Beauty and the Bully

by Andy Behrens

  “Homecoming?” said Carly. “Duncan, we’re trying to save little lives. Remember?”

  An awkward silence followed.

  Then Syd and Jessie began making mouse noises.

  “So, um . . . what time is this rally, anyway?” Stew blurted.

  “Yeah,” said Jessie. “What time? Because I’m definitely going to homecoming. With a boy—a big one. And I’ve got this sweet bubble-skirt dress that might get all wrinkly if I wear it underneath a rat suit.” She paused, then added a sarcastic, “Dunky.”

  Syd snorted.

  Carly pouted.

  “Noon,” said Carly. “The rally’s at noon.” She looked into Duncan’s eyes. “Are you with us or not? If you’re not, I’d like to know. Maybe I misjudged you. I thought you cared enough to really take risks.”

  Oh, you just have noooo idea, he thought.

  “I do. I care. I’m full of caring. And risk-taking.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  What if it’s cold? he thought. Like, really cold. It’s October. I’ll be naked in the cold. And what happens in cold weather? Contraction. Not exactly the most flattering weather conditions in which to be outdoors and nak—

  “Well?” said Carly. “Will you?” More pouting.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. “Sure.”

  Carly smiled and brushed his cheek. “You’re a good person, Duncan Boone. It’s the right thing to do.”

  Naked with a rat tail is the right thing to do? he thought. Hmm. Well I ain’t doin’ it for the rats, I’ll tell you tha—

  Carly leaned close and kissed him on the lips.

  Not a long kiss, not a tongue kiss. But still, a lip-to-lip kiss. Duncan nearly toppled over. Jess, Stew, and Syd nearly did, too.

  “’Bye, Dunky,” said Carly.

  The instant she left, Stew clapped Duncan on the back.

  “Mostly I’m impressed by you,” he said. “But the part that isn’t impressed is pretty grossed out. I’ve already seen all of you I care to see.”

  “What the hell did I just agree to?”

  “Gettin’ naked,” said Stew. “I thought that was pretty clear.”

  Duncan held up one of the rat tails. “You think I can use this to cover myself ?”

  “Dude,” said Jessie, “if a five-foot-long plush tail won’t cover you, then there’s really nothing to be ashamed of, is there?”

  21

  Not long after the visit from Carly, Syd and Jessie left practice. Just as well, thought Duncan. The smooch—quick though it was—had caused him to completely lose focus. What did the kiss even mean? Were he and Carly an item? Certainly not in any official way. There were no public displays of affection between them. There were no dates, no phone calls, and only the one brief IM exchange. It was an odd kiss. No outflow of emotion. Almost clinical. But still, it was more action than he’d expected.

  Duncan sat at his kitchen table, trying to study yet unable to concentrate.

  Oh my God, she expects me to get naked, he occasionally thought.

  Then, Oh my God, she’s going to get naked.

  Duncan’s mom entered the kitchen and began to empty the dishwasher. They’d spoken only briefly (and tersely) to each other since Freddie’s suspension.

  “What are you working on, honey?”

  “My application to transfer to another school. In Guam. On a mountain. Protected by cannibals.”

  She smiled. “I’ll just follow you wherever you go,” she said.

  “Like that’s news to me.”

  “You know I had to do something about Freddie, right, Duncan?”

  He sat silently. She opened a cabinet and began to put away drinking glasses.

  “Teachers were coming to me,” she said. “Students were even coming to me. There was sincere concern for your safety.”

  “Freddie’s not what you think he is.”

  “I think he’s a bully.”

  “I know you do, Mother.”

  “His sister seems very nice, though.”

  “She’s not a strong guitar player.” Duncan pretended to read a textbook. “But yes, she’s very nice.”

  After several more minutes of distracted (and sometimes faked) study, Duncan went upstairs to his room. He sat at his desk, continuing not to study. Another good time to crack open the journal, he thought. But alas, Mrs. Kindler still had it. And, by that point, anything he might’ve wanted to write about involved people and circumstances that couldn’t be discussed with a woman who played bunco with his mom. So, instead of being productive or contemplative, Duncan stretched out on his bed and put The Song Remains the Same on his stereo. Just as the title track began to play, a car squealed to a stop outside his house.

  Duncan turned the music down low. He then heard plodding footsteps outside. Then the doorbell rang. Then there were a series of loud thuds on the front door. He heard muttering from his parents downstairs.

  Duncan went over to his bedroom window and swept back the curtain. Syd’s Monte Carlo was parked outside. But Syd didn’t plod or thud.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Boone.” Freddie’s voice boomed. “Is Duncan at home?”

  Oh crap, thought Duncan. Freddie’s girl.

  If, indeed, a girl existed who would willingly attend a social engagement with Freddie Wambaugh, Duncan hadn’t yet located her. Nor had he started looking. Duncan listened at his door. He heard a very clear “not sure that’s such a good idea” from his mother, followed by something inaudible—but very serious-sounding—from his dad.

  Well, no way they’re letting Freddie in the house, he thought. Not after getting him suspended and bad-mouthing him at every oppor—

  He soon heard laughter from his parents. And then from Freddie. Duncan soundlessly eased open the door to better hear the conversation:

  Freddie: “. . . and I know it was wrong. I really do.”

  Dad: “That’s fine, Freddie. You’re demonstrating a great deal of maturity.”

  Freddie: “Suspension was a wake-up call, sir.”

  Mom: “I’ll take you upstairs, Frederick.”

  Where is this amazing gullibility when I need it? wondered Duncan. Who falls for this crap?

  Duncan shut his door, turned the stereo back up just slightly, and sat down at his desk, again pretending to be scholastically engaged. He soon heard Freddie’s heavy footsteps in the living room. Then on the stairs. Then in hallway. There was a knock at the door of his room.

  “Yeah?” said Duncan, as though he’d heard nothing of Freddie’s arrival.

  The door opened. Freddie completely filled the doorway. Duncan’s mom stood behind him, smiling politely.

  “Greetings, dor—errr, Duncan,” said Freddie.

  “I’ll let you kids talk,” said Duncan’s mom.

  Freddie stepped forward and pulled the door shut. “Evenin’, dweeb.”

  “Look, Freddie, don’t pummel me. Not now, when no one’s looking. And definitely not with my parents in the house—that’s basically insane. And criminal. I know I haven’t firmed up a homecoming date for you yet, but it’s not like I—”

  “Enough of your dipwaddery,” said Freddie, waving his hands in clear frustration. “It’s like you and I, we’re never on the same conversational wavelength. It’s funny, because we work pretty well together when I kick your ass.” Freddie threw himself down on Duncan’s bed. The springs scrinched loudly under Freddie’s weight. “Anyway, dork, I came over to discuss my sister.”

  “Syd?” said Duncan. “Well, the band’s back together so, technically, I am fulfilling my part of the deal here, Freddie. And the deal didn’t call for me to make her a good guitar player. Which would take, like, a genie in a lamp at this point. The deal was—”

  “Shut up, crapnozzle,” said Freddie. “Seriously. You sit; I talk. Can we do that?”

  Duncan nodded.

  “Okay. Well, here’s the deal. Sydney’s mixed up with a dude.”

  “What du—?”

  “You sit; I talk,” said an agitated Fr
eddie. “We just agreed to this. Like, seconds ago. I am not a patient individual.”

  “Right,” said Duncan. “I’ll just, um . . . listen. For a while.”

  “Thank you. So she’s mixed up with a dude, I can tell. Definitely a dude problem.” Freddie fidgeted, running his massive hands through his hair. “She comes home today—from practicing with you guys—and I’m like, ‘Hey, Syd, how’s it going?’ Now this sort of casual question would normally get me, like, a ten-minute response and multiple anecdotes. But today? Nothing. She walks right past me—crying, I’m pretty sure, which is not like her. And she runs to her room, slams the door, cranks up some crazy freak punk music, and refuses to talk.”

  Duncan raised his hand.

  Hesitantly, Freddie said, “Yes?”

  “What’d she listen to? I mean, ‘crazy freak punk’ is a very broad category.”

  Freddie stared angrily.

  “Just curious,” said Duncan.

  “I don’t know,” Freddie said in a measured tone. “May I continue?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “So then Jess comes over, and she’s all ‘I gotta see Syd! I gotta see Syd! Where is she!’ Jess normally likes to chat, too. But not today. So I’m like, ‘She won’t come out of her room.’ Jess runs past me, practically beats down Syd’s door, and goes inside. That was, like, hours ago. They’re still in there, as far as I know.” Freddie shook his head. “I’m gonna friggin’ kill him.”

  Duncan raised his hand again.

  Freddie motioned for him to speak.

  “Who are you killing? I didn’t get that part.”

  “The dude. Who else do I kill? I only kill dudes. And, I mean, I don’t really kill them. But I do break ’em.”

  “There was no dude in that story, Freddie.”

  What the hell did we say to her? Duncan asked himself. Did we insult her playing? Oh, man. Poor Syd. She’s slow death on “Louie, Louie” and she’s no asset to the band, but wow. What the hell did we say?

  “Of course there’s a dude. The dude is implied. You don’t see that? Look, I know my sister. She’s not the type to go cry in her room unless a dude is involved. And even then . . . well, he’d have to be a total fartcloud. Syd’s a tough girl. The only time she’s acted this way before was in seventh grade. The guy was Albert Bavasi. Had to straighten him out with the Freddie Special: a series of face-flushes in the restroom and a taping to a flagpole.” Freddie chuckled. “I can still see a wet-faced Albert struggling. Good times.” He smiled for a moment. “I got suspended because of Albert, too—which was awesome—and from then on, no dudes bothered Sydney. Ever. Now that we’re at a new school, maybe I need to introduce the Special to the community. So the question is, who’s the new dude? And the follow-up question is, where do I find him?”

  “Dunno, man.”

  Duncan watched Freddie for several seconds. The angry thug made thinking faces, as if the act of searching for an answer might’ve hurt a little. Duncan was certain that Syd just felt crushed by her epic guitar struggles. The band itself depressed her. “The one thing that I really care about,” she’d said.

  “So you’re no help here to me at all?” Freddie said. “You offer no insight?”

  “Really, Freddie, I don’t know. I think the whole band is pretty wiped out over this gig. Everyone’s stressed—that’s probably what’s got Syd in the dumps.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Freddie said. “It’s a dude. I think it’s maybe that Stew dork.”

  “Stew?” said Duncan. “I really don’t think so.”

  Stew Varney, heartbreaker. Hmm. Didn’t fit, Duncan decided. Stew was definitely a candidate to have said something to piss Syd off. But shatter her heart? Not likely.

  “I’d like you to watch him for me, dweeb, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “You want me to watch Stew? He’s been one of my best friends since, like, forever.”

  “I’m your new best friend, dork.” Freddie stood up and jabbed Duncan’s shoulder—not lightly, like a friend might slap another friend, but hard, like cop intimidating an informant.

  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your commitment to getting me a date to homecoming either, stooge. It’d make me very sad to give you a Freddie Special—I’d do it, but I’d be sad.”

  “Jess is gonna help you, Freddie.”

  “Help me do what, give the Special? I work alone.”

  “No, no. Well, she might like to help you with the face- flushing, but that’s not what I meant. She said she’d help you prepare for the dance.”

  “Teach me all her moves, you mean? Like it’s Dancing with the Stars?” Freddie spun awkwardly, then leaped—very slightly—and thudded onto the floor, rattling everything in Duncan’s room that wasn’t bolted to a wall.

  Duncan laughed. “If Jess Panger has moves, I don’t think you want ’em. She’s just gonna help spruce you up.”

  “Moi?” asked Freddie. “I’m unspruceable. I am what I am, doofnik.”

  Freddie lumbered out of the room and down the stairs.

  “G’night, Mr. and Mrs. Boone,” he said. “It was a pleasure.”

  Duncan listened to the Monte Carlo peel off into the October night. He wondered how on Earth—what with daily band practices, TARTS minutiae, and a landfill’s worth of neglected schoolwork—he was going to be able to find Frederick Wambaugh a date. He looked down at his desk and saw a TARTS membership list poking out of a three-subject notebook.

  He fished it out, then picked up his cell phone and dialed. “Hello, Marissa? Hey, Duncan here . . .”

  22

  Matchmaking for Freddie turned out to be one of the simpler issues facing Duncan. Without any financial inducement whatsoever, Marissa agreed to be set up with a boy described to her only as “larger than the average teenage male, but visually impressive nonetheless.” She didn’t even ask his name. This was probably for the best, Duncan had decided. It seemed that he had a new reserve of TARTS-related clout, and Marissa felt she couldn’t refuse him. He smiled, contentedly.

  “A great night,” he told himself smugly.

  The week of the rally was a swirl of urgent TARTS chores and band practices—hours of band practices. In fact, in the five full days between Duncan’s brief lip-on-lip action with Carly and the rally—at which they were to appear together naked—he scarcely saw the girl for whom he’d gone to such ludicrous trouble. Mostly he just saw Jessie, Stew, and Syd.

  And Syd, to absolutely no one’s surprise, was still sucking on guitar. Moreover, she seemed unusually dour. Duncan could certainly see why her brother was concerned.

  “Talk to her,” he told Jessie. “She’s bummin’ me out.”

  She flicked his ear. “I am not the good-mood fairy,” she said. “You’re such a moron.”

  He was tired is what he was. His sleep had been disturbed all week by a mix of worry and excitement—and it was about a 70/30 mix, dominated by worry. Saturday was going to be the band’s first gig ever. And, unlike most first gigs for most bands, it seemed like theirs was going to be absurdly well attended, both by the local citizenry and a few members of the media. Carly had coordinated the rally expertly. She had a kind of genius for organization. Attendees of the Elm Forest homecoming parade were going to get an earful of pro-rodent rhetoric whether they wanted it or not. They would also get an eyeful of naked high school students. The homecoming court was going to be pelted with rubber rats by protesters (Duncan’s idea) while being serenaded by one of six rodent-centric songs from the Flaming Tarts. How Carly had gotten representatives from both state and city government to agree to speak at the rally was really a mystery to him, but he could vouch for her persuasiveness.

  On rally morning, Duncan awoke with two things weighing heavily on him: (1) he was expected to strip naked in public on a slightly chilly day, and (2) his band’s rhythm guitarist had zero rhythm and a functionally useless guitar. To address the first concern, he would wear boxers under the robe and rat tail. A simple enough solution. If Carly questioned his commit
ment again, at least he’d be mostly naked. He could claim to have been afraid of peeking out of the robe prematurely during his performance, thus ruining the surprise of the mass streak. And, hell, if Carly really gave him flak, he could always jettison the boxers when he was safely offstage.

  The second problem—Syd’s sucking—really had no obvious solution.

  The rally was to begin at noon. Duncan had his gear packed and loaded in the car, and his rat tail on at 7 a.m. He had already finished breakfast by the time his mother came downstairs.

  “Morning, Dunk,” she said.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Are you so excited for the rally today?” She dropped two bread slices in the toaster.

  “I guess.”

  “You guess? You were up awfully early for someone who’s not sure he’s excited.”

  “Well, if you knew I was excited, why ask? I’m a teenage male. You pretty much know I’m only going to say ‘Fine’ or ‘I dunno’ or ‘I guess’ when you ask me something.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Don’t be a wiseacre.”

  “Fine.”

  “Duncan, will you please stop this?”

  “I guess.”

  She stared at him with mild annoyance. Then she smiled. “Well, your father and I are excited for your show today. We can’t wait.”

  “You what?!” he snapped. “Oh, you can wait. You can wait until I’m rockin’ the United Center on the band’s tenth North American tour in support of our fifth platinum album. You are definitely not seeing me today. Or any other day anytime soon. You aren’t allowed.”

  “Duncan Boone,” she said didactically. “I am watching your show today whether it’s allowed or not. This is not negotiable. I am your mother. They pried you from my body with metal tools. I can do whatever I want to you.”

  “Gross, Mom.”

  “Your father and sister are coming, too.”

  The toast popped. Duncan stomped off to the garage. He stood alone, psyching himself. He put some Dinosaur Jr on the garage’s grime-covered CD player. He bobbed his head, closed his eyes, and visualized an idealized rally scene: pogoing suburbanites at the edge of the stage, random acts of hedonism, excited fans—whipped into madness by the Flaming Tarts’ cosmic awesomeness—flinging clumps of the Watts Park grass into the air. And, of course, the sound of Duncan’s voice and his elliptical guitar wizardry. He shut off the CD player, grabbed his guitar, and bent a series of notes, the opening riff of what was supposed to be the rally’s first song, “Fat Rat Trap.” Duncan barked out the first verse: