Beauty and the Bully (6 page)

“She said ‘ass,'” Jessie whispered to Duncan. “Wow. She swears.”

“Just little swears,” Duncan clarified. “Not big ones.”

Carly continued to berate Perry.

“You attacked another human being who one, you don't even know, and two, probably idolizes you. Because guys seem to idolize the dumbest, jockiest people they can find—and around here, there's no one dumber and more jocky than you.” She crept closer to Perry, her eyes narrowing. “You're basically everything that's wrong with the whole popularity hierarchy, Perry. There always has to be some insecure loser at the top, just dumping their misery on everyone else.”

Carly gripped the freshman's hand, which appeared to surprise the boy at least as much as having his books violently knocked to the floor. “Seriously,” she continued, “what possible reason could you have for attacking him? You're messing the poor kid up, Perry. This—right now—is probably the most awkward moment of his life.”

She turned toward the freshman.

“Is this awkward for you?” she asked softly.

He nodded.

“See!” yelled Carly. “He
is
messed up! And it's your fault, you gutless moron!”

Perry sheepishly offered, “I don't actually think you're doing the kid any favors right now, Car—”

“I'm treating him with respect.”

She stood, vigorously shook her unopened organic cola, then sprayed it over Perry's crispy hair and clean jersey. He shrieked as if he were being set ablaze. A collective “ooooooh” arose from the students watching the confrontation.

“They're not booing,” said Jessie mockingly. “They're hooting! Go Owls!”

Perry wiped cola from his face with his meaty hands and removed the jersey. He then eyed the freshman, who stood grinning behind Carly.

“You're dead,” said Perry, pointing at him. “You are
d-e-a
- . . .”

“You will
not
touch him,” said Carly firmly. “Or I will ruin you, Perry.” She paused. “But please continue. We're all eager to know if you can spell ‘dead.'”

After a bit more angry posing, the cola-soaked Pear Bear walked away, his friends trailing behind. Carly draped her arm around the freshman and walked him to her locker. She handed him a pamphlet and whispered something. He hurried off with a victorious grin.

“Oh, man!” Jessie excitedly declared. “You've
gotta
let that chick see your face, Duncan!”

“Wha—? Carly is the
last
person who needs to see my face when it's this misshapen.”

“Nope,” said Jessie. “She likes 'em that way.”

With that, she launched Duncan toward Carly with an indelicate shove.

He stood no more than ten feet behind her, jittery and hesitant. He looked back toward Jessie with his good eye. She shoved him closer to his locker and, thus, to Carly Garfield, avenging angel.

“Oh my
Gawd
!” Carly exclaimed, lifting her head when she noticed Duncan. He braced himself for some derisive comment. Instead, this: “Oh, my. Oh, no. No, no, no . . .”

Carly gently brushed her hands across his face—the first instance of physical contact between them since a regrettable collision at home plate in a gym-class kickball game sophomore year. She drew him closer. His heart pounded.

“What happened?” Carly asked, her deep green eyes scanning his wounds.

“An accident in my gar—”

“He got beat up!” blurted Jessie, hopping behind Duncan. “Badly! Look at him! It's just awful!” She swept around Duncan and stood between him and Carly, speaking quickly. “Some thug jumped Duncan right after a band practice—you knew we were in a band, right? Duncan's a wicked good guitarist. Have you heard Duncan play? You should. He's great. Anyway, we're carrying the heavy instruments, no capacity to defend ourselves, and this thug—or maybe a collection of thugs, a whole herd of thugs. How many thugs were there, Duncan? Three? Four? What would you say?”

He looked at her quizzically and said “Uhhhm . . .” before Jessie continued.

“It happened so fast. Anyway, if it was just one guy doing the beating, which it might have been, he was
huge
. And he—or maybe they—totally kicked the crap out of poor Duncan. He's normally good-looking, you know, in a sensitive, artsy sort of way. But just not today. For obvious reasons. Anyway, Duncan tried to fight back, but he's so puny—look at him.” Jessie flopped one of Duncan's long, thin arms. He scowled at her, thinking to himself that this was way more humiliation than he deserved.

But Carly radiated empathy. She cupped his bashed face in her startlingly soft hands.

“Oh, Duncan, you poor thing,” she said, pouting. He was simultaneously flushed, panicked, and exhilarated.
She knows my name!
he thought. “What would make someone do something like this?” Carly asked.

“Oh, man,” said Jessie. “Duncan has been terrorized for days.
Days
. It's just awful.”

“But why?” asked Carly. “You're such a harmless boy.” She gently twisted Duncan's face around to inspect his purple eye and swollen cheek.

“He is,” insisted Jessie. “So harmless. Like a bunny. No, like an injured bunny—he's
that
harmless. But some people just abuse poor, defenseless little bunnies like Duncan. Makes them feel better about themselves, I guess.”

“Bullies,” said Carly. “Some people can't feel good about themselves unless they're hurting someone else. It's just awful.” She massaged Duncan's shoulder with her hand. “If I can help you with anything, Duncan—anything at all—just let me know. Poor thing.”

“Actually,” said Jessie, “if you could help get Duncan to first period, that would be so great. I was gonna do it, but I have to get way over to the east end of school, in the new wing. I'll be late if I help him get to class. But look at him.” She extended her hand, as if presenting Duncan as a prize. “The boy's a victim. He definitely needs help. Can't see well enough to find his way. Terrible headaches. He can barely speak—I think his teeth are loose, maybe. He's just a wreck.”

“Of
course
I'll help him,” said Carly. “Poor fella.” She sighed, removed his backpack from his shoulders, and squeezed his hand. “First a bird dookies on your folder, then life dookies on your face.” She hugged him. Duncan hugged back.

Ecstatic, he winked at Jessie with the eye he could control.

The school day that followed was the most exhilarating seven hours that Duncan had ever experienced. Carly lugged his books from class to class, opened doors, scooted out chairs, led him by the hand. He considered asking her to prechew his food at lunch. And she might've done it, too—she was that nice. Somehow, Carly managed to dote on him without making him feel completely useless and feeble. She complimented him, joked with him, asked for his opinion. She also fed him a constant diet of TARTS-related information.

“Did you know that Elm Forest College does obesity testing with lab rats, Duncan?”

“No.”

“They stuff them like piñatas.”

“I had no idea.”

“Isn't that cruel?”

“It's unspeakable.”

“Exactly. You can get involved.”

“I'll do anything.”

He was like a cartoon boy following the perfumed vapor trail of a beautiful cartoon girl. Duncan drifted happily throughout the day. He agreed with basically everything she said—and she said a lot. By the end of the day, as she helped pack his book bag, he felt more smitten than he'd ever been.

“Thanks for all the help, Carly.” He sagged against his locker. “I couldn't have gotten through the day without you.”

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?”