Each time I hit him, it was like there was something behind it, aiming my fist, a force that was making me pound him harder and land my punches where they might do the most damage. I hit him once for Nola, and for how unfair it was that she’d died. One punch for every time he’d made me miserable since I came to Bullywell, one for the ketchup, one each for the names, the kicks, the locker, the text message supposedly from my dad. And then I was hitting him for my dad. One punch for Dad leaving us for Caroline, two more for the towers and the planes flying into them, more punches for my dad getting killed when so many others were saved, another for my mom’s close call.
All the time I was hitting him I didn’t think about how, after all this time, I was finally standing up for myself, fighting back against the bully. Against all the bullies, everywhere. Because Bullyville was everywhere, it wasn’t just this school. Everybody was being bullied by someone or something—by mean kids or terrorists, by the total unfairness of bad luck and sadness and death. Me, Mom and Dad, Nola, poor old Bern, even Tyro—we were all being pushed around by something we couldn’t help and couldn’t control.
As I slammed my fist into Tyro, I didn’t think about whether this was the right or the wrong way to deal with it, or if I was right or wrong. I didn’t think how awful it was to hit a guy whose little sister had just died. I didn’t think that he’d hit me first, that he’d slugged a kid whose dad had been killed on 9/11. All I thought about was punching him, and it wasn’t even really like thinking. It was just something my body was doing, independent of my brain and disconnected from the part of myself that I thought of as me.
Even as I was slugging away at Tyro, memories were coming back to me, all sorts of things I’d forgotten, that I hadn’t let myself remember. Things I hadn’t wanted to remember. But now it all rushed in, all the times my dad and I had had fun, the circus and the zoo, the sweltering day he’d rescued me and taken me home, defying the Little League coach who’d ordered our team to run twenty laps as punishment for losing a game. I heard him cheering for me at those games, and I heard him laugh when my stupid cousin painted my fingernails at Gran’s Thanksgiving. I kept hearing him laugh, along with Mom, at all their little private jokes. They were always laughing. And when I’d ask what they were laughing at, they would always explain, so I never felt left out.
I hit Tyro again for how my dad died without my getting a chance to talk to him and ask him what he thought he was doing when he moved out. Or whether he really loved me, like he said on the messages he left, and whether he was planning to come back home and live with us again.
Meanwhile, Tyro and I kept at it, slugging each other. Tyro’s face was all bloody, so mine probably was, too.
Finally, after a very long time, I felt someone yanking back on my arms and shoulders. A crowd had formed, and someone was dragging us apart. I saw Dr. Bratwurst, and the teachers, and the other kids. Blood was running into my eyes.
And then it was over.
I never went back to Bullywell. That was my last day. There was one final meeting, this time with just Mom and me and Dr. Bratwurst, who calmly explained that Bullywell and I just weren’t a perfect fit. Not the match that everyone had hoped for.
I didn’t bother mentioning that Tyro had hit me first. I didn’t care about justice. I was glad I was leaving. The school had taught me everything that it was ever going to teach me. I thought: Just let me out of Bullywell and everything will work out.
And things did work out. Luckily for me, my former babysitter, Ivy, had taken the second semester off from college because she’d broken up with her boyfriend and failed biology and was thinking she didn’t want to go to medical school after all. Mom hired her to babysit me—although we called it homeschooling—until the school year was out.
Ivy wasn’t in the greatest shape herself, but she was a good driver, and she liked to go places. Sometimes we’d take the train into Manhattan and look at museums, or go to the park and sit there. We went to the Bronx Zoo and rode the Staten Island Ferry. Every so often we’d read a book, or she’d teach me something she remembered from high school science or math, so we could feel honest about the homeschooling part.
The next fall, Ivy returned to college and I went back to public school. And within a few days, all my old friends were my friends again. It was almost as if I’d never left. Sometimes someone would ask me how my time at Bullywell had been, and I’d say: Worse than you could imagine.
A year later, my mom met a really nice guy named Rob, and the year after that, they got married. Their wedding was covered by several newspapers, because at that point the papers were running feel-good stories about people managing to glue their lives back together after everything got blown apart for them on September 11. Miracle Boy and his mom and the new stepdad—it made really great copy.
A lot of the stories talked about us mending and healing and moving on. But of course nothing broken is ever completely fixed. There’s always that hairline crack you can see if you look hard enough.
I tried to tell that part to the reporters. But somehow that never made it into the papers.
After enough time had passed, everything that happened that year did start to seem like the crack you can see in a piece of china that’s been shattered and repaired, or an arm or leg that’s been broken and mended but is never quite straight.
Close enough, everyone says. And it was, it was close enough. Though close enough, as everyone knows, doesn’t mean: the way it was before.
Years later, after I grew up and had a family of my own, we’d come back to visit my mom and Rob. The first time my two kids were old enough to understand, I pointed up the mountain and Baileywell Castle, looming above the town.
I said, “I used to go there for a while.”
“Creepy,” my older son said. And that was it. I was glad that, for some reason, they never asked how it was. I could never bring myself to talk about my year at Bullywell.
I would have, if my kids had been bullied at their schools. I would have told them the same thing happened to me. I would have said, Look at me, I survived. I would have told them, if they needed me to. But I was glad they didn’t.
No one bullied my kids, and I know they didn’t see their dad as a former bully-ee. I knew I was the same person: an older, bigger Bart. But I no longer felt like that bullied kid, the kid who went to Bullywell, that year I was in the wrong place at definitely the wrong time.
About the Author
Francine Prose is the critically acclaimed author of eighteen novels, including the National Book Award finalist BLUE ANGEL. She has written two novels for young adults: BULLYVILLE, a PW Best Book of 2007 and Book Sense Children’s Pick for Winter 2007–2008; and AFTER, winner of the California Young Reader Medal, an IRA/CBC Young Adults’ Choice, and a New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age. She is also the author of two picture books: LEOPOLD, THE LIAR OF LEIPZIG and RHINO, RHINO, SWEET POTATO. The recipient of numerous grants and honors, including a Guggenheim and a Fulbright, Francine Prose was Director’s Fellow at the Center for Scholars and Writers at the New York Public Library. She lives in New York City. You can visit her online at www.francineprose.com.
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Books by Francine Prose
FICTION
LOVERS AT THE CHAMELEON CLUB, PARIS 1932
MY NEW AMERICAN LIFE
GOLDENGROVE
A CHANGED MAN
GUIDED TOURS OF HELL
BLUE ANGEL
HUNTERS AND GATHERERS
THE PEACEABLE KINGDOM
PRIMITIVE PEOPLE
WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST
BIGFOOT DREAMS
HUNGRY HEARTS
HOUSEHOLD SAINTS
ANIMAL MAGNETISM
MARIE LAVEAU
THE GLORIOUS ONES
JUDAH THE PIOUS
NONFICTION
ANNE FRANK: THE BOOK, THE LIFE, THE AFTERLIFE
; READING LIKE A WRITER
CARAVAGGIO: PAINTER OF MIRACLES
GLUTTONY
SICILIAN ODYSSEY
THE LIVES OF THE MUSES: NINE WOMEN AND THE ARTISTS THEY INSPIRED
FOR YOUNG ADULTS
THE TURNING
TOUCH
BULLYVILLE
AFTER
Credits
Cover art © 2007 by Jonathan Barkat
Cover design by Hilary Zarycky
Copyright
BULLYVILLE. Copyright © 2007 by Francine Prose. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition FEBRUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780061883460
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