B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523) (17 page)

“All we need now is a chorus,” Sammy told them.

“Tomorrow.” His mother's voice sang down the stairs. “You can work on the chorus tomorrow. Time to go home, kids. Julia your mom is here. Skink, your dad's on the way. Gully . . .”

“Time to go home,” Gully shouted up at her. “I am a man.”

Gully's home?
Sammy still didn't know where the golem spent his nights.
Maybe down by the little Mill River at the bottom of the meadow, murmuring clay thoughts to the mud in the riverbank. Murdering small animals.
He stopped the thoughts from running on. He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to know.

More weeks passed idyllically, and Sammy thought his life couldn't be more perfect. Like living in the garden of Eden
actually
—but there was always going to be some snakes. He didn't want to think about that.

Gully had become part of the scenery at school and at home. Sammy couldn't even remember the last time he'd worried about it being discovered the golem wasn't Amish or Czech or his cousin. They were in many classes together, and Sammy had to do Gully's homework as well as his own, but it was a small price to pay for peace.

His parents had stopped questioning him about Hebrew school. He told them the rabbi was sick, or moving away. It turned out they hadn't been all that set on his bar mitzvah after all. His dad said he could use the extra time on the wheel, not driving all that way. They liked the band.

Skink was all healed, and his guitar playing seemed to have leaped several paces forward, probably in response to Julia's fiddle. The surprise was that he was especially good at klezmer, which his mother laughingly said, “Because I was pregnant with him when we were in Israel!”

“Who knew,” Skink said. “Maybe I should have that bar mitzvah instead of you, Word Man.”

The band's table at lunch—they called it the Tour-Bus-Your-Own-Table—was so much in demand by the seventh and eighth graders that they had to establish a rolling alphabetical seating plan.

And Julia . . .

Well, Julia is . . .
For the first time in his life, Sammy was totally at a loss for words.

In fact, everything was going so well, Sammy got a little careless.

A little!
he was to think later,
is an understatement. And
I never
make understatements!
Which was an understatement of its own!

He'd sent Gully on ahead to sit at the Tour-Bus-Your-Own-Table, which was now just called the TBYOT, which sounded like Hebrew but wasn't.
Or at least,
Sammy thought,
I don't think it is
.

Sammy ducked into the bathroom. After all, James Lee and his crew had simply faded into the woodwork over the last few weeks, afraid of tackling Gully and forced to listen to Sammy and his friends
and
their hangers-on singing at the lunch table, showing off their new songs
a cappella
, which—as Sammy explained every time meant singing without instruments

And each time, Gully added, “And without caps” which hadn't been funny the first time Sammy had cracked the joke. But everyone laughed.
Maybe,
Sammy thought,
it's the way Gully says it, with that strange, flat, gray voice.

So carelessly, and without his bodyguard, Sammy walked into the boys' bathroom.

And almost walked right into James Lee.

“Well, well, well,” James Lee said in a lazy voice. He looked Sammy up and down the way a large carnivore looks at a much, much smaller herbivore. “One little bug all alone. Just the bug . . . and the bug
swatter
.”

Without thinking, Sammy shot back, “Or the brain and the brain
less
.” Realizing he'd probably said too much, he began to edge toward the door, then turned to run out. But James Lee was too quick for him, grabbing him by the neck of his shirt and yanking him back inside.

Looking hopelessly around for help, Sammy realized they were the only ones there. The bell had rung. Everyone else was at lunch.

“You'd better not—” Sammy began, hoping to soften whatever beating was about to happen. He turned around, which made his shirt twist about his neck painfully.

James Lee laughed. “Better not what?” He clenched the fist of the hand that wasn't holding on to Sammy's shirt.

Sammy noted frantically that water was dripping from that hand.
At least he washed after going.
Or at least I
hope
he did!
“Better not touch me,” he said in a voice that aimed for bravado and fell into whine. “Touch me and Gully will kill you. And do a dance step on your dead head. A regular kick line.”

James Lee sneered. “You think I'm afraid of Graybug, you stinking Greenbug?” He swung Sammy around so that his body was now between Sammy and the door. Only then did he let go of Sammy's shirt, though to Sammy, the twist at the neck seemed just as tight as before.

James Lee started toward him, so close now, Sammy could smell his breath.

Surprisingly minty.
Without thinking
,
Sammy started to giggle.

“You think that's funny, Bug Boy?” James Lee had two fists up now.

Now or never,
Sammy thought. He faked left and dodged right, trying to scoot by, though he might as well have just jumped into James Lee's arms.

James Lee pushed him against the wall next to the urinals and put his face right up to Sammy's.

“I've beat up bigger guys than your Gray Gully, Bug,” James Lee said.

“Beaten,”
Sammy said automatically. His mouth kept going, though he was sure his heart had just stopped.

“And been beat up by them, too. He's big, but my dad's bigger.”

That seemed an odd thing to say, but Sammy didn't have time to think about it further. James Lee had already cocked his fist back for a big delivery. Sammy knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wasn't going to survive that kind of punch line.

“Okay!” a deep voice said from behind James Lee. “That's gone on far enough.”

James Lee's bulk blocked Sammy's view, so he couldn't see who it was. But he didn't have to look—he recognized the voice.

This is the first time I've ever been glad to see
him!

And then Sammy's relief manifested—
manifested, what a good word
. Sammy said it out loud, spitting the word into James Lee's face, adding: “I guess it's just the principle of the thing, Jamison.”

“What thing?” James Lee asked, clearly puzzled. He'd obviously been too intent on his own threats to hear anything else and his face had lost its usual snarl as he tried to puzzle through this new idea. “What are you talking about, Greenbug?”

Not waiting for an answer, James Lee swung at Sammy's head. But suddenly, a large hand landed on his shoulder, and he was turned around to face Mr. Kraft. Sammy watched, stuck somewhere between horror and amusement, as James Lee's cocked hand, missing its initial target, still kept going forward, right toward the principal's nose.

20.

Getting a Gig

The Head Cheese didn't wait to get them to the office before giving his judgment. On one of them, anyway. He walked between the two boys and frankly, Sammy was relieved that the principal's bulk separated them.

“You're suspended, Joliette,” Mr. Kraft snarled as soon as they were in the hall. “And lucky for you that blow never actually landed or the police would have had to be called in as well. Maybe you never got the memo, but punching out the principal is a big no-no.”

Even though he was still shaking with fear and its aftermath, Sammy grinned. Pure nastiness he'd never understand. But snarkiness—well, that was his home ground.

“I didn't actually punch you,” James Lee muttered.

“As I said,” Mr. Kraft repeated, “lucky for you.”

Sammy was thinking:
That wasn't luck. Principal Kraft is bigger and faster than James Lee. He blocked that punch
. For the first time, Sammy really looked at the principal, noticing light scars around the big man's eyes, how crooked his nose was.
Maybe being an educator wasn't his first choice of a career.
He tried to envision Mr. Kraft in boxing shorts and failed.

Then remembering the word suspension,
Sammy looked over at James Lee to see if he had anything like a thought on his tiny mind.
Maybe he's thinking: A few days off will be nice.

But Mr. Kraft wasn't done. “In-house suspension for you, Mr. Joliette.”

“Aw, sir,” James Lee whined, “that's like jail.”

Mr. Kraft nodded, agreeing. “Which is precisely where you're going to end up if you keep on this path.”

“Whatever, old man,” James Lee said. He suddenly wasn't whining anymore.

Mr. Kraft sighed. “Get yourself down to the office, Joliette. And maybe I won't call
your
old man.”

James Lee didn't exactly march meekly away. He squared his shoulders and walked off down the hall as if he—and not the principal—had won the argument.

But he sure doesn't have that usual spring in his step.

“And you,” Mr. Kraft said, rounding on Sammy, “what were you
thinking
?” He didn't give Sammy a chance to answer. “You can't bait the bear and not expect to get bit.”

“I never started anything with him!” Sammy protested. “He's been after me since the day I got here.”

“Don't think I haven't noticed. However, I expected more from you, Mr. Greenburg. You are exceptionally bright about a lot of things, but evidently not about Joliette and his followers. You can't just ignore him and let it go, can you? You always have to make some kind of smart-aleck comment.”

Sammy couldn't argue with that.

Arms folded, the Big Cheese leaned against the locker and looked over Sammy's head for a moment before going on.

“Listen, Mr. Greenburg,” he began, then looked down at Sammy. “I'm trying to help you here. Joliette and his kind are bad seeds. But bad seeds always go to ground right where they're planted. You're not going to be in high school forever. Or even in this town. You're a good kid.” He reached out and tapped Sammy on the forehead with one finger. “
And
you've got a brain. Use it. Don't rile these boys up.”

“That's not fair, sir.”

“Of course it isn't fair. But it's not fair to Joliette either. He's never had a chance of making something of himself.
You
do.”

“That's not what I meant,” Sammy grumbled.

Mr. Kraft smiled, and it struck Sammy that it might have been the first time he'd ever seen the Head Cheese smile. It made him look years younger.

“I know, Sammy, I know. I'm a pretty smart guy myself. That's why I'm the principal. Now, enough of this. Tell me about this band I've been hearing about. Because I've got an idea . . . and my ideas are usually good ones.”

“An idea, sir?” Sammy tried to look interested. It was better than looking panicked. Felt better, too.

“You answer my question first. And don't ask another question in return. I can have that conversation with my wife's grandfather.”

“Sir?”

They started walking again down the hall.

“My wife's Jewish and her grandfather's very old-fashioned, always answering a question with a question.” He grinned. “And you are too young and hip to be sounding like him even though you're Jewish.”

Sammy was so stunned at this news about the principal's wife that he was momentarily silent. “Er, you know I'm Jewish, sir?”

“I'm the principal here, Sammy. I know
everything
about my kids. It's in my job description, right after hiring and firing teachers and signing off on lunch menus.” He grinned.

Sammy's mind was a whir of all the impossible things he'd just learned, and then remembered that the principal had asked him a question. But he couldn't remember what. “Um, what was the question again, sir?”

“The band, Mr. Greenburg. The band.”

“It doesn't have a name yet,” Sammy said, glad to be back on safe ground. “But it's a klezmer/jazz/pop/rock fusion band. We've got about five original songs so far, and I'm teaching them some actual klezmer tunes as well. And . . .”

“Them?”

“Ah, Skink—I mean Skinner John Williams—on guitar. Julia Nathanson on fiddle. She's
incredible!
And my . . . er . . . cousin Gully on drums.”

“Ah Gully—that big gray boy. Is that his actual name?”

“It's Gulliver,” Sammy said, remembering back to the conversation with Julia.
Best to keep the story straight
. “A family name.”

“Funny name for a Jewish boy,” Mr. Kraft mused.

“His father teaches English literature in . . .”

“In the Czech Republic. Good to know. And I'm delighted he's in the band. Drums sounds about right for him. I'm glad there's something he can do. He looks so lost much of the time.”

Lost? Gully?
Sammy had a hard time thinking of Gully that way.

“As if he's in a time and place not of his own choosing,” Mr. Kraft was saying.

Oh, Mr. Kraft, if you only knew. . . .
For a moment—just a moment— Sammy considered confiding in the principal, but then the moment passed.

By now they were at the principal's outer office. James Lee was nowhere in sight. Probably in the small side room the kids all called the Cell. It wasn't barred or locked or anything, as far as Sammy knew, but it didn't have any windows. At least that was what the others said. It was for the hard cases. Like James Lee.

“Come into my office, Mr. Greenburg.” It wasn't an invitation so much as a command.

They went in and Mr. Kraft sat down in the rolling chair behind his big desk.
His big
imposing
desk,
Sammy thought, the word imposing making as much of an impression as the desk.
For a big, imposing man.

Sammy sat in the straight-back chair on the other side.

“This is my idea. Tell me what you think.” Again it wasn't any kind of actual invitation. Mr. Kraft leaned back in his chair, held his hands behind his head, and said, “If you and your bandmates can stay out of trouble until the last football game and dance. . . .”

Sammy leaned forward. “That's next week.”

The principal sat up in his chair, his head thrust out like a turtle's. “I know when it is, Sammy. I make the schedule. Right after signing off on the lunch menu.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That means no bear-baiting. No dogfights. No sassing. No snark . . .”

“No?”

“None!” The principal grinned. “Then your band—which will have a name by then—will be the opening act for Armageddon, which has been hired to play for the all-school dance. You'll have a half hour.”

“A gig for us?” Sammy heard his voice squeak. “Opening for . . . Armageddon?”
It was only the best-known band in the area. Maybe in the state!
“Will they let us?”

“I don't just have the ideas around here, Sammy. I make the decisions as well. Of course they'll
let
you.”

“O—okay.” Sammy gulped hard.

“I suggest BUG,” Mr. Kraft said.

“BUG?” Another squeak.

“For the band's name. Better to own it than fear it.”

“BUG?” For a moment Sammy couldn't say a word. Not for a long moment. At last he ventured, “I'll have to ask the band.” He wondered how many minutes the principal had been standing at the bathroom door listening before he'd stopped things.

Long enough to hear James Lee call me Bug
, he decided.

And then that thought was swallowed up by the pure joy of being offered an actual gig.
A GIG!

The principal nodded. “Now, Mr. Greenburg, time to get over to the Tour Bus table. Lunch awaits..”

“You know about the Tour Bus table?”

“It's my school, Sammy. I know about
everything
!”

And with that Sammy was dismissed.

Sammy practically sprinted to the cafeteria, the words
A gig! A gig! A gig!
looping through his head.

He hadn't even begun thinking about gigs.
We only have five songs so far. And some klezmer dance tunes, though we're still a bit wobbly on those. I thought we'd need more songs before . . .

(A gig! A gig! A gig!)

But it's an opening slot. Half hour. Five songs is plenty for that.

(A gig! A gig! A gig!)

Crashing through the cafeteria's double doors, Sammy went right for Tour-Bus-Your-Own-Table, not even getting in line for food.

First, good news
, he thought,
then bad food
.

“Guys,” he said, “I've got great—”

He stopped. Erik Addison, the “smart” member of James Lee's Boyz—the one Sammy had shared detention with—was sitting at the table talking animatedly to Gully. The kids on the bench on the other side of the table were scrunched together because of the addition of Addison outside of the regular alphabetical rotation.

This is trouble.

Sammy glared pointedly at Skink, who shrugged. Julia had her face in her food, eating quickly because, as she liked to say, “I prefer to torture my taste buds for as little time as possible.”

“Hey, Gully,” Sammy said casually, “what's up?”

The golem glanced over and showed his gray teeth. He pointed to Erik. “Drums,” he said. Which explained nothing.

But Erik grinned, looking almost shy.

If a leather-clad, shaved-head, behemoth could look shy, Sammy thought.

“Your cousin and I were talking about drums,” Erik began. “I, um, play a little drums.”

“He plays a little drums,” Gully agreed.

This can't get any weirder,
Sammy thought. But Erik didn't seem to be causing any trouble, and no one seemed to mind him sitting there . . . much. And I can't wait any longer to tell them about the gig!

“Guys,” Sammy said, sitting down next to Julia, who nodded to him without pausing her ingestion of whatever mystery meat was being served today. “Guys, we have a gig.”

“What?” and “Awesome!” Skink and Julia spoke so close together that Sammy wasn't sure which one said which. And Gully muddied the waters even further by saying, “What, awesome,” just afterward. They grinned at each other and laughed, and even Erik said “Congratulations.”

He sounds genuinely pleased
, Sammy thought, which was weird, but no weirder than Sammy having a band and a gig and friends, and so Sammy was soon deep in discussion with his band about what they needed to do to get ready. All the other kids at the band table listened open-mouthed. None of them noticed when Erik left the table.