Beauty and the Bully

by Andy Behrens

  “It might. He was loud.”

  “Sweet—maybe I will. I heart loud.” She tapped her right foot. "C’mon, let’s play s’more. I’ve been a prisoner all day. How ’bout ‘Chain-Smoking Floozy’ on my count, okay? One, two, a-one, two, thr—”

  “Oh, wait. I’ve gotta finish telling you about the incident this morning with Carly. First of all, can you friggin’ believe she got to school before seven? Blew my mind. And then she jus—”

  Jessie whipped a drumstick into Duncan’s ribs like she was Link with a boomerang.

  “Hey!” He grabbed his side, wincing. “What was that for?”

  “We are not discussing that flakeball!” She hurled a cowbell at his head, narrowly missing. “I’ve got a boxful of small instruments over here that can be thrown at high velocity, dude, and I’m unloading ’em on your sorry punk ass until you swear—until you take an oath—that you will not discuss that chick anymore today.”

  “Fine, but I . . .”

  She flung a maraca at his midsection. He deflected it with his guitar. It landed rattling on the Skylark’s tarp.

  “Dude! Chill!”

  “I’m serious, Duncan! No more crap about Carly! I am not the sit-and-listen, tell-you-that-you’re-special sort of girl!” Her pink hair flew as she scolded him. “That’s not my thing. Don’t whine to me about this chick, okay?”

  “It’s just that I . . .”

  She sidearmed a steel triangle, catching him in the right shoulder.

  “Owww!”

  “Take the oath!” She lowered her voice to sound slightly more Duncan-y. “‘I, Duncan Boone, will not discuss Carly Garfield in the presence of Jess Panger, rock goddess, until she gives me permission to do so.’”

  “All I was gonna say . . .”

  She fired another maraca, this time nailing him square in the forehead.

  “Boom, suckah!” shouted Jessie, grinning.

  Duncan stepped forward, his eyes closed and his right hand rubbing his head.

  “Okay, I give! This is me, taking the oath. I, Duncan Boo—”

  It happened in mere seconds, but to Duncan it felt like a stop-action sequence that lasted minutes: first, his foot landed on one of the roller-things his dad used to wheel himself under cars; then the roller-thing spun away, flipping Duncan backward like a diver off a platform; next he crashed into an unstable shelving unit and landed, butt-first, on the concrete floor.

  An old stereo speaker was the first thing to hit him in the head. The shelving unit and all its contents teetered for a moment, then fell directly onto a sprawled-out Duncan. Glass shattered; wood splintered. Somewhere at the bottom of the heap of garage detritus, Duncan moaned.

  Jessie sprang up from the drum kit and quickly began to dig him out, alternately apologizing and cursing. “Totally sorry, dude . . . so sorry . . . but damn, it was just a maraca. Who can’t take a maraca to the head? I mean, seriou—”

  She stopped midword when she lifted the speaker up and saw his face.

  “Ho. Lee. Crap.” Her mouth was agape as she looked at Duncan. His lip was bloodied, his left eye had already begun to swell, and a gash had been opened across the bridge of his nose. “Dude,” managed Jessie. “It was a maraca.”

  He moaned again.

  “Speaker got me,” he said groggily. “Then the hundred-twenty -five-watt amp. Then a die-cast Starship Enterprise, then the clay Hillary Clinton I made for my dad in fifth grade.” Another moan. “Can’t believe he keeps that in the garage . . . thought he loved it.” Duncan rubbed his head.

  “We’ve gotta get you inside, dude,” said Jessie. “You’ll probably have a pretty sweet shiner. And you’re bleeding like Rocky in . . . well, like Rocky in every Rocky movie.”

  “Perfect end to a perfect day,” he groaned.

  5

  “Dude, your mom was pissed,” said Jessie, accelerating away from a stoplight. Duncan sat beside her in the passenger seat of her Volkswagen. “She was all like, ‘What have you done to him, Jessie?!’ What a maniac.”

  “Yup, well, I’m her baby. And you tried to kill me.”

  He examined his face in the flip-down mirror. His nose looked as if it had been rhinoplastied by amateurs. His left eye was plum-colored, swollen halfway shut, and he seemed to be storing acorns in his mouth.

  “For the last time, I’m sorry.” She eased the car onto the school’s inner drive. It was seven twenty on Friday morning. “And it was not an attempt on your life, either. When and if I try to kill you, I won’t be using a maraca.”

  “That comforts me.”

  Duncan continued staring at his reflection. He lightly touched the cut on his nose, then cringed in pain.

  “Stop doing that!” urged Jessie. “I can’t stand it. It’s like watching that video of the chimpanzee who smells his own butt and falls out of a tree. I mean, you know it’s gonna stink. Stop touching it.”

  “It’s just so weird. Look at me. I’m totally mauled. When have I ever been mauled? Never. I am not the type to stumble into a maiming or mauling. I can barely even see out of one eye. It’s just . . . well, it’s weird.”

  Jessie pulled into a parking spot.

  “I’m happy to continue driving you to school while you’re incapacitated,” she said. “It was my flying maraca, after all. But stop with the self-obsession. You’re like Tom Cruise in that movie where he gets disfigured by psycho Cameron Diaz.”

  “Wait, what am I like?”

  “Oh, you know that movie. Tom Cruise is the rich du—”

  “No, I mean am I like the butt-sniffing chimpanzee, or am I like Tom Cruise?”

  “You’re like a butt-sniffing Tom Cruise.”

  Duncan continued to eye himself in the mirror. “Dunno. But I am hideous.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, Jessie looking at Duncan look at himself.

  “What am I going to tell people?” he eventually asked.

  “That you’re a flaming ninny who can’t keep his balance, of course. What else would you tell people?”

  “That’s not really the image I’d like to project: flaming ninny.”

  “I’ll follow your lead, Duncan, but if I were you, I’d go with the truth. Just don’t say too much—that’s the key. Try to make your injuries seem mysterious. ‘An accident in the garage,’ you’ll say. People will think you were being all toolsy and rugged. Was he repairing something? Was he welding? Was he hammering? They won’t know, and you won’t tell them. But they’ll suspect it was something dangerous.”

  “Right. Danger. That’s Duncan Boone.” He flipped up the mirror and turned to face Jess. “I really need to avoid Carly today. After my recent series of miscalculations, I can’t face her with this, um . . . face. I just can’t.”

  “Okay, dude. Normally I’d throw something at you for saying that, but we’ve seen where that can lead. So fine.”

  “You’ve gotta get my stuff from my locker, Jess. I’ll try to keep a safe distance.”

  “And where exactly will you be, Elephant Man? Hiding your terrible secret in the shadows?”

  “If I have to, yes.”

  “You’re a pretty vain guy, Duncan. But whatever.” They exited the car.

  Jessie helped him maneuver slowly toward the school’s main entrance, a boxy glass-and-steel atrium-thing that was apparently designed to make students feel like they were checking in to an Embassy Suites. Prepping us for later lives of business travel, Duncan often thought. As he walked through the school, students gaped at his puffy, discolored face. Given his limited vision, Duncan was only vaguely aware of the attention.

  “Jess,” he whispered, “it kinda sounds like people are murmuring. Am I being murmured about? I’d hate that.”

  “Be cool,” she whispered back. “Of course you’re being murmured about. You look like day-old vomit, dude. Just be cool. Keep your disfigured head up. ‘A garage accident,’ you’ll say. And then say no more.”

  They climbed up the worn stairs that led to Duncan’s locker, then plodded down
the hallway. More gawking, more pointing, more murmuring from students. Jessie and Duncan stopped thirty feet short of his locker when they saw the hulking back of a football jersey: HURLEY 55.

  “Oh, man,” said Duncan. “Is that Perry Hurley? The Pear Bear?”

  “Yup.”

  “At my locker? What’s that about? He must’ve gotten himself lost on the way to the weight room.”

  “Dude is big,” said Jessie. “And I don’t think he’s lost. I think he stopped by to mack on your girl, Duncan.”

  Perry Hurley, troglodytic three-sport all-conference athlete, was indeed talking to Carly. It was a game day for the football team, so Perry wore his Elm Forest Owls home jersey to school over a blue polo, his collar half popped. Carly leaned away from him, frowning, her arms folded across an embroidered peasant blouse. Perry rested an arm on Duncan’s locker and bent down toward her. She backed up a little farther. He inched closer. She retreated. And so it went. Duncan listened from afar.

  Perry: “. . . because you might actually have fun, that’s why. Just come. It’s not just a kegger. We’ll have beer bongs and hookahs, too. Plus my buddy Buddha has a kick-ass indoor pool. So c’mon. Don’t say no.”

  Carly: “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Perry—Pear Bear—but I’d rather slit my wrists and drink my own blood.”

  “Point, Carly,” said Jessie in a hushed voice. “That was well played.”

  “Told you she’s a smart cookie.”

  “He’s a total scuz.”

  More words passed between Perry and Carly before he at last backed off, hands raised in resignation, and said in an unnecessarily loud voice, “Suit yourself, Garfield. Have fun doing whatever it is you do.”

  He slapped two smaller jersey-wearing persons on the back, and the three began to walk away from Duncan’s locker. As they did, an obviously frustrated Perry whacked several books out of the arms of a pasty freshman who’d drifted too close to him at exactly the wrong moment. Then he bumped the freshman aside with his forearm and loudly said, “Excuse me, dumbass.” This seemed to amuse Perry’s teammates greatly.

  It did not seem to amuse Carly.

  “Perry!” she snapped.

  He stopped.

  “Why would you do that?” Carly had rushed to the stunned freshman’s aid, kneeling on the ground to pick up his textbooks.

  “Kid got in my way,” the linebacker said. “Total accident.” Servile snickering from his teammates.

  “You’re such a fraud, Perry. And your groupies are worse.” She glared. “You find the least-threatening person you can, and then you assault him. Why? Because I won’t go with you to some lame-ass kegger on a lame cul-de-sac?”

  “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.”