Beauty and the Bully

by Andy Behrens

  “Suit yourself, sweetie. Can we bring you anything?”

  “Pepperoni if you go pizza. Chicken marsala if you go Italian.”

  “You’re a predictable boy, honey.”

  “You have no idea, Mom.”

  He listened to his mom’s footsteps down the hall, then the stairs. She jingled her keys, called the girls, then slammed the front door shut. Duncan reached for his phone to check the time. 6:58. He called Jess. She answered quickly.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” he said sleepily. "C’mon over. Practice begineth.”

  “Right, cool. We’re really going to play, right? We’re not just arguing set lists or arcane band philosophy or dissecting the subtleties of your latest eye contact with Carly?”

  “No, just practice, sans bassist.” He yawned. “But if you would just do what I say, when I say it, there’d be no arguments. ”

  “A band can’t be a dictatorship, dude.”

  “If only. That’s really the problem with bands. I may have to launch the solo career.”

  “You’d be lost without me, dude. Like Mick without Keith. You ever hear one of those Mick Jagger solo efforts? Not pretty.”

  “Right. But I bet that band works so well because Keith does what he’s told. Just collect Stew and come over,” Duncan said.

  Click.

  He snatched his math textbook and a notebook from his desk, then ambled downstairs to snack and read. But first he examined himself in the mirror of the downstairs bathroom. “Approximately eight percent less puffy,” he said of his eye. “Dang.” Duncan sulked as he entered the kitchen. He blindly grabbed a bag of chips from the pantry, then pulled himself up onto the kitchen counter and threw open the book. He really had zero interest in homework, complex problem sets, or any aspect of his education. He needed to wallow. And vent. And wallow again. He yawned, then stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth. Then he closed the book, tossed it aside, and descended into the basement.

  He grabbed an acoustic guitar and strummed lightly. Distracted and dejected, he threw himself down onto the couch to brood. Jessie soon hopped downstairs.

  “What’s the matter, rocker?” she said.

  “Oh, hey,” said Duncan. “Feel free to let yourself in.” He sat up. “No Stew?”

  “Sleeping. His mom didn’t seem to want me to wake him, either. I don’t think she trusts me. What is this effect I have on moms, anyway?”

  “They sense wickedness,” said Duncan. He stood and sighed. “Should we go practice?”

  “But you seem so glum.”

  “You’re not the sit-and-listen type of girl, remember? So let’s just jam. I’ll work through my teenage angst-crap musically. ”

  “Well, luckily this situation does not call for me to sit and listen, Duncan—which is not really my thing, as we’ve discussed —because I know what’s wrong with you. It’s rat-girl.”

  “She’s not just a rat-girl. She’s protecting all the rodents of the world. There are, like, over a thousand different kinds— and not just mice and rats. That’s what the big pharmaceutical companies and their lobbyists want you to think. Or at least that’s what Carly wants me to think the pharmaceutical companies want me to think. Anyway, squirrels are rodents, for example. So are marmots, beavers, prairie dogs, porcupines, muskrats, woodchucks, and a lot of other things I’ve forgotten. And Carly loves them all—it’s sweet, really.”

  “You’re telling me that labs are performing experiments on beavers?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll ask. But the point is that they could be experimenting on beavers, because no one’s protecting them.”

  “Except Carly and her beaver club.”

  “Let’s not call them that.”

  Jessie tucked her legs underneath her, then wrapped a quilt around her shoulders.

  “In any case, I’m willing to allow some discussion about how to proceed with you and Carly if we can’t find you a bully.”

  “There is no me and Carly without a bully. The bully is the flint to ignite the fire that is me and Carly. Without the flint, no sparks. Without the sparks, no big roaring inferno of—”

  “—of Duncan and beaver-girl. I get it.”

  Duncan glared at her. “Because you’ve been trying to help me—which I appreciate—I’m gonna let the beaver talk go.”

  “You’re in no position to threaten me, dude,” said Jess, grinning.

  “So we were going to discuss my wooing Carly.”

  “Right,” said Jess, shifting slightly. “You know, we do have a few other thug names from our systematic sampling of Maple North students. We could try ’em.”

  “Sloth was their king, though. Those North kids are soft. And I couldn’t endure another stakeout.”

  “Me either, really.” She thought for a moment. “Ooh, here’s an idea: we’ll call administrators at other high schools—not just North—and pretend to be military recruiters. Then we ask for the names of the most disruptive and troubled kids. I’d bet we’ll get good leads.”

  “Don’t you think there might be something illegal about pretending to be military recruiters? Like, seriously illegal. Like they throw you in a small cage in a secret island prison and put electrodes on our shaved heads.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Jess said, sighing. “We could go to Tacos de Paco downtown and look for bullies. It’s been my experience that thug-looking guys really enjoy the cheap burritos.”

  “Dude, all men are drawn to burritos. They call to us. ‘¡Cómame, amigos!’ they say. And we obey them. They are not simply for thugs.”

  “Oohhhh-kay.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Mrs. Kindler would call that anthropomorphizing,” Duncan said. “The talking burritos.”

  “Right. So we don’t look for bullies at the burrito place. Fine. There must be other ways to find them.” Jess frowned, thinking hard. “How ’bout we dress Stew up as some kind of übergeek—the thick glasses, the button-down oxford—and we use him as bait. Maybe take him to a mall and wait for someone to antagonize him. Then, when they do, you and I swoop in and offer to hire them.”

  “Number one, that’s a lot to ask of Stew. Number two—and this is really the deal-breaker—if these mall thugs somehow managed to hurt Stew before we could get there, Carly would start lavishing attention on him. We can’t have that. It would lead to friction, mistrust, and general band discord.” He tapped his fingertips together. “Let’s face it: things are hopeless. ”

  “You could just try being honest with Carly,” Jessie said. “Maybe express what you’re actually feeling.”

  Duncan chuckled. “You’re high, Jess. It’s waaaaaay too early in the relationship for honesty. Once you’ve played the honesty card, it’s over. There are no more cards to play.”

  “So honesty is only to be attempted after you’re completely out of BS? Is that how it works? Hmm. Interesting.”

  “Kinda. At least in this case. I was hoping to save honesty for, like, last week of senior year. Unless Carly and I were ever drunk together, which seems even less likely than our dating.”

  Jessie fumbled with the collection of remotes hidden in various chair crevices. She turned on the TV, then the game system, then grabbed a controller. She and Duncan continued discussing his bully/Carly options while she gamed. Eventually, they began to hear upstairs noises: keys, the front door, indecipherable conversation, giggly kids.

  “Food’s here,” said Duncan. “Finally.”

  Jessie grunted at the TV, swerving to duck some pixelated missile. Duncan leapt up the stairs.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said. “Jess is over. She’s gaming. Where’s dinner?”

  “Missed you, too, son,” said his smiling father, angling past him on his way to the fridge.

  “There are several pizza slices in a Styrofoam container,” said Duncan’s mom. “The wait at Olive Garden was ninety minutes. We went to Chuck E.”

  “I won a plastic butterfly!” said Talia, hopping. “It lights up!”

 
She squeezed it. It lit up.

  “Emily won sparkly stickers and Silly Putty!” Talia said. Emily stretched the Silly Putty and grinned.

  “Fantastic,” said Duncan. “That’s great news, T. Now, where’s the pizza?”

  Emily handed him a Styrofoam box. Duncan looked toward his mom.

  “You let the troll handle the food?” he asked incredulously.

  “It was in the backseat,” said his mom, flipping through mail.

  “And the troll was also in the backseat with the pizza, doing who-knows-what?”

  Talia squeezed her butterfly. “Stop calling my friend a troll!” she said.

  “Duncan, stop calling your sister’s friend a troll,” said his dad. The troll smiled quietly, gripping the pizza.

  “Mom,” he said, “did the food really ride with Emily? Really? The whole time?”

  “I guess so, honey. But I’m sure the pizza’s fine. Emily is a lovely girl.” She nudged him with the pizza box.

  “Have some,” Emily said, grinning wider. “If you’re feeling lucky.” She snickered.

  Duncan grabbed a bag of chips and went downstairs. “I’m really not,” he said. “Not at all.”

  9

  The remaining hours of the weekend passed uneventfully. Fat Barbie’s Saturday practice consisted of Duncan picking at the acoustic guitar while Jessie made fighting noises—“AAY-YAH! ” and “BWAP!” and “KEE-YOW!”—in response to video games. On Sunday it drizzled. Duncan spent the day completing problem sets, writing Spanish paragraphs, reading more Gatsby, then journaling about it as he’d promised Mrs. Kindler in his previous entry. At regular intervals, he checked on the size and coloration of his assorted facial injuries. Every time he did this, his reaction was the same: Oh, not good. Getting smaller. Crap.

  Jessie drove him to school on Monday, although by then he was seeing just fine out of his still-purplish but far less swollen left eye. The cut on his nose no longer oozed anything. His mouth no longer ached. Things were correcting and realigning.

  “Great to see you doing better, Duncan,” said Carly. She smiled.

  Duncan noticed the array of TARTS buttons on the long strap of her purse. Nice that she remembers my name, he thought. Incredibly bad that she noticed improvement.

  “Oh, things still hurt. A lot.” He grimaced in fake-pain as he swung his backpack off his shoulder. “Ohwwoo,” he added for emphasis. “I’m still a little freaked about getting jumped by tha—”

  “See ya, Duncan,” she said, slamming shut her locker. “I’ve got a meeting. Big TARTS rally. Busy, busy. Sooo exciting!” She raced off.

  Duncan watched her float down the hall.

  And so it ends, he thought. No walking me to class today. No sympathy caressing. No invitation to lunch. No attention, period. He sighed. Soon it’ll be “Dalton” again. And then I’m back to repelling her. And then . . . poof. Nothing. Nada. The empty set.

  He opened his locker and fussed with its contents absentmindedly. Minutes before first period, Stew and Jessie ambled by.

  “Where’s your girl?” Stew asked.

  “She’s busy being not anywhere near me,” Duncan answered.

  “Have you seen her yet?” asked Jessie.

  “There were pleasantries. Incredibly brief. Like you’d exchange with a clerk at Kwik Mart. Nothing of substance. It’s over.”

  “No offense, dude, but ‘over’ implies that it started, which it didn’t. You can’t act like you broke up.”

  “Exactly,” said Jessie. “Stew is the voice of reason. You can’t be down, Duncan. You’ve made major tactical inroads with Carly.”

  “She knows your name,” said Stew.

  “She engages you in Kwik Mart-style pleasantries,” added Jess.

  “She knows you’re a kind of a gump who can be easily pushed around,” said Stew.

  “That’s huge, Duncan,” said Jess. “Huge. She’s not just going to forget you’re a weenie.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement,” Duncan said. He shut his locker and shook his head.

  “Don’t be so gloomy,” urged Jess. “I can guarantee that no girl—not even beaver-loving activist Carly Garfield—likes her men chronically gloomy.”

  “I dunno,” said Duncan. “I’m a wreck. Maybe I need to take antidepressants. My mom says they’re just a crutch. What I really need is to find a friggin’ bully.”

  “Can we back up just a sec?” said Stew. “Did I miss some crucial information about Carly and beavers?”

  “They’re rodents,” said Jess. “Beavers. Just big rodents.”

  “Oh, I thought they were mammals,” said Stew.

  “Rodents are mammals, dumbass,” she said, swatting him. “It’s like that kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, da-da, da-da, da-dum stuff.”

  “I thought it was kingdom, class, phylum, fam—”

  “No, asshat, it’s king—”

  “Okay, enough!” said Duncan. “The ACTs are in the past. And apparently Stew struggled with the science. But whatever. Let it go. We were talking about me and Carly.”

  “We do that a lot,” snapped Stew.

  First bell rang. Without another word passing between them, they shuffled off to different classrooms. Duncan kept his head down during Psychology class, making minimal eye contact with his teacher. He did attempt eye contact with Carly, but without success. She answered questions perkily, her attention focused either on taking notes or on Mr. Arnold’s lecture. After class, she hurried away. Duncan tucked his books under his arm and walked lifelessly to the boys’ lockers for gym.

  Physical Education had definitely grown more tedious and humiliating over the years, he thought. To his eyes, Duncan appeared just as pasty and unmuscled as he’d been in fourth grade. All that had really changed about him was his height, and that had changed only marginally. He pulled the ill-smelling Owls T-shirt over his head, then changed into knee-length shorts. He was jostled slightly in the cramped locker room by Kurt Himes, a terminally suburban wannabe rapper removing necklaces and earrings.

  “Hustle up, men!” barked Coach Chambliss, their gray-haired gym instructor. He insisted on being called “Coach” despite not coaching anything.

  “That dude is old school,” said Kurt under his breath.

  “Coach is so old school, he poops eight-tracks,” said Duncan.

  Kurt laughed a snorty laugh.

  “Tha’s cold, bro.”

  Duncan walked out of the dank locker room and into the daylight, his head down, hair falling across his face. He and Kurt were among the last students to finish dressing. They crossed the running track and walked onto the practice field, where students had already arranged orange pylons into neat rows. Jessie was dragging a giant mesh bag of soccer balls.

  “Hustle up, Mr. Boone!” shouted Coach Chambliss. “Hustle up, Himes! Double time, men!”

  They broke into a light jog. Duncan caught up to Jessie and helped her lug the soccer balls to their rightful place in the center of the field.

  “Thanks, Mr. Boone,” she said.

  “Just doing my part to make sure we all learn the fundamentals of soccer.”

  Coach Chambliss blew his whistle.

  “Line it up!” he yelled. He spoke with the hyperalert cadence of a drill sergeant. Coach watched as his students formed two lines behind the pylons. “We have a new student joining us today, people, and I’d like to introduce him to every—”

  He stopped midword and eyed Kurt.

  As Kurt often did, and never with positive results, he held his hand over his crotch in a pseudo rapper pose.

  “Is your penis bothering you, Mr. Himes?” asked Coach Chambliss.

  Students giggled. Kurt quickly dropped his hands to his sides.

  “N-nah, Coach,” he stammered. “It’s all good.”

  “Then do not touch it during class, Mr. Himes.” Coach Chambliss glared at Kurt for several uneasy seconds, then blew his whistle again to silence the gigglers. “As I was saying before Mr. Himes touched himself, we
are joined today by a new student. He’s recently moved to Elm Forest from Bemidji, Minnesota. Excellent fishing in Bemidji—I myself have visited many times.” Coach cleared his throat and looked for a new face in the group. “Wambaugh, Frederick!” he called. “Is there a Frederick Wambaugh here?”

  A hand went up in the back row of students, no more than fifteen feet from Duncan and Jessie.

  “Here,” called a deep voice. “You can just call me Freddie.”

  “You are ‘Mr. Wambaugh’ in this class, Frederick,” said Coach.

  “It’s Wawhm-baugh,” said Freddie. “Not Waim-baugh.”

  More uneasy seconds followed.

  “Mr. Waim-baugh, are you proficient at soccer?” asked Coach Chambliss.

  “Nope,” said Freddie, smirking.

  “Well, you’re here to learn. Please come up with Mr. Himes and demonstrate our first drill for your classmates, if you’d be so kind.”

  Freddie paused for a moment before lurching forward. He bumped unapologetically into a pair of students as he moved toward Coach. Jess elbowed Duncan and whispered, “Dude, the new kid is built like a house.”

  “He’s at least a house,” whispered Duncan. “Or a barn. Or a government building.”

  Freddie was massive. Maybe six foot five, Duncan reckoned, and two and a half spins on a scale. Freddie’s giant feet were like frying pans, and his short black hair barbed like a cactus.

  “Himes!” yelled the coach.

  Kurt jerked forward and stood near Freddie, who absolutely dwarfed him. It reminded Duncan of a hippo and a small bird.

  “This warm-up drill is so incredibly simple that even Mr. Himes and Mr. Wambaugh—a new student who has just confessed that he is not proficient at soccer—will be able to execute it flawlessly.”

  Coach walked briskly over to the mesh bag, withdrew a ball with his foot, and popped it into the air, catching it against his chest.

  “You will find a partner, stand ten yards apart, and kick the ball back and forth crisply. I expect to see clean trapping and striking.” He rolled the ball to Freddie. “Mr. Wambaugh will now propel the ball toward Mr. Himes, who will trap it with—”

  Freddie—in a surprisingly quick and efficient motion—stepped forward, swung his right leg hard, and scorched the ball toward Kurt, hitting him in the groin. Every boy in class cringed and emitted an “ohwwow” sort of noise. The ball bounded away as Kurt crumpled.