Beauty and the Bully

by Andy Behrens

  Oh, crap, he thought. Stupid fingers . . . type something!

  Ack, that was stupid. Be clever. And if you can’t be clever, be nice.

  Why is that funny? She might hit on me, he thought. Someday. It’s possible.

  Duncan’s heart sank. This nugget of information totally blindsided him. Jewel was most definitely not on the Duncan Boone approved badass rocker list. She was, in fact, on the my-generation’s-Cyndi-Lauper list. That was not a good list. But fine, he thought. I just haven’t had a chance to work on her music vocabulary yet.

  What a complete load, he thought. Was that maybe a little too thick? Hope she buys it.

  Apparently, just thick enough.

  Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

  “Duncan!” called his mom. “Oh, Duncan, you have a guest.”

  “Just a sec!” he yelled dismissively.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs, as well as female voices.

  This was where he should make some sort of clever segue into a discussion of Carly’s post-rally plans, he realized. An ideal opportunity to broach the topic of homecoming.

  There was a knock at the door to Duncan’s room.

  “Duncan!” said his mom. “I said you have a guest.” More knocking. “Can we come in?”

  Flustered, he swiveled his head around and tapped a hand on his desk. This is just fate crapping all over me, he thought. A big stinking fate-dooky right on top of ol’ Duncan Boone. Yup. Figures.

  “Sure, Mom,” he said. "C’mon in.”

  His mother opened the door. Syd stood beside her, smiling a wry smile, a guitar case in her hand.

  “It’s none other than the delightful Sydney Wambaugh, honey,” said his mom. “Freddie’s sister.” She stared at her son. “Isn’t that something.”

  “She’s with the band, Mom.”

  “Duncan’s giving me lessons, Mrs. Boone,” said Syd. “He’s been a huge help with my fingering. I’m not really so good.”

  “I find this interesting on so many levels,” said Duncan ’s mother, still staring at him. “But alas, I’ve got to go see Kenny.” She hummed “You Needed Me” as she walked away.

  Duncan and Syd stared at each other for an awkward moment.

  “My mom has atrocious taste in music,” he finally said. “In case you were wondering what your guidance counselor listens to when she’s out power-walking. It’s Kenny Rogers.” He shivered. “Can you imagine?”

  “Dinner music in my house is mostly AC/DC, Deep Purple—that sort of thing,” said Syd. “My dad has a very narrow range of musical interests.”

  “Cool.”

  Syd peeped behind Duncan and saw the IM window.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said. “Don’t let me interrupt. Chat away.”

  He spun back around and closed his laptop.

  “No, no. Just this girl. It’s actually the person who Freddie ’s helping me . . . um . . . it’s complicated. And maybe not all that interesting to you.”

  “Was that Carly?” asked Syd. “The Carly?”

  “Ah,” said Duncan. “I see Jess has gotten to you.”

  “She might have mentioned that you had a special lady, yeah.”

  “She’s not really . . . um . . . never mind.” Duncan lowered his head.

  Syd shifted slightly, scanning the walls of Duncan’s room. Her eyes landed on a large poster composed of more than one hundred tiny square photographs, each of them a bit grainy, and several depicting something salacious, illegal, or both. Syd placed her guitar on the floor and walked over to the poster, which hung near the foot of Duncan’s bed.

  “Pretty sweet, eh?” he said. “Nobody fully appreciates it. At least not in my family. That’s the original poster that came with the first pressing of—”

  “—A Nod Is As Good As a Wink by the Faces,” said Syd. “Came out in, like, seventy-one, right? And then they pulled the poster because everyone’s parents were outraged. Totally rockin’ album. Man, people should give the Faces their due.”

  Duncan was mildly stunned. “Well, I give ’em their due,” he managed.

  Syd leaned close to the poster, examining a square that featured a shirtless and heavy-lidded Rod Stewart. “Whoa, he was a hottie back in the day, eh?”

  “Do you expect me to answer that?” said Duncan. “There’s really no right answer for me here.”

  “Purely rhetorical,” she said. “What the hell happened to Rod Stewart, anyway?”

  “Disco, I think,” said Duncan. “And then more recently, Rachel Hunter.”

  “That is so unfair,” she snorted. “He happened to her, she did not happen to him. That dude started puttin’ out crappy songs way before he met Rachel Hunter.”

  Duncan grinned. Syd propped a Doc Marten on the frame of his bed and ran her fingers over the edges of the poster.

  “What are all these little orange pills?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty sure they’re vitamins,” said Duncan. “To keep the band healthy despite the rigors of touring.”

  “Riiight,” she said. “Are the Flaming Tarts this kind of band?”

  “The kind that tours? No.”

  “I mean are we the kind that takes lewd photos of ourselves and our pills?”

  “Well, we’re evolving,” said Duncan, leaning back. “It’s too early to say. If we made a poster today, it’d probably be of me and Stew arguing while Jess tries to impale me with a drumstick. But you don’t get posters if you don’t get gigs. And the one consistent truth of this band is that we don’t get gigs. But again, we’re evolving.”

  Syd smiled. “Evolving takes time,” she said. “Unless you have superpowered mutants!” She struck an action pose, legs splayed, karate hands extended.

  Duncan snickered. “Do your mutant superpowers enable better guitar playing?” he asked.

  “Sadly, no. So let’s have another lesson.”

  17

  So Syd had a guitar lesson. On Sunday she had another. And on Monday night, another. If the goal of these lessons had been to produce ultrasonic noises that repelled pests from the neighborhood, they could have been considered an overwhelming success. But that, of course, was not the goal. Syd was not improving. Her attempts at “Louie, Louie” were sounding less like "C Is for Cookie” and more like “Rubber Ducky,” Duncan thought. This did not count as progress. He kept jamming with her because (1) despite sucking she seemed to be having fun, (2) she had impeccable taste and an encyclopedic familiarity with rock history, and (3) Duncan needed her in the band—’cuz of Freddie—and the band needed her to not suck if they were ever going to get a whiff of gig.

  Meanwhile, the band was sick. Not literally, like with puke, but figuratively, like with dissension. Duncan had seen little of Stew and Jess since his immersion into TARTS. He’d been lunching exclusively with Carly at the TARTS table, conversing (and flirting dorkily) with Carly between classes, and darting off to attend to pre-rally business before and after school. Stew and Jess came to visit him at the mall kiosk on Saturday afternoon. He was wearing a large button that featured a picture of an obese white rat with bloodred eyes.

  “That’s totally gross,” said Jess. “That rat’s the size of a volleyball, dude.”

  “I think the idea is to gross you out,” said Stew. “Sicken the community until they commit to action.”

  “Something like that,” said Duncan. “I think Carly said it’s a picture of a rat with a high trans-fat diet. Kinda like yours, Jess.”

  “Then it will die content,” she said.

  Stew and Jess made Duncan commit to practicing on Wednesday night—Jess even grabbed the pen from atop a TARTS petition and wrote the time and date on Duncan’s forearm in blue ink:

  F’ING TARTS! WED., OCT. 5, 4:45 PM! BE THERE OR BE □!

  “Just so you don’t forget us.”

  “No-life club tonight?” asked Stew. “It’s been a while.”

  “Actually,” said Jess, “I’m supposed to go to an all-ages show at Metro with Syd tonight. We hang out now. Because
all my other guitarist friends have abandoned me.”

  They left Duncan to his rat propaganda.

  Wednesday arrived quickly. It was to be the band’s first practice in over a week—it was the longest they had ever gone between practices since forming. It was also going to be the Flaming Tarts’ first practice as a four-member unit. Duncan had been fake-bullied once more by Freddie on Tuesday, again resulting in the desired sympathy reaction from Carly—who this time biffed Freddie on the head repeatedly with a rolled-up TARTS sign—and his mom had again been informed by her anonymous faculty sources. Duncan decided that he could not control his parents’ reaction to the bullying incidents, so he was going to try to push the issue far from his mind. Let ’em do what they’re gonna do, he thought. He had enough to fret about already.

  Like Syd’s powerful vortex of guitar sucking, for example. Stew and Jess arrived at Duncan’s garage ahead of her on after school on Wednesday. Stew demanded an update on her progress.

  “The girl’s had five lessons, Duncan. She must be a little bit better now, right? Otherwise your skills as an instructor must rival hers as a guitarist.”

  This is possible, Duncan thought. He certainly felt like he’d been telling Syd all the right things. And yet, well, she still made all those horrible noises.

  “She’s, um . . . I guess she’s still kinda raw is what she is. Unfinished. But, y’know, I think she’s getting it. Conceptually, if not, um . . . audibly. In any obvious way. Even a little. From what I can tell.”

  “So you’re saying she has the concept down?” asked Stew.

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “But her guitar still sounds like a rutting moose?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “Dammit, Duncan!” yelled Stew. “I thought I told you to fix her.”

  “She’s not a lawn mower, dude. She’s a suck-ass guitar player. It’s different trying to fix those. Sometimes they never work.”

  “Then she shouldn’t be in the friggin’ band!” Stew insisted.

  “Dude,” said Duncan, “I think we all know why I need her in the band. That’s the deal with Fred—”

  “So cancel the deal with Freddie, Duncan!” yelled Stew. “You’re already hangin’ out with Carly every day, nonstop, all the effin’ time. You’ve embedded yourself in the beaver brigade. She’s not just gonna drop you.”

  “Well, she still sees me as kind of a reclamation project.”

  “So just tell Freddie that the deal’s off because Syd’s been kicked outta the band for gross incompetence. He’ll still whup your ass—probably in an even more convincing manner—and Carly will still wanna save you. Or reclaim you. Or whatever she does to you.” Stew angrily fussed with his bass, whipping open the lid of its case.

  “But then Freddie might actually hurt me,” said Duncan. “I need to keep this up at least until homecoming, if not longer.”

  “Are you actually taking Carly Garfield to homecoming?” asked Jessie. “She doesn’t seem like the school spirity, dance-attending type. Neither do you, Duncan.”

  “Well, it would be one of those hey-this-dance-is-coming-up -so-we-might-as-well-go type things,” he said. “Elm Forest High School has provided the circumstances. So it’s not like a date date. It’s more like a matter of convenience. But I haven’t asked her yet, no. And homecoming is the same day as this friggin’ rally, so we’ll see.”

  Stew seethed, snapping shut the lid of the case. “About Syd again,” he said. “If she can’t ju—”

  “Ahem!” Jess cleared her throat loudly, cutting him off. “Syd’s cool. Just thought I’d throw that out there. I mean, she’s not so good at guitar. But she’s very cool. She crowd-surfed at the Drunk Rhino show on Saturday. I think the band found her very amusing.”

  “So we’ll make her a groupie,” said Stew. “With full access. That’s fine. But I don’t see how we can have a band where one of the guitarists is just flat-out rotten.”

  “We could be a parody band,” Duncan said, mostly joking.

  “I don’t find that funny,” said Stew. He sat on the fender of his dad’s car. “I thought the idea was to be a world-changing band with well-defined principles . . . pirate suits, stupid hats, et cetera.” He sighed. “I used to totally love this band. Whatever we were named, and whatever we tried to play, I loved us. But now it’s like we just exist so the lead singer can get hot chicks.”

  “Oh, that’s so not fair,” said Duncan, rolling his eyes.

  “How is that not fair?” asked Stew.

  “Sounds pretty accurate to me,” added Jess.

  “Well, for one thing it’s not fair because I’ve been as dedicated to this band as anyone else—and you guys know that.” Duncan stared at them. “And secondly, well . . . all bands exist so that the lead singer can get hot chicks. This band is no different. We’re part of an ancient tradition.”

  They heard a heavy car door slam on the street out front.

  “That’d be Syd,” said Jess. “So can we table the discussion for a while?”

  Stew stared at Duncan, who stared back.

  “Cool heads, rockers,” said Jessie. “Cool heads. Let’s just relax.”

  Seconds later, Syd entered the garage in a rush. “Hey!” she said happily. “This is so exciting—the whole band together, finally.” She opened her guitar case, then fist-bumped Jessie. “Maybe all I needed were a few more instruments to drown me out, eh, Duncan?” She snorted. “Sorry if I’m late, by the way. Had to drop Freddie off at work.”

  “He works?” asked Duncan. “Like, for an employer?”

  “Freddie? Hell, yeah. Works like a sled dog, actually. Keeps him in that piss-poor mood all the time.” She looped the guitar strap over her head. “So are we gonna try one of the new songs, Duncan?”

  “The ‘new’ songs?” asked Stew with a smirk.

  “Oh, um . . .” Duncan shifted nervously.

  "C’mon, dude!” urged Syd. “They’re not bad at all. Kind of a new genre for the Tarts, from what I understand.”

  “A new genre!” said Stew with feigned enthusiasm. “Sounds fantastic. What genre are we exploring, Duncan?”

  “Well, I don’t know that it can be easily classified, really. A genre is really just a label, after all, and this band doesn’t really do labels, so . . .”

  “How ’bout if you had to give the genre a name. What would it be?”

  “Um . . . rodent, I guess. If I had to name it.” Duncan shifted uncomfortably.

  Stew glared for a moment. “You are such a weenie, Duncan, ” he said, then turned toward Jessie. “Did you know about this?”

  “Duncan might have mentioned something. I didn’t realize he’d actually worked out the instrumentation.”

  “And you’re okay with this?” Stew asked.

  Jessie seemed taken aback. “Uh . . . well . . .”

  “Hey, there are a lot of kick-ass songs about rodents,” offered Syd. “This is not uncharted musical territory.”

  “Like what?” asked Stew.

  “There’s ‘Rat Salad,’ by Sabbath.”

  “Doesn’t count,” said Stew. “That’s an instrumental.”

  “Well,” she continued, “There’s ‘Muskrat Love.’ Is the muskrat a rodent?”

  “America sings it,” said Duncan, smiling. “And yes, definitely a rodent.”

  “There’s also ‘Street Rats’ by Ted Nugent,” said Syd. “And ‘Rat Trap’ by the Boomtown Rats, and ‘Rodent’ by Skinny Puppy, and ‘Rats’ by Sonic Youth. Oh, and there’s ‘Fox Squirrel’ by Muddy Waters—I’m pretty sure that either foxes or squirrels are rodents. I’m not sure which is what. And there’s—”

  “But are any of those songs actually about rodents?” said Stew. “Like, are they about saving rodents from the perilous conditions in laboratories, or whatever Duncan’s writing about?”

  Syd shrugged her shoulders and began to reply, but Stew cut her off.

  “No,” he said. “In a word, no. They are not. Duncan is working alone in the
rodent genre. He is a pioneer.”

  “There’s that one Primus song,” offered Duncan. "’Wynona ’s Big Brown Beaver.’ That’s definitely about, um . . . a beaver. ” He smiled. “Which we’ve established is a rodent.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you’ve been writing songs just like that one, have you?”

  “Well, no. Not just like that. I don’t think that Carly would quite see the humor in a song abou—”

  “See, that’s the problem!” said Stew. “Everything we do—everything you do, Duncan—is totally about that tart!”

  Syd snorted again. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just, well . . . ‘tart.’ That’s funny. TARTS, tart. She’s a tart. Heh.”

  Stew stared. “Let’s play something,” he said flatly.

  “How ’bout one of the older songs?” said Duncan.

  “From the pre-Blowhole days,” said Jessie.

  “Our first song,” suggested Duncan. “‘Mr. Trampoline Man.’ It starts with that wicked bass line, Stew. C’mon ...”

  “Okay, fine.” Stew didn’t quite smile.

  He’s not usually this high-maintenance, thought Duncan.

  The band ripped through three songs, hardly pausing for breath between them. Syd sat off to the side, listening, grinning, and nodding her head. From Stew’s opening notes to Jessie’s atomic drum finale, the mini-set lasted no more than seven minutes. When they were finished, Duncan’s chest was heaving and all three were soaked in sweat.

  “That,” said Syd, “was awesome.” She clapped, then hopped in place enthusiastically.

  “Okay, chica,” said Jessie, “now you’ve gotta play a little something.” She wiped perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Sweet!” said Syd. She struck a very classic guitar pose, her feet slightly apart, her hands ready, and the neck of the guitar angled slightly upward. “Let’s all just remember I suck,” she said.