Bullyville by Francine Prose Read Free Book Online Page B

Bullywell was one of those experiences, like seeing a ghost or having a loved one die, that turns your hair white overnight. Mrs. Day was so pale she was nearly translucent, as if the light of another world were already shining through her. For a long moment she zoned out, and a film covered her eyes, as if she were gazing into that other world. Then she awoke out of her trance, or whatever it was. Her eyes filled with globby tears and I knew that she recognized me, she knew exactly who I was.
    â€œClass,” she said. “I want you to meet a new student. A very special new student.”
    In a way, it was worse than Tyro introducing me as Fart Strangely. Because the last thing I wanted was to feel more special than I already did.
    â€œSay hello to Bart, class,” said Mrs. Day.
    â€œHello, Bart,” they said in an obedient chorus that was like one big group sneer.
    â€œBart, why don’t you take a seat next to Seth?” said Mrs. Day. “Seth, why don’t you hold up your hand so Bart will know who you are?”
    A set of fingers rose just barely above the heads of the others, and I walked toward the hand to find myself standing over a kid I recognized from the day-student bus. Great! Was this pure coincidence, or had dotty old Mrs. Day sat me next to a fellow loser on purpose?
    Actually, Seth did have braces and pimples. I guess the reason I hadn’t noticed him before was that he slumped so low in his seat that his chin was practically resting on the desk.
    â€œHi,” he said.
    â€œHi,” I said. End of conversation.
    It turned out that Mrs. Day was also the English teacher. So we stayed where we were and had English right after homeroom, which at least spared me the nightmare of going back into the hall and rejoining the stream of perfect human specimens masquerading as high school students. To mark the division between homeroom and English class, Mrs. Day said, “All right, gentleman, everybody get up and stretch your legs. Everybody touch your toes and reach up toward the ceiling.” No one was going to do that ! In fact, no one moved, except for a few jocky guys who rolled their shoulders and raised their arms above their heads and cracked their knuckles so loud that the popping sounds seemed to echo off the walls.
    â€œOh, dear”—Mrs. Day put her hands over her ears—“I do so hate it when you gentlemen do that.” Underneath the knuckle popping, Seth—my homeboy, my new fellow-day-student buddy—hissed, “Hey, I saw you walking around with TyroBergen. You know him?”
    â€œHe’s supposed to be my Big Brother,” I said. “You know, to help me get used to the school.”
    â€œOh, man,” said Seth. “I pity you, dude. He is the baddest of the bad. I mean, he’s the meanest of the mean. I’d hate to be your life insurance provider.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked, stupidly, though I could have figured it out.
    Before Seth could answer, if he was going to answer, Mrs. Day said, “All right, gentlemen, turn to page thirty-five of The Great Gatsby . Let’s read aloud, starting from the top of the page.”
    Everyone groaned and opened their books, except me. Naturally, I didn’t have a book. No one had told me to get one. I glanced over at Seth’s book, thinking I could look on with him, but he wrapped his elbow around the page, as if he were taking a test and I was trying to copy. I looked up, and Mrs. Day met my eye and grasped my predicament.
    â€œOn second thought,” she said, “let’s take alittle break from poor sad Mr. Gatsby.”
    Everybody applauded. I hoped they were thanking me for saving them from the boring book! But everyone just moaned again when Mrs. Day said, “Let’s all do a little writing exercise. Let’s write about…hmm. Let’s write a little essay about what we did this summer.”
    â€œAre you kidding?”