Bullyville by Francine Prose Read Free Book Online Page A

their scratchy blazers and uncool striped ties as if that was the way that everyone should want to dress. Boys whose hair shone so brightly it was as if they were wearing mirrors on top of their heads, boys whose confident, loping walks made me understand what it meant when some cheesybook said “Blah-blah strode into the room.” These guys didn’t walk, they strode, like a small private army of teenage gods, and I could tell from the way they treated Tyro that he was their God among gods. Unfortunately, his divinity wasn’t exactly wearing off on me, his so-called Little Brother. The other students stared at me the way people look at a stray bug that’s turned up someplace where it’s especially unexpected or disgusting, a mosquito on an airplane, a cockroach crawling up the wall over your table in a restaurant.
    Suddenly I understood what seemed so strange about all this. It wasn’t only that Tyro acted as if he didn’t recognize me even though you’d think the hours we’d spent on that embarrassing school tour might have been what Dr. Bratton would call a “bonding experience.” The weird thing was, I’d gotten used to everyone recognizing me, to being our town’s version of a local celebrity. Hel- lo ! I was the Miracle Boy! I was the kid who’d saved his mother from dying on 9/11.
    Hadn’t any of these guys heard of that? Didn’t they read the papers? It crossed my mind that maybe they knew perfectly well who I was, and that they were just pretending not to. Why? So that I would feel like even more of an outsider than I already did.
    Every so often, someone would ask Tyro, “Who’s the new dude?”
    And he would say, “Fart Strangely. I mean Bart Rangely. Fart, this is Buff. This is Pork. This is Dog. This is Ex. Say hi to Fart, guys.”
    I’d only been at Bullywell for less than five minutes and already I was learning to laugh hysterically at unfunny jokes—jokes on me!
    â€œHi, Fart,” the kids all said. And each time I would think: Thanks, Big Brother. All this time, Tyro kept walking a few steps ahead of me, as if he really were an older sibling annoyed that he had to bring his kid brother along on some fun outing with his friends. By now I was practically skipping to keep up, so that when at last Tyro stopped short outside a classroom door, I had to put on thebrakes fast—but I didn’t do it fast enough. I plowed right into him.
    â€œWatch it, okay?” he said. “No touching, Fag Face. This is your homeroom, Fart-o. Have fun. Look for me in the lunchroom if you can’t find anyone else who can stand to sit with you. Little Bro.” And he gave me a friendly push in the direction of the doorway, a push that felt ever so slightly like a nasty shove.
    I found myself in a room full of kids who looked like younger, shrunk-down versions of the friends to whom Tyro had so charmingly introduced me. None of these eighth graders had pimples or braces or oily hair or any of the physical defects I’d gotten to know and love among my public school friends. It was as if they’d been born with perfect skin and hair and teeth, and with the promise that, from here on in, things were only going to get better. A funny murmur—not a sound so much as a feeling , as if everyone had felt a chill and shivered at once—traveled around the room. I could tell these kids were too young to be verygood at pretending not to know who I was. Miracle Boy. The 9/11 semi-orphan. Tragedy Kid. Their new classmate.
    I was having such a hard time processing the kids that I didn’t even notice the teacher until she cleared her throat and said, “Why, hello, Bart. I’m Mrs. Day.”
    Later, I would learn that everyone called her Mrs. Die, because she looked as if she were just about to. She was positively ancient, though later I began to think that maybe she wasn’t as old as she looked, that teaching at