Beauty and the Bully by Andy Behrens

lesson.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThat you can’t judge a book by its cover.” Jessie sighed contentedly.
    â€œOr a sloth by its fur,” said Stew. “Or something.”
    â€œI already learned that one,” said Duncan. “In kindergarten. Everyone learned it in kindergarten.” Duncan’s head fell into his hands.
    â€œSo you didn’t prejudge Sloth as a thug just because he was huge, allegedly crazy, and his name was Sloth ?” asked Jessie.
    â€œOf course I did. But I knew I shouldn’t prejudge him. Fear just took over. So I really didn’t learn anything—at best, a lesson that I didn’t need was reinforced.” Duncan lifted his head and looked toward Jessie. “The only thing I really learned today is this: I’m screwed. Utterly screwed.”
    â€œJust chill. First of all, Sloth was only our first attempt to find you a thug. Don’t give up hope—there are plenty of nasty dudes out there just waiting for us to solicit them. And secondly, your face still looks like total crap, so Carly isn’t going to just forget about this bullying stuff by Monday morning.”
    â€œThe puffiness is already going away,” said Duncan. He poked at his purplish eyelids and cheek. “See, this would have really hurt yesterday. I’m getting better. Which sucks.”
    Jess pulled the car into Duncan’s driveway.
    â€œAnd it’s only Saturday afternoon,” he added. “So I’ll be healing for another forty hours or so before Carly sees me.”
    â€œWell, whatever you do, dude, don’t ice yourself. There’s no way that eye’s gonna look human again by Monday morning.”
    â€œWould you still walk a guy to class if he had this eye?”
    â€œDuncan, I can’t imagine what condition a guy would have to be in for Jessie Panger to walk him to class and carry his stuff. He’d probably have to be blind, armless, not unattractive, and a pretty big fan of eighties hardcore. A black eye wouldn’t really inspire me. I can’t relate to Carly, dude.”
    â€œRight. Of course. I was a fool to ask.”
    â€œPractice tonight, then reconvene no-life club?” asked Stew.
    â€œI have a vicious God of War addiction to feed,” said Jess.
    â€œSure thing,” said Duncan. He sighed.
    Jessie patted his back (hard, like a golfer pats another golfer). “Buck up, buddy,” she said. “Or use this period of personal misery to craft achingly sweet, emotive rock anthems. Whatever.”
    Duncan moped out of the car and Jess squealed off. He retreated to his room to catch up on homework. After reading not quite a full page of Gatsby, he realized he’d absorbed nothing. Duncan attempted to reread the passage, but instead fell asleep. The book fell to the floor. Hours passed.
    He awoke to a sharp rap at his bedroom door, then his mom’s voice: “Duncan, are you in there? Hon?”
    â€œMmmblugh,” he managed.
    â€œYour father and I are taking Talia and Emily out for dinner, ” she said through the door. “We’re either doing Chuck E. Cheese or Olive Garden. Do either of those sound good?”
    Duncan clutched his pillow. “Is death an option?” he said.
    â€œIt’s a metaphysical certainty, honey,” replied his mom. “But not for dinner. Tonight we decide between pizza and pasta. Are you coming with?”
    â€œAnd be trapped with that slug-eater Emily? No chance, Mom.”
    â€œSuit yourself, sweetie. Can we bring you anything?”
    â€œPepperoni if you go pizza. Chicken marsala if you go Italian.”
    â€œYou’re a predictable boy, honey.”
    â€œYou have no idea, Mom.”
    He listened to his mom’s footsteps down the hall, then the stairs. She jingled her keys, called the girls, then slammed the front door shut. Duncan reached for his phone to check the time. 6:58. He called Jess. She answered