Franice Prose Bullyville (pdf)

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we both got quiet as I tried to figure out why I d
said that. Because, in a way, it was true. And in
another way, it wasn t. It felt good to finally talk
about Dad with Mom. But I still missed my father,
the pain hadn t dulled at all, and I knew that the
sharp pain of missing Nola was only just begin-
ning.
249
CHAPT ER FOURT EEN
yro was absent from school for a week. Word
Tgot around that his sister had died. Everyone
said how tragic it was, and it made me feel even
worse that there was no one I trusted enough to
tell about Nola s having been my friend. I guess
I should have been used to it, after all the prac-
tice I d had, not being able to talk to anyone
about my dad.
I realized that losing Nola wasn t the same for
me as it must have been for Tyro. She was his sis-
ter, and I d only known her for a few months. But
250
somehow that didn t make me any less sad.
I wondered if, when Tyro returned to school,
we d be able to talk about Nola. He would know
that I d known her better than anyone else at
school, except him, and that I understood, better
than anyone, what he d lost. We would talk about
how awesome she d been. And maybe it would
comfort us both, just a little.
I had the picture the whole scene, and how
it was going to play out fixed so firmly in my
mind that when I walked into school the next
Monday morning, and Tyro was the first person I
saw, I had trouble putting the real person together
with the fantasy I d been having. He was standing
all alone in the center of the main hall. None of
his friends were around. I had the feeling that he d
been looking for me, waiting for me. And it made
sense, because I d been hoping to see him, too.
I stood directly in front of him. Neither of us
spoke or moved. Until at last I said, I m really
sorry about Nola.
He looked at me, but he seemed to be seeing
251
something or someone else. Then his face
changed and took on an expression I d never seen
on anyone s face before. Part furious, part sad, part
distant, part . . . I didn t know what it was.
And then he hauled off and punched me, with
all his might, in the stomach.
In the instant before the pain began, it crossed
my mind that the story wasn t supposed to end this
way. Our shared sorrow and grief were supposed
to make us friends, to bring us closer together, to
make us more compassionate, just as Dr. Brat-
wurst was always saying. That s how it would have
ended in a book, all neat and tidy, with everyone
learning and changing and growing and becom-
ing better people because of what they d suffered.
But that wasn t how it was turning out.
Because this was real life, and messy. The story
had its own direction, its own end, and I felt like
an actor in someone else s play, letting the direc-
tor guide me.
I made a fist and pulled my arm back as far
as it would go.
252
I hit Tyro as hard as I could.
In a moment we were all over each other,
swinging and pushing and grabbing for each
other s throats. I thought we were going to kill
each other. I knew that was what we both wanted.
He kept hitting me, harder and harder, but the
strangest thing was, it still didn t hurt, because I
was so focused on smashing him.
Each time I hit him, it was like there was
something behind it, aiming my fist, a force that
was making me pound him harder and land my
punches where they might do the most damage.
I hit him once for Nola, and for how unfair it was
that she d died. One punch for every time he d
made me miserable since I came to Bullywell,
one for the ketchup, one each for the names, the
kicks, the locker, the text message supposedly
from my dad. And then I was hitting him for my
dad. One punch for Dad leaving us for Caroline,
two more for the towers and the planes flying
into them, more punches for my dad getting
killed when so many others were saved, another
253
for my mom s close call.
All the time I was hitting him I didn t think
about how, after all this time, I was finally stand-
ing up for myself, fighting back against the bully.
Against all the bullies, everywhere. Because
Bullyville was everywhere, it wasn t just this
school. Everybody was being bullied by someone
or something by mean kids or terrorists, by the
total unfairness of bad luck and sadness and
death. Me, Mom and Dad, Nola, poor old Bern,
even Tyro we were all being pushed around by
something we couldn t help and couldn t control.
As I slammed my fist into Tyro, I didn t think
about whether this was the right or the wrong way
to deal with it, or if I was right or wrong. I didn t
think how awful it was to hit a guy whose little sis-
ter had just died. I didn t think that he d hit me
first, that he d slugged a kid whose dad had been
killed on 9/11. All I thought about was punching
him, and it wasn t even really like thinking. It was
just something my body was doing, independent
of my brain and disconnected from the part of
254
myself that I thought of as me.
Even as I was slugging away at Tyro, memories
were coming back to me, all sorts of things I d for-
gotten, that I hadn t let myself remember. Things
I hadn t wanted to remember. But now it all
rushed in, all the times my dad and I had had fun,
the circus and the zoo, the sweltering day he d res-
cued me and taken me home, defying the Little
League coach who d ordered our team to run
twenty laps as punishment for losing a game. I
heard him cheering for me at those games, and I
heard him laugh when my stupid cousin painted
my fingernails at Gran s Thanksgiving. I kept
hearing him laugh, along with Mom, at all their
little private jokes. They were always laughing.
And when I d ask what they were laughing at, they
would always explain, so I never felt left out.
I hit Tyro again for how my dad died without
my getting a chance to talk to him and ask him
what he thought he was doing when he moved out.
Or whether he really loved me, like he said on the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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