Beat the Band Read online

  Mrs. Turris reads out Sam’s and Prudence’s topic but it doesn’t register. I’m still stuck on Prudence’s tattoo. I’m imagining what it will be like to spend the rest of my life examining every inch of it.

  “This is so exciting.” Mrs. Turris laughs. She’s got the kind of round, trusting face you’d see on a pancake box. “I love placing things in Fate’s hands. It always turns out for the best in the end, I think.”

  Okay, I may yurp.

  I sigh loudly. Several of my comrades stifle chuckles.

  Mrs. Turris pays no attention and grabs another slip of paper from her torture box.

  I’ve pretty much given up trying to will the outcome of this. My Jedi mind control is obviously on the fritz today. I don’t even care who I get twinned up with anymore. Like it even matters. It’s just stupid Health. Sure I need to pass to graduate, but how hard is it going to be to swing a D-plus? Really. I’ll even take Stoner Sneep. Bring it on. Give me the worst you’ve got, Mrs. Turris. Give me boogers-in-the-nose Gerald Tyrell. Toss me Tara ten-chins with the wandering eye and steel-wool mullet.

  I breeze cheese in Fate’s face. How do you like that, teach?

  “Cooper Redmond . . .”

  Here we go, people. I maintain my chillaxed pose: slouching posture, one arm dangling carelessly over the back of my chair.

  Mrs. Turris does an on-purpose, anticipation-inducing, Academy Awards-y delay.

  Whatever. Let her have her fun.

  Nothing can faze me at this point.

  “And Helen Harriwick.”

  Except.

  Maybe.

  That.

  The class bursts with laughter.

  Hot Dog Helen? Are you twisting me? I hadn’t even considered this. I didn’t even notice she was in the class. She makes herself that invisible.

  My skin prickles with heat and my head swims, but I keep my face blank. Need to be caszh. Can’t appear weak.

  But come on! Jesus Christ!

  Prudence has her hand clasped over her mouth. Her eyes dart over to me and they are filled with evil glee.

  Matt and Sean have matching “yikes” expressions plastered on their mugs. They’re trying to be all sympathetic, but I can see both of them stifling laughs.

  I turn around and find Helen, who’s skim-milk skin has gone blotchy with clouds of pink. She is staring hard at her Health textbook, pretending the hysteria has nothing to do with the fact that she’s the school’s most taunted pariah.

  Thanks a ton, Mrs. Turris. Fate can eat me. There is no way this is “for the best.”

  Okay. I need to breathe. To think. How can I get out of this? There has to be a way. I just need to concentrate.

  Maybe Jell-O hawkin’ Andy would be willing to flip stinky Nicky. But as soon as I think this, I see the mirthful tears coursing down his cheeks and I already know he’d never go for it.

  Nothing could be worse than this.

  Absolutely nothing.

  “And your topic shall be . . .” Mrs. Turris announces like a judge handing down a life sentence. She has suddenly grown thirty feet tall, sprouted horns, and is engulfed in flames. Her voice is distorted and timpani-low as she reads my conviction. “Contraaaaceptioooon.”

  The room erupts in a nuclear explosion of whoops and howls. Gina and Kelly actually do a double fist bump, exploding their nugs in celebration.

  I try to keep calm but my head is still spinning.

  I swear I see Mrs. Turris look up to the heavens and cackle.

  “The various forms of, including condoms, the pill, and diaphragm. Cost, reliability, effectiveness, ease of use . . .”

  The desks, the chalkboard, the windows, the laughing mouths of Kelly, Bronte, Prudence, and Gina all swirl around me. I can only catch snippets of their jeers: “field research . . .”, “Corn Dog Coop . . .”, “Put some condom-ments on that wiener. . . .”

  The last thing I see is Helen, books clutched to her chest, fleeing the classroom.

  And then the darkness collapses around me, and right before the world disappears, I hear Andy’s voice calling out, “Theebedda — theebedda — theebedda — that’s all folks!”

  “THAT WAS TOTALLY AWESOME,” Sean says as we wait in the cafeteria line. “I’ve never seen anyone faint before. What was it like?”

  “I didn’t faint,” I correct. “I just got dizzy for a second.”

  “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Matt asks. “You still look sort of . . . pale.”

  “I’m fine. I just need some food. I haven’t eaten much since lunch yesterday.” Which is the truth. Mom was working late again, so dinner was a fend-for-yourself affair — which meant Pop-Tarts for moi — and I traded breakfast for three slaps at the snooze button.

  “Uh-huh.” Sean chortles. “That’s funny. I thought you nearly fell out of your chair because you got stuck with Oscar Mayer Helen.”

  “Don’t be such a tool, Sean,” I say under my breath. “She’s right there.” Or at least, I think she is. At the front of the line. But I might be wrong. The lunchroom is crammed with bodies and faces, none of which I can bring into sharp focus.

  “Like you never make fun of her,” Sean says.

  “Not when she can hear me, butt-wipe.” My stomach is creaking doors. I grab a lukewarm, foil-wrapped donkey burger, a chocolate chip cookie, and an apple juice, and plunk them down on my green tray. The thick smell of the cafeteria — salami, pizza squares, and lunch lady BO — is not the fresh air I need to clear my head. “Christ. That circus in Health class today. I mean, I can take it. But what they were saying about Helen. That was some of the cruelest shit I’ve ever heard.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Matt says, sliding a chicken-finger-and-french-fry boat onto his tray.

  Sean says nothing, just pretends to be studying today’s chow choices, which can lead to only one conclusion: he joined in on the verbal stoning.

  He can’t help it. Sean’s a lemming sometimes. But he can also be a throw-himself-on-the-grenade-for-you friend, which are few and far between.

  We pay for our meals and take up residence at the end of one of the metal-and-plastic picnic tables.

  “What are you going to do?” Matt asks, sinking his teeth into a chicken strip.

  “About what?” I unwrap my soggy burger, peel off the top bun, and start squeezing ketchup pouches, drowning the gray patty. You know you’re hungry when your mouth starts watering over crap like this.

  “About having to work with Helen.”

  “I don’t know. Drop out of school I guess.”

  “Now who’s being cruel?” Sean says.

  “I’m not being cruel, nutmeat. I’m being practical.”

  “Practical?” Sean smirks. “Right.” He bites into his elephant-foot-trampled grilled cheese, which causes a trickle of oil to pitter-patter on the plastic it was once wrapped in. Even that looks good to me.

  I start devouring my hamburger.

  “Look at it this way. Helen’s a brainiac,” Matt says. “You’ll get an A for sure.”

  “An A in exchange for a semester’s worth of ridicule, torment, finger-pointing, and being called Corn Dog Cooper?” I say through a mouthful of burger. “No thanks. Besides, who knows how long the repercussions could last?”

  Matt shrugs. “Maybe it won’t be like that.”

  “Put it in your corn hole, Corn Dog!” someone shouts as a storm of buttery niblets rains down on my head, hurled from somewhere in the general direction of the wrestling team. Dean “the Machine” Scragliano and Frank Hurkle turn and roar at each other as they slam their chests together. Everyone in our corner of the lunchroom — except Sean and Matt, who just grimace — cracks up.

  I could go over there and try to find out who chucked the corn at me, but really, what am I going to do if I figure out who it is? Offer up my ass to be summarily kicked?

  I grab a napkin and brush the kernels from my hair and clothes. I look at Matt accusingly. “You were saying?”

  “It’s today’s news, that’s all,” Matt says. “I bet it dies down in a week when something else comes along.”

  “That’s not how these things work, and you know it. It’s been almost two years since Helen’s hot dog habits were revealed. And that hasn’t eased one bit.” I look down at my T-shirt, which is now peppered with seed-sized grease stains. “If anything, it’s gotten worse. You were in class. They were like a pack of hungry cheetahs on a downed ibex. And now I’m the ibex’s partner. The rest of my high-school days are cursed.”

  “What’s an ibex?” Sean asks.

  “Look,” I say. “It’s not my fault about Helen, okay? Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe not. Maybe she saves abandoned kittens and spoon-feeds old people in her spare time. None of it matters, because if I’m seen hanging with Helen, or even perceived to be hanging with her, for any reason, my rep will be destroyed so fast I might as well find the nearest monkery and sign right up. Forget about tagging any bases; I won’t even be warming the bench. Like it or not, how people see you is everything in this world. And once you’re tainted, you’re tainted for life.” I take a swig of my juice. “You don’t tie yourself to an anchor that’s being thrown overboard. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “So you’re not going to do the project with her?” Matt asks.

  “Hell no!” I say. “Do I look like an idiot?”

  “Then what?” Sean says.

  “We can just do our own thing. Split up the material and do two separate lessons. I’ll tell her next time I see her.”

  “Yeah, well.” Sean talks with a full mouth of sandwich. “You think you’ve got it bad? Guess who’s in my Math class?”

  “Oh, let me take a stab,” I say. “Tianna?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sorry
, but having your ex-girlfriend in one of your classes doesn’t even compare to my sitch.”

  “But I’m going to have to see her every day.”

  “It’s not even close, Sean. My problem is a million times worse.”

  Valerie appears out of nowhere holding a tray loaded down with a salad, a brownie, a cinnamon bun, and lemon meringue pie. As if somehow the roughage balances out the desserts. How she manages to stay looking so skinny eating all the crap she does is amazing. If she were anyone else, I’d think she was yurking it all up, but Matt says her whole family’s like that — her mom, dad, and her little brother, George — so it’s got to be lucky genes, plain and simple.

  Val sits down next to Matt. “Hey, guys,” she says. “What are we talking about?” I used to find that French accent of hers so hot, but now all it does is grate on me.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  To which Matt adds, “Coop got paired with Helen Harriwick for a Health class project.”

  “Yeah.” Valerie takes the lid off her salad. “I heard about that.”

  “You heard about it?” My stomach drops. “What’s it, on YouTube already?”

  Valerie shrugs. “Kelly told me at our lockers.”

  “Oh, really?” I say. “Did she tell you how she and Gina did a touchdown celebration when it was announced?”

  “You should be the one celebrating.” Valerie gestures with her plastic fork. “Helen’s on the honor roll every semester. It’ll probably be the only A you get in your life.”

  “That’s hysterious, Val,” I say. “But you can stop talking now, because we’ve already heard everything you’re going to say from your man-clone.”

  “What?” She looks confused.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Matt says. “He’s just ticked off because he thinks everyone’s going to associate him with Helen for the rest of his life.”

  “I don’t think. I know.”

  “Why do you even care about other people’s opinions?” Valerie asks, setting her salad aside untouched and tucking into her pie.

  I cock my head. “Why don’t you ask my corn-covered shirt? And while you’re at it, maybe you should ask Helen that question, too. Then get back to me.”

  Matt suddenly looks down intently at his tray. “S-T-F-U,” he mutters.

  I turn to see Helen’s ponytail-pulled moon face approaching. I’m hoping she’ll just walk on by, but she stops right at the head of our table, her books hugged to her bulky sweatshirt-clad body. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, like she’s been crying all morning. Which she probably has.

  “Here’s your chance,” Sean mutters.

  Helen starts talking, her lips barely moving. It’s impossible to make out what she’s saying because she’s talking so softly. Meaning I’ll either have to lean in close to hear her, or ask her to repeat herself, both of which will draw more attention to her standing here.

  I surreptitiously scan the cafeteria to see if anybody is catching this. Miraculously, everyone seems to be otherwise engaged. Could it be that the winds of luck have shifted since this morning?

  “I’m sorry, what?” I say.

  “We need to meet to talk about the Health project,” she says a little louder, her eyes cast downward.

  I’m tempted to point out that we could have done this during class if she hadn’t ducked out, but I don’t trust Sean not to pipe up about the fact that I passed out soon after.

  “Oh, yeah.” I cough. “About that . . .” Go ahead, Coop, buddy. Kick her while she’s down. Give her the old boot to the belly. Why should you have to suffer too?

  I look into her swollen eyes. There’s such sadness there. Aw, Christ. I take a breath. Close my eyes. Shake my head. “Let’s, uh . . . How about . . . after school?”

  “In the library?” Her voice is high and thin, like a badly played flute.

  Maybe it’s my imagination but she looks . . . What? Relieved? Which makes me feel like a prize jerk. I should just get this over with. Tell her we aren’t going to work together. But I can’t do it. Not here. Not now. “Uh, no. Not the library.” Not here at school. Not at the mall. Nowhere we could possibly be seen by anyone we’ve ever known ever. “How about . . . Golf Town?”

  “Golf Town?” She frowns.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s a golf shop. Out on Douglas. Next to a plumbing supply place.” The only reason I know this is because my father brought me to this strip of stores in the middle of nowhere to pick up some part for one of our sinks last year. “I have to buy a birthday present for my dad.” He’s never golfed in his life, but how would she know? “A club or a putter or something. Two birds with one stone, you know?”

  “Sure. Okay,” she says. “What time?”

  “How about . . . five o’clock?” I say.

  Helen writes it all down in her day planner. “All right. See you there.” She turns and heads off, back to wherever she sits during lunch. The girls’ bathroom, probably.

  “What are you doing?” Sean asks. “I thought you were going to tell her —”

  “She’s been crying, dude. Not all of us are heartless bastards like you.” But even as I say this, I’m trying to think of a million reasons why I can’t be at Golf Town today at five o’clock.

  “Hey, don’t take your frustrations out on me.” Sean points at me with his half-eaten lardwich. “I’m not the one who said he wouldn’t work with her.”

  “Want to trade?”

  “No.”

  “Thought so.”

  “Only because it’s nice to see you squirm for a change. But if she was my partner, I’d deal with it.”

  “If she was your partner, it wouldn’t mean anything. You’re already a plebe. People like to see the greats fall. They don’t try to topple the homeless.”

  “I’m not homeless.”

  “No, but you’re clueless.”

  “Guys,” Matt interrupts. “Enough already.”

  “Hey, I’ve got a thought,” Valerie says as she cuts her brownie into quarters. She’s already polished off her pie and her cinnamon bun.

  Oh, great. This should be good.

  “If it’s so important to Coop”— she pushes the brownie pieces into the center of the table for everyone to share —“why don’t you work with Helen, Matt? And Coop can work with Se —”

  “No,” Sean blurts. “That’s a bad idea.”

  I scowl at Sean. “Hey. The lady was speaking.”

  Sean looks at Matt. “Please, Matt. Don’t do it,” he begs.

  “Stay out of it,” I say. “This doesn’t affect you.”

  “Does too. Because you’ll make me do all the work. Matt’s at least fair.”

  I smile at Valerie. “Go on. You were saying?”

  “I mean, we know it’s not a big deal, right?” Val looks over at Matt. “But if it means that much to your friend, pourquoi pas?”

  Matt’s expression is priceless. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to cry or text the pope. “I . . . um . . .”

  It’s a stellar plan, really. Matt’s already got a wife. If all the other girls in the school think he’s diseased, it shouldn’t matter one pube to him.

  “Yeah . . . um . . .” Matt stammers. “Yeah. No. It’s, um . . . Yeah. Okay. Let’s switch. It’s a great idea, Val. I’ll take Helen.”

  “See,” Valerie says, taking a bite of brownie. “Le problème a résolu.”

  I toast the brilliant lady with my own piece of brownie. Maybe Matt being so whipped isn’t such a bad thing after all.

  “I’M TERRIBLY SORRY,” Mrs. Turris says when me, Matt, and Sean stop by her classroom after lunch. “But Fate has made up Her mind. And I am not one to mess with Her. Unless Fate intervenes, the partnerships must remain as they are.”

  “This is Fate right here,” I insist. “Intervening. Matt is desperate to work with Helen. What could be more fateful than that?”

  Mrs. Turris smiles. “Fate is beyond our control. By choosing to change partners, you’re trying to take back that control. I’m afraid I just can’t let it happen. My decision is final. The partnerships will stand.”