Beat the Band (33 page)

“Are you sure they’re still going to have this thing?” Matt’s mom says as we head out my front door, everyone bundled up in their winter coats. “It seems dangerous to be on the road.”

“It’ll be fine,” Dad assures her. “Just follow me. I’ll make sure I hit all the cars and pedestrians to get them out of your way.”

Matt and Val go in his mom’s car with his grandpa Arlo and Mrs. Hoogenboom, Sean rides shotgun with his father, and Helen joins me in the backseat of our car. Mom starts in with Christmas carols as soon as we’re out of the driveway.

“God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,”
she sings.

“No, Mom,” I say. “It’s
Undress these married gentlemen, their long things on display.”

She turns and looks at me over her shoulder. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg.”

“I think he’s right, honey,” Dad says.
“Renouncing nice behavior, their dingle-dangles sway.”

I laugh as Mom gives Dad a stern look.

“To save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray,”
Helen sings, picking up the song.

“That’s right.” Mom croons,
“O tidings of comfort and joy. Comfort and joy. O tidings of comfort and joy.”

Helen looks over at me and smiles. She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“Good,” I say. “You?”

“Nervous.” She takes a deep breath. “But no fear, right?”

“You’re going to be great.”

We get to school and Dad pulls up to the gym doors, the car skidding a few feet on the slushy pavement before it comes to a full stop.

Dad’s out of the wagon first, playing traffic cop and waving the other two cars into position next to ours.

It’s a short walk to the gym doors, but the ground is slick and we have to be extra careful as we lug all of the equipment inside. Thankfully, it takes less time to get all the stuff out of the cars than it did to pack everything in them.

The gym is crazed with activity. Teachers and students setting up refreshment tables, stringing crepe paper streamers, hanging posters, filling balloons. The other bands are unpacking their instruments. Someone has a stereo blasting Radiohead over the loudspeaker.

Standing there, taking this in, I’m suddenly feeling all shaky inside.

“You need help setting up?” Dad asks as he carries the last few things into the gym.

“No,” I say, acting way more caszh than I feel. I glance back over my shoulder at the pile of equipment sitting on the gym floor. “We got it. Thanks.” I look up at the caged-in clock on the wall and see it’s just after six. “The show doesn’t start for another couple of hours. You guys should go to the diner and grab a dessert or something.”

“All right, then. We’ll leave you to it.” Dad claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t forget. Bring the attitude. And have fun.”

“We will,” I say.

He gives me a thumbs-up and then proceeds to do his “big junk walk” across the gym and out the door. At any other time, I’d be hiding my face with embarrassment. But right now, it just makes me smile.

Each of the four bands have been designated a wall in the gym. The band names written on butcher paper and taped to the floor of our respective “stages.” Cheeba Pet is by the bank of windows. Mjöllnir is opposite them in front of the foldaway bleachers. The Wicked is setting up at the far end of the gym under one of the basketball hoops. Which leaves the area under the opposing hoop for us.

“How should we do this?” Sean asks, standing amidst the heap of equipment with this bewildered where-do-we-even-start look.

“We’ll set up the drums at the back,” I say, gesturing at the spot directly under the basketball hoop. “Then we’ll do your keyboards on my left. Helen’s mic in front, of course. And the PA and guitar on my right.”

It takes around an hour to get everything up and running. The drums put together, the keyboard stands fully assembled, the PA wired up, all four of the microphones connected, the cables taped down to the floor.

“May I have your attention?” Mr. Grossman says, standing in front of the judges’ table. “Would all band members please join me over here.”

The bands all leave their respective stages and congregate around Mr. Grossman. When Matt, Sean, Helen, and me approach, it’s the first time any of the other group members seem to notice that Helen is part of our band.

Prudence, Bronte, Gina, and Kelly are the ones most visibly distressed. Glaring at us, then turning to each other and whispering. Justin Sneep and his baked boys don’t even bat a puffy red eye. And Andy Bennett appears to find the whole thing hilarious.

“Well, well, well,” Andy says. “Look who’s been adopted from the kennel.”

This gets a big laugh from his band members.

I feel my face flush. A rising sense of uneasiness. Like maybe it was a bad idea to go through with this after all. But I force the feeling down and look over at Helen. Standing there. Being strong. And I want to be strong for her.

“Does she howl?” Andy says. “I mean . . . sing?”

More laughter. Prudence and her pals joining in.

I ignore them, like Helen’s doing. Keep myself calm. And wait for Mr. Grossman to tell us why he called us over.

Finally, he clears his throat. “I’ve written the numerals one through four on sheets of paper and placed them in this receptacle.” Mr. Grossman indicates a small red cereal bowl on the table. “The number you pick will determine the order in which your band will do their sound check, as well as the order in which you will perform. Please choose a representative to pick a number for your party. We’ll do it alphabetically by group name. That means Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare will draw first.”

I tap Matt’s elbow. “Go pick number four,” I say.

Matt rolls his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He approaches Mr. Grossman, reaches his hand into the bowl, grabs a small square of paper, and unfolds it.

Matt shrugs. “Got it.”

I give him the thumbs-up.

“Why’d you want us to play last?” Sean asks me.

“Last band is always the headliner. And the one everyone remembers.”

Once all the numbers are chosen, the performance order is set: Cheeba Pet, Mjöllnir, The Wicked, Arnold Murphy’s Bologna Dare.

We listen to Cheeba Pet as they run through their ten-minute sound check. Playing a few bars of a tune by The Doors, the opening of a Bob Marley song, and then a couple of minutes of some kind of thrash-metal jam. It’s a bizarre mix of stuff, but they sound amazing. So much for all the other bands being tragic.

Mjöllnir does their sound check next, performing something completely unrecognizable as music. It’s a whole lot of hiss and distortion with Ernie Plingus screaming over it. If that’s the best they’ve got, then at least I know we won’t come in last.

Matt picks up his bikini-girl guitar and starts tuning it up. “Jesus, I’m getting nervous. Is anyone else getting nervous? All of a sudden, I can’t remember the chords to any of our songs.”

“It’s okay,” Helen says. “It’s normal to be a little anxious before a performance.”

“You don’t understand.” Matt looks down at his fret board. His hands are shaking. “I’m not just a
little
anxious. I’m terrified. My palms are sweating. I’m going to rust out my strings.” He wipes his palms on his jeans.

I step up next to Matt. Put my arm around his shoulders. “You’re going to be dazz, Matt. Trust me. You
know
the chords. We ran through these songs a million times yesterday.” I look across the gym at Valerie, who’s talking to Ms. Hosie. “Just chill. We’re going to have Val stand right in front during our set. You focus on her. It’s just going to be Val and The Doctor in this room. No one else.”

Matt nods as The Wicked start in on their warm-up. They do part of a Beyoncé tune and part of a Pink song. I can’t say I’m too impressed. Maybe they’re just holding back.

“We’re up,” I say when The Wicked put down their instruments.

“Can I put on my outfit?” Matt looks all twitchy as he plugs in his guitar.

“No.” I get myself settled on the stool behind my drums. “We’re saving that for the show.”

Sean hits the switch on his keyboards. “What do you want to play?”

“Let’s do ‘Go Your Own Way,’” Helen says. “Since we’re not doing that in our set.”

“Everyone ready?” I get nods from Matt, Sean, and Helen, then count us in.

We play through the first chorus. Sean hits a few sour notes and I speed up the beat a little too much, but Helen’s voice is pitch-perfect.

I catch Prudence and her gang hanging by the doors, listening to us and looking totally green, which makes me smile.

“Matt,” Sean says when we stop. “I can barely hear your guitar. You need to turn it up.”

He winces at the suggestion. “Can’t I just keep it in the background?”

I stand and look over my drums. “Dude. Come on. You’ve got this. It’s go monster or go home time.”

“I know. It’s just . . . when I’ve got my doctor’s coat on I can pretend I’m someone else. But like this”— Matt gestures at his street clothes —“I feel so . . . exposed.”

“Just close your eyes then,” I say. “And
pretend
you’re wearing your coat.”

Matt nods apprehensively. “Okay. I’ll try.” He turns up the volume on his amp and closes his eyes.

I start the drum intro to “Dani California” and we roll through the first two verses. We’re much tighter during this song, which makes me breathe a whole lot easier.

“Sounds good, guys,” Helen says, placing her mic back in the stand.

Valerie approaches and grabs Helen’s arm. “We better start getting your outfit ready.”

I laugh. “It’s
that
complicated?”

“Good things take time,” Valerie says. “Come on, we’ll use the second floor bathroom so we’re not disturbed.”

The girls exit and make their way down the hall. I catch sight of Prudence and Bronte heading in the same direction, and I get a bad feeling. I’m up off my drum stool, starting to go after them, when Sean grabs my arm.

“Coop, I’m getting some serious popping in my amp,” he says. “What do you think it could be?” He flips the switch on the amplifier to demonstrate. There’s a heavy buzzing sound punctuated by a series of loud snaps.

I glance toward the gym doors and tell myself that everything’s fine; that Valerie’s with Helen; that I’m just being oversensitive; and that we only have a few minutes to take care of this problem before the first band starts playing.

“Let’s take a look,” I say, moving to the back of Sean’s Marshall stack. “It’s probably just a loose cable or something.”

I’M CROUCHED BEHIND SEAN’S AMP
, about to apply electrical tape to the suspect cable, when out of nowhere this miserable feeling crashes over me like a tidal wave. It’s totally bizarre. I’ve never felt anything like it before in my life.

It’s like this knowing drops down into me and I am aware now that something’s wrong with Helen. I don’t know what it is, or how I know it. I just do.

I move from behind the amplifier, stepping by Matt. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Matt asks.

“To check on the girls,” I say.

Sean calls after me but whatever he says doesn’t register.

I bust through the gym doors and start walking down the hallway toward the stairs. The endless succession of blue lockers lining the walls, the shiny beige floor, the fluorescent lights on the ceiling, seem to stretch out forever. I’ve got that panicky I’m-not-going-to-make-it-in-time feeling thrumming inside me.

In time for what? I have no idea.

I pick up the pace, walking faster. But still the staircase at the end of the hall feels like it’s a mile away.

Prudence and Bronte come down the steps. They’re both laughing like they’ve just heard the greatest joke ever. As they approach me, they attempt to compose themselves.

“Good luck tonight,” Bronte sputters as they pass me. She waves Gina’s Flip Video camera at me. “You’re going to need it, traitor.”

And then both of them are busting up again.

I break into a run, taking the stairs two by two. Bolting down the second floor hallway, I have to skid to a stop when I finally reach the girl’s bathroom. I knock on the hollow metal door, trying to catch my breath. “Helen? Are you okay?”

There are voices coming from the other side but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

I pound the door with my fist. “Helen! Are you in there? Is everything all right?”

Several eternal seconds pass. I raise my fist to knock again, when Valerie cracks open the door. She has this I-hate-your-guts scowl on her face. I can hear Helen’s heaving sobs coming from inside the bathroom, and it breaks my heart.

“You’re such a bastard, Coop.” Her tone is contained but you can tell she’s pissed because her French accent is thicker than usual. “How could you?”

The terrible look in her eyes startles me more than her words. “How could I what? What happened? Let me see her.” I try to look past Val but she doesn’t budge.

“Didn’t she have enough to deal with already?”

Helen’s sobbing is suddenly louder, like she’s just been hit with a wave of impossible grief. Valerie glances over her shoulder, then returns her accusing eyes to me. “Is it true? You helped Prudence and her friends pull all those pranks? Took a dead frog from biology so they could put it in her sandwich? Stole her locker combination so they could break in?” Valerie’s voice is laced with anger and disbelief. “And then helped them fill out an application to Our Lady of Mercy?”