B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523)

by Yolen, Jane; Stemple, Adam

  Maybe he needn’t have worried. Gully wasn’t talking and neither was his father.

  Sammy giggled. Maybe we’re all nervous.

  “Something funny, Sammy?” his father asked.

  “Just nerves.”

  Gully cleared his throat. “Butterflies,” he said. “Elephant in bowling shoes here. My fingers are itching, and not in a good way.”

  “Oh, son, you’ve got it bad,” Sammy’s father said to Gully. “But don’t worry, you guys will be terrific. I’ve heard some of your practice. Hard to miss it, actually. There’s a lot of power in your little group.”

  Sammy knew what Gully was going to respond, but he wasn’t quick enough to stop him.

  “POWER!” Gully beat the extra drumsticks against the back of Sammy’s seat.

  “A little less volume, Gully,” Sammy’s dad said. “It’s just nerves.”

  “Nerves,” Gully echoed, but he sat back and was quiet the rest of the way to the school.

  All of the TBYOT kids were there to help carry the gear into the gym and onto the stage. Within seconds, under Bobby Marstall’s surprisingly competent direction, they were dragging speakers around and setting up microphone stands and running cords to the middle of the floor where the school’s AV guy calmly plugged them into a much bigger board than Sammy’s.

  “Well, look at Bobby!” Sammy said to the band.

  “Sometimes we all have to grow up,” Julia said, running her hand nervously through her hair.

  “We grow up,” Gully said.

  “You were born grown up,” Skink told him, which made Sammy startle.

  What does Skink know about Gully? What do any of them know? Indeed—what does Gully know? Sammy had been so busy trying to hide things, he hadn’t noticed if anyone had figured it out.

  “Guys . . .” he said, trying a diversion—a good enough word he supposed for what he was doing—“it’s time to seriously get our act together. Consolidate.” He liked the word, said it again. “Consolidate.”

  “It feels more like coagulate,” said Julia. “None of the blood seems to be running into my hands.”

  “What are you two, like, talking about?” Skink looked genuinely concerned.

  “Just trying to relax,” Sammy said.

  “Just trying to relax,” Gully repeated.

  “Well, you’re, like, creeping me out,” Skink told them. “Let’s just get things done.”

  But there wasn’t actually much for them to do as the TBYOT kids had everything sorted within minutes. Still Sammy felt the need to help, if only to keep himself from thinking about the gig.

  So after dropping his clarinet case off by the stage—where it was put under the guard of a stern-faced seventh grader—Sammy went back to the car for more gear, trailed by Gully. Skink and Julia were left checking out the stage.

  Outside, Sammy froze as Erik Addison appeared next to the car. Looking around nervously for the other Boyz, Sammy felt a moment of relief when he didn’t see them.

  Doesn’t mean they’re not around.

  Erik nodded to Sammy, said, “Hey,” and then asked Gully, “Want some help setting your drums up?” When Gully didn’t object, he grabbed the big bass drum case effortlessly and hauled it inside.

  “That’s it—I’m done,” Sammy said to Gully, before turning to go back inside.

  “Done,” Gully echoed, carting two of the smaller drums after Erik.

  Retreating to the safety of the gym, Sammy sat down on Skink’s amp and ran scales on his clarinet, trying to calm the elephants and butterflies.

  “Ready to play?” Julia asked. She’d walked up to him unnoticed, and now stood with her head cocked to one side as if her fiddle was tucked under her chin. It wasn’t. She held it one-handed by her side.

  He smiled crookedly up at her. “I’m not sure. It’s either play or throw up.”

  She pretended to think about it. “I think playing would be more fun.”

  “If you think so.” He sighed. “But tell that to my stomach.”

  Crouching so their faces were level, she said, “I’ll tell it to you: You’re going to be great. We’re going to be great.” Then, so quick that he almost didn’t believe it had happened, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  Sammy’s stomach turned completely over, and the elephants inside it bounced off the lining. He didn’t care a bit.

  Julia stood, winked at him, and turned to walk away. “Three minutes to sound check, Mr. GreenBug,” she said. “And an hour till the show.”

  Never in Sammy’s life had most of an hour passed so slowly and torturously. And never had the last few minutes gone so quickly. It felt like one second the stage manager—a senior named Tammy who seemed bored with the entire proceedings—was saying it was five minutes to showtime, and the next second the curtain was rising to reveal a packed house of students, parents, and teachers, all barely recognizable behind the blaze of bright lights.

  Principal Kraft welcomed everyone and told them how proud he was of the new eighth-grade band about to play. He mentioned them each by name but left out the band’s name, which was something Sammy had asked him to do.

  There was a huge round of applause, some whistles, and someone shouted out, “We love you, BUG!” And then there was quiet, A long, ominous, scary quiet.

  Sammy looked down quickly, made sure he was still wearing his shoes.

  Check.

  Had his clarinet in hand.

  Check.

  Fly zipped.

  Check.

  And then he looked up, through the lights, certain he would finally throw up, but there was no more time. Gully was giving the four-count of the first song on his drumsticks.

  Suddenly the long hours they’d spent in the basement rehearsing kicked in and Sammy’s clarinet was at his lips, his band was at his back, and the music was everywhere around him.

  All he had to do was blow . . .

  23.

  Showtime

  Sammy still had butterflies in his stomach, but he couldn’t believe how well the gig was going.

  The first two songs were “To Life” and “Chaim,” and they went without a hitch. The band may have played them a little faster than usual, but the new tempo worked with the energy of the crowd. Each time the band took a collective breath, the audience clapped along and shouted “To Life!” and Sammy finally looked up, trying to make out the faces of his family and friends in the crowd, but the light made everyone a blur.

  The quick pace of the first two songs left them with a little more time to fill, but that didn’t matter because Julia went for an extra long taksim at the beginning of “Shiva” that broke the heart of everyone in the room, and got the gig back on schedule. Sammy walked out of the lights as she began to sing, and backed her soulfully on the clarinet. Skink improvised a lick in between vocal phrases that he’d never played in practice, but fit in so perfectly that Sammy couldn’t believe he’d never played it before. And Gully, for once gentle on his drum kit, accented the end of a verse with a tinkling cymbal roll that sent a shiver up Sammy’s spine.

  With the lights all on Julia, Sammy could see into the audience now, and he happily scanned over till he found his mom and dad beaming up at him. Near them were Skink’s folks dancing slow, and Julia’s mother weeping openly. The rest of the crowd was rapt, weaving slowly to the hypnotic rhythm of the music, all except one large figure in the back of the room who stood stock-still, staring angrily up toward the stage.

  James Lee.

  Sammy was so startled, he made a squawk on the clarinet, which he had to turn into a glissando. But James Lee noticed and laughed at him.

  Sammy did the only thing he could do. He closed his eyes and blanked James Lee out. Made James Lee invisible. He wasn’t going to let a bully spoil Julia’s solo.

  This is between the two of us, Sammy th
ought. And even if he kills me afterward, I won’t have spoiled Julia’s night.

  It seemed to have worked, because Sammy got back smoothly into the wailing rhythm of the song, and when they’d finished—with Julia’s fiddle sounding as if it was gliding up and up and up into Heaven itself—the entire hall was quiet.

  For a moment. Just a moment.

  And then there was thunderous applause that broke over the stage like a tsunami.

  Sammy let his clarinet drift down by his side, then walked over to where Julia was standing, grabbed the microphone, and said, “Julia Nathanson, ladies and gentlemen. She wrote that song in honor of her late grandfather.”

  And suddenly there was more applause. More waves of it. Maybe even bigger than the first time.

  When Sammy moved back into the shadows, to let Julia take a well-deserved bow, he saw that the place where James Lee had been standing before was empty.

  Wow—I did make him disappear.

  But he’d little time to celebrate, because Gully’s drumbeats ushered them right into the next song.

  And then the next.

  By the time they’d finished—four minutes over their allotted time because they hadn’t factored in the applause—Sammy was soaking wet. Sweat had poured out of him and he hadn’t noticed. He hoped no one else had, especially Julia.

  When they ended with their rehearsed final introduction and shouted “BUG!” all together, the lights went out—right on cue. As they scrambled into the wings, the applause and the calls of “BUG! BUG! BUG!” from the audience were deafening.

  The lights came back on, and the members of Armageddon, who’d been standing behind the scenes, sent them scurrying back for a bow.

  “I wish I’d been that good at your age,” the Viking-tall, long-haired blond rock god, Jon Showgrim, said to them.

  Sammy was so stunned at the compliment that he stumbled, still sweating, back on to the stage, trailing the rest of the band, his clarinet clasped in his right hand.

  Julia grabbed his left and then they all bowed together, hand in hand in hand in hand.

  No sooner had they exited, then Bobby Marstall began issuing orders to the dark-clothed crew of seventh graders who dismantled everything that BUG owned and carted it off into the wings.

  As Armageddon’s crew set up their own stuff, Sammy turned to Julia and Skink and Gully. “I’m going to the bathroom. Tell my folks. I’ll be right back. Then we’ll really celebrate.”

  “We were, like, great up there,” Skink said.

  “I messed up on ‘Chaim’ though,” Julia said. “Got started late and just couldn’t rock it out.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Sammy said gallantly, though he had.

  “Well, I did.” Julia shook her head, and her dark hair covered her face for a moment, like a curtain.

  “I didn’t notice, either,” Skink told her.

  But Gully didn’t—or couldn’t—echo that sentiment. “You got started late,” he said.

  Julia turned to him, almost grateful. “Thanks for telling me the truth, Gully,” she said. “I can take it.” She put a hand on his arm.

  “I can take it, too,” Gully told her, his gray face under the gym lights had a ghostly look.

  And then they were all surrounded by well-wishers, parents and students shouting their praises. Even Mr. Kraft joined in, telling them how he’d known they would be great all along.

  But Sammy slipped away, heading toward the bathroom, eager to wash off some of the sweat because he wanted to be able to dance with Julia later on. If she would let him. If she’d forgive his comfortable and comforting lie.

  Because it had been a lie. Of course he noticed she’d come in late. But she’d caught up. And they’d all flubbed something that night. Except for Gully who’d been steady as a rock on every song and totally predictable. And still—as the Big Cheese said—they’d been great.

  Great!

  Sammy was humming the “Power!” tune as he turned into the hallway that led to the bathroom, the scene of so much humiliation and yet now the place to wash off the sweat from his greatest triumph.

  “It feels good to be here, now, on the winning side,” he said aloud, pushing the bathroom door open.

  24.

  Sammy and the Golem

  Sammy felt blurry. No, that’s not right, he thought, somewhat stupidly. My vision is blurry. And wet, too. Which didn’t make much sense. How can someone have wet vision?

  Suddenly Sammy realized he’d been hit in the head. That explained the blurriness.

  But why am I wet?

  Not just wet either, but totally submerged in a strange, white well of water.

  Oh wait, it’s just my head that’s under. And with that he pulled himself free of the toilet bowl, realizing that he was in the school bathroom surrounded by James Lee and the Boyz.

  Again.

  He had just enough time to say, “Didn’t enjoy the show, guys?” before his face was pushed back into the bowl. This time when he tried to pull his head back out it wouldn’t budge. James Lee held him under easily.

  Sammy quickly regretted wasting what little breath he’d had on a pithy comment instead of taking a big gulp of air. Mr. Kraft was right. He could feel he was running out of oxygen, and James Lee was showing no signs of letting him up anytime soon.

  He tried to just let a few bubbles out. Just a few. But just before he thought his eyes would pop out of his head from the effort, the pressure came off and he threw himself to the side, falling to the ground, gasping and gulping and coughing up toilet water.

  Around him, the bathroom was chaos. A big body was moving through the Boyz, tossing them aside, and evidently James Lee had let Sammy go to turn and face this surprising threat.

  “Gully,” Sammy whispered, thankful for the rescue.

  Only it wasn’t much of a rescue. Two Boyz grabbed their assailant from behind, and James Lee came to his feet to deliver a jackhammer blow to his stomach. Then he tossed Sammy’s would-be rescuer to the floor to gasp and heave alongside him.

  “Not . . . cool,” Erik Addison said, clutching his stomach and looking up at his former friends. He smiled bleakly at Sammy. “Not cool to beat up such a good musician.”

  Sammy was too stunned to speak. And he wasn’t given much time to, either, because James Lee was right back on top of him, dragging him to his knees by the hair.

  “You ain’t coming back up this time, Bug,” he snarled.

  Sammy knew James Lee was speaking the awful truth. He tried to pray, but all he could come up with was “Shalom aleichem.” That made him start to giggle uncontrollably, hysteria and fear being a powerful mix.

  “You’re bugging me, Bug,” James Lee said. But before he could shove Sammy’s head back underwater, James Lee was suddenly flying backward, and Gully was there in his place.

  “Gully!” Sammy shouted thankfully. Then he looked at the Boyz gathering behind the golem, and at James Lee pulling himself to his feet, his eyes fearful for the first time as he calculated what massive strength it had taken to fling him halfway across the bathroom.

  Suddenly, Sammy felt an anger so pure and righteous that he thought the heat of it alone could dry his hair.

  “Get them,” he shouted, his gesturing right hand making a circle that included everyone in the room. He was surprised that his voice could sound so cold when his every sense was aflame with rage. “Get them,” he shouted again.

  And Gully did.

  Gully didn’t move very fast, but neither was he slow, and no matter how or where the Boyz hit him, the blows seem to have no effect. They punched and grappled and kicked and tried everything they could to stop him, but Gully struck out with gray fists the size of coffee cans, and his blows were devastating.

  Carl Fisher went down with a nose not merely broken, but shattered. Jimmy Little—who wasn’t little at all—f
ollowed him to the floor with what Sammy figured had to be at least three broken ribs. Steve Schmidt stumbled out of the room leaving a trail of teeth, and his twin brother followed, hopping along on the one foot that wasn’t dangling at an odd angle. Jimmy wheezed and crawled after them. The only person who got out relatively unscathed was James Lee because he’d gone for the door as soon as the first of the Boyz went down.

  “Yeah!” Sammy shouted. “Nice job, Gully!”

  But it looked like Gully didn’t think the job was over yet. He stood over the semiconscious Carl Fisher, and casually kicked him in the stomach until the boy doubled up, putting his head in easy reach for a downward stomp that would most likely have killed him.

  That kick never landed, though, because Erik staggered up from next to Sammy and launched himself into Gully. Gully rocked back ever so slightly before bouncing Erik off a urinal, his head making a dull thud that made Sammy’s knees go weak.

  The anger Sammy had felt mere seconds before, an anger that had seemed pure and beautiful, now felt like nothing but black bullying rage. He closed his mouth, trying not to vomit. And then he thought about chaos and fear and vengeance and blood and what they did to a person. What they did to him. He thought about Reb Chaim’s warning.

  “Gully, stop!” he shouted, exhausted by just those two words.

  Gully turned to him, his foot once again raised over Carl’s head, Erik crumpled in a heap just behind him.

  “Why?” Gully asked, brow slightly furrowed, lowering his foot.

  Carl recovered just enough to spot the big foot poised over his head, gasped at it, then managed to crawl out the door.

  Gully watched him go impassively, then turned back to Sammy, “Why,” he asked again.

  “You’re killing them,” Sammy said.

  Gully nodded, eyes gray and vacant. “I’m killing them,” he said, and took a step toward the still unconscious Erik. “Then the bad one on the left.”

  Why haven’t I ever noticed how vacant his eyes are? Why haven’t I noticed how scary he is?

  But it was too late for such questions. Sammy knew if he didn’t have the right words now, it would be too late for anything.