Bully-Be-Gone

by Brian Tacang

  Six

  Millicent studied the gathering of Wunderkinder in the secret room. From Pollock’s glower to Roderick’s sour expression, each face doubted her. Except Tonisha’s. She seemed to be waiting for a cue.

  “Tonisha,” Millicent said, “this is where you come in.”

  She shot out of her chair. “Millicent rescued me from Nina with one of her inventions,” she announced. “I fully endorse her current endeavor.” She sat back down.

  “Thank you,” Millicent said, winking at Tonisha. “With that proof statement…” She produced a bottle of the blue substance from her backpack. “I present to you, Bully-Be-Gone: soon to be available in cologne for men, perfume for women, and also in a handy, pocket-sized deodorant. For you outdoorsy types, I’ll have Bully-Be-Gone Cream with UV protection.”

  Millicent set her collection of bottles on the table.

  Roderick clicked his tongue. “Your inventions don’t work. Something always goes wrong,” he said. “No offense, Millicent.”

  She didn’t believe Roderick. He did mean to offend her.

  “There may have been a few mishaps along the way,” Millicent said.

  “Yeah,” said Pollock, pointing his finger at Millicent. “I’ll never forget your Nail Clipper Mittens.”

  “But your nails did look spiffy,” Tonisha said, “once you looked past the bandages.”

  “There have been more than a few mishaps,” Juanita said, not playing her violin this time.

  “But that is why I am offering free samples of Bully-Be-Gone,” Millicent continued. She reached into her backpack, retrieving a handful of foil packets that she dealt to the Wunderkinder as one might playing cards. “Try it for a week. If you’re not completely satisfied, you’ve lost nothing. On the other hand, if you’re pleased with the results, you’ll receive a twenty percent discount on your first purchase of Bully-Be-Gone.”

  Millicent had given this part plenty of thought. Giving freebies was known as promotion. Uncle Phineas had told her freebies, like shampoo samples that came in the mail or taste tests of chili con carne at the grocery store, were among the best ways to get people to return for more of your product. And, he’d said, people love getting something for nothing—they couldn’t possibly reject free samples. He was right. The Wunderkinder took the packets, some cautiously, others eagerly, as if they’d been handed complimentary fries with the purchase of a burger.

  Millicent felt pretty pleased with herself.

  “Well, hey,” said Leon, examining his sample, “I’ll try anything if it’s free.”

  “Why not?” asked Pollock. “At least it doesn’t have moving parts.”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” said Juanita.

  Roderick was the only Wunderkind not wholly convinced. “And just how does this Bully whatever supposedly work?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  Millicent turned the page on her flip chart and drew a nose on the left side of the page and a brain on the right side. “The olfactory organ,” she said, pointing to the nose, “is the most direct connection to the brain.” She drew a line between the two. “Research shows that scent is the most powerful trigger to memory.”

  “Scent memory,” Roderick said. “Smells make you remember things. We know.”

  Millicent scowled. “Yes, but the nose isn’t very selective, is it? It smells what it smells by chance, and there’s no guarantee what the brain will remember because of the smell. Pleasant memories? Unpleasant memories? Who knows?”

  “Are you getting around to making a point?” Roderick asked.

  “Bully-Be-Gone induces only pleasant scent memories,” Millicent said triumphantly. “Only the loveliest, happiest, dreamiest moments in a person’s life.”

  “The smell of lavender always reminds me of my granny,” Tonisha said wistfully.

  “So what?” Roderick asked in a terse voice, the veins on his neck bulging. “I don’t see how that’ll keep Pollywog from taking Juanita’s violin hostage again or Nina from destroying Pollock’s artwork.” He added quietly, “Or all three of them from pushing me into the fountain.”

  “Think about it, Roderick,” Millicent said. “It will only affect a person with a bad attitude. For the person who’s in good spirits, a pleasant memory would mean nothing. It would simply be absorbed into his or her generally cheery attitude, kind of like a drop of cream in a butter churn. But for the person who is perpetually cranky, well, a pleasant memory would turn him or her into a big pile of sentimental mush.” She circled the table, closing in on Roderick. “Now, whom do you know who’s perpetually cranky?”

  “Principal Pennystacker,” Leon said. “He’s a grouch.”

  “Other than Principal Pennystacker,” Millicent said.

  “Nina, Fletch, and Pollywog,” Tonisha stated.

  “That’s right,” Millicent said. “And, by using Bully-Be-Gone, you’ll soon see those three nasty rats turn into three schmaltzy mice.”

  “Indeed,” Roderick said, placing the packet in his chest pocket, behind his pocket protector. “What harm could come of using this?”

  Millicent looked at him quizzically, tilting her head. She wished she could stand on her head at that moment. She was sure Roderick Biggleton the Third would seem less grumpy when viewed upside down.

  Seven

  The homeless woman patted and shook the pockets of her overcoat for change. She worked her way up, down, and around to the other pockets in her various articles of clothing: two cardigans, a vest, three pairs of pants, and a skirt. Not a clink or clack. Nothing. She turned her pockets inside out, just to be certain there wasn’t a lonely penny or stray nickel. She’d need money in order to make the trip home.

  “Home,” she said to herself. She remembered home was in Masonville in an old house with a porch and trees and a lawn and an inventor. “Home. No place like it—can’t live with it, can’t live without it; a penny saved is a penny earned for bus fare.” She cawed at her joke.

  Her lack of funds didn’t bother her. Nothing could destroy her perky mood now that her memory had returned. She’d figure out a way to get some money. She had managed for the twenty years she’d lived on the streets, she’d manage now, too.

  She spent the entire day walking around the park and looking for money. She tried shaking a few parking meters for loose quarters and scrounging under park benches for change that might have fallen out of people’s pockets. Her efforts turned up a nickel, a paper clip, and a stick of gum still in its wrapper. That night, she went back to her rock and fell asleep, her good cheer intact because she knew, somehow, she’d get enough money for the bus ride home.

  She awoke the next morning, chuckling to herself. She’d dreamed the lawn beneath her had turned into dollar bills.

  A businessman sitting on a nearby park bench didn’t seem to find her laughter amusing and shot her a nervous glare from behind his newspaper.

  “That’s some how do you do,” she said, loud enough for the man to hear. “It just so happens you are in the presence of the Fabulous Flying Felicity—airborne artillery artist.” She stood and curtsied, the ragged hem of her overcoat skimming the neatly trimmed lawn.

  He tried to ignore her, snapping the paper, drawing it closer to his face.

  “I came from up there,” Felicity said, pointing to the sky, “but home is where I need to go now. Home to my inventor.” She appraoched the man and peered over the top of his newspaper. “How much are bus trips to Masonville these days?”

  The man appeared annoyed. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I drive.”

  “Drive what?” she asked. She wasn’t really interested in what he drove; she was making friendly conversation.

  “A Humdinger Deluxa LX7-CWVi with a moonroof, leather seats, sixteen-speaker music system, two phones, a television, a hot tub, and a compact microwave oven,” he said, crossing his legs assuredly.

  This was the most the man had said to her thus far. She thought this odd. He hadn’t introduced himself, but he had his trans
portation. Surely, he drove something grander than a plain old car. Also, it had to be pretty big with all those gizmos. “You drive a motor home every day?” she asked in disbelief, pulling her knit cap over her ears.

  “Don’t be absurd,” the man scoffed. “If you must know, a Humdinger Deluxa is the luxury car of choice here in Pinnimuk City. Haven’t you seen the billboards: ‘That’s a Humdinger of a Car’?”

  “Well, la-di-dah,” she said, swiveling her hips. She hadn’t noticed the billboards. If the man had any sense, which apparently he didn’t, he’d be aware that folks who are down on their luck rarely look up. Especially at advertisements for utterly extravagant things they can’t afford.

  “I fly,” she continued, extending her arms before her as if she were diving. “Or, I would if I had my cannon, but I don’t. So how’s about some spare change? some excess coinage? some moolah? some dough? some—”

  “All right,” said the man impatiently. He tilted to one side, fiddled around in his pocket, handed her a five dollar bill, and frowned. “For heaven’s sake, here. Now go away.” He shooed her with his hand, a diamond ring on his finger glinting in the sun.

  “Whoa,” she exclaimed, holding the crinkled bill to the sun. Five whole dollars was more money than she’d hoped for and more than she’d seen for a very long time. “Jackpot! Round-trip fare, eh? Bad news—I’m not coming back.”

  “If we’re both lucky,” the man said under his breath.

  “We are,” Felicity said. “And thank you kindly. Gifts may not always be given kindly, but kindly they should be received.” She spun a balletic spin, her coat tenting in a cloud of dust, and sauntered down the cement path toward Pinnimuk City Station, whistling a tune she made up as she went.

  Eight

  Winifred T. Langley Middle School, oddly enough, was named after the Bendable Francine Tippit.

  In the early nineteen hundreds, Francine was the star of a traveling vaudeville show that went from city to city providing audiences with a variety of acts from comedy skits to song-and-dance routines. Francine’s specialty in the lineup of acts was contortion. She could scrunch herself up so small she could fit into a paper grocery bag without tearing it. She could also sit on her own head while doing a handstand and play a toy piano with her toes.

  Despite her fame and flexibility, Francine was a nervous lady, prone to chewing her fingernails. Since she was a contortionist, she could also easily chew her toenails. Candid photographs from the period often showed her at social gatherings or backstage before a performance at Lulu Davinsky’s Diamond Theater, arched backward, full circle, with her shoe off and her foot in her mouth.

  One night, she was about to go onstage when she heard there was a big-time movie producer in the audience, scouting for his next star. Francine broke into a sweat. Having a movie producer in the audience meant she could either be discovered and become famous, or not and be stuck playing the vaudeville circuit for the rest of her days. Both possibilities petrified her. She slipped off her lace-up boots, curled herself back, grabbed her ankles, and began chewing the toenails of both feet. She did it for so long she passed out. Her misfortune didn’t end there. Because she blacked out with her mouth clamped firmly on both feet, she rolled onstage like a hoop or wheel, then promptly rolled into the orchestra pit, hitting her head on a tuba.

  When she awoke in Masonville Memorial Hospital, she’d forgotten who she was—she had amnesia.

  A friend of Francine’s, a practical joker and comedian named Hobart the Comic, was visiting when she woke up. He’d brought her more flowers than she’d ever seen, which wasn’t much of a feat considering she couldn’t remember ever seeing flowers before. Somehow, Hobart managed to convince her that her name was Winifred T. Langley and that she was among the most scholarly minds of her generation, able to speak seven languages and cook gourmet meals—neither of which she could do.

  Winifred believed this jolly man with the armload of roses so totally that she went on to university, where she earned several foreign language degrees as well as a seat on the board of directors of Crusty Culinary College, a school for cooks of the highest order.

  No one could have foretold her change in character. As a linguist, historian, and chef, she was calmer and happier than she’d ever been as a contortionist. Not wanting to break her spell of contentment, friends and strangers alike hid the photographs of her performing career and took to calling her Winifred to her face and behind her back. In time, most forgot her past as a double-jointed entertainer. The city erected a school and named it in her honor. She married Hobart the Comic, who’d also led her to believe they were engaged, and her nails—both finger and toe—grew back to admirable, polishable lengths.

  By way of this series of freakish events, she became Masonville’s first and only double-jointed professor and chef with a namesake educational institution.

  However, life, as it is sometimes apt to, delivered Winifred another unexpected turn.

  Among Winifred’s many successes was Bistro Langley, a French restaurant she’d opened downtown. One night, she was in the kitchen preparing her signature creation, duck à l’orange brûlée, crisping its sugary surface with a blow-torch. Her hands were greasy with olive oil and the blow-torch slipped from her grip, setting a cutting board on fire as it fell to the floor behind her. Automatically, she bent over backward to pick it up.

  This was the first time Winifred had bent over backward in many years. Perhaps the familiarity of the pose or the blood rushing to her head made it all come back to her in an upside-down flash: her real name, her previous life as a performer, the vaudeville stage, her nail-biting habit. Flames sizzled across the kitchen counters, licking up the trails of butter, lard, and oil. Soon, the walls were ablaze in an orange heat, which spread to the main dining area. She ran screaming out of the burning restaurant and never returned.

  The next day the headline in the Masonville Gazette read, BISTRO LANGLEY TOAST, PROPRIETOR MISSING. A search party was formed. They found Francine at sunset, by Fisherperson’s Wharf, lying on the shore chewing her toenails.

  Just as she had forgotten her performing career when she collided with the tuba, she had now forgotten the foreign languages she’d learned, the historical facts, and her hundreds of original recipes. She whittled her finger and toenails back down to pathetic nubs. She remained married to Hobart the Comic, but theirs was a distant relationship; she couldn’t bring herself to trust him. And, by then, the city wasn’t about to change the name of Winifred T. Langley Middle School to the Bendable Francine Tippit Middle School.

  The city did make one compromise. It constructed an enormous bronze statue of Francine in the school’s front fountain. At the base of the statue was a tuba, from which water spouted. The statue itself depicted her reading a book in a classic contortionist’s pose, her forearms and chest on the floor with her body arched so that she was sitting on her own head, her feet planted firmly in front of her.

  Nowadays, the fountain had lost most of its meaning, except to those who were up on Masonville history. For the crankier teachers and administrative staff, it served as a cautionary sculpture to remind students to study hard or they might end up sitting in unfavorable places. For the custodians, it was a distorted, creepy thing to clean. For the cheerleaders, it was a pose they could only hope to strike.

  For Millicent, who was up on Masonville history, the fountain inspired her to believe anything was possible.

  Millicent sat on the edge of the fountain before school, waiting for Tonisha. She spritzed a little more of the new Bully-Be-Gone perfume on her neck, wrists, and ankles. She’d already put some on earlier that morning, but on Wednesdays she had one class with Fletch and two with Pollywog Jones and Nina “the Knuckle” Kwaikowski. She’d need maximum protection.

  School had been in session for two days and drastic measures were called for. As far as Millicent knew, none of the Wunderkinder had tried Bully-Be-Gone. If she couldn’t get them to try it, she wouldn’t make any sales and sh
e’d have to discontinue the product. She gave herself an extra squirt behind her ears. She would prove to them that Bully-Be-Gone worked.

  She stood, peering into the distance for Tonisha.

  “Millicent,” hissed two voices in unison.

  Millicent jumped. “Pollock? Juanita?” she asked, catching her breath. “You startled me. I didn’t hear you coming.” She looked around. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Over here,” whispered Pollock.

  Millicent circled the fountain. They weren’t to be found.

  “Pssst. Over here,” whispered Juanita.

  They couldn’t be—she looked in the fountain. Nope, they weren’t there.

  “Nice shoes,” said Pollock.

  She looked down. Near her feet was a slatted metal drainage cover. Pollock and Juanita huddled in the drain, peering at her from behind the cover.

  “What are you doing in there?” she asked, checking over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

  “What does it look like?” asked Juanita. “Hiding, you moron.”

  “From?” asked Millicent.

  “Pollywog and Nina,” said Pollock, exasperated, as if Millicent should have guessed. “Is the coast clear?”

  She surveyed their surroundings. In the distance, at the side of the main building, Pollywog and Nina were locking their bikes to the bike rack. There were those new bikes again, looking as if they’d still have price tags on them. Millicent would have to inspect them for Mega-Stupenda Mart stickers, but first there was the matter of her friends in the sewer. Millicent waited until Nina and Pollywog entered school before removing the drainage cover. Why would her friends be hiding from Pollywog and Nina? Hadn’t they applied Bully-Be-Gone? Wasn’t it effective? She bit her lip, expecting the worst.

  First, a smallish portfolio came through the hole, then a violin case in a backpack. Next, Pollock and Juanita crawled out of the drain, festooned with leaves and bits of moldy, rotted stuff. They brushed themselves off.