock shut for emphasis.

  “So, no. That’s cool. Maybe they’re more conservative up in Canada. Valerie probably wants to wait until you tie the knot or something. Tell me you’ve at least gotten to second, though?”

  We start our trek past the soon-to-be-smelling-like-hell Dumpsters toward the back doors of the school.

  “You know what
?” Matt sighs. “The only people who talk about sex as much as you are the ones who haven’t even gotten up to bat yet.”

  I slap my forehead. “Oh, my God. Not even second base? Jesus. What’s the point of letting Val cinch the choke chain so tight then, Mattie?”

  “Valerie and I are doing just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Well then?” I ask.

  “It’s private.”

  “It’s private,” I mimic. “Dude, you don’t think she’s gabbing about it to all her galpals? That’s all babes do. They talk and talk and talk about everything.”

  “Whatever,” Matt says. “Anyway, even if I was going to tell you — which I’m not — I have no idea what your definitions of the bases are. I’m sure they’re probably incredibly sick and twisted.”

  I place my hand on my chest. “Hey, when it comes to the bases I happen to be a purist. First is Frenching. Second is fondling the floppers. Third is rummaging in the basement. Home run is all the way.”

  “I thought third was oral,” Sean says.

  “No, that’s choking up on the bat,” I say. “And then of course there’s the conference on the mound. The knuckleball. A doubleheader. Extra innings. A grand slam. And, of course, the triple play.” I waggle my eyebrows at my friends. “Which also happens to be in my plans for this year.”

  “In your dreams.” Matt grabs the door and holds it open.

  “All great things begin with a dream, Mattie,” I say as we enter the building, ready to start what promises to be an epic first semester.

  “AND HERE WE GO,” Mrs. Turris says, reaching her soft, pork bun hand into the blue shoebox that sits on her desk. I feel like I swallowed a still-buzzing bee as she pulls two slips of paper from the box.

  I can’t believe we’re already being subjected to the humiliation lottery and it’s only third period on the first day back to school. Mrs. Turris says that this will be a “glorious and enriching opportunity” for us to work with one of our classmates for an entire semester. Each couple will get to research a specialized health topic, after which we will — as a pair of studied-up experts — present our findings to the class by “teaching” everyone what we’ve learned.

  Not a ten-minute presentation. Not a twenty-minute demonstration. A full class period lesson with handouts, visual aids, questions and answers, and who the hell knows what else, the whole of which will make up 85 percent of our grade in Health.

  It’s a big old diaper load if you ask me. Sounds like a way for our Health teacher to get out of doing her job. Make the helpless slaves do the dirty work.

  When I brought this up to Mrs. Turris — in not so many words — she just laughed and said, “Cooper Redmond, you rascal, you’ve found me out.” Like it was all a big joke or something.

  But she’s going forward with it anyway.

  If this were one of those work-with-a-partner-for-one-week deals there’d be a lot less at stake. But we’re talking about being shackled to a person for three solid months — in and out of class. Depending on who you get, it could either be genius or a world of pain. If I’m lucky, I’ll get Matt or Sean. If I’m super lucky, I’ll be partnered up with one of the Phenomenal Four — Prudence Nash, Kelly West, Bronte Hastings, or Gina Lagotta. It’s rare you get four of the school’s hottest girls in one class, which I take as a solid omen for the year. Working that close with any one of them will give me ample opportunity to play some serious babesball.

  The papers make a rustling sound as Mrs. Turris unfolds them. “Andrew Bennett and Nicholas Hickey,” she reads.

  All the kids in the classroom snicker.

  Andy winces.

  Nicky’s head drops.

  Class assbag meet Cabbage Boy. Sometimes there is justice in the world.

  I can breathe again. The first pairing has been decided, and already two of the biggest booby prizes have been awarded. And to each other. Which is classic.

  The only thing you have to know about Andy Bennett — besides the fact that he’s been desperately trying to grow a mustache for the last two years — is that he likes to spit Jell-O cubes at all the babes and can’t understand why this move doesn’t make them lie down naked at his feet.

  And Nicky Hickey? Smells. Bad. Real bad. Like brussels sprouts rolled in fish food. He might not even be such a terrible guy, but you just can’t hang with him long enough to find out.

  Me, Matt, and Sean share a thank-holy-Jesus look.

  Mrs. Turris brushes a curly blond lock from her forehead. “The topic you will be researching and teaching a lesson on will be . . .” She grabs the nearby yellow shoebox and blindly plucks an index card from it. Drum roll please. “Alcohol.”

  “I did a few pints of research on that very subject this past weekend,” Andy quips, running his hand down the baby beard he’s sprouting on his chin.

  One person sniggers in the back corner, but really, nobody wants to encourage him.

  Mrs. Turris ignores Andy’s comment and continues reading the card. “Its effects on the body. Consequences of driving under the influence. Alcohol addiction. Et cetera.”

  Personally, I don’t give two turds what subject I get. But I have to get a cool partner. Everything else is dealable.

  Mrs. Turris dips her paw back into the blue shoebox and draws two more names.

  “Sean Hance and Matthew Gratton.”

  Matt and Sean fist bump. The bastards.

  They both turn to me and make apologetic faces. I give them a shit-happens shrug, ’cause what else am I supposed to do? Threaten to ignore the food pyramid and eat a crap diet until Mrs. Turris pairs me up with one of them? As if I’ve ever eaten “heart healthy” in my life.

  It would have been stagg to work with Matt. We would have had a ton of laughs and maybe even gotten a decent grade, ’cause Matt’s actually pretty smart.

  I wouldn’t even have minded Sean. I mean, sure, we’d have barely passed, but at least we’re friends and neither of us smells like anus.

  Mrs. Turris scratches hard at her pad, trying to get the ink running in her pen so she can write down their names.

  I take a breath. No need to panic. Everything’s chill here. I’d rather get one of the lovely ladies anyway.

  I lean over to Prudence Nash — her soft brown hair framing her Victoria’s-Secret-model face — and shoot her my irresistible, whadda-ya-say grin. “Looks like our odds just got a little better, huh?” I whisper.

  “For what?” Prudence says, staring straight ahead. “A reason to commit suicide?”

  “For you and me, babe. That is, if your luck holds.” I give her a sly head tilt as Mrs. Turris rummages in her drawer for a new writing implement. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll be assigned the Kama Sutra. We can demonstrate the seventy-two most pleasurable lovemaking positions. What do you think about that?”

  Prudence flips me the middle finger. Still not looking in my direction.

  “Mee-ouch. You do know that’s how the deaf talk dirty to each other.”

  Prudence whips around and gives me the slow burn.

  “And your topic is,” Mrs. Turris says, finally ready to reveal Matt’s and Sean’s fate. “Sexually transmitted diseases. STDs. Contraction, prevention, and treatment.”

  Matt’s and Sean’s life-is-great expressions suddenly sour. Pube lice and penile scabbing. Not exactly a car for Christmas, is it, fellas?

  My cheeks start to tug a smile, but I wrest control.

  Mrs. Turris scribbles the topic down, then grabs two more names.

  “Gina Lagotta and Kelly West,” she calls out.

  Jesus Christ. Two more of my prospects paired up with each other. I don’t like how this is shaking out.

  Okay, just stay positive. There’s still Bodacious Bronte and Primo Prudence.

  I smile at Prudence to let her know she’s still my number one. Waggle the eyebrows. “The plot thickens.”

  Prudence’s hand rockets into the air. “Mrs. Turris?”

  “Yes, Prudence,” Mrs. Turris says, her sausage-finge
rs hovering over the yellow shoebox.

  “I’m not feeling well. May I go to the nurse?”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  “I just got really nauseous.”

  “How about you wait until we see who your partner is, so you two can schedule a time to meet. Then you can go to the nurse.”

  Prudence huffs and crosses her arms.

  “Kelly and Gina, the subject of your lesson will be . . .” Mrs. Turris pulls an index card. She’s having way too much fun with this. “Nutrition. What constitutes a healthy diet? Effects of an unhealthy one. How to read a nutrition label. And the like.”

  I scan the room to assess the situation. Beyond the two choice babes left, all the other potentials are bottom-feeders at best. I suppose I could deal with most of them if I absolutely had to. Anyone except Justin “Stoned Senseless” Sneep. I’d end up having to do all the work, which would be a giant sack of blowage.

  Come to think of it, if I wind up working with Prudence or Bronte, I’ll probably have to do the whole project myself as well. Although, if they’d be willing to work out an appropriate barter system, it might not be so bad.

  Still, I think I should have a plan B. So I’m not completely devastated if I lose out on my first tier of partners. Preferably someone who’s so concerned about being paired with me and my slothful ways that they’ll take up the lion’s share. Someone who’s too nice to get mad at me. Someone like . . .

  “Sam Shattenkirk,” Mrs. Turris reads, fumbling with the folded second slip.

  Yes! Smart, clean, friendly, non-threatening Sam. He’s my backup man. My backup plan. A lightness fills my chest. A flicker of hope. Come to Cooper. Come on. Cooper Redmond. Cooper Redmond.

  “And . . .” She gets the paper unfolded and reads. “Prudence Nash.”

  Damn it. It’s like I’m sinking in quicksand and all my lifelines keep snapping.

  Mrs. Turris smiles at Prudence. “There you go, dear. You can go see the nurse now.”

  “That’s okay,” Prudence says, tossing me a screw-you smirk. “I feel much better.”

  I wink at her to let her know I understand she’s disappointed.

  Prudence rolls her eyes.

  It’s the dance we do. Like birds before they mate. She hates me now, but someday soon, at some party or something, she’ll succumb to the Cooper charm, and we’ll fall into each other’s arms, making out like a couple of horny cave people. We’ll retreat to one of the bedrooms and chew and claw each other’s clothes off. And then, finally, I’ll get a full view of the serpent tattoo that snakes down the small of her back. The one I’ve only gotten teasing glances of when she squats to pick something up off the floor and her low-rise jeans ride just a little lower.