Beauty and the Bully (21 page)

“You mean like you want a companion?”

“If by ‘companion' you mean ‘attractive female companion, ' yeah. The assistant dean was telling me today that my suspension ended just in time for homecoming—and then the smug poopsniffer
laughed
. Can you believe that? He laughs at my romantic prospects. I'll admit that I may not have traditional manners and good looks”—he scratched the folds of his beefy neck—“but I can turn up the charm. And I'd like a homecoming date.”

“A homecoming date,” said Duncan. “Hmm.” I'd actually like one of those, too, he thought. “What made you come to me with this request, Freddie? Just out of curiosity. I mean, if I were any good at talking to girls, I would never have needed you.”

“You're a smart kid, dorkmonkey. I like the way you've played things with the rodent chick. Plus, let's face it, I have all kinds of leverage with you.” Freddie did the punch-his-palm thing again. “Find me a girl. A date. For homecoming.” He cracked his neck. “Or you'll get the ‘Freddie Special.'”

That seemed bad.

“Okay,” said Duncan. “I'll try.”

“Don't try. Do it. You've got five days.”

Freddie began to walk away. After several steps, he turned around. “Syd is really that bad? Seriously?”

“It's like listening to orangutans whack each other with live monkeys.”

Freddie raised his eyebrows. “That's a graphic description. ”

“I've had a
lot
of time to consider Syd's guitar playing.”

19

“I've hit a wall,” said Duncan, plopping himself down next to Jessie at lunch on Friday. “An impossibly large wall. Like with concrete and steel and razor wire.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Jessie said in a fairly hostile tone. “I didn't realize I'd sat down at the Flakeballs Against Rat Test Stuff table. I'll move.”

Duncan laughed quietly.

“I'm insulting you, Duncan,” she said.

“Funny acronym. FARTS. Flakes Against da-da-da-da.”

Jessie smiled. “Okay, so I'm amusing even when I'm trying to be bitter and spiteful.
That's
when you know you're an adorable person.” She bit into a celery stick. “What have I done to earn your lunchtime presence?”

“You don't eat celery. What are you doing?”

“I'm watching calories. Keeping slim and fit.”

“You
what
?”

“The big dance is coming up. Homecoming. Our beloved Owls taking on . . . hmm, I believe it's the Bulldogs.”

“You don't dance. You're a drummer.”

“I'm a little bit of a babe, it turns out. I have a date.”

“A date? Like, with destiny?”

“No, a boy human.”

“Who asked you?”

“It's who I asked. Wake up to the new millennium, Fonzie.”

“So who'd you ask, tramp?”

“Sloth.”

Duncan laughed again. “Good one. Sloth.”

“No, really. Sloth. I called him.”

“Come
on
. No you didn't. I mean, a nice guy, Sloth. But you were attracted to hi—”

“Oh, ick. No.” She chomped another celery stick. “I'll admit that I kinda like the bad boys. But not the furry bad boys. No, I just thought he was a nice guy. And it seemed kind of sad, Sloth workin' the third shift just to afford a dinky bug-trap in that war-zone apartment complex. He's had no authentic high school experiences. Zero. None. A Maple North outlaw. Kinda sad. So, after you and I blatantly misjudged him, I thought it would be a nice gesture to take him to a function. And he can't really go to one of his own school's events, what with his reputation. So he's coming to one of ours.”

Duncan stared, slightly bewildered. “That's so . . . hmm, there's a word . . .”

“Nice? I know. I am nice to a fault. I am kindness itself.”

“Something like that, yeah. It is nice.”

“Celery?” she said, offering a stick from her pile.

“No thanks.”

“These things suck. Like eating fingers. I don't know how anorexics do it—the broth, the carrots, the lettuce, the fasting. Gimme a stack of cookies, yo.” She chewed, looking miserable. “So why are you visiting the old lunch table? Feeling nostalgic? There was something about a wall, right?”

“Yes, the wall. I've hit it. That's what I said before you dropped this Sloth bombshell.”

“What the hell does that mean, ‘hit the wall'? Isn't that a sports analogy? Please don't use those.” She bit into more celery.

“Sorry. I'm just stressed. Nearing a breakdown, maybe. There's the demise of the band. Stew hates me. I'm neck-deep in TARTS responsibilities—and I hate, hate,
hate
rats, by the way.” He sighed. “And there's this ongoing lie with Carly, which I'm feeling horrible about because one, it's a lie, and two, it got Freddie suspended. Or my mom got him suspended because of the lie. But whatever.” He thought for a moment. “Oh, and get this: I have to find Freddie a date for homecoming. Why didn't you tell me you had a thing for goons before today? Where was this information being kept?”

“You don't really ask what other people are thinking, Duncan. At least not lately.”

He looked down. “Sorry. I know. So what
are
you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that Stew doesn't hate you. He just thinks you've prioritized a stupid fantasy over your friends, which you have. And I'm thinking that I can work with Freddie a little to get him date-ready.” She spit a wad of partially chewed celery onto her tray. “
Blech
. Seriously, these things are vile. I especially hate the ends. It's like gnawing on cold wool.” She took a sip of her soda. “Lastly, I'm thinking that Syd's going to be sitting here in about a minute, and you should apologize to her.”

“For what?”

“For making her feel like she's responsible for breaking up the band. For making her feel like a complete failure.”

“But she's responsible for breaking up the band. And she's a complete failure.”

“You can be such a jackass, Duncan.”

He heard sniffling from over his right shoulder and the approach of Birkenstocks. He saw Jessie looking up at someone behind him, so he turned. Carly stood there, teardrops running down her cheeks. She sniffled again, then produced a loud, emotive
“Ohhhhh . . .”

“Carly!” he said, standing and offering her a seat. “What is it? What's wrong?”

She sat next to him, continuing the audible crying. He'd had never seen her so distraught. He'd seen her cheerful, amused, and aggressive—but never sad. Not like this. Like, with sobbing and mucus and goo and tears. She sat, then fell against his shoulder, closed her eyes, and cried louder. Jess looked at him coolly and made a gagging motion with her finger.

“Oh, Duncan,” sobbed Carly. “It's so awful.” More tears. “I don't know what I'm going to do. . . .” Sniffle, sniffle.

Jess tilted her head, pointed at Duncan, and made a talking gesture with her hand. He knew he should say
something,
but he wasn't prepared to comfort Carly—his more successful interactions with her required preparation. But he tried.

"W-what's up, Carly?” he said hesitantly.

Great, he thought. Whassup? Idiot. Like you just greeted her at Applebee's.

“Oh, Duncan! It's terrible. Terrible! The TARTS rally is . . . [
sniff
] completely falling apart! It's awful!” She sobbed against his arm.

Jessie rolled her eyes.

“What happened?” Duncan asked. “How can it fall apart? Things can't be so bad. We plan every day. We double-check, we triple-check. We've plastered the town in flyers. We're like an elite paramilitary group. We—”

“The band!” Carly sobbed. “We lost the band! And the rapper! They were like . . . [
sniff
] a package deal. Tripbunny and . . . [
sniff
] MC Fatso. I was
so
excited, too. I was [
sniff
] . . . so counting on this. The band was going to . . . [
sniff
] be this big crescendo for the rally. All these VIPs from the national . . . [
sniff
] TARTS organization are coming into town. And we
promised
. . . [
sniff
] live music! It's on the posters, Duncan!” More sobbing. “The posters . . .”

Duncan looked at Jessie. She raised her hands as if to say,
I have no part in this, dude.
Duncan flashed her a thumbs-up. Carly sniffled loudly on his arm. Jessie gave him a look that seemed to ask,
How is this good?

“Relax, Carly,” said Duncan. “It's okay. My band will play the rally.”

Carly stiffened, giving Duncan a quizzical look. Jessie gave him a significantly more quizzical look.

“Are you guys, um . . . good?” asked Carly.

Jessie leaned forward across the table. “Hey, dude, we don't eve—”

“We
rock
,” said Duncan firmly. “I mean, unless you want us to slow it down. 'Cuz we can do that, too. We can do whatever's needed, basically. We're a versatile band. And very socially conscious. We've actually been looking to do, you know, um . . . more rallies and benefits and such.”

Jessie's mouth fell open. Duncan continued.

“We've been together a long time, Carly. We pretty much rock.” He looked into her eyes. “Really.” He looked at Jessie, who seemed astonished. “We don't have any other gigs next Friday, right?”

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head, her eyes wide. “Not a single one.”

Carly brightened. She wiped her eyes, then enveloped Duncan in a hug. He flashed Jessie another thumbs-up. Syd arrived at the lunch table looking mortified.

“Oh, Duncan, I am soooo grateful!” said Carly. “You are a total savior. Where have you been my whole life?”

Stalking you mostly, he thought.

“It's nothing,” he said.

She took his face in her hands and planted a kiss on his cheek. He blushed. Carly then leaned back and gave him a sly smile. “Okay, I
have
to tell you how the rally is ending,” she said. “Because the band is key. I can't even contain myself.” Her knees bounced excitedly. “So all the speakers will have spoken—a city councilwoman, a state legislator, the morning deejay from XRT, me—of course—and I introduce . . . what's your band's name again?”

“The Flaming Tarts,” said Duncan, smiling, pleased with himself.

“The Tarts!” said Carly. She squeezed him again. Jessie and Syd exchanged a look. “So I'll introduce the Flaming Tarts,” continued Carly, “and you'll come out and play for, like, fifteen minutes—no explicit lyrics, please, we're at the park—and then . . .
oooh,
this is so great! The girls and I—everyone: Kylie, Hayley, Marissa, Zoe, Chloe, Sophie—we streak across the park with this giant banner.”

She looked at Duncan for a reaction.

“That's cool,” he said. “I like banners.”

“Duncan, we
streak
.”

“Like you have a race?”

“Like we're naked. Stripped, just like rats are stripped of their rights.”

Syd snorted. Jessie half spewed soda on her tray. Duncan merely stared, imagining the scene. It was not unpleasant.

“The hope,” said Carly, “is that we all get arrested or something. That'll get TARTS
so
much attention. We know the Elm Forest police will be there, so there's a decent chance.”

Duncan kept staring. “What, um . . . what gave you this idea, Carly?” he finally asked.

“Well, you know how we've been calling TV stations trying to get someone to cover the rally? No one was interested. No one at all. But then Kylie and I were downtown last weekend and we sort of forced a Fox News van off the road. We made our pitch about the rally—right on the side of Lake Shore Drive, cars and trucks whizzing past—and this producer was all like, ‘What's the hook?' And we're like, ‘Hook?' And he's saying, ‘This is Chicago. There are rallies. Big whoop. Will there be a million people? Will there be violence? Is anyone naked?' And I was like, ‘Deal. We're
so
naked.' And he was like, ‘Can we have an exclusive?' And I was like, ‘Yes!' So we streak.”

“You're getting naked?” Duncan said. “Definitely? And risking arrest?”

“Definitely.”

“We're proud to be your band,” he said.

Carly winked at him and said, “I'm glad you're going to be there, Duncan. It's going to be an awesome day.” She stood, dabbed tears from her cheeks, and began to walk away. Then she turned her head back, grinning. “Hopefully it'll be a great night, too.”

Duncan stared at Jessie, a stunned expression on his face. “What did that mean? ‘A great night'? That's good, right?”

The phrase had galactic heft. It overwhelmed Duncan. “A great night.” Vague, he thought, yet still somehow an explicit promise. Carly
had
to know how Duncan would define “great night.” Was she acknowledging some shared sense of romantic inter—?

“Dude!” interrupted Jess. “You have a minor problem. There is no band. I mean, I'll play. As long as Syd is in.” Jessie elbowed Sydney. “But Stew? Man, Stew's pissed.”

Without a word, Duncan walked to where Stew sat, alone and sullen, in a far corner of the cafeteria.

“I apologize,” he said. “Wholeheartedly and without reservation. Now come on, get up. We have to go sit with Jess and Syd. We need to come up with a set list. The band is back together.”

Stew stared with a severe expression. “You think you can walk over here, wave the magic apology, and—
poof!
—I'm back in the band? Well, you can't. There is literally
nothing
you could say that would make me reunite with the band. Nothing.”