Beauty and the Bully Read Online Free Page B

stammered, “Oh, crudballs.”
    Then the voice demanded to know what the effing F she was doing at school.
    Normally, prior to six forty-five, the halls offered nothing but a few strays: school-district maintenance employees, chronic detention-servers like Jess, and tired jocks getting ready to practice God-knew-what. Carly Garfield arrived at seven twenty-five like clockwork—no, like cesium atomic clockwork. She did not arrive at . . .
    â€œOh, crudballs !” repeated the voice, this time in desperation.
    Carly was no more than sixty feet away and closing fast. She was sipping an organic cola and chattering with what appeared to be the same handmaids from the park. Duncan spun around to face his locker, then began to twist its dial with unnecessary haste. He tried to focus on the details of the Carly/handmaid dialogue.
    Carly: “. . . and that’s a big if, but if we get that kind of support from the national organization—which is completely loaded right now because Bill Gates or Oprah or Bono or some bazillionaire just gave them a bazillion dollars—then this could be completely . . .”
    Handmaid Number 1: “So, like, Bono might be there? In Elm Forest? That’d be sooo cool.”
    Carly: “No, Marissa, I’m not saying he’ll be there. I’m saying that’s how rich these guys are. They’re Bono-rich. Oprah-rich.”
    Handmaid Number 2: “Ohmygod, if Oprah’s there, my mom will wet herself. She’s a total Oprah junkie. An Oprahzoid. An Oprahphile. An O—”
    Carly: “No, Oprah is not going to . . .”
    Duncan tugged at his lock, which didn’t open. He’d been too frantic and too zeroed-in on Carly’s conversation to precisely turn the dial. Again, almost involuntarily, he banged his head. Hard.
    Thwung!
    At this, the girls stopped talking.
    A deeply uncomfortable quiet replaced their discussion. Seconds passed. The idea had been not to attract attention, and not to be noticed by Carly and her entourage. Duncan couldn’t look anywhere but at his lock. He felt sweat begin to bead across his forehead. He tapped his foot nervously. Gaining access to his locker seemed—ludicrously and incorrectly—like the singular way to escape the tension of moment. He jerked open the lock.
    But the awful silence persisted.
    Duncan hurriedly removed the books and notes required for his morning classes, placed them on the floor, and, using both hands, crammed his overstuffed backpack into the narrow locker. He was certain that Carly and her coterie of underlings were watching, giggling quietly. He bent down to collect his books. A drip of sweat splatted on the floor. He stood up, shut the locker with a nudge, then turned to escape down the hallway. But Carly stood in his path with a half-perplexed look on her face.
    â€œOh, hey,” said Duncan, flustered yet unable to endure any more unnerving quiet.
    She nodded in an almost undetectable way.
    â€œHow’s, um . . . yeah . . . how’re you?” Duncan stammered.
    â€œGreat,” she said softly, tilting her head and smiling.
    The handmaids looked at Duncan with blank eyes. Carly simply stood there, a polite grin on her face. Duncan continued sweating.
    â€œSo, um . . . ready for that exam in Mr. Arnold’s class?” he asked. “I don’t know if I ca—”
    â€œOh, I’m ready,” she said, still smiling.
    â€œRight. Of course.” He returned the smile. “I mean, you’re usually ready for tests and whatnot.”
    Duncan stared at Carly’s T-shirt. It featured a cartoon of a terrified gerbil-like creature strapped to a lab table, getting jolted by fat bolts of electricity. The shirt read T.A.R.T.S. across the top and, below the image, "SHOCKED?”
    Upon realizing that he’d been eyeing Carly’s chest for several seconds, Duncan enthusiastically and awkwardly proclaimed, “Cool shirt! The Tarts. Very