How to Beat the Bully Without Really Trying

by Scott Starkey

  Then he pointed at Josh and Toby. “How ya feeling today, Josh? Got the sniffles? Must be tough to blow your nose?”

  Oh no. Josh looked back at us. He had returned to school just a few days earlier and his face was still black and blue. His nose, which was covered by a large splint, now made a strange whistling noise when he breathed. Even though I hadn’t said anything, he was staring straight at me.

  “Looking good!” Rishi yelled.

  Will you shut up, I thought. Josh and Toby were still afraid of me since the supposed fight, but I didn’t want to get them mad enough to try something again.

  Rishi was convinced I would bail him out of any trouble. His big mouth scared me, but we had become best friends, along with Slim and Dave. I still missed my old friends from New York, but thanks to these guys I was having a lot of fun at my new school.

  There was someone else I liked a lot, but in a different way. I found myself thinking about that pretty blond girl in my class. Her name was Jessica. She looked great and seemed nice, but she was best friends with Kayla—a girl whose favorite hobby was rolling her eyes, making nasty faces, and keeping Jessica to herself.

  On two wonderful days when Kayla was out with strep throat, Jessica and I did speak, and it went well. After that she would sometimes look right at me and smile, which was great, except that my face would turn red. Rishi would usually show up at these moments and make some gross kissing noises. Sometimes I’d tackle him, but I was really in such a good mood that I didn’t mind all that much.

  Yes, most things were good. Really good. An e-mail from New York reminded me just how good. The e-mail was from Timmy, one of my three best friends back in New York. It said:

  I hope you’re having fun in Ohio. Things here are the same. Rocco punched me, elbowed Tony, and smacked Tommy. Talk to you later.

  Rocco. Reading his name made me wince. His full name was Rocco Salvatore Ronboni. One time a rather unintelligent kid made fun of his name. He said, “Hey Ronzoni, make me some spaghetti!” Those were his final words. We never saw him again. Some said he moved away, but most of us pictured darker outcomes. Instead we kept our mouths shut tight and tried our best to avoid Rocco, the worst bully in New York City.

  Knowing his atomic wedgies, full nelsons, and locker-room headlocks were five hundred miles away was comforting, but I felt bad for my boys. Timmy, Tony, and Tommy hadn’t benefited from the baseball incident like me and were still taking daily beatings.

  As I sat and thought about them, I knew more than ever that my phony tough-guy rep meant everything to my survival. My sister had said it was only a matter of time before the true Rodney was discovered. With a shiver I wondered if life at Baber might take a turn for the worse, and that’s exactly what happened one chilly day in late September.

  Like most Americans, my friends and I watched football on Sundays. After school we’d meet at a vacant field by my house and try to re-create the great plays of the pros. It belonged to an elementary school that was now closed and boarded up, but it was a perfect place to play since the school district still mowed the lawn. We arranged to meet there at four o’clock.

  As I ran out the door my mom yelled, “Get back here, mister!” I turned. “You’re not ruining another good school shirt. Here, put this on.” She held up a light blue jersey. On the front was a big picture of Mickey Mouse.

  “Mom, Mickey? I’m a little old to be running around with . . .”

  “I don’t care. I picked this up at a garage sale. It doesn’t matter if you rip or stain it. Put it on.” I sighed, but did what she said. Right before I left, she added, “Bet it brings you good luck.” Little did she know how much I would need it.

  I rode my bike up to the field and saw there were already kids running around and throwing balls to each other. Rishi saw me and muttered, “Nice shirt,” before turning to the crowd. “All right, let’s make teams . . .”

  “Hey, you punks! Get off our lawn!” It was a deep angry voice and it was coming through a crack in the stockade fence. We all froze and waited.

  “Let’s just see if he goes away,” Rishi whispered.

  Even though we were on public property, the guy doing the yelling was a McThugg, and you didn’t want to argue with him. I had first heard about the McThuggs from Rishi. They were four brothers who were either in their twenties or thirties and roamed the streets of Garrettsville, my new hometown. They were famous for terrorizing anyone who got in their way. Their house was next to where we played ball, and most of the time they didn’t bother us because they were out causing trouble down at the Silver Crik Saloon. When they were in their backyard, however, we knew to stay away from their fence. They didn’t seem to like anyone or anything—except their Harleys and loud music.

  “Are you punks deaf?” the voice suddenly shouted again. “That’s it, I’m coming over!”

  We took off and ran around the corner of the building, where we could hide but still keep an eye on the field. Engines revved and dark smoke floated up over the fence, but so far no one was coming. We waited, almost afraid to talk to each other. After five minutes, Slim complained, “This is crazy. I’m going to have to leave soon for dinner.”

  “Figures, you’re already thinking of dinner,” Rishi teased him.

  “Well yeah, but I’m also thinking about what happened the last time, when the McThuggs came around the fence and tried to run us over with their motorcycles.”

  I was beginning to question whether football was worth it today, but things eventually quieted down and Rishi suggested we head back to the grass. Once there, we made teams and were about to start playing when two more kids rode up on their bikes. I almost left when I saw them. What were Josh and Toby doing here? As Josh hung back on his bike, Toby came over and stood in front of us on the field. “Can I play?” he asked.

  Everyone stopped and looked at me. Terrific, I thought. They want the chicken to handle this. Believe me, I wanted to say no, but I was scared of what he might do. With everyone looking to me for a decision, I said, “Let him play.” It was my first bad move of the afternoon.

  We played for a while. I did okay, considering the fact that I couldn’t decide who to fear most, Josh and Toby or the McThuggs. What happened next didn’t exactly clear up my confusion.

  Chapter 6

  THE BRAIN AND THE BEES

  Strange as it seems, Toby was apparently ignorant of the dangers lurking on the other side of the fence. He must have been, because he suddenly suggested, “We should move the game closer to the fence. Too many rocks over here.”

  I should have realized right away what was happening.

  “No way!” shouted Dave.

  “Are you crazy?” Slim yelled.

  “Toby, don’t you know what’s on the other side of that fence?” Rishi asked. “We can’t play any closer to the McThugg brothers.”

  “They’re not paying attention to us,” Toby told Rishi. Then he looked right at me. “Besides, we have every right to be here—unless you’re chicken.”

  In the corner of my eye I noticed Jessica, Kayla, and Samantha. They had come down to watch us play. Trying to sound cool and confident, I told Toby, “Let’s move the game over, then. I’m not afraid of some loudmouth bikers.”

  That satisfied everyone. We walked over to the fence and Toby spoke up again. “Hey, let me be quarterback.” He was on the other team so I didn’t care much who threw the ball. On the next play Dave ran an out toward the fence. Toby faded back and threw a pass toward him. The pass may have gone in Dave’s general direction but it went twenty feet over his head. We all watched it. I remember thinking for a moment that it was a nice spiral. It seemed to hang in the air for a few seconds before disappearing on the other side of the fence—right into the McThuggs’ lair. I doubted we’d see it again.

  Then I remembered that it was no ordinary ball. Rishi’s uncle worked for the Browns and had just given him the new ball. In fact, Rishi had proudly shown it to everyone in class that very morning, pointing out
that it was a real NFL football. Now it was gone. Rishi held his hands to his face with a look of complete anguish, only able to mumble, “Foot . . . foot . . . foot . . .”

  “What’s the matter with your foot?” Slim asked.

  But Rishi didn’t answer. Instead he exploded at Toby. “You threw it over the fence! You did it on purpose!”

  Toby stood with a slight frown. “I didn’t throw it on purpose. My hand slipped.”

  Rishi said, “What am I going to do now? You owe me a ball!”

  “I ain’t givin’ you nothin’. Besides, it ain’t that big of a de—”

  “Not a big deal?” Rishi screamed.

  Toby put a hand up and said, “Wait. There’s an easy solution.”

  “What solution?” Rishi asked, and the rest of us wondered the same thing. We leaned in closer to hear what he had to say. If I knew what was coming, I’d have slunk away in the other direction. I definitely wasn’t prepared for Toby’s response.

  “Think about it, Rishi. We have Rodney standing right here.” I didn’t like the sound of my name popping up. “He’s like the bravest and toughest kid in Garrettsville. He can go get it. Besides, he said he wasn’t afraid of the McThuggs.”

  My heart almost stopped, and I cursed my big mouth. I waited for Rishi and the other kids to yell that he was crazy, that no one could go into the McThuggs’ yard. To my growing alarm, no one said anything. All eyes were on me, including the three girls’ and, worst of all, Josh’s, who had joined us on the field the moment Rishi’s ball went over the fence.

  For the first time I realized that my reputation for bravery could have a bad side. In this case a very bad side—four crazy brothers who would just love to torture some dopey kid who had wandered into their yard.

  To my horror, Rishi even smiled a little, believing that Toby had solved his problem. “Boy, Rodney. I’m sure glad you’re here.”

  What was he talking about? He actually believed I should go in there? For a football? I couldn’t speak. Maybe the kids mistook my silence for coolness, because the next thing I knew they began pulling an old metal garbage can toward the fence. “Let me help,” Josh offered.

  I tried hard to think of a way to weasel out of it, but I could just imagine what Jessica would think of me. No doubt Kayla would spin my wimp-out story tomorrow for the whole school.

  I gulped. Then I noticed Toby and Josh smiling at each other, like they were enjoying a secret, and I realized Rishi had been right. That high pass was no accident. Toby probably had planned it the second he saw the new football in Mrs. Lutzkraut’s class.

  Figuring this all out did nothing to help me. I walked toward the garbage can. Maybe there’d be some escape route on the other side. With shaking hands I climbed on top, grabbed the fence, and pulled up. Just then I heard Jessica yell, “We should call the cops.”

  I dangled, listening. Finally, a voice of reason. When no one said anything she continued, a bit less sure of herself, “Well, just in case. You know . . .”

  Sadly it was followed by Rishi. “Jessica, they wouldn’t come. The cops are afraid of the McThuggs. But don’t worry, those brothers have finally met their match. Go to it, Rodney!”

  A cold late-day wind blew against my face and I noticed that the sun was already going down. I balanced with the top of the fence between my armpits and elbows and peered over. The yard was a complete disaster. Junk was everywhere. There were tires and old cars and gutters lying in a rusty pile. Grass grew up around moldy sofas left out in the rain. The only thing that was taken care of was a row of polished, shiny motorcycles. I gulped. The McThuggs were home. But where? Then I noticed it, looking very small and far away, down in the back corner of the yard in front of the crumbling garage. Rishi’s prized football.

  The kids behind me were quiet. By now there were at least thirty of them. One kid ran away, he was so scared.

  How long I balanced up there I still have no idea, but time seemed to slow. I noticed that the wooden gate leading to the front yard was closed. It was probably as far from the ball as possible. After a brief prayer, I swiveled my legs over the stockade top, balanced on the wooden post, and lowered myself into the yard of death.

  It wasn’t bravery that made me jump. I don’t have any of that running through my veins. It was my fear of life retuning to the way it had been in my last school. I couldn’t let Josh become the next Rocco Ronboni. I had to climb over, but once on the ground I realized I had made a bad decision. The fence, without the aid of a garbage can and other kids to boost me up, was too high to climb. I looked up and began to shake. The day’s lunch slid up into my throat. I turned around, expecting the McThuggs to be standing there, but they weren’t. After a couple of seconds, I tiptoed toward the garage and the ball.

  I came around an old car and I could see the ball clearly now. Maybe I’d make it. Glancing sideways, I went up to the ball and bent over to pick it up. As I grabbed it my heart stopped. Standing five feet from me were three heavily tattooed men in the garage. I choked down a scream, then realized that they were all busy looking down at some motorcycle part and hadn’t noticed me. All I had to do was tiptoe the other way and I’d be fine. . . .

  “How’s it GOING in there?” Rishi suddenly screamed from behind the fence. The three of them spun around.

  “Uhhh,” was all that dribbled out of my mouth.

  Two of the brothers snarled and started toward me while the other one turned and grabbed something. “You breakin’ in?” growled one guy, now coming closer. He had a big bald head, a lightning-bolt tattoo on his neck, and a goatee.

  “M-me? I was j-just trying to g-get our football,” I stammered, backpedaling.

  “Football? I told you to get off our lawn,” said the one nearest me. He had long black, greasy hair that was tied back by an orange bandanna. “Did you think I was kidding? Do you know what happened to the last guy who didn’t listen to me?” The third brother had joined them and was holding something shiny and metal in his hand. They were circling me now and my knees were wiggling.

  “You trying to steal our motorcycles?” the bald one snapped.

  “Motorcycles? I can barely ride a bike!” I said.

  “Hey look, the kid’s got a rat on his shirt!” the one with the greasy hair yelled, pointing to my chest.

  The bald one looked down. “You’re right! That is a rat.” He reached out and gripped the front of my shirt in his hands. “You a Ratfield boy?”

  “A who?” I wheezed.

  “Don’t play dumb. Our family’s been battling those low-down dirty Ratfields for years, and you just stroll in here wearing that rat shirt.”

  “It’s Mickey Mouse. . . .”

  “Who?” the bald one barked. I realized these guys were one dumb bunch of lug nuts. But dumb as they were, they were also the scariest guys I’d ever met.

  Greasy Hair said, “He’s definitely a Ratfield. They must think they’re pretty smart sending a kid to do their dirty work. Well, kid, you didn’t get the drop on us. We is too smart for that.”

  Baldy added, “We better send them a message. Show ’em what we do to little spies. What do you think we should do with him?”

  “Why don’t we ask the Brain?”

  “Good idea. Go get the Brain and tell him to come out here.” For a moment, my panic level dipped. With a brother called the Brain coming out, maybe I’d be saved. Surely this guy would see that I wasn’t a spy or a Ratfield and let me go. I started to exhale, but within a minute the back door slammed, and when the Brain walked into the fading afternoon light I almost threw up.

  He was well over six feet tall and had more muscles than I’d ever seen. His black tank top was stained with what looked like blood. I looked up at his face. His eyes were dark, crazy, and angry. He had a large bone pierced through his nose, and I knew nothing was going to save me.

  The bald one, smiling evilly, said, “What do you think we should do with this here Ratfield?”

  The Brain glared at me before picking up a bottl
e and smashing it over his own head.

  “Now you know why we call him the Brain. And he . . .” I didn’t wait to hear more about the Brain. My legs, full of nervous energy, rocketed off. The bald one still had my shirt in his hands and I heard it rip but my feet kept moving.

  The McThuggs took off after me. I ran blindly down an aisle of junk, weaving in and out of old washing machines, piles of bricks, and even a wooden Indian statue. I turned left between a Buick and a sofa and thought for a second that I was cornered. Seeing a gap, I ran and did a baseball slide right under an open car door, almost dropping the football. The Brain didn’t need to slide. He just ran through it, the rusty metal hinges tearing off the car’s frame. The door slowed him temporarily, and I sprinted and hurdled my way through the junk to the far-off opening.

  As I ran toward the gate, I noticed a padlock hanging from a rusty latch. I didn’t have time to think. Instead I lowered my shoulder and ran as hard as I could into the gate. There was a loud bang. I fell back to the ground, and landing next to me was the biggest wasps’ nest I’d ever seen. The fall had cracked it open and hundreds of furious yellow jackets came scrambling out. I slammed myself into the gate again. This time the rusty hinge came loose and it swung open. I ran out and slammed the gate behind me.

  I backed away toward the road. A loud, deep, angry buzz filled the air. And then, “AHHHHHHHHHHH! Beees! Ahhh ooaaaa oaw! Ooooch! Owwww Owwwww. I’m getting out of here!” The McThuggs were screaming and cursing. The gate opened partway, with the bald one swinging wildly at the air, screaming like a baby.

  Hearing the commotion, the football gang tore over to the chain-link fence that separated the field from the sidewalk. They arrived in time to hear moans of agony. Then they flinched as one McThugg ran past them, shrieking, crying, and flailing his arms around his head like the devil himself had chased him.

  “Save me!” he screamed as he turned the corner. Three more brothers followed him. As my friends looked back down the block to see what had scared the town’s most dangerous criminals so badly, they saw me standing there, dirty, shirt ripped, holding the prized football.