Beauty and the Bully

by Andy Behrens

  Oh, I got eyes just for you

  One of them’s black and the other one’s blue

  The right one’s a lie but the left one’s true

  And I’m in a rat in a trap and the glue is you . . .

  He spun, jamming in a theatrical yet economical way, until he fell totally at ease with his mastery of the Tarts’ set. He was ready. First gig, first audience. The band was ready. Except, well . . . Syd. What to do? He still couldn’t say.

  Duncan drove to Watts Park with the gear. It was the sort of crystalline autumn day that all virtuous rallies deserve. Cloudless sky, brilliant sun, leaves whipped into small circles, air stirred by sharp breezes. Dogs chased rubber toys and toddlers toddled. Adults chatted with one another and caffeinated themselves. Duncan lugged band equipment.

  “Damn,” said Jessie, ambling up behind him. “This tail keeps creeping up my butt. Is this a problem you’re having?”

  “No, I’m, um . . . my tail and my butt are in balance. Thanks for asking.”

  After unloading their gear and arranging it on a stage that had been assembled overnight, Duncan and Jessie stood together near the soldier statue, in their matching masks and tails, and watched the crowd gather.

  And gather.

  And gather.

  “Dude, there’s a lotta people here,” she said at eleven forty-five.

  “You ain’t kiddin’.”

  Hundreds of people milled about on the grass. Some had brought blankets, others protest signs. The news van with its telescoping satellite transmitter was parked along the edge of the park.

  “You scared?” asked Jessie.

  “Hell no.”

  And he meant it. He felt as if a dream had drawn very close. A band, an audience, a girl. Carly was flitting about, checking on a thousand things at once, her plush tail whipping behind her. A great night. This delicious phrase made Duncan whole.

  Politicians with plastic faces shook hands and bared their giant teeth. A tall girl in a rat mask approached.

  “Hey, Duncan,” said Marissa, lifting the mask.

  “Oh, hey.”

  “When do I meet this boy?”

  “This is who you set him up with?” said Jessie derisively, eyeing Marissa. “He’s too much man for her.”

  “Back off, sister,” said Marissa.

  Jessie took a step toward her, but Duncan thrust an arm between them, pointing to the front row of the crowd.

  “There he is,” said Duncan. “Go introduce yourself.”

  Freddie turned out to be quite visually impressive—and in a good way. He had a crisp, wrinkleless shirt over stylish, unstained, well-cut jeans. His hair was groomed, but not too groomed. He was far less slobbish than usual.

  “Hmm,” said Marissa. “Not so bad.” She waved, then furrowed her brow. “Hey, isn’t that the dude who beats you up? Or is that his better-looking brother?”

  “No, that’s the guy,” said Duncan. “It’s kind of an involved story. I don’t really have time to hit all the details for you now. Just go say hi. He won’t bite.”

  Marissa placed the mask back over her face and walked slowly toward Freddie.

  “At least I don’t think he’d bite . . . a girl. He’d definitely bite a dude.”

  Jessie grinned, still looking at Freddie.

  “Are you responsible for Freddie’s transformation?” asked Duncan.

  “Partly, yes,” said Jess. “He looks quite nice, don’t you think?”

  “Hmm,” he said, not quite admitting anything.

  Duncan’s eyes swept over the crowd, picking out the faces he knew: Sloth was standing near Freddie, and already in his homecoming attire; Duncan’s parents were there with Talia—and, to Duncan’s horror, with Emily; several teachers were there, including Dr. Wiggins, the TARTS adviser, and Mrs. Kindler; wannabe rapper Kurt Himes was there. . . .

  And he was wearing a tail and mask.

  And he was talking to Carly—not just talking politely, but close-talking. Almost intimately.

  Duncan grabbed Jess’s head, twisting it away from Marissa and Freddie. “Look at that,” he insisted, pointing at Kurt and Carly.

  “Dude,” said Jessie. “That’s so weird. The rat tail isn’t riding up either of their butts, eith—”

  “No!” he said. “Just look at them. They’re, like, cozy.”

  And then it happened: Carly quick-kissed Kurt, just the way she’d smooched Duncan in his garage. On the lips. Not with any flicker of lust, exactly. But it was still something.

  That’s my kiss! he thought.

  “Whoa,” said Jessie.

  Duncan’s heart plummeted, like in a Tower of Terror sort of way. The breath left his chest, and beads of cold perspiration formed on his forehead.

  “Whoa is right,” he said.

  23

  Duncan’s head was abuzz. As Carly strode away, he saw the same wide-eyed, jittery look on Kurt’s face that he’d had a week prior. Duncan took off to intercept Carly, who seemed to be on her way to corral a small gaggle of politicians.

  “Carly!” he called. She faced him, smiled, and then kept walking. “Hey, Dunky!”

  “What’s . . . um, up? What’s up with . . . um . . . well, I see Kurt Himes is here.”

  “Oh, yeah. Isn’t it exciting! He’s performing! He’s so talented. Have you heard his mix tapes? So talented.”

  “He wha—? His wha—?”

  “Gotta run, Duncan. Busy, busy. Wish I could chat!” Her eyes darted away. “Oh, Senator Feltes . . .”

  Duncan stood on the grass, suddenly despondent, perplexed, and empty. Stew and Syd walked up behind him.

  “Ready to rock?” asked Stew. “I am stoked.”

  “Um . . . ,” said Duncan, looking up. “Yeah. Sure. Stoked. Ditto. Me, too.”

  Syd was quiet, he noticed. Probably frightened of her own craptastic musicianship. She should be. We all should be. With the rally about to begin, the full band assembled near the soldier-and -horse statue to listen to the pre-performance speakers.

  “You okay?” Jess asked.

  “Yeah, I’m cool . . . ,” began Duncan.

  “Not you, asszilla,” Jess said. She looked at Syd. “Well?”

  “I’m straight.”

  The local politicians were chillingly dull: "... the need to strike an appropriate balance between the needs of modern science and our cherished national commitment to treating every animal with blah-blah-blah-rodents-blah . . .” Duncan kept scanning the crowd. Freddie seemed to be unusually peeved, even for him. He glared at the band—and possibly directly at Duncan—while Marissa whispered God-knew-what to him. Talia, wearing the Robert Plant T-shirt that Duncan had given her at Christmas, bounced excitedly on the grass. Her friend Emily chased a squirrel with a stick—no small irony at a pro-rodent rally, Duncan noted.

  All the speakers spoke; then Carly took the stage. The band hopped in place a little, nudged one another, and steeled themselves for their performance with nods of mutual encouragement. Then Carly introduced . . .

  “Kurt Hiiiiiiimes! C’mon, K-Hi!”

  The band stopped hopping.

  "K-Hi?” Jess said. “Oh, how awful. Sounds like fruity drink. Hi-C, Sunny D, K-Hi.”

  Duncan watched, halfway stunned, as Kurt took the stage with a deejay and a single backup singer. He was animated, juking, giant chain swinging around his thin neck.

  “Whassup, EF Township!” he said to a silent crowd. The beat kicked in, and Kurt began to rhyme. And it wasn’t . . . well, it wasn’t bad.

  Initially, the rally-goers seemed dazed and indifferent. Then they began to sway. And then their hands went up—tentatively at first, in small clusters. Then they went up en masse. Soon, the crowd was outright grooving. The politicians grooved. Duncan’s parents kinda grooved, old-person style. Dr. Wiggins and Mrs. Kindler wobbled. Sloth seemed to shrug his shoulders in a syncopated way. Even Freddie danced a stiff dance—and he’d been giving the performer persistent gym-class beat-downs for weeks.

  “So K
-Hi’s pretty good, huh?” said Jessie over the din of crowd noise.

  Everyone nodded.

  “Still a stupid name, K-Hi.”

  More nods.

  “Think we have to follow him?” asked Stew.

  “Guess we’ll find out soon,” said Jessie.

  “Guys, we’re gonna totally rock,” said a not-quite-so-con fident-as-he-once-was Duncan.

  Himes utterly controlled the crowd during his brief set, exhorting them to move, to call out rhymes, and to generally enjoy their surroundings. He was most definitely on. Kurt exited the stage to frenetic cheers. Duncan closed his eyes and took in the crowd’s noise, letting it filter into his pores and settle over him like ash. This is nice, he thought. But it wasn’t his, not yet.

  Carly bounded up onto the stage, beaming, obviously pleased with Kurt. The crowd clapped and whistled as he stepped back onto the stage briefly to acknowledge them. Carly clapped, too, still smiling that brilliant smile. In the distance, Duncan saw and heard the Elm Forest homecoming parade winding its way toward the park. A few students wandered over to the street where it would soon pass. And so, too, did a phalanx of TARTS with bags of rubber rodents.

  Carly leaned into her microphone. “It’s now my pleasure to introduce an incredible band from right here in Elm Forest. They’re led by a dear friend of mine—a person whose commitment to ending the heinous practices of the rodent death lobby is as strong as my own—Duncan Boone!” A soft smattering of applause followed his name, most of it emanating from his mom and her coworkers. Emily, of course, booed. “Please,” said Carly, “give a big welcome to . . . the Flaming Tarts!”

  Robust applause greeted the full band.

  As Duncan stepped forward, the moment seemed rife with meaning: his first footfall on an actual stage on which he would actually rock. He looped the guitar strap over his shoulder and watched his band settle in. Or rather, he watched them attempt to settle. Syd was anything but ready. She seemed about to hurl.

  Laughter suddenly rose up from the crowd.

  This freaked Duncan initially, until he spun around and realized that the Elm Forest homecoming court—and in particular its king, Perry Hurley—were being blitzed with rubber rodents by a group of surprisingly strong-armed female TARTS. This was the moment when Duncan was supposed to launch into the opening notes of “Fat Rat Trap,” sending the crowd into what was supposed to be a frenzy.

  He looked at Syd again. She was neither looking at him nor at the rubber rat assault. She seemed petrified, staring at her fingers on her guitar, head down, Twins cap askew. Duncan visually checked to make sure she’d actually plugged her guitar into . . .

  In that instant, he knew just how to deal with the Syd dilemma: disconnect her.

  He’d be doing Syd a favor—she was practically weeping from evident fear. After all, which would cause Syd greater embarrassment: an equipment problem (something that could befall any musician) or completely sucking onstage (something that befell only sucky musicians)? The latter, Duncan decided. So obviously, she needed to be silenced. For the good of the band, and for the betterment of Sydney Wambaugh. With most of the band and crowd distracted by the rat attack on the homecoming parade, Duncan rushed over to her amp, holding the mike in his left hand. He disconnected her guitar with a sharp tug.

  And that was the precise moment when the rally turned ugly.

  Something Duncan had apparently done—maybe it involved the amp or a mike, he couldn’t say—caused the sound equipment to shriek like a bazillion irritated gulls.

  WEEEEEE- OHHHAAAAI - EEEEE- WAAAYYYY-EEEEEE . . .

  It was a piercing sound, and it wouldn’t stop. Rally-goers covered their ears. The rat-throwers hit the ground, perhaps fearing that the homecoming court had struck back at them with a devastating weapon. Jessie, Stew, and Syd swiveled around to see Duncan standing over a speaker, quite obviously flustered. Carly huddled with Kurt. No, not Kurt! thought Duncan, scanning the crowd in a panic. Carly was yelling something at the stage, but Duncan couldn’t possibly hear over the noise he’d created. He plugged Syd’s guitar back in, which did absolutely nothing to stop the shrill attack.

  ... ZEEEEEE-ZPFEEEE-WAAAYYYY-EEEEEE . . .

  “What the hell are you doing?!” bellowed Jessie.

  “I messed with Syd’s guitar!” he screamed back. “I unplugged it!”

  “Why?!” the band yelled in unison.

  Carly had rushed to the stage and was soon in Duncan’s face. “Make it stop! People are leaving!” She looked out across the crowd. “No, they’re fleeing!”

  “I don’t know how!” yelled Duncan. “I’m not sure what I did!”

  ... WEEEEEZOW-WAAAYYYY-EEEEEE-RRR-WEEEEE . . .

  He began pulling all sorts of cords from all sorts of devices, yet nothing quieted the shriek. Ten seconds passed. Then thirty. Then forty-five. Eventually—thankfully—someone cut the power to the stage.

  ... ZEEEEAAAY-RRrrehp. Pop.

  The noise faded, but the band kept yelling.

  “Dammit, Duncan!” yelled Jessie.

  “What were you thinking, dude?” said Stew. “You tried to unplug Syd’s guitar? Really?”

  “She looked horrified,” he yelled. “And you’re the one who’s been complaining about her playing! I was trying to cut her off before anything bad happened!”

  “You mean like we make a horrible brain-melting noise, and everyone leaves the rally?”

  They looked out at the crowd, much of which had begun to drift away. Only the familiar faces surrounded the stage.

  “You tried to cut me off?!” yelled Syd.

  Duncan turned to face her. “I was . . . well, you looked so . . . I just wanted help you, real—”

  She leapt off the stage and stalked off. Jessie followed. Sloth trailed them both, but not before shooting Duncan a rather menacing glare.

  You’re supposed to be nonviolent, he thought.

  “I can’t believe you,” said Stew. “I mean, jeez. The girl’s not exactly Clapton at the Royal Albert Hall, but damn. You don’t just cut loose a member of the band before a set.” He shook his head. “You just don’t do it.”

  Stew stepped off the stage, leaving Duncan alone in his robe and rat tail. Kurt looked up at him. So did his family, his teachers, and his bully.

  Then Freddie hopped the small metal fence that separated stage from crowd. He looked mad. Duncan reflexively jumped from the stage, landing in the grass, a rolling ball of robe and tail. Carly and three of the handmaids raced past him, cursing as they went.

  “How could you do this to me, Duncan!” snapped Carly. She raised her head and eyed the Fox crew, which had returned to their van. “Wait!” she called. The girls unfurled a giant GIVE MICE A CHANCE banner and raced off. Duncan jumped up to follow them.

  He took five strides before realizing that he’d lost his robe.

  Emily was cackling mightily, her tiny foot on the drawstring.

  He stepped toward her slowly, naked except for his Eric Cartman boxers. “You . . . little . . . puke-licking . . .”

  Freddie clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder.

  “Oh, man,” Duncan said. “This day is just not going well at all.”

  “Sweet show,” said Freddie. “Really, Duncan. That was incredible.” He paused to take in the chaos that had spread across Watts Park. “Let’s see. Your band hates you. My sister hates you. Hundreds of animal-testing protestors have inner ear damage because of you. And many of us will also have to go home and throw up because we’ve seen you half-naked.”

  Duncan squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the thrashing that he couldn’t possibly avoid.

  “But that’s not what I’m upset about, Duncan,” said Freddie. “What I’m upset about—or rather who I’m upset about—is Marissa.” He paused. “I know that you hired me to be your bully, dweeb, but I thought that through all this we had developed a bond. A friendship? Hmm. It’s possible. But at least a bond. And I know I’m no Prince Harry, but damn. This is what she says to me
, first thing: ‘I’m only doing this as a favor to Duncan.’ She never took off her friggin’ mask. How am I supposed to feel, Duncan?” He bowed his head. “Man, if you were someone else, I’d be halfway through the Freddie Special, dork—and I’d be enjoying myself. But you’re not even worth my trouble.”

  “I am worth the trouble!” said Duncan. Then he paused. “Wait, no. Redo. Never a good idea to solve your problems with violence. But I just . . . well, don’t be mad, Freddie. I screwed up. Not in a little way, but in a massive way. No, in a series of massive ways. I really need—”

  “Hey, I’m not mad, Duncan.” Freddie shook his head. “I’m totally disappointed.” He walked away.

  “Well,” said Duncan’s mom, handing her son his robe, “I think Frederick really showed a lot of maturity right there. My son, on the other hand—”

  “Looks like a stick figure when he’s naked!” snapped Emily. She cackled again.

  Duncan draped the robe around his shoulders and wordlessly packed up the Flaming Tarts’ abandoned gear. The crowd was now hopefully thin, the band had scattered, his friends had abandoned him. (Well, after he threw them all under the bus, metaphorically, they abandoned him.) Duncan had never felt so ill, so hollow. He stood—the sunlight across his face, the breeze catching his hair—and watched a livid Carly, not naked, walk toward the stage dragging the banner behind her like a fallen comrade. Her eyes were fixed on Duncan.

  He tried to seem busy elsewhere, turning again to pack more gear. He heard Carly’s sandals slap against the stage. Seconds later, he felt a surprising sting at his back.

  THWAP!

  Carly had whacked him with her long fuzzy rat tail. He felt sure he deserved it.

  THWAP!

  He raised his hands halfheartedly to not quite protect himself.