23
Duncan’s head was abuzz. As Carly strode away, he saw the same wide-eyed, jittery look on Kurt’s face that he’d had a week prior. Duncan took off to intercept Carly, who seemed to be on her way to corral a small gaggle of politicians.
“Carly!” he called. She faced him, smiled, and then kept walking. “Hey, Dunky!”
“What’s . . . um, up? What’s up with . . . um . . . well, I see Kurt Himes is here.”
“Oh, yeah. Isn’t it exciting! He’s performing! He’s so talented. Have you heard his mix tapes? So talented.”
“He wha—? His wha—?”
“Gotta run, Duncan. Busy, busy. Wish I could chat!” Her eyes darted away. “Oh, Senator Feltes . . .”
Duncan stood on the grass, suddenly despondent, perplexed, and empty. Stew and Syd walked up behind him.
“Ready to rock?” asked Stew. “I am stoked.”
“Um . . . ,” said Duncan, looking up. “Yeah. Sure. Stoked. Ditto. Me, too.”
Syd was quiet, he noticed. Probably frightened of her own craptastic musicianship. She should be. We all should be. With the rally about to begin, the full band assembled near the soldier-and -horse statue to listen to the pre-performance speakers.
“You okay?” Jess asked.
“Yeah, I’m cool . . . ,” began Duncan.
“Not you, asszilla,” Jess said. She looked at Syd. “Well?”
“I’m straight.”
The local politicians were chillingly dull: "... the need to strike an appropriate balance between the needs of modern science and our cherished national commitment to treating every animal with blah-blah-blah-rodents-blah . . .” Duncan kept scanning the crowd. Freddie seemed to be unusually peeved, even for him. He glared at the band—and possibly directly at Duncan—while Marissa whispered God-knew-what to him. Talia, wearing the Robert Plant T-shirt that Duncan had given her at Christmas, bounced excitedly on the grass. Her friend Emily chased a squirrel with a stick—no small irony at a pro-rodent rally, Duncan noted.
All the speakers spoke; then Carly took the stage. The band hopped in place a little, nudged one another, and steeled themselves for their performance with nods of mutual encouragement. Then Carly introduced . . .
“Kurt Hiiiiiiimes! C’mon, K-Hi!”
The band stopped hopping.
"K-Hi?” Jess said. “Oh, how awful. Sounds like fruity drink. Hi-C, Sunny D, K-Hi.”
Duncan watched, halfway stunned, as Kurt took the stage with a deejay and a single backup singer. He was animated, juking, giant chain swinging around his thin neck.
“Whassup, EF Township!” he said to a silent crowd. The beat kicked in, and Kurt began to rhyme. And it wasn’t . . . well, it wasn’t bad.
Initially, the rally-goers seemed dazed and indifferent. Then they began to sway. And then their hands went up—tentatively at first, in small clusters. Then they went up en masse. Soon, the crowd was outright grooving. The politicians grooved. Duncan’s parents kinda grooved, old-person style. Dr. Wiggins and Mrs. Kindler wobbled. Sloth seemed to shrug his shoulders in a syncopated way. Even Freddie danced a stiff dance—and he’d been giving the performer persistent gym-class beat-downs for weeks.
“So K-Hi’s pretty good, huh?” said Jessie over the din of crowd noise.
Everyone nodded.
“Still a stupid name, K-Hi.”
More nods.
“Think we have to follow him?” asked Stew.
“Guess we’ll find out soon,” said Jessie.
“Guys, we’re gonna totally rock,” said a not-quite-so-con fident-as-he-once-was Duncan.
Himes utterly controlled the crowd during his brief set, exhorting them to move, to call out rhymes, and to generally enjoy their surroundings. He was most definitely on. Kurt exited the stage to frenetic cheers. Duncan closed his eyes and took in the crowd’s noise, letting it filter into his pores and settle over him like ash. This is nice, he thought. But it wasn’t his, not yet.
Carly bounded up onto the stage, beaming, obviously pleased with Kurt. The crowd clapped and whistled as he stepped back onto the stage briefly to acknowledge them. Carly clapped, too, still smiling that brilliant smile. In the distance, Duncan saw and heard the Elm Forest homecoming parade winding its way toward the park. A few students wandered over to the street where it would soon pass. And so, too, did a phalanx of TARTS with bags of rubber rodents.
Carly leaned into her microphone. “It’s now my pleasure to introduce an incredible band from right here in Elm Forest. They’re led by a dear friend of mine—a person whose commitment to ending the heinous practices of the rodent death lobby is as strong as my own—Duncan Boone!” A soft smattering of applause followed his name, most of it emanating from his mom and her coworkers. Emily, of course, booed. “Please,” said Carly, “give a big welcome to . . . the Flaming Tarts!”
Robust applause greeted the full band.
As Duncan stepped forward, the moment seemed rife with meaning: his first footfall on an actual stage on which he would actually rock. He looped the guitar strap over his shoulder and watched his band settle in. Or rather, he watched them attempt to settle. Syd was anything but ready. She seemed about to hurl.
Laughter suddenly rose up from the crowd.
This freaked Duncan initially, until he spun around and realized that the Elm Forest homecoming court—and in particular its king, Perry Hurley—were being blitzed with rubber rodents by a group of surprisingly strong-armed female TARTS. This was the moment when Duncan was supposed to launch into the opening notes of “Fat Rat Trap,” sending the crowd into what was supposed to be a frenzy.
He looked at Syd again. She was neither looking at him nor at the rubber rat assault. She seemed petrified, staring at her fingers on her guitar, head down, Twins cap askew. Duncan visually checked to make sure she’d actually plugged her guitar into . . .
In that instant, he knew just how to deal with the Syd dilemma: disconnect her.
He’d be doing Syd a favor—she was practically weeping from evident fear. After all, which would cause Syd greater embarrassment: an equipment problem (something that could befall any musician) or completely sucking onstage (something that befell only sucky musicians)? The latter, Duncan decided. So obviously, she needed to be silenced. For the good of the band, and for the betterment of Sydney Wambaugh. With most of the band and crowd distracted by the rat attack on the homecoming parade, Duncan rushed over to her amp, holding the mike in his left hand. He disconnected her guitar with a sharp tug.
And that was the precise moment when the rally turned ugly.
Something Duncan had apparently done—maybe it involved the amp or a mike, he couldn’t say—caused the sound equipment to shriek like a bazillion irritated gulls.
WEEEEEE- OHHHAAAAI - EEEEE- WAAAYYYY-EEEEEE . . .
It was a piercing sound, and it wouldn’t stop. Rally-goers covered their ears. The rat-throwers hit the ground, perhaps fearing that the homecoming court had struck back at them with a devastating weapon. Jessie, Stew, and Syd swiveled around to see Duncan standing over a speaker, quite obviously flustered. Carly huddled with Kurt. No, not Kurt! thought Duncan, scanning the crowd in a panic. Carly was yelling something at the stage, but Duncan couldn’t possibly hear over the noise he’d created. He plugged Syd’s guitar back in, which did absolutely nothing to stop the shrill attack.
... ZEEEEEE-ZPFEEEE-WAAAYYYY-EEEEEE . . .
“What the hell are you doing?!” bellowed Jessie.
“I messed with Syd’s guitar!” he screamed back. “I unplugged it!”
“Why?!” the band yelled in unison.
Carly had rushed to the stage and was soon in Duncan’s face. “Make it stop! People are leaving!” She looked out across the crowd. “No, they’re fleeing!”
“I don’t know how!” yelled Duncan. “I’m not sure what I did!”
... WEEEEEZOW-WAAAYYYY-EEEEEE-RRR-WEEEEE . . .
He began pulling all sorts of cords from all sorts of devices, yet nothing quieted the shriek. Ten seconds passed. Then thirty. Then forty-five. Eventually—thankfully—someone cut the power to the stage.
... ZEEEEAAAY-RRrrehp. Pop.
The noise faded, but the band kept yelling.
“Dammit, Duncan!” yelled Jessie.
“What were you thinking, dude?” said Stew. “You tried to unplug Syd’s guitar? Really?”
“She looked horrified,” he yelled. “And you’re the one who’s been complaining about her playing! I was trying to cut her off before anything bad happened!”
“You mean like we make a horrible brain-melting noise, and everyone leaves the rally?”
They looked out at the crowd, much of which had begun to drift away. Only the familiar faces surrounded the stage.
“You tried to cut me off?!” yelled Syd.
Duncan turned to face her. “I was . . . well, you looked so . . . I just wanted help you, real—”
She leapt off the stage and stalked off. Jessie followed. Sloth trailed them both, but not before shooting Duncan a rather menacing glare.
You’re supposed to be nonviolent, he thought.
“I can’t believe you,” said Stew. “I mean, jeez. The girl’s not exactly Clapton at the Royal Albert Hall, but damn. You don’t just cut loose a member of the band before a set.” He shook his head. “You just don’t do it.”
Stew stepped off the stage, leaving Duncan alone in his robe and rat tail. Kurt looked up at him. So did his family, his teachers, and his bully.
Then Freddie hopped the small metal fence that separated stage from crowd. He looked mad. Duncan reflexively jumped from the stage, landing in the grass, a rolling ball of robe and tail. Carly and three of the handmaids raced past him, cursing as they went.
“How could you do this to me, Duncan!” snapped Carly. She raised her head and eyed the Fox crew, which had returned to their van. “Wait!” she called. The girls unfurled a giant GIVE MICE A CHANCE banner and raced off. Duncan jumped up to follow them.
He took five strides before realizing that he’d lost his robe.
Emily was cackling mightily, her tiny foot on the drawstring.
He stepped toward her slowly, naked except for his Eric Cartman boxers. “You . . . little . . . puke-licking . . .”
Freddie clapped a hand on Duncan’s shoulder.
“Oh, man,” Duncan said. “This day is just not going well at all.”
“Sweet show,” said Freddie. “Really, Duncan. That was incredible.” He paused to take in the chaos that had spread across Watts Park. “Let’s see. Your band hates you. My sister hates you. Hundreds of animal-testing protestors have inner ear damage because of you. And many of us will also have to go home and throw up because we’ve seen you half-naked.”
Duncan squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the thrashing that he couldn’t possibly avoid.
“But that’s not what I’m upset about, Duncan,” said Freddie. “What I’m upset about—or rather who I’m upset about—is Marissa.” He paused. “I know that you hired me to be your bully, dweeb, but I thought that through all this we had developed a bond. A friendship? Hmm. It’s possible. But at least a bond. And I know I’m no Prince Harry, but damn. This is what she says to me, first thing: ‘I’m only doing this as a favor to Duncan.’ She never took off her friggin’ mask. How am I supposed to feel, Duncan?” He bowed his head. “Man, if you were someone else, I’d be halfway through the Freddie Special, dork—and I’d be enjoying myself. But you’re not even worth my trouble.”
“I am worth the trouble!” said Duncan. Then he paused. “Wait, no. Redo. Never a good idea to solve your problems with violence. But I just . . . well, don’t be mad, Freddie. I screwed up. Not in a little way, but in a massive way. No, in a series of massive ways. I really need—”
“Hey, I’m not mad, Duncan.” Freddie shook his head. “I’m totally disappointed.” He walked away.
“Well,” said Duncan’s mom, handing her son his robe, “I think Frederick really showed a lot of maturity right there. My son, on the other hand—”
“Looks like a stick figure when he’s naked!” snapped Emily. She cackled again.
Duncan draped the robe around his shoulders and wordlessly packed up the Flaming Tarts’ abandoned gear. The crowd was now hopefully thin, the band had scattered, his friends had abandoned him. (Well, after he threw them all under the bus, metaphorically, they abandoned him.) Duncan had never felt so ill, so hollow. He stood—the sunlight across his face, the breeze catching his hair—and watched a livid Carly, not naked, walk toward the stage dragging the banner behind her like a fallen comrade. Her eyes were fixed on Duncan.
He tried to seem busy elsewhere, turning again to pack more gear. He heard Carly’s sandals slap against the stage. Seconds later, he felt a surprising sting at his back.
THWAP!
Carly had whacked him with her long fuzzy rat tail. He felt sure he deserved it.
THWAP!
He raised his hands halfheartedly to not quite protect himself.
THWAP!
She used to protect me from just this sort of thing, he thought.
“How could you, Duncan?!” Carly breathlessly demanded.
“I . . . I still don’t really know . . . hey, what’s up with you and Kurt?”
THWAP!
“What?! There is nothing up with me and Kurt.”
“You kissed him! I totally saw it! Like you kissed me.”
“It was for luck, Duncan. Of which you apparently have none. And out of gratitude, kindness . . . that sort of thing.”
“Oh,” said Duncan, looking away. “’Cuz I thought you were, like, kind of into him now, instead of me.”
THWAP!
“Instead of you? I thought we were friends, Duncan. I thought you cared about the things I care about!”
“I thought you cared about me,” he offered sheepishly.
THWA—
Duncan managed to catch the tail before it connected again. “Okay, it’s kind of hurting now.”
“You’re suddenly defending yourself?” Carly said.
Ouch, thought Duncan.
Carly snatched the rat tail back.
“I never actually needed defending,” he said, suddenly in the confessional mood of the clinically despondent. “Just so you know, Freddie only attacked me so you’d notice me. He’s actually a pretty okay guy. All my bullies, it turns out, are girls. You, Mom, the twerp who lives next door. Freddie’s cool. If it makes you feel any better, he’s pissed at me fo—”
THWAP!
“So I’d notice you?!” Carly was mortified. She let the tail dangle at her side like nunchuks. “That was all a . . . a . . . a big put-on? I was being manipulated?!”
“Well, that’s a strong word for it, ‘manipu—’”
THWAP! THWAP! THWAP!
From a corner of the stage, they heard cameras snapping. Photographers from both the Owl’s Nest and the Elm Forest Leader were capturing the odd scene of Carly Garfield beating Duncan with a giant detached tail.
“Great stuff, guys,” said one of them. “Keep it up.”
Carly paid no attention to them.
THWAP!
“You know you’ve ruined this event, right?!” she yelled. “You know that, yes? There is no salvaging this, Duncan. The TV van is gone. The legislators are gone. The people are gone. You scared them away.”
“It was a freak occurrence, Carly. I swear I dunno what the deal is with the sound equip—”
“I’m disappointed in you, Duncan Boone.”
He sighed. “Yeah, that’s kind of a recurring theme today.”