I Love You, Beth Cooper by Larry Doyle Page B

His head lolled in Denis’s direction. “Your dad would be so proud.”
    Denis thought of the champagne bottle lodged in the wall, the Technicolor gooshes, the dead microwave and mutilated lawn. He leaned back through the front seats.
    â€œCan I borrow your cell phone? I—”
    â€œGood catch,” Beth said. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and tossed it out of the car. “GPS that, asshole.”
    The phone flew through the window of a passing Honda Civic and hit Harold Angell, a thirty-four-year-old nurse practitioner who had no ironic connection to anyone in the car.
    Denis sank back into his seat. He bounced off Treece and then Rich as Beth swerved along her merry way.
    â€œHer driving’s gotten a lot better,” Rich commented.
    Denis felt around behind him for the middle seat belt, finally pulling out something that appeared to have been chewed on by several packs of dogs. Thebuckle fell off.
    â€œYou can use my phone,” Treece said, reaching into a pouch that cost more than Denis’s entire wardrobe. “Not this one.” She dropped a silver flip-phone back in. “My mom has it tapped”—meaning only that her mother scoured the bill for calls to men her mother dated. “Here.”
    Treece handed Denis a hot pink phone encrusted with jewels and dangled charms that looked as if it had been decorated by a three-year-old but which had been custom junked up in Japan at considerable cost.
    â€œTell your parents I said hi,” Cammy remarked from the front seat.
    â€œWhat makes you think I’m calling my parents?”
    â€œBecause you’re you,” Treece said, much nicer.
    DENIS’S FATHER WAS DRY-HUMPING Denis’s mother in the back of the Prius when his phone began buzzing.
    â€œYou’re vibrating,” Mrs. C said.
    â€œThat’s because I’m about to explode, ” Mr. C moaned, grinding into her.
    Mrs. C did not grind back. “It might be Denis.”
    Mr. C sighed. Yes, it might be Denis. Their son could be calling to ask permission to download a movie off iTunes. Or perhaps to tell them to pick up some milk or a Scientific American on the way home. Some emergency of that sort.
    Mr. C pulled a cell phone out of his shirt pocket. The screen read CALLER ID BLOCKED .
    â€œTelemarketer,” he said. Mr. C slipped the vibrating phone down the front of Mrs. C’s slacks.
    â€œMr. C!” Mrs. C growled.
    ON HIS END, Denis, thankfully, only heard the usual leave-a-message-at-the-beep and then the beep.
    â€œIt’s me,” he told the phone. “Rich and I…went out. But we’re okay. I can explain the kitchen. You can call me at…”
    He looked to Treece. She grabbed the phone away.
    â€œThat’s my stealth phone!”
    Up front, Beth turned on the radio. In a quavering depressissimo, a future lesbian sang:
    I learned the truth at seventeen…
    Beth frowned. She pushed SEEK. Synthetic drumbeats and electro-boops accompanied a future cartoon composer:
    Makin’ dreams come true
    Living tissue, warm flesh—
    Beth turned the music off.
    â€œRadio sucks,” she pronounced.
    Denis remembered. He pulled the iPod from his pocket.
    â€œTune to 87.1.”
    There was much groaning. Undeterred, Denis leaned between the front seats and turned the radio back on. “No, seriously, you’ll like this,” he promised, tuning and hoping.
    Music equally ancient but not the least bit objectionable began blasting out the speakers, a man named Alice repeating the words of a playground chant:
    No more pencils,
    No more books,
    No more teacher’s dirty looks.
    Beth’s head banged to the olden beat. Denis was hugely relieved. Ordinarily, the declaration that school was out for summer made him anxious. But this summer, he thought, might be all right.
    School’s out forEVER!
    Beth sang along, with heavy emphasis on the last two syllables. Here, Denis begged to