Beauty and the Bully

by Andy Behrens

  She tilted her head and grinned, her warm, bright eyes scanning his face. “I had a very nice day, too, Duncan.”

  She hugged him, the book bag falling to the floor.

  6

  Friday afternoon, three fifty. The last of the buses had pulled away from school. Teachers marched to their cars under a row of halogen lights. A kid in an orange-and-brown Elm Forest mascot suit, sans Owl head, stood just off school property, smoking. Duncan sat on the hood of Jessie’s Volkswagen, grinning as he sort of listened to an indie podcast. Mostly he was just reflecting on the astonishing magnificence of his day—the only day during which Carly had ever really acknowledged his existence in any meaningful, ongoing way.

  Duncan removed his headphones. He idly ran his tongue over one of the small cuts in his mouth as he pulled his English journal from his backpack. He picked off a stray fleck of pigeon poo that he’d missed in the earlier cleaning and began to write.

  ENTRY #10, SEPTEMBER 23

  I won’t disclose too much here, Mrs. Kindler, but I will say this: today was pretty much the greatest f*#@!ng day of my life. Sorry for the strong language there. But it is my journal. And believe me, today was so good, it was f*#@!ng good. Really. I won’t say WHY it was so good, though, because we’re not quite there yet in our relationship, Mrs. K.

  But anyway, this was a pretty f*#@!ng amazing day. (Just for reference, because I don’t think you’ll actually be reading this entry for a while, today was the day that I arrived at school with the black eye, the fat lip, and the gaping wound across my nose. And you said, “You’re supposed to play the guitar with your hands, Mr. Boone, not your face.” And everyone had a nice laugh at my expense. Good one, Mrs. K. Take that comedy act to the riverboat casino. Seriously.)

  I haven’t read any Gatsby since my last prematurely terminated entry. And I’m not readin’ it tonight, either. Because tonight I celebrate the greatest day of my life. Maybe tomorrow, though. So if you’re really only making your students hack away at these journals so that we can demonstrate literary insights that, for some reason, we haven’t dared share with the class, you can just skip ahead to entry #11 right now. I promise that one’s going to be piled high with thoughtful displays of the analytical tools that I’ve acquired in your class, Mrs. K. ☺ (That’s me. Today. Because this is the greatest f*#@

  “Get the butt off my Jetta, Boone!” Jessie was jogging toward the car, with Stew lagging behind her. She sounded angry, but looked rather amused. “The butt!” she barked. "Off !”

  Duncan did as he was told, hopping off the hood. He was still beaming. He quickly scribbled !ng day of my life. Later . . .) in the journal, closed it, and stuffed it back in his book bag. He kept smiling.

  “Sorry, Duncan, but I’m kinda particular about which butts go on the hood of the car,” Jessie said. “I have this fantasy where I lose my virginity on the hood, so I like to keep the surface pristine. Unblemished.”

  “Is this like a cop-pulls-you-over-on-a-lonely-highway sort of fantasy?” asked Stew. “Or more of a four-a.m.-outside-the-biker -bar fantasy?”

  “I’ve revealed too much already,” said Jessie, dismissively waving her hand. “But it’s most definitely not a cop, just so you know.”

  “How was detention today?” asked Duncan.

  “Detention is what it is, my man. Not everyone can do the time. They screw with your mind in there. Mr. Shah was humming today. Humming.” Jessie loathed humming.

  Duncan merely smiled.

  “So,” said Jessie, smirking, “I take it you had a pleasant day at school today. Anything you’d like to share with the band?”

  Duncan became suddenly very self-aware. The grin flattened. After incurring Jessie’s wrath on consecutive days for gushing and/or whining about Carly so extensively, he hoped to rein it in just a little. But, in fact, he was way past elated.

  “It was . . . well, yeah. Good day, I guess.”

  “Missed you at lunch today, dude,” said Stew.

  “That was nice of Carly to escort you to her cafeteria table, though, you filthy dog,” said Jessie, jabbing Duncan’s arm.

  “She unwrapped my Nutter Butters,” he said.

  “That all had to feel pretty surreal, eh? I mean, like, eight hours ago she thought you were . . . well, she never thought about you at all, not even once. And now you’re like her little pet. An injured little purse dog that she can carry around. Like a Chihuahua, maybe. Or a Yorkie.”

  “Something like that,” said Duncan. “Definitely a different sort of day for me. She must’ve told that story—your story, Jess—of the thug ambush a hundred times. ‘Poor Duncan had no chance,’ she’d say. And her friends would all say ’Aaaaaww.’ ” He paused. “Carly is just so . . .”

  “. . . unbelievably stacked,” said Stew. “Like in a Lindsay Lohan-Mean Girls sort of way.” Jessie jabbed him with her elbow.

  "... sincerely thoughtful,” continued Duncan. "It was nice. And maybe it was a little surreal, too.” He paused, working to contain his glee. “She sure is deep into that rodent-saving thing. She had these pictures of dissected rats in her locker.”

  “Gross, dude,” said Stew. “I have pictures of Eva Longoria in my locker. I keep ’em behind my booster club calendar. It’s a pretty sweet setup.”

  “Right,” said Duncan. “Of course you do. Carly doesn’t keep the rat pictures for personal gratification. She’s just trying to save lab rats or something.”

  “Lame. Dissected rats? Not hot. Eva? Hot.”

  “So,” said Jessie, again digging an elbow in Stew’s ribs, “Carly just kept walking you to your classes today?” asked Jessie.

  “Yup, every class,” said Duncan. “All day.”

  “And did you play up the pain angle? ‘Oooh, my face. It hurts sooo bad, Carly. Will you lick it?’ Stuff like that?”

  “No, I didn’t solicit any licking. Not today. Maybe Monday. We’ll see.”

  “Right, pace yourself,” said Stew. “Asking a girl to lick you so early in a relationship is dicey. I know this.”

  Duncan doubted whether Stew, in fact, knew this. Not a player, Stew. Nice guy, excellent bassist, steady friend. Player? No. Lech? A little.

  “How ’bout some big ups for your favorite drummer?” asked Jess. “I opened the door to the Carly Garfield home for wayward boys, y’know.”

  “Props to you,” said Duncan, bowing just slightly. “It was a bold lie. That could’ve gone badly.”

  “Oh, bah!” she said. Jessie opened the Volkswagen and hopped behind the wheel. “I can’t believe you didn’t ask me to wreck your face years ago, dude. That girl has a total victim complex. She’s a whale-saver. A tree hugger. No, she’s not just hugging trees—she’s doing even more graphic things to trees. That girl is looking for things to protect. If you want her to be interested in you, then you have to appear endangered. Like that tiny freshman this morning.”

  “Or like me, with my face bashed in.”

  “Precisely.”

  They squealed out of the lot.

  “Where to?” asked Jessie. “Casa del Boone? We can graze on Oreos and Diet Squirt, then jam awhile, and then go to the football game—I’m thinking our friend the Pear Bear has some aggression to release on unsuspecting ball carriers. Or we could just graze, jam, then go to Duncan’s basement for some no-life club.”

  No-life club meant PlayStation, MP3s, and further grazing.

  “I vote no-life,” said Stew.

  “Seconded,” said Duncan.

  “That was democratic of us,” said Jess.

  “My house it is,” said Duncan.

  Jessie wove through after-school traffic with reckless ease, pounding her hands on the fur-covered steering wheel in time to the car’s stereo. Stew bobbed his head, pounded the dashboard, and sang badly. He was not allowed to sing with Fat Barbie. He could mouth words, but never sing.

  Duncan spent the short ride home sitting in the backseat thinking—on the verge of worry, actually. He considered Jessie’s comment: “Yo
u have to appear endangered.” She’d recognized this fact immediately, almost intuitively. The simplest way to get Carly’s attention was clearly to play on her endless reserve of compassion. It didn’t seem reasonable to go to school with fresh injuries every day, though. Which meant that he had a very narrow window of time in which to impress Carly with something other than the fact that he’d been recently victimized. (Which, of course, he hadn’t been. Not really.) And his various injuries were probably going to improve over the weekend when he’d have no opportunity to see Carly. For the time being, he needed the black eye and the various lacerations—it was the essence of his victim-ness, which was the essence of his appeal to his do-gooder, rodent-saving dream girl. If he showed up at school on Monday in good health, the consequences were dire: no more walks to class with Carly; no more lunches with Carly; no more fawning from Carly, period.

  They pulled into Duncan’s driveway, exited the car, and walked toward the front door. Jess and Stew were engaged in a game in which they attempted to have a semirational conversation using only song titles; this quickly degenerated into a Smiths versus Fall Out Boy showdown. Duncan threw open the screen door, yelled hello to whoever might be listening, and headed for the kitchen. Jessie helped herself to the Oreos and soda. Talia skipped through, inquired about Duncan’s face, then left. Duncan’s mother rushed in and snatched her keys from a wall hook near the fridge. She gave Jessie a sharp look, which was ignored—Jessie being lost in the bliss of sugar and saturated fat—and then addressed her son.

  “How was school today, dear? Still feeding at the trough of self-pity?”

  “No, Mom. All better now. How was your day?”

  “Principal Donovan is the lowest form of amoebic scu—” She stopped, smiled coyly, and then said, “It was delightful. Another perfect day. Nothing to report. Need anything from the store, honey?”

  “You’re low on Oreos, Mrs. Boone,” said Jessie.

  “I’m glad you feel so welcome here, Jessica.”

  “Okay, Mrs. Boone,” she said through a mouthful of cookie. “I’ll give you one ‘Jessica’ since I played a small role in breaking your son’s head. But that’s it. Anyway, you’re low on Oreos.”

  “Noted,” said Duncan’s mom as she left.

  Duncan sat pensively for a moment while Jessie and Stew foraged in the walk-in pantry. He felt his swollen eye, then his lip and nose.

  “So,” he said, “what happens when my face heals?”

  “Then you go back to being ugly for all the usual reasons,” said Stew.

  “No, I mean . . . well, yeah, that, sure. But what I mean is—”

  “—what happens with Carly,” said Jessie. She bit into a stack of cheese-flavored chips.

  “Exactly. I won’t look like this for long. I’ll recuperate. And then she’ll forget about me again.”

  “But you’ve got a foot in the door, dude,” said Stew.

  “His foot’s in a door marked ‘Helpless Victims,’ though,” said Jess.

  “Yup,” agreed Duncan. “Once my face heals, she’s indifferent to me.”

  “Join that TARTS thing,” said Stew. “I mean, unless they’re too political. I don’t wanna be in a band that’s totally political. We’re not, like, flower children. Our message is loud and simple: rock, motherf—”

  “Dude! My little sister is giving her Barbie a makeover in the next room.”

  “Right. Our message is this: rock, people of the western suburbs.”

  “Anyway, I did join TARTS. Sort of. I filled out the form on the back of a pamphlet. I might send it in.”

  “But you need to stay beaten up,” said Jess.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. At least for now.”

  “Easy enough,” said Stew. “The best way to provoke violent assaults is to keep pissing off Jess. She’ll give you beat-downs as needed.”

  “Right,” said Duncan. “Because that’s so enjoyable.”

  “You need a different assailant,” said Jessie, a spray of orange crumbs flying from her mouth. “I’m not crossing Carly, man. That girl fights back. Ask Hurley.”

  “But you agree that I do need an assailant, right?” asked Duncan. “I need a thug.”

  Jessie and Stew stared at him for a long, silent moment.

  “It’s hard to tell if you’re kidding, Duncan, because your face is so bashed up,” said Jessie. “You are kidding, right?”

  “No.” He returned the stare. “At least I don’t think I’m kidding.”

  “You actually want to get the crap kicked out of you?” asked Jessie. “Repeatedly? To impress the only girl on earth who might actually be impressed by this?”

  “I think I do. I mean, it would be nice if I didn’t actually have to suffer any more facial injuries.”

  “But you’d accept, say, a broken femur?” asked Jess. “Or a lacerated spleen? A ruptured appendix? Broken fingers?”

  “No, not the fingers. Can’t play guitar with broken fingers.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Stew. “We might have to cancel a gig. Or maybe the entire Asian tour. That’d sure suck.”

  “Anyway, I don’t actually want to get hurt. But we laid the groundwork for me being terrorized by a thug, and Carly ate it up. This victim thing is my in with her.”

  “And so you’re thinking you need to provoke some scary thug?” said Jessie. “Maybe get him to chase you around the lunchroom or something? Hmm. That’s some crazy-in-love desperation right there, Duncan.”

  “You said to take radical action.”

  “That I did. But what I really meant was, y’know . . . try talking to the girl. Write her a note, maybe. Or go the secret admirer route. I didn’t mean that you should risk injury.”

  “Well, I don’t actually want to get hurt. I’m not that self-destructive —it’s my tragic weakness as a musician. Well, that and not being able to master any Satriani arpeggios.”

  “So what are you thinking?” Jessie asked.

  Duncan fidgeted for a few seconds. He tapped his foot against the kitchen floor and rubbed his temples, then looked up.

  “I’d like to hire a bully,” he said.

  Jessie and Stew stared again. Jess placed the chip bag on the counter and wiped her hands.

  “Okay. Let’s have a look at the yearbook.”

  7

  They sat perusing the glossy pages of yearbooks, suggesting potential goons who might be willing to assault him for profit. Names were written on a kitchen chalkboard, then erased, then new names proposed. Some were deemed too unattainable given their position in the social strata (like Perry); others were judged too inadvisable because they were criminally unhinged (like Erik “the Yeti” Slutzer). Ultimately, all EFTHS goons presented the same insurmountable problem: despite their goonishness, they had friends. All of them. Eventually, they were likely going to discuss Duncan’s plan with these friends. And if word leaked that Duncan tried to recruit a bully to fake-attack him so that he could elicit sympathy from Carly Garfield, that would obviously doom his chances with her. So if Duncan was going to choreograph any acts of bullying, no one could find out. This was imperative.

  And it seemed impossible. After twenty minutes spent vetting various candidates—and ruling all of them out—they were interrupted by Duncan’s father, an ample man dressed in a red Izod shirt and dark brown Dockers.

  “’Lo,” he said, whistling.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Boone,” chirped Jessie. “Did you see what I did to your son’s face?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” said Mr. Boone. He scanned the pantry shelves. “No Oreos?”

  “Mom’s at the store,” said Duncan.

  “Mmm.” He turned, opened the fridge, and withdrew a package of gray sausages, then strolled outside.

  “Your dad is complex,” said Stew.

  “A serious thinker,” agreed Duncan. “He’s what Mrs. Kindler would call ‘an archetype.’ ” Duncan ran his hands through his hair, then sighed. “So hiring a thug is hopeless, I guess.”

  “Hopeless?�
�� said Jessie. “No. But there are many risks, and the only reward is that your dream girl will think you’re a doofus.”

  “She loves doofuses.”

  “We know that she loves saving them. We do not know that she loves them.”

  “Right,” said Duncan. “But Carly never said a word to me until I was oozing blood, and now she can’t get enough of me. That ends if there are no more assaults. It’d be nice just to stage something. Nothing huge—nothing that leaves me dismembered. I just need a little victimization.”

  “If you’re asking me to attack you again, the answer is still no,” said Jessie, grinning.

  “And I’m totally nonviolent,” said Stew.

  Talia raced through the kitchen noisily. A yellow Nerf bullet followed her, just missing her feet as she zigzagged between chairs. Emily entered the room breathless, a purple-and -orange semiautomatic Nerf gun in her right hand. She paused, staring at Duncan.

  “Oh, sweet!” she said, huffing. “It’s true! You really do look awful! It couldn’t happen to a bigger turd!” Emily popped off two Nerf bullets at Duncan. He blocked one with his hand, but the other clipped his left ear. Emily scurried off.

  “Evil gnome!” yelled Duncan.

  “She’s a charmer,” said Jessie.

  “You two share an affinity for hitting me with stuff.”

  “She’s in Talia’s class?” asked Stew. “Really? She seems too big.”

  “No, she goes to Reagan Math and Science. Private school brat. She gets picked up by a bus full of . . .”

  “Duh!” said Jessie, standing. “Another school.”

  Duncan and Stew stared at her with blank faces.

  “We’re looking for Duncan’s bully in the wrong school,” she said. “We could find someone at Maple North, maybe. If it’s too risky to use one of our fellow Owls, then we’ll get a Maple North Viking. It’s perfect.”

  “We don’t know any thuggy Maple students, do we?” asked Stew.

  “Nope,” said Jessie. “But there must be some. We’ll scout them in the visitors section tonight.”