Beauty and the Bully (13 page)

“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.

A hairnetted cafeteria worker slammed a serving spoon down on his plate, dislodging a thick mass of au gratin potatoes. Duncan then accepted a fishwich, peas, a Jell-O cup, and a half-pint of milk. He stepped into the main lunchroom and paused, standing beside a Coke machine, and scanned the area for the relevant parties.

Freddie, being the largest, was easy to spot. He was standing next to the circular table that used to belong to the Goth-and-German contingent, arms folded across his thick chest. He returned Duncan's glance with an almost imperceptible nod. Duncan continued to survey the room, looking for Carly. His eyes swept over an excessively giddy Stew and Jess. They sat in the usual spot, waving excitedly. Duncan searched for some sign of Carly amid the cafeteria clamor. Looking, looking . . .

There she was, walking just a half step ahead of a cluster of handmaids. And she was radiant. On most occasions, Duncan would have been content to simply stand and watch her walk, sit, eat, and converse in that perfectly graceful way of hers. But not that Tuesday. He made eye contact with Freddie, then stepped forward, moving with haste along a line that would intersect with Carly's path at the center of the cafeteria. Freddie was moving, too.

“Wait for it,” Duncan said softly to himself. “Wait for it. Wait, wait . . .”

He drew close to Carly. It all felt so fantastically clandestine, so fictional, so Matt-Damon-hanging-from-a-helicopter. Just a few more steps and . . .

“Hi, Duncan!” called his mother.

Her voice hit him like a blow-dart from the brush.

“Mom? Errr . . . hey.”

He spun around to see her walking alongside another guidance counselor, Evelyn Whitman, and carrying a pile of papers and folders in her arms. She didn't stop to chat—which was nice, what with Freddie approaching and ready to maul him. Duncan shook his head and glanced at Freddie, who stopped in his tracks, evidently confused. Or perturbed. Carly took a seat at a table with her TART friends.

This is no problem, Duncan thought. Just wait for Mom to leave. She
can't
witness the beating. Wait . . . wait . . .

He watched her.

And watched.

C'mon. Step lively, Mom.

But she stopped to have a word with Jeremy Voskil, a whip-smart future valedictorian.

Ack! Come
on
, Mom. Wait . . . wait . . .

Duncan stood looking dazed and lost. A few students looked up at him quizzically. He drifted closer to Carly's table. She still hadn't noticed him. Freddie followed. Duncan drifted a little more, waiting.

Soon she was back on the move, nearing the doors that led to the guidance area. When she opened them and left the lunchroom, Duncan's right arm shot out low at his side and he flashed the peace sign. Then he braced himself in preparation for a feeling that had grown a little too familiar: air travel on school property.

Freddie's large paw again seized Duncan's collar. Another hand grabbed his belt. Hmm, new method, thought Duncan. Freddie spun him around once—sending bits of potato flying in all directions—then lofted him onto a sparsely populated table. Beverages spilled, trays and plates crashed against the floor, students scattered. Duncan slid down the length of the table on his back, managing to catch hold of the edge with his left hand to prevent sliding off.

“Hey!” he managed in mock indignation, scrambling to his feet. He could distinctly hear clapping and laughing from the section of the cafeteria occupied by sporty morons. He heard shocked gasps from almost everyone else. No security, faculty, or cafeteria monitors in sight.

Freddie approached Duncan with a smirk on his wide face. He towered over him. “Whoops,” Freddie said.

He gave Duncan's shoulder a shove.

“Watch where you're going, dweeb.” He shoved Duncan again, then took a dollop of orange Jell-O and smeared it across Duncan's forehead. Freddie smiled. “You should apologize, ” he said. Another shove followed.

Oh, Freddie's good, thought Duncan. Very good. Or else he's completely forgotten it was a setup.

“Fight, fight!” chanted a small but inspired group of jocks. This seemed to stir the lunch police to action. School staff began to home in on the confrontation.

So did Carly.

A poppy-seed bagel struck Freddie in the head, startling him. He turned around just in time to take a carrot stick to the face.