The BEDMAS Conspiracy (4 page)

For the rest of the day, I wavered back and forth on cancelling band practice. Sweat trickled down my forehead every time I imagined Mr. Papernick's phone call—and my parents' reaction! In the end, I decided to hold practice. Most likely I'd be saying goodbye to a lot of privileges for a very long time. There was no sense starting my grounding early. Although it was hard, I tried to put my desperate situation out of my head and concentrate on the band.

“Your parents are going to be furious when they hear about this,” said Daniela as we walked home.

“I feel like barfing just thinking about it,” I confided.

“So do I—on your behalf,” said my cousin.

Luckily, the rest of the band quickly showed up for practice and cut short our queasiness.

“I really don't like the name Sick on a Snow Day,” said Beena as she plugged in her teal bass.

“Me neither,” said Meena as she tuned her mauve guitar.

“Since we brought it up,” said Sludge, “I'm not wild about it either. It lacks a certain
coolness
factor. What does it mean, anyway?”

I tried to dazzle Beena, Meena, and Sludge with the idea behind our name.

“Something gross combined with something cool,” repeated Sludge when I finished my explanation. He looked like he was thinking it over. “Have you considered Nasty Kittens?”

The twins still weren't convinced either, but I didn't want to waste valuable time discussing our name. “Let's call it a ‘working name' for now. If someone comes up with something better, we'll definitely consider it,” I suggested.

The twins agreed. It was time to concentrate on the music. Daniela handed out some sheet music she had downloaded off the internet. We took on the first song—a popular one on the radio—and sounded pretty good!

“I think it's important that we have some original music,” I told everyone after practice as we sat in the garage, drinking Cokes and munching on snacks.

“Totally, bro,” agreed Sludge. “Ed Nojna told me the Flying Perogies are writing an original rock opera.

That sounded hard to top.

“We Wuz Framed have choreographed an interpretive dance where they fight against Principal Losman's punishment for not doing your homework,” said Beena.

“Totally true,” confirmed Meena. “They literally break-dance their way out of detention.”

“Well, rumour has it that the Subtractions are going the other route. They wrote a song called ‘Losman Is Tops, Man,'” said Daniela.

“What a bunch of suck-ups,” laughed Sludge.

Suddenly, there was a timid knock on the garage door. I got up to answer it. There, holding a gleaming triangle, stood my new mortal enemy, Eldrick Hooperberg. I tried to shut the door but he jammed it open with his triangle wand.

“You said I could try out today,” he reminded me meekly.

“Forget it,” I told him. I was trying to keep my cool and not blow a gasket in front of the band.

“But a triangle will add charm to your music,” tried Eldrick.

“Then
I'll
play the triangle and the piano,” I said firmly, attempting to hold my temper in check.

“But I don't just play the triangle. I'm an auxiliary percussionist,” he said.

“I don't know what an auxiliary percussionist is and I don't care,” I responded flatly.

“I play the tambourine, finger cymbals and ratchet—you know, anything you can hit or scrape. Except the drums,” he added hastily as Sludge opened his mouth to protest. “I work
with
the drummer.” His list was met with silence. “I can write lyrics, too,” he offered as he stared at the tops of his shoes.

“So write some lyrics and then hand them in to Mr. Papernick,” I said acidly.

He looked helplessly at Daniela. “But—”

“But nothing!” I yelled at him, finally blowing my stack. “Do you know how much trouble I'm in because of you? Mr. Papernick is probably speaking to my parents right now! As long as I am in this band—and that might not be for long—
you
are not. Find another band to bother.”

Eldrick was staring at his shoelaces like they were telling a very sad story. “I thought you might need an all-city percussion champion,” he mumbled.

“We don't, so you can go,” I replied curtly.

He left without another word. I turned to Daniela. She wasn't smiling. “You were pretty hard on him, don't you think?”

“Daniela, I'm going to have to spend weeks in detention because of him! Weeks that could have been spent practicing the piano, you know. You think he can do no wrong because he made you a dumb bottle of coloured liquid paper in grade three. Wake up and see the big picture here.”

“Don't use that tone with me, cousin,” said Daniela angrily.

We might not have been brother and sister, but we could fight like we were. We argued back and forth until Sludge finally banged on his drum.

“Time out!” he called, getting our attention. “Remember us? Care to explain what's going on here? Who was that little guy and what did he do to make you so mad?”

“He's the new transfer from Greer Street Middle School,” said Beena to Sludge.

“No,” corrected Meena, “from Everett Elementary.”

In all of my anger, I had forgotten about Sludge and the Z's. They were huddled together, wide-eyed with surprise at the sudden turn of events. Not being in my math class, they were clueless about my eventful day. Reluctantly, I told them the whole sorry story.

“I was
throwing away
my cheat sheet,” I stressed, “and he just up and waved it around in front of the class. I'll never forgive him—not that I'll ever have the chance when my dad finds out. He'll probably kill me.

“That's rough,” sympathized Sludge.

“
Really
rough,” agreed Beena and Meena.

It was hard to concentrate after all of the drama. We agreed to call it a day and have another practice Sunday morning—barring my punishment, of course. We also agreed to start working on some lyrics. The goal was to be practicing an original song by early next week. Daniela and I watched the rest of Sick on a Snow Day hop on their bikes and cycle home. When they were dots in the distance, I turned to Daniela.

“How could you do that?” I asked accusingly. “Aside from making me look bad in front of the guys, how could you think I'd want that
rat
in the band?”

“I'm sorry, Adam. I just felt bad for him. He really wants to be part of a group, especially after being dissed by the Subtractions.”

Suddenly, my mom popped her head in the door. My heart plummetted into my stomach. That earlier feeling of nausea was back. I gripped Daniela's arm tightly.

“Dinner in one hour,” she called cheerfully. It was a strange tone of voice to use with your soon-to-be-in-big-trouble son. I waited for her to continue: no television, no PlayStation. But that was all she said.

“The calm before the storm?” wondered Daniela.

Our fight was quickly forgotten. We united as we prepared for the upcoming battle. My parents didn't say anything about the subject when we sat down to eat. I tried to read between the lines.

“Adam, can you pass the potatoes, please?” asked my dad. Was he trying to catch me off guard before coming down with the hammer?

“Do you want more chicken?” asked my mom. Was she trying to fatten me up before sending me to my bedroom for the next month and a half? Maybe I'd got lucky and Abigail or Josh had accidentally deleted the message. Perhaps I was off the hook? It sure seemed that way.

I managed to relax a bit and eat dessert.

But my luck gave out after dinner. My parents waited until I was strategically trapped between them on the couch.

“Your dad and I love you, Adam,” began my mom.

Uh oh!
With an opening like that, I knew I was in for some trouble.

“But we were shocked when we spoke to Mr. Papernick,” finished my dad sadly. It was never a good sign when they did the old double-teaming tactic.

I tried to interject, “But I was
throwing away
the cheat sheet. I wasn't going to cheat!”

“Yes, Mr. Papernick told us that side of the story, too, even though he isn't totally convinced that you weren't going to cheat. However, we know you and we love you—so we are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt there, Adam. We'd like to think that you know right from wrong. But we're disappointed you went so far as to
make
a cheat sheet,” said my mom.

My cheeks flushed. Knowing that they trusted me at least that much meant a lot.

“The truth is, your school work has been terrible all term,” said my father, finally getting to the crux of the matter. “The fact that you felt the need to make this cheat sheet is proof that you knew you were unprepared to write the test. We did a little investigating and found out you took an ‘incomplete' on your last book report and history assignment.”

I couldn't believe they'd talked to all my teachers! The walls were suddenly closing in. Now my bedroom looked like it might become a jail cell. For a moment there, I had been hoping for a mild, two-week sentence with time off for good behaviour; but now the situation was looking grim.

“We're worried about this, Adam. Do you remember last term's report card?” My mom had it in her hand just in case I didn't. She read aloud. “Mr. Papernick called you a daydreamer. Mr. Kagan said you had a vivid imagination but didn't use it in your English assignments. Ms. Pemberley said you were clever in history but didn't apply yourself. She wondered what you were always gazing at out the window. And now, you're so focused on this new band. We're worried you're forgetting that you have other commitments—first and foremost, school. We're thrilled you found something that interests you so much. But—”

This ‘but' was not heading to a good place. I tried one last time, “I didn't—”

“Adam,” said my mother seriously. I knew better than to argue with Mom when she used that tone of voice. “We support your dreams, dear, but it's our responsibility to make sure you don't neglect your school work. So…”

Here it came.

“...we've set some targets that we're sure you can reach—
motivational
targets.”

Motivational targets! This did not sound good.

“B's on all of your tests and assignments.”

“Including math?” I asked, panicking.

“Including math,” answered my parents together. My mom continued. “We've arranged to have regular meetings with Mr. Papernick to make sure you're staying focused.”

“But, Mom, Dad, what if I can't reach these targets?” Even though I knew the answer, I had to ask.

“Then you'll have to leave the band,” said my father sympathetically. He seemed to be taking this harder than my mom.

I could barely breathe. Getting B's in all of my classes would take hours of studying! I felt like I was choking in a room full of smoke.

“Take a big breath,” said my dad.

I tried gulping back some air. This deal meant tons of work, especially if I wanted to fit in weekly piano lessons. It wouldn't have mattered if they had taken away my TV and PlayStation privileges, because I had no more free time! But I didn't have a choice. If it took a report card of B's to win Wilcott's Got Talent, then a report card of B's it would be.

I turned to my parents and gave them a weak smile. “Well, I guess I gotta start on my homework if I'm going to reach my motivational targets.” But inside, I wasn't smiling. Worried, I headed to my room to try and make sense of that mess of numbers called algebra.

L
uck seemed to be on my side. I got a B on my geography test and eked out a B-minus on a spelling quiz. My parents weren't happy about the B-minus.

“You didn't tell me what
kind
of B I had to get,” I argued successfully. “Think of it as a B with decorations.”

But even better than my grades was the fact that Sludge had turned out to be a genius at song-writing. He'd written “Detention Blues” overnight and we had been practicing it ever since.

“I'm not sure about this,” Daniela confided to me at first. “Did you notice the lyrics?”

She sang them to me:

I'm just a girl with flaming red hair
Singing to you that things aren't fair.
Falling for a guy from the wrong side of the ‘hood
Between us, many weeks of detention stood.
After school I was free as a bird
But he was trapped until December 3
^rd
.

The Detention Blues, oh so blue
And you're also grounded, too.

Pulling the fire alarm wasn't so bad.
The principal shouldn't have been so mad.
Maybe he can cut your sentence short
If you write an eight-page book report.

The Detention Blues, oh so blue
And you're also grounded, too.

Maybe you'll get out at the end of May
And then we can go to a nice café.