Beauty and the Bully Read Online Free
Author: Andy Behrens
decided to flee.
Duncan hastily gathered his things and stuffed them into the backpack, again not noticing the pigeon excrement. He didnât dare look up. He needed simply to escape this moment, heâd decided. Flustered, he flung the unzipped backpack over his shoulder. The Great Gatsby and two pens flew out, landing in a four-spouted drinking fountain. Duncan retrieved the book and left the pens. He quickly took a drink, hoping to convey just the sort of casualness that he didnât possess.
âYou need to take radical action,â repeated the voice in his head. This time, it cruelly ridiculed him.
âI need to leave in a big-ass hurry is what I need,â he answered, still mumbling. âLeave, leave, leave . . .â He was in a full panicked retreat. He thought he heard laughing at the opposite end of Watts Park as he strode away.
âDammit, dammit, dammit . . .â
He left the park heading entirely the wrong direction. Part of him wished he could just keep moving along that vector, traveling the entire 24,900-mile circumference of the Earth (give or take, as heâd learned in sophomore geography) if necessary in order to ensure that he would absolutely, positively not be identified by Carly and her herd. But instead, he merely traveled a block past the park and then reversed course, remaining on the perimeter of Watts at a reasonably safe distance. He looked back periodically to watch Carly, who had moved closer to the statue, continue to describe God-knew-what to the handmaids. She stood in the grass near the apex of the Watts slope, gesticulating with great enthusiasm. Duncan, disgusted at his own pathological ineptitude, ducked his head and walked home.
3
Thwung. Thwung. Thwung. . .
Duncan pounded his head lightly against his metal locker. Number 535, near the computer lab. His eyes were shut. He made no effort to open the locker. He knew everything that was in there, where it sat, and how it got there.
Thwung. Thwung. Thwung . . .
Kinda like a kick drum, he thought.
It was 6:37 a.m. on Thursday, more than an hour before first period. Duncan had arrived at school uncharacteristically early in order to achieve something that was, at least for him, entirely new: he wanted to avoid Carly. He was not quite over the park episode. Carlyâs locker was directly next to his. Number 533. It smelled vaguely like oranges.
Thwung. Thwung. Thwung . . .
Back in early September, Duncanâacting through intermediariesâhad negotiated a series of locker trades in order to situate himself near Carly. At the time he considered this an astonishing coup. In exchange for something like two hundred prestamped hall passes (his mom was a guidance counselor) and copies of Jessieâs sophomore year geometry quizzes (she was a math freak), Duncan managed to orchestrate a six-person locker swap, making it appear as if the entire thing had been a plot by several wrestling cheerleaders to move near Albert Trejo, state finalist in the 112-pound weight class. And who suffered because of the locker rearrangement? No one. Certainly not Albert. Not Carly, either. Duncan had hardly spoken to her.
Thwung. Thwung. Thwung . . .
Yup, the park incident was deeply troubling, he thought. A serious setback. Even though it was entirely possible that neither Carly nor her flock identified him as the waver, he decided he was going to lie very low for a while. Heâd collect everything he needed for his prelunch classes, then spend the rest of his morning in the resource center. Or in the cafeteria. Or in his car. Or in the woodshop breaking his toes in a vise. Basically, he didnât care where he was, as long as he risked no further embarrassment in front of Carly.
But first, just a bit more ritualized punishment.
Thwung. Thwung. Thwuâ
âYou know, repetitive head trauma is really bad for you. I read an article.â Duncanâs eyes flashed open. He turned and saw Jessie skipping down the
Duncan hastily gathered his things and stuffed them into the backpack, again not noticing the pigeon excrement. He didnât dare look up. He needed simply to escape this moment, heâd decided. Flustered, he flung the unzipped backpack over his shoulder. The Great Gatsby and two pens flew out, landing in a four-spouted drinking fountain. Duncan retrieved the book and left the pens. He quickly took a drink, hoping to convey just the sort of casualness that he didnât possess.
âYou need to take radical action,â repeated the voice in his head. This time, it cruelly ridiculed him.
âI need to leave in a big-ass hurry is what I need,â he answered, still mumbling. âLeave, leave, leave . . .â He was in a full panicked retreat. He thought he heard laughing at the opposite end of Watts Park as he strode away.
âDammit, dammit, dammit . . .â
He left the park heading entirely the wrong direction. Part of him wished he could just keep moving along that vector, traveling the entire 24,900-mile circumference of the Earth (give or take, as heâd learned in sophomore geography) if necessary in order to ensure that he would absolutely, positively not be identified by Carly and her herd. But instead, he merely traveled a block past the park and then reversed course, remaining on the perimeter of Watts at a reasonably safe distance. He looked back periodically to watch Carly, who had moved closer to the statue, continue to describe God-knew-what to the handmaids. She stood in the grass near the apex of the Watts slope, gesticulating with great enthusiasm. Duncan, disgusted at his own pathological ineptitude, ducked his head and walked home.
3
Thwung. Thwung. Thwung. . .
Duncan pounded his head lightly against his metal locker. Number 535, near the computer lab. His eyes were shut. He made no effort to open the locker. He knew everything that was in there, where it sat, and how it got there.
Thwung. Thwung. Thwung . . .
Kinda like a kick drum, he thought.
It was 6:37 a.m. on Thursday, more than an hour before first period. Duncan had arrived at school uncharacteristically early in order to achieve something that was, at least for him, entirely new: he wanted to avoid Carly. He was not quite over the park episode. Carlyâs locker was directly next to his. Number 533. It smelled vaguely like oranges.
Thwung. Thwung. Thwung . . .
Back in early September, Duncanâacting through intermediariesâhad negotiated a series of locker trades in order to situate himself near Carly. At the time he considered this an astonishing coup. In exchange for something like two hundred prestamped hall passes (his mom was a guidance counselor) and copies of Jessieâs sophomore year geometry quizzes (she was a math freak), Duncan managed to orchestrate a six-person locker swap, making it appear as if the entire thing had been a plot by several wrestling cheerleaders to move near Albert Trejo, state finalist in the 112-pound weight class. And who suffered because of the locker rearrangement? No one. Certainly not Albert. Not Carly, either. Duncan had hardly spoken to her.
Thwung. Thwung. Thwung . . .
Yup, the park incident was deeply troubling, he thought. A serious setback. Even though it was entirely possible that neither Carly nor her flock identified him as the waver, he decided he was going to lie very low for a while. Heâd collect everything he needed for his prelunch classes, then spend the rest of his morning in the resource center. Or in the cafeteria. Or in his car. Or in the woodshop breaking his toes in a vise. Basically, he didnât care where he was, as long as he risked no further embarrassment in front of Carly.
But first, just a bit more ritualized punishment.
Thwung. Thwung. Thwuâ
âYou know, repetitive head trauma is really bad for you. I read an article.â Duncanâs eyes flashed open. He turned and saw Jessie skipping down the
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