Beat the Band by Don Calame Page B

because my fortunes have most definitely taken a turn for the better.
    “You think you should do something. But let’s be honest. You aren’t going to do anything. Focus on your band if that’s so important to you. Why are you arguing?”
    “I’m not. I’m just . . . For reals?”
    She nods.
    “Okay. But I did have an idea for our presentation.”
    Helen scowls. “Oh. Is that so?”
    “Don’t sound so surprised. It’s not like I haven’t been thinking about the project.” All right, so that’s a total crock. I’ve barely given the actual project a second thought. But I did come up with this one thing while Dad was putting on his condom show.
    “Okay. What is this brilliant idea?” Helen leans back and crosses her arms.
    “You know what? People might like you a whole lot more if you weren’t so sarcastic all the time.”
    “Yeah, well, I’m trying to think how people might like you more, but that’d require an entire personality transplant.”
    “Mee-ouch.” I laugh. “Good one. Anyway, what I was thinking was that we should get a whole whack of birth control stuff. You know. To have out on a table. Like a giant display or something. Then we can pass them around — condoms, diaphragms, pills, lubes — while we’re giving our presentation. To keep everyone busy while we’re up at the front of the room acting like we know what we’re talking about.”
    Helen studies me. Then shrugs. “Why not? That can be your job. Get whatever you can and bring it in when we do our lesson.”
    “Hey now. I thought we agreed it was better if I didn’t actually have to do anything.”
    “It’s your idea.”
    “Right. I’m the ideas man. It’s my strong suit.”
    “Well, I’m not about to go out and buy a whole bunch of contraceptives.”
    “Who said anything about buying them? Just collect up whatever you have around the house.”
    Helen looks like I just snapped her bra. Oh, crap. I just stepped in it. “What makes you think I have any of that stuff around my house?”
    “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I just figured. Because . . . you know.”
    “No, Coop. I don’t know. Why don’t you explain it to me? Is it because you think I’m a slut, like everyone else does?” Helen’s voice is a low, hissing whisper. “That I sleep around with anything and everything in the world? Is that it? Go ahead. Say it.” Her ears are bright red. Her eyes are narrow, angry slits. “You think I give a shit what you think about me? What anyone thinks about me?”
    “Eh hemmm.” Mrs. Turris clears her throat. “Helen? Cooper? May I see you a moment?”
    “Send them to the pound!” someone calls out, which makes the rest of the class crack up.
    I feel all the blood rush to my face as I realize I’m not exactly out of the Hot Dog woods just yet.

ME AND HELEN WALK UP the aisle toward the front of the room. Andy Bennett starts whistling the wedding march, which gets a big laugh from the class. It kills me that my sorry sitch has made this knuckle dragger a bona fide class clown.
    “We need to chat,” Mrs. Turris says to us when we arrive at her desk.
    “Cool,” I say. “What about?”
    “You two seem to feel like you can afford to waste your class time today. You must have gotten a lot done at the library yesterday.”
    “Oh, yeah. For sure,” I say. “Couldn’t have gone better. Right?”
    I glance at Helen, who stands stiffly. Her cheeks cherrying. I bet she’s never had to lie to a teacher before. Personally, I think it’s healthy for her to expand her horizons a bit.
    “Excellent.” Mrs. Turris interlaces her fingers on her desk. “May I see what you accomplished?”
    “Mmm,” I say, the possible excuses ping-ponging around my skull. “Unfortunately, you can’t.”
    “And why is that?”
    “Well, because we had a brainstorming session, Mrs. Turris. We spitballed all these ideas around and then just scribbled them in a notebook so we could keep the juices flowing.”
    “All right. May I