Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [88]
When Belson got within ten yards, I pretended to see him at last, rushing forward with the same carefree smile he claimed to enjoy seeing each time I destroyed an opponent at chess. I even held out my hand in greeting, but he was in no mood to shake it.
“What’s going on here, Piper?”
I signaled that I couldn’t hear—which was completely true, as it happens—and led him a few steps back toward the school buildings. In the background, I heard the blurry mess that was Dumb’s fifth song end with a chaotic flourish.
“Your band has been banned from performing on school grounds,” said Belson sternly, clearly tired of walking.
“My band has been what?” I shouted.
“Banned.”
“Yes, the band. What about it?”
“It was banned,” repeated Belson, matching my shouts.
“It’s still a band,” I explained, waving my hand at Dumb as though he was being dense.
I expected Belson to call me out for willfully misunderstanding him, but he didn’t. “They’re not allowed to play on school grounds,” he sighed.
“They’re not on school grounds.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“They’re on my car. All five of them. I’d never let them break a school rule, Mr. Belson, you know that.”
Belson stared at me, but he didn’t seem angry, just resigned. “I’m going to look for the principal now, Piper. He’s almost certainly too busy to deal with this, but if he gets around to it, I think he’ll be furious.” He nodded to himself a few times, then adjusted his tie and began walking back toward the school.
If the principal was busy, then so much the better. I was prepared to debate the legal definition of “school grounds” with the highest authority in the land if necessary, but there were only ten minutes until the end of lunch break, and I preferred not to risk further suspension if it was avoidable.
With half an eye on the school doors, I returned my attention to Dumb. I figured they must have been doing okay, as they’d been moving swiftly through their set, but suddenly they seemed to be in shambles. Still, I couldn’t be certain that things sounded as bad as they looked, so I scanned the faces of the audience for confirmation . . . and got exactly that. Ed’s car-top drumming had been reduced to a single pounding beat as he struggled to keep everyone in time. Josh was moaning as if lyrics were an optional extra. And Kallie was staring at her fingers imploringly, willing them to find the right notes. She barely seemed to notice that she was so out of time the right notes wouldn’t help one bit. And it wasn’t for lack of practicing—she mouthed the lyrics like she’d been playing along with the song for hours—it was just lack of skill. At the end of the day, Kallie just wasn’t up to the level of the others, and I hated knowing how unavoidable that truth had become.
When the song fizzled to an apologetic close, Josh hopped off the car’s hood and bowed deeply (and, I hope, ironically). He faced me and shrugged like the whole freaking mess had nothing to do with him. But then Tash leaped off the roof and pounded toward us. Instinctively I threw myself between them. The last thing we needed was another suspension for fighting.
“What’s going on?” I shouted.
“Josh wants to cut ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit,’” spat Tash. “I’ve been practicing it for hours.”
I whipped around to face Josh. “You’re kidding.”
Josh shook his head nonchalantly.
“You were pretty close to nailing it last Sunday. What’s wrong with it now?”
“Too many new lyrics. It’s not as easy to learn the music and lyrics as it is to master a little guitar solo, you know.”
“But we agreed on the set—”
“And you can play everything for all I care. It’s just that I’ll have already left the stage.