Beauty and the Bully (12 page)

“Just a seco—”

“Now!” she hollered. “Stop the violence, madman.”

Freddie tossed Duncan from the trunk. “We're done,” he said. “And if I bully you, it'll be for pleasure.”

“So you won't help?”

“I'm not helpful,” said Freddie, opening the car door.

“I can write a pretty mean comparative essa—”

Freddie slammed the door shut. The girl revved the Monte Carlo's engine, and Duncan stepped aside. Then he watched them back up and pull out of the lot.

“Bummer,” said Stew.

“Total bummer,” said Jessie. “The thugs aren't buyin' that comparative essay stuff you're sellin'.”

“I think I'm lucky to be alive,” said Duncan. “That crazy chick at the wheel saved my life.” He watched the Monte Carlo speed away from school. “But yeah, bummer. Now I'm finished.”

Duncan sulked on the ride home (though he tried to appear somewhat cool), sulked upstairs to his room (though he tried to seem stoic and emotionless), and sulked as he emptied the contents of his backpack onto his bed (alone, he was just himself: bummed). He fell into the chair at his desk, sulking, and played a somber mix of punk and power ballads on iTunes. Then he grabbed his journal from the mess of school trash.

ENTRY #12, SEPTEMBER 26

I hope you got your fix of my analytical skills in Entry 11, 'cuz that's not on the menu today. . . .

EFTHS: where life can suck on a dime. As great as things were going—no, as f*#@!ng great as things were going—when I issued the previous update on my non-English-class life, that's how galactically bad things are going now. Without going into all the whys and hows and whos (although you can pretty much assume it involves a girl, given the blunt emotional extremes and the use of partially redacted profanity), let's just say that I am now feeling like Nick Carraway riding in the victoria with Jordan Baker. Except we're not in a stylish touring car, but a crappy Chrysler product with 140,000 miles on the odometer. And there's not actually a girl in the car at all, but more an idea of a girl.

“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.”

I'm those last three.

Duncan's laptop made a fluttery beeping noise. An IM had arrived. He tossed the journal aside, then threw his pen at a bulletin board as if he were a circus knife-thrower. He sighed, then leaned over the keyboard to type.

He wasn't really laughing. Duncan sighed. He was still more or less sulking. He typed lazily.

Again, Duncan was not really rolling or laughing. He was just trying to seem not completely self-absorbed and frumpy. Although, in fact, he was both.

Talia's small pigtailed head peeked into his room. “Hey, Mom says you've gotta come downstairs to eat, okay?”

“Sure thing, T,” he said. “How was school today?”

“Fine,” she said. “We're learning to play the recorder. There's going to be a concert and everything. Can I join your band if I get good?” She smiled.

“Totally,” he said. “Our woodwind section is a little light.”

Talia skipped away. Duncan spun back to the keyboard.

Conversation over dinner was nonspecific, light, and surfacey. Except, that is, for a short exchange that involved Freddie.

“Hey, um . . . Mom,” began Duncan. “What's the story with this new kid, Freddie Wambaugh? He's one of yours, right?”

His mom brought a forkful of asparagus to a halt halfway between her plate and mouth.

“What have you heard?” she asked. “Did he do something to you? Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” said Duncan, looking at his food. “I'm totally fine. He did nothing. He's in my gym class, that's all. Freddie's first day of soccer with Coach Chambliss left three people wounded and the rest of us permanently scarred. He's a terrifying dude.”

“Well, I'm not really allowed to discuss other students with you, Duncan. And you know that.”

“Okay,” he said. “Just curious, that's all.”

“But yes,” she added, “he is a sizeable person.”

A brief silence followed.

“High school is scary,” observed Talia.

“You have no idea,” Duncan and his mom said simultaneously. She ate her asparagus while he swirled his mashed potatoes.

“So can you tell me where Freddie's from?” he asked his mother.

“Boundaries, honey.” She chewed. “Weren't you just telling me about the importance of boundaries? Anyway, why not just ask him yours—?” She paused. “No, don't ask him. Avoid contact.”

Another silence.

“Why is Coach Chambliss called ‘Coach' anyway? Did he like the sitcom? Does he like expensive leather handbags?”

“He used to coach girls' softball.”

“When?”

“About ten years ago, until . . .” She paused again, then rested her utensils on her plate.

“Until?” asked Duncan.

“Until an anger-management issue came to light.” She cleared her throat. “Anyone need more ham?”

“Freddie seems to have those,” said Duncan.

“Boundaries, honey,” said his mom. “Boundaries.”

12

The next day Duncan awoke to a grim reality: his face was almost entirely unblemished. A hint of a cut on the nose remained, as did maybe a slight bluish tint to the tiniest portion of his cheek. That was it, though. How many times had he actually
hoped
for this scenario, to wake up magically zitless and unmarked? Lots of times. But not that day. Without the bruises, the severe discoloration, the scabs that told a tale of fresh torture, what could he be to Carly? Nothing. Not a thing. Just another high school boy with petty, unidimensional needs.

“Ack,” he said, inspecting himself in a small Limp Bizkit- themed mirror that he'd won at a carnival in, like, 1999. “Suddenly I'm a pretty boy.”

He skipped breakfast. He text-messaged Jessie to say that he could drive himself to school. The ride was somber and lonely. He put in a home-produced CD of himself covering (or negligently attempting to cover) Zeppelin songs. He shook his head in despair and frustration as he parked his Reliant in the student lot. Duncan sat behind the wheel glumly. He looked in the rearview mirror, hoping that—just maybe—some stronger suggestion of a shadow of a memory of an injury had manifested itself. But no. He had mostly recovered.

“Crud.”

He thought briefly about punching himself in the eye, but decided that he wouldn't have the nerve to follow through with any real force. Plus, it was possible that he wasn't capable of administering a black eye no matter how hard he tried—he hadn't punched anyone since slugging Jessie in kindergarten. And that incident ended with him flat on his back in the water table. So no hitting.

Carly's Prius pulled in next to Duncan's car. He averted his eyes from the rearview mirror. Not cool to let a girl see you checking yourself out, he thought. “Might as well get this over with,” he mumbled to himself.

Duncan opened his car door as Carly opened hers.

“Mornin', Duncan,” she said cheerily.

“Hey, Carly.”

She was off like a bolt, taking long, quick strides through the parking lot. Duncan struggled to maintain her pace.

“Your face looks normal,” she said, not slowing. “No more attacks, I guess?”

Duncan felt a wave of near-nausea. “Normal,” she'd said. She couldn't at least say “better” or “nice” or “like a better-looking Brad Pitt” or anything else that was complimentary? No. “Normal” was all he got.

“No, no attacks,” he said, too dejectedly. “Can't be too careful, though.” He was already panting from the blistering speed at which Carly walked. “Jeez, you're sure”—Duncan took a deep, audible breath—“in a hurry.”

“Yup,” she said, not looking his way, and seeming to accelerate. “I'm leading these TARTS planning and organizational meetings every morning before school until the rally—we have the big rally in October that I've probably told you about. We're doing it in town to draw attention to the Elm Forest College fat-rat experiments. Which I've also probably told you about. So gross. The rally's at Watts Park, right by the . . .”

“—the statue of the dude on the horse?”

“Yeah, that's right. Did I tell you that, too?”

“Um . . . no. But, I mean, it's a logical spot. Great . . . vantage point for a speaker.”

“Exactly. And for the band. We're getting a band. What a headache that is—don't get me started. But we're getting someone pretty big. We're talking to people in the hip-hop community, too. The district subcommittee on grassroots mobilization has been really helpful.”

“Yeah, I hear, um . . . good things about those.” Pant, pant, pant. “I'm in a band, you know.”