Bully-Be-Gone (6 page)

W
inifred T. Langley Middle School, oddly enough, was named after the Bendable Francine Tippit.

In the early nineteen hundreds, Francine was the star of a traveling vaudeville show that went from city to city providing audiences with a variety of acts from comedy skits to song-and-dance routines. Francine's specialty in the lineup of acts was contortion. She could scrunch herself up so small she could fit into a paper grocery bag without tearing it. She could also sit on her own head while doing a handstand and play a toy piano with her toes.

Despite her fame and flexibility, Francine was a nervous
lady, prone to chewing her fingernails. Since she was a contortionist, she could also easily chew her toenails. Candid photographs from the period often showed her at social gatherings or backstage before a performance at Lulu Davinsky's Diamond Theater, arched backward, full circle, with her shoe off and her foot in her mouth.

One night, she was about to go onstage when she heard there was a big-time movie producer in the audience, scouting for his next star. Francine broke into a sweat. Having a movie producer in the audience meant she could either be discovered and become famous, or not and be stuck playing the vaudeville circuit for the rest of her days. Both possibilities petrified her. She slipped off her lace-up boots, curled herself back, grabbed her ankles, and began chewing the toenails of both feet. She did it for so long she passed out. Her misfortune didn't end there. Because she blacked out with her mouth clamped firmly on both feet, she rolled onstage like a hoop or wheel, then promptly rolled into the orchestra pit, hitting her head on a tuba.

When she awoke in Masonville Memorial Hospital, she'd forgotten who she was—she had amnesia.

A friend of Francine's, a practical joker and comedian named Hobart the Comic, was visiting when she woke up. He'd brought her more flowers than she'd ever seen, which wasn't much of a feat considering she couldn't remember ever seeing flowers before. Somehow, Hobart managed to convince her that her name was Winifred T. Langley and that she was among the most scholarly minds of her
generation, able to speak seven languages and cook gourmet meals—neither of which she could do.

Winifred believed this jolly man with the armload of roses so totally that she went on to university, where she earned several foreign language degrees as well as a seat on the board of directors of Crusty Culinary College, a school for cooks of the highest order.

No one could have foretold her change in character. As a linguist, historian, and chef, she was calmer and happier than she'd ever been as a contortionist. Not wanting to break her spell of contentment, friends and strangers alike hid the photographs of her performing career and took to calling her Winifred to her face and behind her back. In time, most forgot her past as a double-jointed entertainer. The city erected a school and named it in her honor. She married Hobart the Comic, who'd also led her to believe they were engaged, and her nails—both finger and toe—grew back to admirable, polishable lengths.

By way of this series of freakish events, she became Masonville's first and only double-jointed professor and chef with a namesake educational institution.

However, life, as it is sometimes apt to, delivered Winifred another unexpected turn.

Among Winifred's many successes was Bistro Langley, a French restaurant she'd opened downtown. One night, she was in the kitchen preparing her signature creation, duck
à l'orange brûlée
, crisping its sugary surface with a blow-torch. Her hands were greasy with olive oil and the
blow-torch slipped from her grip, setting a cutting board on fire as it fell to the floor behind her. Automatically, she bent over backward to pick it up.

This was the first time Winifred had bent over backward in many years. Perhaps the familiarity of the pose or the blood rushing to her head made it all come back to her in an upside-down flash: her real name, her previous life as a performer, the vaudeville stage, her nail-biting habit. Flames sizzled across the kitchen counters, licking up the trails of butter, lard, and oil. Soon, the walls were ablaze in an orange heat, which spread to the main dining area. She ran screaming out of the burning restaurant and never returned.

The next day the headline in the
Masonville Gazette
read,
BISTRO LANGLEY TOAST, PROPRIETOR MISSING.
A search party was formed. They found Francine at sunset, by Fisherperson's Wharf, lying on the shore chewing her toenails.

Just as she had forgotten her performing career when she collided with the tuba, she had now forgotten the foreign languages she'd learned, the historical facts, and her hundreds of original recipes. She whittled her finger and toenails back down to pathetic nubs. She remained married to Hobart the Comic, but theirs was a distant relationship; she couldn't bring herself to trust him. And, by then, the city wasn't about to change the name of Winifred T. Langley Middle School to the Bendable Francine Tippit Middle School.

The city did make one compromise. It constructed an enormous bronze statue of Francine in the school's front fountain. At the base of the statue was a tuba, from which water spouted. The statue itself depicted her reading a book in a classic contortionist's pose, her forearms and chest on the floor with her body arched so that she was sitting on her own head, her feet planted firmly in front of her.

Nowadays, the fountain had lost most of its meaning, except to those who were up on Masonville history. For the crankier teachers and administrative staff, it served as a cautionary sculpture to remind students to study hard or they might end up sitting in unfavorable places. For the custodians, it was a distorted, creepy thing to clean. For the cheerleaders, it was a pose they could only hope to strike.

For Millicent, who was up on Masonville history, the fountain inspired her to believe anything was possible.

M
illicent sat on the edge of the fountain before school, waiting for Tonisha. She spritzed a little more of the new Bully-Be-Gone perfume on her neck, wrists, and ankles. She'd already put some on earlier that morning, but on Wednesdays she had one class with Fletch and two with Pollywog Jones and Nina “the Knuckle” Kwaikowski. She'd need maximum protection.

School had been in session for two days and drastic measures were called for. As far as Millicent knew, none of the Wunderkinder had tried Bully-Be-Gone. If she couldn't get them to try it, she wouldn't make any sales and she'd
have to discontinue the product. She gave herself an extra squirt behind her ears. She would prove to them that Bully-Be-Gone worked.

She stood, peering into the distance for Tonisha.

“Millicent,” hissed two voices in unison.

Millicent jumped. “Pollock? Juanita?” she asked, catching her breath. “You startled me. I didn't hear you coming.” She looked around. “Where are you?” she asked.

“Over here,” whispered Pollock.

Millicent circled the fountain. They weren't to be found.

“Pssst. Over here,” whispered Juanita.

They couldn't be—she looked in the fountain. Nope, they weren't there.

“Nice shoes,” said Pollock.

She looked down. Near her feet was a slatted metal drainage cover. Pollock and Juanita huddled in the drain, peering at her from behind the cover.

“What are you doing in there?” she asked, checking over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

“What does it look like?” asked Juanita. “Hiding, you moron.”

“From?” asked Millicent.

“Pollywog and Nina,” said Pollock, exasperated, as if Millicent should have guessed. “Is the coast clear?”

She surveyed their surroundings. In the distance, at the side of the main building, Pollywog and Nina were locking their bikes to the bike rack. There were those new bikes again, looking as if they'd still have price tags on them.
Millicent would have to inspect them for Mega-Stupenda Mart stickers, but first there was the matter of her friends in the sewer. Millicent waited until Nina and Pollywog entered school before removing the drainage cover. Why would her friends be hiding from Pollywog and Nina? Hadn't they applied Bully-Be-Gone? Wasn't it effective? She bit her lip, expecting the worst.

First, a smallish portfolio came through the hole, then a violin case in a backpack. Next, Pollock and Juanita crawled out of the drain, festooned with leaves and bits of moldy, rotted stuff. They brushed themselves off.

“We have a problem with your invention,” said Pollock, glaring at Millicent and swiping the last piece of crud from his paint-splattered shirt.

“Yeah,” added Juanita, picking a crusty something or other out of her hair. “It's not doing its job.”

“I don't understand,” said Millicent.

“Pollywog has been following Juanita everywhere,” said Pollock, “and I can't shake Nina. I go to my locker, she's there; I walk home, she's in my shadow.”

“Have they threatened you guys? Harmed you? Tripped you, hit you, spit at you?” asked Millicent, trying to disguise the worry in her voice.

“No,” answered Juanita.

“Nope,” said Pollock.

“Then what's wrong?” Millicent asked.

“They're following us—that's what's wrong,” said Juanita.

Millicent gave her a questioning stare.

“Yesterday,” Juanita continued, “Pollywog asked Mr. Cleff if he could join the orchestra.”

“So?” asked Millicent. “Maybe he's discovered a hidden talent for music.”

“He can't even play the triangle,” Juanita shot back. “Sat there throughout an entire concerto, staring at me, dinging in all the wrong places.”

“And last night,” said Pollock, “Nina called my house—left a message. She just wanted to chat. About
van Gogh.
Don't you think that's slightly off?” His arms were hinged shut across his chest, his head cocked to one side.

Millicent shrugged. “Sounds like a nice gesture,” she said.

But she wasn't fooling herself. She did think it sounded slightly off—bizarre, in fact. A bully joining the orchestra? A bully phoning a Wunderkind just to chat about an artist? Strange. Still, she'd need more evidence to show if her invention was the cause of this unusual set of circumstances. Maybe there was another reason.

“Perhaps they're being pleasant for a change,” suggested Millicent.

“Pleasant?” asked Pollock.

“Pleasant,” said Juanita, “would be if they left us alone. Wasn't that the point of Bully-Be-Gone? To make them leave us alone?”

Millicent nodded.

“The back-to-school assembly is in five minutes,
Millicent,” Pollock said, staring her down. “Ring any bells?”

Millicent thought about it. “Um, no,” she said.

“Let me remind you,” Pollock said. “As part of the student assembly and as a celebration of the best of Winifred T. Langley, Mr. Pennystacker asked me to exhibit my artwork.”

“Uh-huh?” asked Millicent.

“He slated Juanita for a violin solo,” said Pollock.

“Uh-huh?” asked Millicent, breaking into a sweat.

“Which means the whole school will be watching,” said Pollock.

“Uh-huh?” asked Millicent, twisting the hem of her sweater.

“It had all better go smoothly,” Pollock warned.

“There is something wrong here, Millicent,” said Juanita, shaking her finger.

“And we strongly suggest—Oh, my gosh. There they are,” whispered Pollock. “Run, Juanita.”

Millicent turned to see Pollywog and Nina standing in the main entrance, grinning and waving. Pollock and Juanita bolted. Pollock's portfolio flapped at his side like a broken wing. Juanita's violin case bounced in her backpack. They headed toward the rear of the school with Pollywog and Nina chasing them.

Millicent watched, completely befuddled. None of it made any sense. Bully-Be-Gone was supposed to keep bullies at a distance. It was supposed to make bullies kinder and gentler by jogging their scent memories. It was not supposed to…draw them to you.

In seconds, Millicent caught sight of Tonisha's headwrap about a block away, a glowing yellow-and-brown-spotted tower of fabric, like a headless giraffe lumbering down the street. Next to it, she saw Fletch Farnsworth's unmistakable blond hair. She gasped. What was Tonisha doing walking with Fletch? Was Tonisha in danger? As they rounded the corner of the school's hedge, she saw that Fletch was riding his glistening green bicycle. He wobbled in order to keep up with Tonisha's slower walking pace. Was he bullying her? Millicent squinted. It didn't look like he was being mean. In fact, the two of them were laughing. This was beyond strange; it was unnatural. A bully and a Wunderkind, walking to school together? Unheard of. She clutched her books to her chest.

It was becoming clear to her—though she tried to shake off the realization as one might a mosquito—Bully-Be-Gone was attracting bullies.

They came closer. Fletch said something to Tonisha, waved good-bye, and rode away to the bike racks. Tonisha waved, too, which wasn't nearly as disturbing as the kooky look on her face. Millicent ran to her.

“What was that all about?” she asked, panting.

“Are you aware Fletch writes music?” Tonisha asked.

Millicent frowned. “Huh?”

“Yeah, he writes music.”

“And—?”

“And he serenaded me with a song he wrote especially for me.”

“Oh, dear.”

“He had trouble rhyming my name. The best he could do was, ‘You smell like a freesia, my lovely Tonisha,'” said Tonisha. “Isn't that the nicest attempt at a ditty you've ever heard?”

“But he hates you,” Millicent said. “He hates all of us Wunderkinder.”

“Millicent, dear,” Tonisha said, “that was not a hate song. Quite the contrary.”

“Tonisha—”

“His eyes are hazel. And on his cheek he has an adorable freckle that's the shape of Jamaica.”