Beauty and the Bully (17 page)

“Sorry, yeah.” He stapled a TARTS leaflet to a bulletin board. “I'm just totally caught up in . . .”

“In not hanging out with your friends? Ever. Avoiding us like lepers. Not doing a thing to get us a friggin' gig. Generally not caring.”

“I am not
avoiding
you.” He sighed. “But I know. I've been busy. It sucks. I kinda suck. But I'm making real progress with Carly—and I've even written some new songs.”

“Oh, let me guess. They're all about her.” She sneered.

“No, for your information, they are
not
about her.”

Jess stepped back. “Really? Not one? Hmm. What're you writing about, then?”

“Well, it's complicated.” He looked away. “They're mostly unfinished songs.”

“But the finished parts, what are they about?”

He fidgeted. “Um . . .”

“Well?” she said. “Don't be bashful.”

“They're about test mice, mostly. But a couple of them deal more with rats.”

Jess gave him a withering stare.

“They could be seen as metaphorical,” he offered.

“You know that if we weren't at school—and I wasn't nearly finished serving about a month of detention—I'd kick you.”

“I know that, yes.”

“I still might.”

“Please don't.”

She shook her head disapprovingly. “Well, rat crusader, when can we practice? How 'bout tonight?”

“Tonight's no good, sorry. I'm giving Syd another lesson. It'll be the third this week—that's almost like having band practice.”

“Except it's without half the band, dude.” Jess folded her arms. “We've been hanging out a little, you know. Me and Syd. Since you began ignoring me. She's awesome. She was over on Wednesday. How's she progressing musically?”

“She's taken to guitar like the local Catholic Youth Ministry Club has taken to radical Islam.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, she's not, um . . . competent. At all.”

“Good thing we don't
actually
have any gigs, then. Can we practice Saturday afternoon, maybe?”

“I'll be at the mall.”

“The
mall
? You're not a mall person, Duncan.”

“I'm going for TARTS. They're gonna have a little booth or a kiosk or something. Like one of those places where they sell cubic zirconia jewelry or cheap hats. Except we're pushing the rodent-rights agenda.” Jessie simply stared at him. He continued. “It's gonna be awesome. Carly is supposed be there in the morning, I think. And I agreed to be there all day. Well, at least as long as the mall is open.”

Jessie walked away.

“Maybe we can practice on Sunday?” he said. “Jess?”

She waved her hand in obvious disgust.

16

Duncan arrived home after school on Friday exhausted but content. His dad's car was already in the driveway, which was highly unusual. Duncan walked through the front door, threw his backpack down near the stairs, and loped into the kitchen. His mom and dad were seated at the kitchen counter looking stiff and uncomfortable.

“Oh, man,” said Duncan. “Did somebody die? It's not Aunt Dana, is it? That woman smokes like a facto—”

“No one died, Duncan,” said his father. “And Dana's trying to cut back, she really is.”

Duncan's mom gave his dad a moderately hostile look, then said, “We're not here to have the dangers-of-smoking discussion. We've already had that one.”

“Um . . . then why are we here?” asked Duncan. “You're kinda freakin' me out.”

“Pull up a stool, Duncan,” said his dad, extending an arm.

“No way,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “Not until you tell me what this is all about. Am I being warned about something? Interrogated? Reprimanded? What?” His mind raced, trying to come up with something that might necessitate a confab with his parents. “And where's T?”

“Your sister is sleeping over at Emily's,” said his mom in a too-calm voice.

“Whoa, you even made Talia clear out for this? What the heck? And why do you have to send her over to Emily's, that little ferret. Talia has lots of frie—”

“Duncan,” said his father. “What's going on at school?”

There were many potential answers to that question: I'm kinda sorta lying to this incredibly sweet, incredibly hot girl, and she's diggin' me; I'm campaigning for better treatment for rodents, so rats and mice are diggin' me, too; I haven't understood a friggin' thing in Physics in over a week, so Dr. Wiggins is
not
diggin' me. But he likes the rodents. So maybe.

“Nothing,” Duncan said defensively.

“Let me rephrase, then,” said his father. “Is anyone bothering you at school?”

“Mom!” Duncan barked. “I can't
believe
you! Boundaries, Mom. You are not to use your position to intervene in my social affairs. It's like you've broken the fourth wall. We've talked about the fourth wall, Mom.”

“This is a safety issue, Duncan,” she huffed, “and I do not take it lightly.” She looked at him compassionately. “What's the story with you and Freddie Wambaugh?” she asked.

I'm basically using him as a decoy to try to scam with the aforementioned sweet, hot girl whom I've been lusting after for the past half decade, he thought.

“There is no story,” he said. “None whatsoever. Are we done now?”

“No,” said his dad.

“Duncan, I've heard a lot of tidbits over the past two years about you, your friends, your teachers—a lot. It's my job. I'm a guidance counselor, dear. I
guide
. And when you guide, you have to
know
. So I know things.”

“Anytime you'd like to make sense, Mom, I'm listening.”

Duncan's dad chuckled, which earned him a quick whack on the shoulder from Duncan's mom.

“Honey,” she said, “several faculty members have come to me with reports of a boy—almost certainly
you
—who was chased across the football field and up a goalpost by Freddie.”

Duncan said nothing.

“Is that accurate, honey?” asked his mother.

Duncan still said nothing. He merely frowned, then looked at his feet.

“I always hoped I'd see you in action on the football field, son,” said his father. “I just never thought it would be cowering on a goalpost.”

Duncan's mom administered another whack.

“You need to stand up to this boy, son,” said his father. “Look, I know it's not easy, but you ca—”

“Oh, don't listen to your father, Duncan,” said his mom. She glared. “At no point in his life would your father have stood up to Freddie Wambaugh. He's strong. And he's not one to back down from a confrontation—I've seen his disciplinary records.” She looked toward Duncan. “We should talk to a dean, honey. Or I could talk to Principal Donovan for you. Or we could even call the Wambaughs and talk to the—”

“I can handle it,” said Duncan.

“Oh now, honey, don't be like tha—”

“I can handle it, Mom,” he said, almost pleading.

“Good man,” said his father. “I'm glad we aired this out, talked it through.” He made rapid, girlish punching gestures at the air. “It's important for families to talk about their problems. ”

“Can I
go
?” asked Duncan, definitely pleading.

“Sure thing,” chirped his dad.

Duncan grabbed a Squirt from the fridge and began to walk toward the stairs.

“Honey,” said his mom, “your father and I won't be home until late, okay?”

“'Kay,” called Duncan. “Where're you going?”

“Oh, we're going to see Kenny Rogers at Pheasant Run,” she said. “It was my birthday present, remember?” Duncan's dad began to sing “You Decorated My Life.” Badly. (As if there were another way).

“How is it even possible that we share genetic material?” yelled Duncan, stomping upstairs. “The answer is that it's
not
possible. I am clearly adopted. I am the bastard son of Axl Rose.”

He slammed the door to his room shut behind him, opened the Squirt, and turned on his laptop. He sat at his desk, fuming and scheming. Mom has no right to meddle in my non-academic school life, he told himself. But realistically he knew it was an inevitability. “Aaargh,” he said aloud. “Duh.” His head fell onto the desk. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

His laptop beeped at him. Jess IMing, most likely. He pulled his head up and looked at the message.

No idea who that is, he thought. Does anyone call me “Dunky”? Do I want to encourage this? Provocative screen name, though.

Duncan stared at the characters on his screen for a lost moment. Carly Garfield was IMing. That seemed so wildly beyond the limits of possibility that he couldn't process it as fact. Carly had only really known his name for, like, a week. And she'd only begun to take him seriously as a sentient human being, like, yesterday. Or possibly the day before. Whatever. And now she was IMing. Casually. With exclamation points and emoticons. He plugged his printer cable into a USB port—this exchange needed to be printed and scrap-booked. Not that he had a scrapbook. But he'd get one for something as momentous as this, his first IM from . . .

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

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