Beauty and the Bully

by Andy Behrens

  “Cool,” she said. “I’ll be here.” She smiled again. "’Bye.”

  “Hey, tell Freddie thanks.”

  Syd rolled her eyes, then got in the Monte Carlo and drove off.

  Duncan locked up the garage and went inside the house. His mom commented on the fact that, for the second time in the past week, he’d worn an OWLS PHYS. ED. shirt home from school.

  “Who does that?” she asked. “Are you trying to be ironic? Because if you are, we can buy you some nice-looking ironic T-shirts, honey. They have funny ones.”

  Duncan simply attributed the wearing of gym shirts to a newfound commitment to good health. “Healthy body, healthy mind, Mom. I’m taking control of my life. By God, I’m going to impress the President’s Council on Physical Fitness.” Then he grabbed a package of Twinkies and went to his room.

  ENTRY #13, SEPTEMBER 27

  So you won’t believe this, Mrs. K. (or maybe you will—hard to get a read on you), but here it is: today was another f*@#!ng awesome day. I really don’t like to get all vulgar and explicit like that—it’s not my nature. But sometimes a simple “awesome” or “great” or “sweet” just doesn’t capture a moment. Such is the case again today. And I’m not just having manic mood swings consistent with general teenagedness. Overreactions, melodrama, blubbery gushing, etc. That’s not my deal. I’m not prone to that, Mrs. K. No, I normally just find my level, like water, and I chill. But today with this girl (and I am officially divulging, for the record, that there is a girl at the root of all this emotionally charged good day/bad day jazz) was unreal—and I don’t mean that in some smutty way, but in an emotional/intellectual way. (Oh, and she’s hot, too. So there is that.) I’m way out of my league with this girl, Mrs. K.—waaaay out. In fact, I’m so far out of my league that I’ve had to lie to get in. But it’s working, and it’s hurting no one, so let’s not dwell on the fine details of the courtship.

  Arguably, the girl and I have a Jay Gatsby/Daisy Buchanan thing going on, but without the tragic closure (let’s hope). And we have no past together. And we’re not really physically involved. And I’m not rich. But other than that, the comparison is solid. She’s even got me thinking the H-word, Mrs. K.

  That’s right: Homecoming.

  I’ve never been. I don’t dance. That’s why I play guitar. It’s a thing to keep oneself occupied in lieu of dancing. But, well, homecoming is less than three weeks away. And I have a solid connection with this girl. I haven’t breathed a word of this to anyone, though. It’s for the best; things have a way of collapsing for me.

  The band? Well, my progress with the girl has put a predictable strain on the band. There is a well-chronicled inverse relationship between romantic success and rock success. I’m living the classic arc: a world-changing band emerges; its songwriter meets a girl; the band implodes. Except for the world-changing and the implosion, that’s another solid comparison right there. I’ve taken on a guitar protégée, too. A new kid in school, Syd Wambaugh. She is Earth’s worst musician. I’ll consider her training to be a stunning success if I can just help her to become, like, Earth’s second worst musician. But that’s a long way off.

  Duncan put down the journal and ripped open the Twinkies. He reclined at his desk, his feet propped up. He held a Twinkie in his mouth like a cigar. For a moment he felt like a five-star general making tactical battlefield decisions that would affect the lives of countless others. But Duncan had played a lot of Risk as a kid and he knew, quite frankly, that it wasn’t nearly so difficult to orchestrate a military campaign as it was to conduct a romantic campaign on multiple fronts. Woo Carly, get bullied, placate Freddie, infiltrate TARTS, teach Syd. Wash, rinse, repeat. The challenge ahead of him was monumental. It required cunning, deceptiveness, and intellect. He sighed, then bit off the end of the Twinkie and fished out some creamy filling with the tip of his tongue.

  The sweet indulgence before the conflict, he thought.

  In the days that followed, Duncan’s various schemes unfolded with surgical precision, and they achieved precisely the desired results. He and Freddie conducted two more staged assaults that week—one of them a de-pantsing at Duncan ’s locker (he wore a flattering pair of flannel boxers for the occasion), and the other an elaborate after-school chase that ended with Duncan clinging to the crossbar of a goalpost. He and Freddie did a little bully/victim improv during gym, too. And Carly seemed enchanted by all of it. Freddie was absolutely brilliant, the perfect high school nemesis.

  “We’re an incredible team,” Duncan told him privately. “Like Shaq and Wade. Or Kirk and Spock. Or Bobby and Whitney. Or Harold and Kumar. Or—”

  “Shut up, dweeb.”

  “Will do.”

  Freddie’s sister had another lesson. It was both fun and excruciating, which struck Duncan as very odd. He teased Syd for making crazed, primal guitar faces when she played.

  “But those are my possessed-by-rock-and-roll faces. All great guitarists make faces. Otherwise you just look like a butcher or fry cook or bartender or something.”

  “The faces need to match the sounds, Syd. If you’re not making the faces, maybe you could focus on, um . . . playing the right chords.”

  “I’d look like a chump.”

  “But you’d sound like a guitarist.”

  “Hmm. It’s quite a choice, really.”

  Duncan noted that she looked pretty cool in her backward Minnesota Twins hat and her KISS T-shirt. If nothing else, she brought a cooler aesthetic and a classic rock posture to the Flaming Tarts. (And there really was nothing else.) He tried to teach her a fragment of “Louie, Louie.” Syd somehow made it sound like "C Is for Cookie” from Sesame Street. Not just kind of like "C Is for Cookie,” but exactly like it, almost note for note. Except with shrill, teeth-rattling feedback.

  “It’s really not that hard of a song,” said Duncan, slightly exasperated but mostly amused.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Syd. “I’ve heard that before. It feels hard, though. All the moving my fingers around and everything. I have trouble with that.”

  “Should we try to find you a song where your fingers don’t have to move?”

  “Is there one?” she asked.

  “No.” He smiled. “But we could write one. It’d suck, though.”

  The time spent with Syd was fun but largely unproductive; the time Duncan spent with Carly, however, was spectacular on all fronts. He found that because most of his conversations with her dealt with things that were wholly contrived—his supposed fear of Freddie’s attacks, his conversion to a rodent-saving zealot, his desire to assist with the upcoming TARTS rally—their interactions were unexpectedly effortless for him. He’d even developed a little confidence. Granted, it was con fidence based on totally false pretenses. But hey, it was confidence nonetheless. Suddenly, Duncan could make her laugh. There was no more stammering, convulsing, or brain-farting when they were together. Increasingly, Carly seemed to view him as an interesting and relevant person, not simply as a victim in need of rescue. (Which isn’t to say that Duncan was ready to stop playing the victim card.) He wasn’t quite comfortable around Carly yet, but he knew what to do, when to do it, and how to spin it.

  “You know, Duncan,” she said to him over lunch, “I’m really glad I’ve gotten to know you—”

  “Hey, me, too.”

  “—because TARTS needed fresh energy. You’re so involved, so sincere.”

  “Yup,” he said, “that’s me. Involved. Sincere.”

  “The rally is going to be something truly special. I’m, like, tingly with excitement.”

  “Oh, so am I. Tingly.”

  “And I’m so stoked that the rally is on the same afternoon as homecoming. How perfect is that? It’s going to get everybody talking about TARTS, Duncan.”

  “Everyone.”

  TARTS had begun to take up nearly all of Duncan’s discretionary time. He arrived at school early to attend pre-rally briefings in Dr. Wiggins’s classroom. He photocopied pro-rodent propaganda. He hung
flyers about town, hitting the neighborhood near the college especially hard. He attended after-school meetings of the TARTS public relations subcommittee —and these didn’t even involve Carly. Instead Marissa, a high-ranking handmaid, delegated various un-fun responsibilities to people other than herself, then she gossiped. But Duncan went to the meetings nonetheless. Doing so served both the near-term goal of taking Carly to homecoming and the long-term goal of having no fewer than fifteen children with her before he turned thirty. Duncan had burrowed so deeply into TARTS so quickly that he became, in a matter of mere days, an almost indispensable asset.

  He also became somewhat distant from Jess and Stew.

  “Dude!” called Jess, racing after Duncan down a hallway. “When are we gonna practice again?”

  “Who?”

  “Your band, assmaster! You, me, Stew, Syd . . . you do remember us, right?” She swept in front of him to make eye contact. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

  “Sorry, yeah.” He stapled a TARTS leaflet to a bulletin board. “I’m just totally caught up in . . .”

  “In not hanging out with your friends? Ever. Avoiding us like lepers. Not doing a thing to get us a friggin’ gig. Generally not caring.”

  “I am not avoiding you.” He sighed. “But I know. I’ve been busy. It sucks. I kinda suck. But I’m making real progress with Carly—and I’ve even written some new songs.”

  “Oh, let me guess. They’re all about her.” She sneered.

  “No, for your information, they are not about her.”

  Jess stepped back. “Really? Not one? Hmm. What’re you writing about, then?”

  “Well, it’s complicated.” He looked away. “They’re mostly unfinished songs.”

  “But the finished parts, what are they about?”

  He fidgeted. “Um . . .”

  “Well?” she said. “Don’t be bashful.”

  “They’re about test mice, mostly. But a couple of them deal more with rats.”

  Jess gave him a withering stare.

  “They could be seen as metaphorical,” he offered.

  “You know that if we weren’t at school—and I wasn’t nearly finished serving about a month of detention—I’d kick you.”

  “I know that, yes.”

  “I still might.”

  “Please don’t.”

  She shook her head disapprovingly. “Well, rat crusader, when can we practice? How ’bout tonight?”

  “Tonight’s no good, sorry. I’m giving Syd another lesson. It’ll be the third this week—that’s almost like having band practice.”

  “Except it’s without half the band, dude.” Jess folded her arms. “We’ve been hanging out a little, you know. Me and Syd. Since you began ignoring me. She’s awesome. She was over on Wednesday. How’s she progressing musically?”

  “She’s taken to guitar like the local Catholic Youth Ministry Club has taken to radical Islam.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, she’s not, um . . . competent. At all.”

  “Good thing we don’t actually have any gigs, then. Can we practice Saturday afternoon, maybe?”

  “I’ll be at the mall.”

  “The mall? You’re not a mall person, Duncan.”

  “I’m going for TARTS. They’re gonna have a little booth or a kiosk or something. Like one of those places where they sell cubic zirconia jewelry or cheap hats. Except we’re pushing the rodent-rights agenda.” Jessie simply stared at him. He continued. “It’s gonna be awesome. Carly is supposed be there in the morning, I think. And I agreed to be there all day. Well, at least as long as the mall is open.”

  Jessie walked away.

  “Maybe we can practice on Sunday?” he said. “Jess?”

  She waved her hand in obvious disgust.

  16

  Duncan arrived home after school on Friday exhausted but content. His dad’s car was already in the driveway, which was highly unusual. Duncan walked through the front door, threw his backpack down near the stairs, and loped into the kitchen. His mom and dad were seated at the kitchen counter looking stiff and uncomfortable.

  “Oh, man,” said Duncan. “Did somebody die? It’s not Aunt Dana, is it? That woman smokes like a facto—”

  “No one died, Duncan,” said his father. “And Dana’s trying to cut back, she really is.”

  Duncan’s mom gave his dad a moderately hostile look, then said, “We’re not here to have the dangers-of-smoking discussion. We’ve already had that one.”

  “Um . . . then why are we here?” asked Duncan. “You’re kinda freakin’ me out.”

  “Pull up a stool, Duncan,” said his dad, extending an arm.

  “No way,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “Not until you tell me what this is all about. Am I being warned about something? Interrogated? Reprimanded? What?” His mind raced, trying to come up with something that might necessitate a confab with his parents. “And where’s T?”

  “Your sister is sleeping over at Emily’s,” said his mom in a too-calm voice.

  “Whoa, you even made Talia clear out for this? What the heck? And why do you have to send her over to Emily’s, that little ferret. Talia has lots of frie—”

  “Duncan,” said his father. “What’s going on at school?”

  There were many potential answers to that question: I’m kinda sorta lying to this incredibly sweet, incredibly hot girl, and she’s diggin’ me; I’m campaigning for better treatment for rodents, so rats and mice are diggin’ me, too; I haven’t understood a friggin’ thing in Physics in over a week, so Dr. Wiggins is not diggin’ me. But he likes the rodents. So maybe.

  “Nothing,” Duncan said defensively.

  “Let me rephrase, then,” said his father. “Is anyone bothering you at school?”

  “Mom!” Duncan barked. “I can’t believe you! Boundaries, Mom. You are not to use your position to intervene in my social affairs. It’s like you’ve broken the fourth wall. We’ve talked about the fourth wall, Mom.”

  “This is a safety issue, Duncan,” she huffed, “and I do not take it lightly.” She looked at him compassionately. “What’s the story with you and Freddie Wambaugh?” she asked.

  I’m basically using him as a decoy to try to scam with the aforementioned sweet, hot girl whom I’ve been lusting after for the past half decade, he thought.

  “There is no story,” he said. “None whatsoever. Are we done now?”

  “No,” said his dad.

  “Duncan, I’ve heard a lot of tidbits over the past two years about you, your friends, your teachers—a lot. It’s my job. I’m a guidance counselor, dear. I guide. And when you guide, you have to know. So I know things.”

  “Anytime you’d like to make sense, Mom, I’m listening.”

  Duncan’s dad chuckled, which earned him a quick whack on the shoulder from Duncan’s mom.

  “Honey,” she said, “several faculty members have come to me with reports of a boy—almost certainly you—who was chased across the football field and up a goalpost by Freddie.”

  Duncan said nothing.

  “Is that accurate, honey?” asked his mother.

  Duncan still said nothing. He merely frowned, then looked at his feet.

  “I always hoped I’d see you in action on the football field, son,” said his father. “I just never thought it would be cowering on a goalpost.”

  Duncan’s mom administered another whack.

  “You need to stand up to this boy, son,” said his father. “Look, I know it’s not easy, but you ca—”

  “Oh, don’t listen to your father, Duncan,” said his mom. She glared. “At no point in his life would your father have stood up to Freddie Wambaugh. He’s strong. And he’s not one to back down from a confrontation—I’ve seen his disciplinary records.” She looked toward Duncan. “We should talk to a dean, honey. Or I could talk to Principal Donovan for you. Or we could even call the Wambaughs and talk to the—”

  “I can handle it,” said Duncan.

  “Oh now, honey, don�
��t be like tha—”

  “I can handle it, Mom,” he said, almost pleading.

  “Good man,” said his father. “I’m glad we aired this out, talked it through.” He made rapid, girlish punching gestures at the air. “It’s important for families to talk about their problems. ”

  “Can I go?” asked Duncan, definitely pleading.

  “Sure thing,” chirped his dad.

  Duncan grabbed a Squirt from the fridge and began to walk toward the stairs.

  “Honey,” said his mom, “your father and I won’t be home until late, okay?”

  “’Kay,” called Duncan. “Where’re you going?”

  “Oh, we’re going to see Kenny Rogers at Pheasant Run,” she said. “It was my birthday present, remember?” Duncan’s dad began to sing “You Decorated My Life.” Badly. (As if there were another way).

  “How is it even possible that we share genetic material?” yelled Duncan, stomping upstairs. “The answer is that it’s not possible. I am clearly adopted. I am the bastard son of Axl Rose.”

  He slammed the door to his room shut behind him, opened the Squirt, and turned on his laptop. He sat at his desk, fuming and scheming. Mom has no right to meddle in my non-academic school life, he told himself. But realistically he knew it was an inevitability. “Aaargh,” he said aloud. “Duh.” His head fell onto the desk. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  His laptop beeped at him. Jess IMing, most likely. He pulled his head up and looked at the message.

  No idea who that is, he thought. Does anyone call me “Dunky”? Do I want to encourage this? Provocative screen name, though.

  Duncan stared at the characters on his screen for a lost moment. Carly Garfield was IMing. That seemed so wildly beyond the limits of possibility that he couldn’t process it as fact. Carly had only really known his name for, like, a week. And she’d only begun to take him seriously as a sentient human being, like, yesterday. Or possibly the day before. Whatever. And now she was IMing. Casually. With exclamation points and emoticons. He plugged his printer cable into a USB port—this exchange needed to be printed and scrap-booked. Not that he had a scrapbook. But he’d get one for something as momentous as this, his first IM from . . .