by Andy Behrens
“That’s totally deranged, freak.”
“But you’ll consider it?”
“Look,” said Freddie, “like you said, I’m a bully. We have a tradition of taking lunch money, property, valuables. Whatever we need, we take. There are income streams available to me. I don’t need your cash.”
“Fred!” yelled the blond girl, again sticking her head out the window. “I think it’s great that you’re trying to make new friends and all, but let’s go.”
“Just a seco—”
“Now!” she hollered. “Stop the violence, madman.”
Freddie tossed Duncan from the trunk. “We’re done,” he said. “And if I bully you, it’ll be for pleasure.”
“So you won’t help?”
“I’m not helpful,” said Freddie, opening the car door.
“I can write a pretty mean comparative essa—”
Freddie slammed the door shut. The girl revved the Monte Carlo’s engine, and Duncan stepped aside. Then he watched them back up and pull out of the lot.
“Bummer,” said Stew.
“Total bummer,” said Jessie. “The thugs aren’t buyin’ that comparative essay stuff you’re sellin’.”
“I think I’m lucky to be alive,” said Duncan. “That crazy chick at the wheel saved my life.” He watched the Monte Carlo speed away from school. “But yeah, bummer. Now I’m finished.”
Duncan sulked on the ride home (though he tried to appear somewhat cool), sulked upstairs to his room (though he tried to seem stoic and emotionless), and sulked as he emptied the contents of his backpack onto his bed (alone, he was just himself: bummed). He fell into the chair at his desk, sulking, and played a somber mix of punk and power ballads on iTunes. Then he grabbed his journal from the mess of school trash.
ENTRY #12, SEPTEMBER 26
I hope you got your fix of my analytical skills in Entry 11, ’cuz that’s not on the menu today. . . .
EFTHS: where life can suck on a dime. As great as things were going—no, as f*#@!ng great as things were going—when I issued the previous update on my non-English-class life, that’s how galactically bad things are going now. Without going into all the whys and hows and whos (although you can pretty much assume it involves a girl, given the blunt emotional extremes and the use of partially redacted profanity), let’s just say that I am now feeling like Nick Carraway riding in the victoria with Jordan Baker. Except we’re not in a stylish touring car, but a crappy Chrysler product with 140,000 miles on the odometer. And there’s not actually a girl in the car at all, but more an idea of a girl.
“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.”
I’m those last three.
Duncan’s laptop made a fluttery beeping noise. An IM had arrived. He tossed the journal aside, then threw his pen at a bulletin board as if he were a circus knife-thrower. He sighed, then leaned over the keyboard to type.
He wasn’t really laughing. Duncan sighed. He was still more or less sulking. He typed lazily.
Again, Duncan was not really rolling or laughing. He was just trying to seem not completely self-absorbed and frumpy. Although, in fact, he was both.
Talia’s small pigtailed head peeked into his room. “Hey, Mom says you’ve gotta come downstairs to eat, okay?”
“Sure thing, T,” he said. “How was school today?”
“Fine,” she said. “We’re learning to play the recorder. There’s going to be a concert and everything. Can I join your band if I get good?” She smiled.
“Totally,” he said. “Our woodwind section is a little light.”
Talia skipped away. Duncan spun back to the keyboard.
Conversation over dinner was nonspecific, light, and surfacey. Except, that is, for a short exchange that involved Freddie.
“Hey, um . . . Mom,” began Duncan. “What’s the story with this new kid, Freddie Wambaugh? He’s one of yours, right?”
His mom brought a forkful of asparagus to a halt halfway between her plate and mouth.
“What have you heard?” she asked. “Did he do something to you? Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” said Duncan, looking at his food. “I’m totally fine. He did nothing. He’s in my gym class, that’s all. Freddie’s first day of soccer with Coach Chambliss left three people wounded and the rest of us permanently scarred. He’s a terrifying dude.”
“Well, I’m not really allowed to discuss other students with you, Duncan. And you know that.”
“Okay,” he said. “Just curious, that’s all.”
“But yes,” she added, “he is a sizeable person.”
A brief silence followed.
“High school is scary,” observed Talia.
“You have no idea,” Duncan and his mom said simultaneously. She ate her asparagus while he swirled his mashed potatoes.
“So can you tell me where Freddie’s from?” he asked his mother.
“Boundaries, honey.” She chewed. “Weren’t you just telling me about the importance of boundaries? Anyway, why not just ask him yours—?” She paused. “No, don’t ask him. Avoid contact.”
Another silence.
“Why is Coach Chambliss called ‘Coach’ anyway? Did he like the sitcom? Does he like expensive leather handbags?”
“He used to coach girls’ softball.”
“When?”
“About ten years ago, until . . .” She paused again, then rested her utensils on her plate.
“Until?” asked Duncan.
“Until an anger-management issue came to light.” She cleared her throat. “Anyone need more ham?”
“Freddie seems to have those,” said Duncan.
“Boundaries, honey,” said his mom. “Boundaries.”
12
The next day Duncan awoke to a grim reality: his face was almost entirely unblemished. A hint of a cut on the nose remained, as did maybe a slight bluish tint to the tiniest portion of his cheek. That was it, though. How many times had he actually hoped for this scenario, to wake up magically zitless and unmarked? Lots of times. But not that day. Without the bruises, the severe discoloration, the scabs that told a tale of fresh torture, what could he be to Carly? Nothing. Not a thing. Just another high school boy with petty, unidimensional needs.
“Ack,” he said, inspecting himself in a small Limp Bizkit- themed mirror that he’d won at a carnival in, like, 1999. “Suddenly I’m a pretty boy.”
He skipped breakfast. He text-messaged Jessie to say that he could drive himself to school. The ride was somber and lonely. He put in a home-produced CD of himself covering (or negligently attempting to cover) Zeppelin songs. He shook his head in despair and frustration as he parked his Reliant in the student lot. Duncan sat behind the wheel glumly. He looked in the rearview mirror, hoping that—just maybe—some stronger suggestion of a shadow of a memory of an injury had manifested itself. But no. He had mostly recovered.
“Crud.”
He thought briefly about punching himself in the eye, but decided that he wouldn’t have the nerve to follow through with any real force. Plus, it was possible that he wasn’t capable of administering a black eye no matter how hard he tried—he hadn’t punched anyone since slugging Jessie in kindergarten. And that incident ended with him flat on his back in the water table. So no hitting.
Carly’s Prius pulled in next to Duncan’s car. He averted his eyes from the rearview mirror. Not cool to let a girl see you checking yourself out, he thought. “Might as well get this over with,” he mumbled to himself.
Duncan opened his car door as Carly opened hers.
“Mornin’, Duncan,” she said cheerily.
“Hey, Carly.”
She was off like a bolt, taking long, quick strides through the parking lot. Duncan struggled to maintain her pace.
“Your face looks normal,” she said, not slowing. “No more attacks, I guess?”
Duncan felt a wave of near-nausea. “Normal,” she’d said. She couldn’t at least say “better” or “nice” or “li
ke a better-looking Brad Pitt” or anything else that was complimentary? No. “Normal” was all he got.
“No, no attacks,” he said, too dejectedly. “Can’t be too careful, though.” He was already panting from the blistering speed at which Carly walked. “Jeez, you’re sure”—Duncan took a deep, audible breath—“in a hurry.”
“Yup,” she said, not looking his way, and seeming to accelerate. “I’m leading these TARTS planning and organizational meetings every morning before school until the rally—we have the big rally in October that I’ve probably told you about. We’re doing it in town to draw attention to the Elm Forest College fat-rat experiments. Which I’ve also probably told you about. So gross. The rally’s at Watts Park, right by the . . .”
“—the statue of the dude on the horse?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Did I tell you that, too?”
“Um . . . no. But, I mean, it’s a logical spot. Great . . . vantage point for a speaker.”
“Exactly. And for the band. We’re getting a band. What a headache that is—don’t get me started. But we’re getting someone pretty big. We’re talking to people in the hip-hop community, too. The district subcommittee on grassroots mobilization has been really helpful.”
“Yeah, I hear, um . . . good things about those.” Pant, pant, pant. “I’m in a band, you know.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Right, very cool.”
“The Flaming Tarts,” he said, feeling not quite in charge of his own mouth. “That’s us. It’s a tribute [panting] . . . to TARTS. Your TARTS, that is. I was telling [panting] . . . Jess and Stew about the rodents.”
“That’s so sweet of you!” she said, flinging open the school door. “’Kay, see you later. My meeting’s in Wiggins’s classroom. ”
“I’d really be interested in going, actually, if you . . .”
“Later,” she said, waving, already ten feet away.
Duncan breathed deeply. He stood in his school’s hotelish entry space and paused to take inventory of whatever he’d done or said, and to assess any damage: (1) He’d disclosed an uncanny awareness of the features and layout of Watts Park. Not terrible, unless Carly remembered the spaz-waving incident. (2) He’d displayed a startling lack of cardiovascular fitness. So she knew she could beat him in a footrace. Not a big deal. Unless she was actually worried that he might someday chase her. Hmm. (3) He’d changed the band’s name to something stupid and vaguely culinary. “Oh, God,” he muttered. Then he quickly decided that until the band had a gig, any name was just superfluous. So fine.
He bowed his head and began to plod slowly toward his locker. Despite Carly’s indifference to him—and despite the fact that she and all her belongings were covered with anti-rodent -testing slogans—Duncan was more infatuated than ever. His recent, relatively brief glimpse into Carly’s world had been completely thrilling. But he could feel her interest wane. He sighed, feeling doomed.
Then he felt a firm hand grip his collar.
From somewhere over his right shoulder, he heard the door to a restroom being thrown open. Then he briefly experienced the odd sensation of backwards flight, not unlike what he’d felt the day before when he’d been tossed onto a car trunk by . . .
“I’ve been rethinking your offer, dork,” said Freddie. “And I think there is something you can do for me.”
Duncan found himself pressed up against the algae-green tile of the boys’ restroom. Freddie’s left arm was pinned firmly to Duncan’s neck, and his right hand still held the collar of his T-shirt. Duncan was still adjusting to the powerful smells of urinals, mildew, and heavily perfumed soap when Freddie got in his face.
“You’re paying attention, right?”
“Sure, um . . . yes, Freddie. Strict attention.” Duncan’s eyes focused on Freddie’s snarled, twitchy mouth.
“Okay. Try to stay with me here, dweeb. You’re in a band, yeah?”
“Oh, yes,” said Duncan. “Yes I am. Fat Bar—” He laughed slightly. “The Flaming Tarts. We’ve had a recent name change. But it didn’t affect our core principles. We’re still kind of a mixture of hard-edged, psychedel—”
“Yeah, ’cuz I care. Look, I need you to let my sister Syd in your band. She’s your new guitarist.”
“Actually, Freddie, I’m the lead guitari—”
“Syd is your new guitarist,” Freddie said slowly, pushing harder against Duncan’s neck. “Maybe you’re not familiar with the bully-victim dynamic, dinkus. See, I tell you what you’re going to do, then you do it. There’s no asking, no thinking about it. You just do it. This is one of those can’t-refuse things.”
“Wait,” said Duncan. “Are you threatening to beat me up if I don’t agree to let you beat me up? Honestly, I don’t see how I can lose this one.”
Freddie was clearly irritated. And maybe a bit confused. “Just put my sister in your band, turd!” he finally said. “Or I’ll not beat you up. At all. Ever. It’ll be the worst nonbeating of your life. And it’ll suck. In fact, I’ll protect you. Then no one will beat you up.”
“Well, has she ever play—?”
Duncan suddenly was airborne again. He struck a support column between two bathroom stalls, rattling the doors, then sank to the cold floor. He shook his head.
“All righty,” he said. “So she’s in the band. Great news. Really happy to have her. We’ll probably practice tonight after school—my house at four forty-five, if that’s convenient. I’ll draw you a map to give to her. If that time doesn’t—”
“Okay, dorkwad. Thanks.”
Freddie began to clomp away.
“Hey, so, um, Freddie?” said Duncan, beginning to stand. “When do you think you might be able to assault me someplace else? Like, someplace with an audience? Can we start today?”
“Oh, sure thing. How ’bout I beat your ass in gym? That Chambliss guy’ll go nuts again!” Freddie grinned and rubbed his hands together. “It’ll be excellent.”
“Actually, that’s not the right crowd,” said Duncan. “Can we do lunch?”
“Okay, suit yourself.” Freddie walked to the restroom exit, then turned again. “Face or gut?”
“What?” asked Duncan.
“When I hit you, chump. Face or gut?”
“Oh, great question!” exclaimed Duncan. “Thanks for asking. Very considerate. Neither.”
“Hey, dork, that’s how I operate,” said Freddie. “I slug people. I don’t tease, I don’t taunt. I hit. I shove. I occasionally kick people, but it’s rare.”
“You throw people,” Duncan added.
“That I do,” said Freddie proudly. “That I do. It’s a sweet feeling when I get a dude vertical. Like you on the hood yesterday—that was nice. You’re a flyer, dude. What are you, anyway? About a hundred fifty pounds? One fifty-five?”
“Yeah, somewhere in there, I guess,” said Duncan.
“That’s perfect. You get nice air and you still make a big noise when you hit stuff.”
A pair of letterman-jacket-wearing boys walked into the restroom laughing.
“Out!” bellowed Freddie.
They jumped, spun, and scrambled away.
“So,” said Duncan, “I suppose you could throw me around the cafeteria. That might work. I seem to rebound well.”
“Cool,” said Freddie. “You wanna give me a sign or something when it’s go-time?”
“Oh, right. I’ll throw a peace sign.” Duncan raised his fingers to form a V. “That’ll mean it’s on.”
Freddie nodded, flashed a peace sign back, then whistled as he left the restroom.
Duncan exhaled, then smiled to himself, then felt the rush of imminent, life-altering success.
Morning classes dragged on interminably. He watched clocks. He fidgeted, buzzing with excitement. “Chill out, spaz,” said Jessie during a soccer scrimmage. Duncan couldn’t. He’d been assigned to play fullback, a strictly defensive position that required him to linger back near his goal. But instead, he sprinted up and down the field like a rabid pony. “Mr. Boone,
you are out of position!” screamed Coach Chambliss.
Duncan’s team lost 9-0 in a fifteen-minute game. He left the field drenched in perspiration, but not yet tired. He was desperate for the bullying to begin, and—if luck and Carly’s altruism were on his side—to worm his way back into some inner sphere of her social/academic/activist life.
God, he liked the thought of that.
“Nice game today, Beckham,” said Jessie as she caught up with Duncan between periods.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I was being ironic. Because you suck.”
“Oh, right. Well, the important thing is giving your best effort, right?”
“I think not sucking is the important thing.”
“Well, you can’t have both,” he said, grinning.
“Why the good mood?” asked Jessie. “You rockin’ the Zoloft?”
“Nope,” he said. “Freddie and I have reached an accord.”
“No way!” said Jessie. “So when do you brawl?”
“Lunchtime.”
“What was his price? Fifty? More?”
“Actually,” began Duncan, “it wasn’t a monetary arrange—” The bell rang, cutting him off. “Tell you about it later.”
He walked away with unnecessary haste. Jessie stood in the hallway with a perplexed expression. In his giddy anticipation of fake-bullying, Duncan had failed to think through the rami fications of adding a fourth band member without consulting Stew and Jess. They might—no, they would—be righteously mad, he realized. After all, the group was not solely Duncan’s thing. They’d collectively decided to form the band—it was, in most ways, an organic result of a longtime friendship. Adding another person was no small move, and it certainly wasn’t something that Duncan had any particular right to do. Oh yeah, and he’d also changed the band’s name again. Hmm.
“Can’t stress,” he told himself, attempting a pep talk. “First get yourself harassed, then get the girl, then notify the band of various changes.”
Duncan sat through another forty-nine-minute class that only seemed to last a month. Then: lunchtime. Assuming Freddie upheld his part of the bargain (which didn’t seem certain, given that Freddie was a goon), Duncan would soon be completely humiliated in front of a huge percentage of the school’s student population. Hopefully, this public emasculation would go over well with Carly. Duncan was all in. He would walk away from this particular lunch either totally ruined or totally victorious. Or maybe, if Freddie was too enthusiastic, he wouldn’t walk away at all. But Duncan had decided this was a risk worth taking.