Beauty and the Bully

by Andy Behrens

  Carly: “No, Oprah is not going to . . .”

  Duncan tugged at his lock, which didn’t open. He’d been too frantic and too zeroed-in on Carly’s conversation to precisely turn the dial. Again, almost involuntarily, he banged his head. Hard.

  Thwung!

  At this, the girls stopped talking.

  A deeply uncomfortable quiet replaced their discussion. Seconds passed. The idea had been not to attract attention, and not to be noticed by Carly and her entourage. Duncan couldn’t look anywhere but at his lock. He felt sweat begin to bead across his forehead. He tapped his foot nervously. Gaining access to his locker seemed—ludicrously and incorrectly—like the singular way to escape the tension of moment. He jerked open the lock.

  But the awful silence persisted.

  Duncan hurriedly removed the books and notes required for his morning classes, placed them on the floor, and, using both hands, crammed his overstuffed backpack into the narrow locker. He was certain that Carly and her coterie of underlings were watching, giggling quietly. He bent down to collect his books. A drip of sweat splatted on the floor. He stood up, shut the locker with a nudge, then turned to escape down the hallway. But Carly stood in his path with a half-perplexed look on her face.

  “Oh, hey,” said Duncan, flustered yet unable to endure any more unnerving quiet.

  She nodded in an almost undetectable way.

  “How’s, um . . . yeah . . . how’re you?” Duncan stammered.

  “Great,” she said softly, tilting her head and smiling.

  The handmaids looked at Duncan with blank eyes. Carly simply stood there, a polite grin on her face. Duncan continued sweating.

  “So, um . . . ready for that exam in Mr. Arnold’s class?” he asked. “I don’t know if I ca—”

  “Oh, I’m ready,” she said, still smiling.

  “Right. Of course.” He returned the smile. “I mean, you’re usually ready for tests and whatnot.”

  Duncan stared at Carly’s T-shirt. It featured a cartoon of a terrified gerbil-like creature strapped to a lab table, getting jolted by fat bolts of electricity. The shirt read T.A.R.T.S. across the top and, below the image, "SHOCKED?”

  Upon realizing that he’d been eyeing Carly’s chest for several seconds, Duncan enthusiastically and awkwardly proclaimed, “Cool shirt! The Tarts. Very cool. Is that a band?”

  “No,” Carly said. “It’s an acronym.”

  “Cool,” said Duncan. “I love acronyms.”

  “It stands for ‘Teens Against Rodent Test Studies,’ ” she continued. “We’re not a band, we’re a cause. You don’t think torturing animals is cool, do you?”

  “Um . . . no. Gosh. No, no. Emphatically this time: No. Certainly not.” He shook his head. “I mean, I lost total respect for Ozzy when I heard about all the bat-eating. That’s so gross.” Carly gave him a puzzled look. He continued. “But of course bats aren’t technically rodents, are they? No. They’re, um . . . well, I really don’t know what they are. Fuzzy brown cave dwellers.” More sweating. “They’re kind of icky, really. Not that rodents are such hotties, either. Heh.” Carly didn’t quite laugh. Duncan kept prattling. “Of course that doesn’t mean they should be tortured. Ever. Personally, I have never tortured a rodent. That’s one thing about me that you can pretty much take to the bank. Duncan Boone: friend to the rodent community. That’s me in a nutshell.”

  Carly smiled again, then glanced at the books in Duncan’s arms.

  “Looks like you’ve got a little bird dooky on your journal there,” she said.

  He peered down at the white splotch of encrusted bird poop that covered the upper-right corner of the journal.

  “Hmm,” he said. “So I do.”

  Duncan felt a surge of anxiety. His hands grew suddenly chilly. He tried to appear calm while examining the splotch.

  “It looks kinda like Wisconsin, don’t you think?” he said. “See, there’s Door County. And there’s Madison. That’d put Sheboygan right abou—”

  “Looks pretty much like a bird dooky to me,” Carly said.

  A handmaid twittered.

  “Yup,” said Duncan. “No denying it.” He paused. Duncan was flushed and nearly breathless. “Well,” he managed, “I suppose I’d better clean it up a little before I hand it in to Kindler, eh?” He laughed a defeated laugh.

  “Yup, guess so,” Carly answered.

  Duncan bowed his head and walked toward the stairs.

  “’Bye, Dalton.”

  4

  Duncan spent the remainder of his school day in a fog of disgust and disbelief. During gym he took a soccer ball to the face and another off his ass. He forgot to change out of his rancid, too-tight EFTHS OWLS PHYS. ED. shirt after class. He answered every question in Spanish with either “No sé” or “No entiendo,” then did the same in Physics to the amusement of his class and the befuddlement of his teacher, Dr. Wiggins. At lunch he merely poked at his taco casserole with a cafeteria spoon, and shrugged or grunted in response to Jess and Stew. They attempted to cheer him up by softening their position on pirate hats specifically, and lavish costumes in general. But it was useless. Duncan arrived minutes late to all his afternoon classes, as there was absolutely no way that he was going to endure a between-class encounter with Carly. Not that day. Nuh-uh.

  All in all, it was a lost Thursday spent in contemplative self-loathing.

  When the PA chime that signaled the end of eighth period went off, Duncan—having already collected his backpack—trudged toward the nearest exit, not passing by his mom’s office in the guidance counselor’s lair, not connecting with Jess before her second detention of the day, and definitely not going within five hundred feet of his own locker.

  He ambled down the long, unnecessarily curving pathway that led to student parking lot A, then sighed as he saw his battered blue Reliant parked only two spots away from Carly’s pristine new yellow Prius. A small plastic dolphin hung from her rearview mirror. Duncan passed behind the cars and glanced at Carly’s array of bumper stickers:

  BUY ORGANIC

  NO NUKES FOR YOU

  MURDER, IT’S WHAT’S FOR DINNER (This had a picture of a frightened cow.)

  NO FRANKENFOOD

  TARTS: PETS, NOT TESTS (This featured the gerbil-like thing from Carly’s shirt being chased by a syringe.)

  END INTERNAL COMBUSTION

  OWLS GIRLS’ BASKETBALL PRIDE: PASS, SHOOT, SCORE (This had a picture of an owl in a headband, shorts, and high-tops. Which seemed cruel.)

  There a was also a stack of STEAL THIS SUV stickers visible in the rear window. For a brief moment Duncan allowed himself to imagine Carly in camouflage gear and face paint, surreptitiously placing these on Cherokees, Hummers, and Expeditions in some mall parking lot. He smiled at the thought. Then he remembered the fact that she must think he was a soulless, insensitive imbecile, and the smile faded. He sank into the once-plush seat of the aged Reliant coupe and drove out of the lot, winding aimlessly through the streets of moderately affluent Elm Forest, Illinois—which hadn’t had elms in decades, or a forest—and into neighboring Maple Grove—sparse maples, no groves—where he stopped at Guitar Vault to price pedal tuners. He bought only replacement strings and picks, then drove home along an indirect route.

  When he arrived at his family’s two-story house, he saw his eleven-year-old sister, Talia, in the front yard with her obnoxious, hog-snouted neighbor friend Emily. Duncan slid out of the car with great effort, heaving his backpack over his shoulder.

  “Hey, Dunk!” chirped Talia.

  “Hello, T,” he said, tapping her head and attempting—but failing—to smile.

  “Hey, dork!” said Emily, chortling.

  “Hello, creature from sub-Hell. Troll. Cretin. Slug-eater. Witch baby. Always nice to see you around the yard corrupting my sister.”

  “Duncan!” said Talia, appalled. “I’m so sorry about him, Emily.”

  “You’re weird, dork,” said Emily. She crunched a mouthful of Nerds. “Gonna practice sucking
at guitar tonight? ’Cuz you don’t quite suck enough. What’s the name of your band anyway, dork? The Rolling Sucks? Suck Daddy? Death Cab for Sucky?”

  He walked slowly up the front walk.

  “Hmm. Those aren’t bad, nose-picker. Not bad at all.”

  He slammed the door shut. His mom’s keys and purse were on the table in the foyer. He heard distant kitchen sounds. Although he had hoped to escape any idle post-school-day conversation with his parents, his mother beckoned.

  “Duncan Michael Boone!”

  He heard the grinding of the electric can opener, then the pop of a jar lid, then the chopping of something. Meat-loaf -and-asparagus night was under way. He loped toward the kitchen.

  “Yes, Katherine Hildegard Boone.” He sighed plaintively. “How can I assist you?”

  “My middle name is not Hildegard, Duncan.”

  “Whatever. I’m here to serve.” Sunlight through the window reflected off sudsy water of the sink, sending waves of light and shadow over the walls.

  “Isn’t it an amazing day? Cripes’ sake, it’s almost October. Can you believe this weather? It hit eighty-five today.”

  “Low sixties by the weekend, they say. Maybe rain. Pretty soon it’s freezing rain. Ice on the roads. Pileups on the express-way. Angry shoveling at dawn. Chicago weather, Mom.” He fell onto the yellow vinyl seat of a tall metal chair.

  “What compels a sixteen-year-old boy to pay attention to the weather, anyway? Really, Duncan. You’re too serious.”

  “I’m a brooding musician, Mom.”

  “Right. There’s big money in that, honey. Companies are always looking for good brooders. A critical corporate skill.” She furiously hacked at stalks of asparagus, sending green shrapnel to the floor.

  “Why am I here, Mom?” He folded his arms on the circular glass kitchen table, then rested his head.

  “That’s a profound existential question, sweetie pie. Why are you here? Why are any of us here? Are we merely the by-product of thirteen billion years of accidental subatomic cohesion, or is there a greater purpose to things, some guiding han—”

  “The kitchen, Mom. The kitchen is what I meant. Why am I in the kitchen? You called me in here. Why am I here watching you chop asparagus? I’m a high school student. I have tests, quizzes, homework, attention deficit problems, video games that make me violent—I have things to do, Mom.”

  “Oh, right. I just haven’t gotten to see you today, sweet-heart. ” She looked up from her cutting board and smiled. “You left so early this morning. And you didn’t stop by my office after school. I was worried. Thought you might have joined a gang.”

  “I think we both know that I would not be an asset to a gang.”

  “You’re a well-liked young man, Duncan. And an excellent student when you apply yourself.”

  “Yeah, um . . . I’d guess those are not the traits that gangs actively seek, Mom. I’m not really much help in a fight. Anyway, I don’t know of many Elm Forest gangs, so it’s not an issue right now.”

  “I spoke with Dr. Wiggins in the faculty lounge today.”

  “Boundaries, Mom. It’s important that we establish boundaries at school—and maintain them. I don’t need you hitting up my teachers for unscheduled updates.”

  “Oh, relax. He just mentioned to me—without my soliciting any update on your progress, or lack thereof—that you were responding to him in Spanish today.” She rested the knife on the countertop and plopped the asparagus spears into a pot of water. “I thought that was sort of interesting. And horrifying. And embarrassing to me at every possible level, both personally and professionally.” She hummed softly.

  “Yeah, well.” His head sank deeper into his crossed arms. “I’m supposed to be practicing my conversational Spanish.”

  “Just maybe not in Physics class. There you should be learning about falling objects, kinetic energy, protons or photons—that kind of thing.” She placed the pot on the stove, then walked over the kitchen table and stroked Duncan’s hair. “Are things okay at school, honey? Is something bothering you? Are you being pestered? Is it girl trouble?”

  “Yes, Mom. That’s it. Girl trouble. And pestering. Girls are pestering me, in fact. I can’t shake ’em. They follow me everywhere. They cry out my name. ‘Duncan!’ they say. ‘We love you!’ It’s horrible, Mom. The pom girls are the worst. Oh, the poms, Mom.”

  “We don’t have to discuss what’s bothering you, Duncan. But you don’t have to make a joke of everything, either.”

  “Boundaries, Mom.”

  “Right.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Duncan remained slumped over the table. Eventually, he spoke in a low mumble.

  “That Emily Axelrod girl—the little imp with the French braids and the shrill voice and the potty mouth—is playing out front with Talia. You’ve got to break that up, Mom. She’s trouble. Take an interest in your daughter’s life.” Another sigh. “Mine is beyond repair.”

  Bubbling sounds began to emerge from the pot.

  “Ah, yes. The grim self-obsession of youth. You certainly are a brooder, dear.”

  She went to the stove to stir the asparagus.

  “Thanks for the talk, Mom.” He stood slowly. “I can see why you went into the guidance arts.”

  “Treat your mother nicely.” She stirred.

  “Sorry.” He sighed again. “I’m going out to the garage.”

  “Of course you are. Did Jimmy Page have to practice this much?”

  “Actually, he dropped out of school when he was sixteen. And now he’s worth like a quarter of a billion dollars or something.” He grinned broadly at his mom. “Whadya make of that?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s pretty much how it goes for every boy who drops out of high school to play the guitar. A few years go by and—poof!—suddenly they’re millionaire rock superstars with planes, limos, country estates. I’m sure they almost never end up addicts or convicts or poverty-wage retail employees.” She smiled back. “Velma Ludgin says you were quite the little virtuoso yesterday, rolling around on the floor, guitar blaring.”

  “Good Gawd. Mrs. Ludgin saw only the smallest snippet of a work in progress. It’s not fair for her to evaluate me.” He approached the screen doors that led to the backyard. “Plus the Ludgins are all churchy. Velma doesn’t approve of my band. Thinks we’re devil worshippers.”

  Duncan slid the door open wide, then stepped out onto the sunny patio.

  “Your father will be home around six thirty,” called his mom.

  “If he weren’t, I’d suspect foul play.”

  Duncan pulled a small silver phone from his pocket and speed-dialed Jessie.

  “Hey, it’s J. Leave me a message. Or don’t. I’ll still know that you called. And it’s rude not to leave a message when I know you called, so just do it, loser.”

  This was followed by an androidal voice that also asked him to record a message, then by a lengthy beep.

  “Hi, Jess. Duncan. It’s, like, five something-ish. Just calling to see . . . I dunno . . . if you’ve been rehabilitated by detention. Or maybe it’s made you more violent and lawless. We just read about that in my Psych class. Call me back. I’m gonna mess around with the practice setup, then have meat loaf with the family.” He paused. “I bet Carly wouldn’t approve of meat being mashed up into loaves, would she? No, she proba—”

  Another beep and the recording cut off. He snapped the phone shut and returned it to his pocket, took four steps down the flagstone walk that led to the garage, then heard Jessie’s ringtone—Zeppelin’s “No Quarter”—begin to play.

  “Hey, Jess.”

  She said nothing.

  “Hello? Jess?”

  She cleared her throat.

  “Do you know why I didn’t answer your call just then?”

  “Um, because you were passionately entangled with your detention monitor, Mr. Moiaki? Or maybe you were. . .”

  “Wrong, flunky. I was ignoring you. That’s right: ignoring you. And do you know why?”


  “Um, because you think that by playing hard to get I’ll finally ask you to be my best gal? Or may—”

  “Wrong again, chucklehead. I was ignoring you because you couldn’t manage three words to me and Stew at lunch today, dude. Not three words. What was with you? You were, like, the undead. A zombie. A friggin’ vegetable. What kind of band do we have if we can’t communicate, Duncan?”

  “Sorry. I know. Very sorry. I had, um . . . well, you know how you said that my punk-ass wave at the park was really no big deal, that it wouldn’t really register with Carly the way it did with me?”

  “Yeah, I do.” She sounded exasperated.

  “Well, she showed up at her locker right after you left for detention. I’m pretty sure I successfully made a lousy-yet-memorable impression this time. I kinda made fun of her do-gooder club. Then I had poop on my notebook.”

  “Poop?”

  “Not mine. A bird’s. But it was definitely poop. She pointed it out.”

  “So she talked to you?”

  “Yeah, about the poop on my English journal. Not one of my better moments. I fell into a funk. A malaise. Torpor. A lang—”

  “Okay, thesaurus-pants. I get it. You stink at girls.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  Click.

  Duncan fussed in his garage for a while, attaching multicolored lights to overhead beams, adjusting and positioning amplifiers, writing out set lists of the band’s half-finished songs for gigs that didn’t exist. After fifteen minutes or so, Jessie arrived. She shot into the garage through a side door, drummed a bit on a case of motor oil, then sat atop a workbench.

  “So you’re ready to play, yeah? No more enviro-girl discussion, right? In this garage, the band’s the thing. In this garage, we rock.”

  And, for about ninety seconds, they did, blitzing through a Strokes medley. Jessie punctuated the warm-up with an almost hostile drum flourish. Duncan smiled.

  “Have you ever considered lining your drums with tinfoil?” he asked while fiddling with an amp. “It sounds crazy, I know. But I read John Bonham used to do it.”

  “Interesting. And that would make me louder?”