Bully-Be-Gone (16 page)

A
block away from her house, Millicent sat in her car, biting her bottom lip. A crowd of people milled about on her lawn. Some were in tight groups, talking. Just ahead of Millicent, a canary-yellow van was parked, a red KMVL logo printed on its broad side. A slogan was printed beneath the logo: “Wherever news is, you are, because we are where news is. And news is what it is because you are what you are. Therefore, where you are, we are, because where you are is news.” Not the catchiest slogan, but it forced folks to watch the news just so they could try to decipher its meaning. A television crew, toting bulky, black
video cameras, hovered like flies around Masonville's top television reporter and hair-spray spokesperson, KMVL's own Bonnie Fung.

“Now what did I do wrong?” Millicent asked herself. Considering the events of the past week, she assumed this current hullabaloo was linked to her.

She got out of her car and walked slowly, cautiously, toward her house.

She recognized some of the people on Uncle Phineas's lawn as the oddballs she saw running into town from the Curmudgeonly Mountains. The little twin boys were there with the woman in the gray uniform. The man with the briefcase chatted with the cowboy and the slender woman in the print dress. Bundled together in the background, they watched as Bonnie Fung prepared to interview the man in the pink leather suit.

“And in three, two, one,” said a cameraman, counting down with his upheld fingers. Bonnie Fung removed a wad of gum from her mouth, stuck it behind her ear, and smoothed the lapels of her navy blue suit. The cameraman pointed to her.

“We're coming to you live from the home of a Phineas Baldernot,” said Bonnie Fung, her expression newscaster serious, “where the survivors of a near-fatal brush with a bus crash and a wild bear are gathered. We're speaking with Boris Hoggle, survivor and unlikely hero of this averted tragedy.”

“Hi,” said Boris, waving to the camera.

“Were you frightened at all during your ordeal?” asked Bonnie Fung.

“Me?” asked Boris. “No. Nerves of steel.” He puffed out his chest. “Get my good side,” he said to the cameraman.

“I understand you carried a woman all the way down the Curmudgeonly Mountains on your back—and that you have a herniated disk. Wasn't that awfully painful?” the reporter asked into her microphone. Then she shoved it into Boris's face.

“I know not the meaning of pain when another's life is in danger,” he replied. “I thought nothing of myself or my own maladies.”

Millicent scowled. She distinctly recalled him saying something about terrible bayonets of affliction stabbing his back as he lumbered past her car.

“Does this mean I'm famous?” Boris asked Bonnie Fung.

“For at least fifteen minutes,” said Bonnie.

“That's enough for me,” said Boris.

“This is Bonnie Fung, reporting live from Masonville for KMVL news,” said Bonnie, oozing with professionalism. Then she shouted, “Cut!”

Still confused as to why these people were gathered on her front lawn, Millicent wound her way through the crowd in search of Uncle Phineas. He deserved an apology. She'd find him and make amends. As she dodged people, she caught snippets of conversation, most of which contained the words,
bear, bus, cliff, crash
, and
ran
.

Under a maple tree, she saw Uncle Phineas with the old bride she'd seen on Boris's back. They were unaware of the commotion around them, as if the maple tree were their own private, canopied world. They held each other at arm's length. Why were they being so affectionate with each other? Who was the old bride? A tear cascaded down the woman's cheek. Uncle Phineas wiped it away, taking care not to smudge her makeup. Millicent thought the scene sentimental but very strange.

The bride reached into the pocket of her orange parka, producing a set of rings that appeared to be tiny bagels.

“Will you marry me again?” she asked.

Millicent inhaled and held her breath.
Oh my gosh.
Aunt Felicity! The human cannonball! No wonder she looked so familiar.

“We were never unmarried,” Uncle Phineas pointed out. “Just the same, yes, I'll marry you again.”

“These will have to do for now,” said Felicity regretfully. She presented the tiny bagels on her quivering palm. “They're Engagement Bagel Rings. See? Rock salt diamonds.”

“Perfection.”

Uncle Phineas let her slip the snack jewelry on his finger. They embraced for several moments and Uncle Phineas rested his head on his wife's shoulder, his eyes closed.

For the first time in days, Millicent was happy. Next to getting her parents back, this was the best gift she could imagine.

Uncle Phineas opened one eye and saw his niece.

“Millicent,” he said, “thank you.”

“I'm s-s-s-sorry,” Millicent said, feeling the weight of the Hooky Spray in her pocket.

Uncle Phineas smiled. “Thank you.”

“I'm giving up inventing and—” said Millicent.

“Thank you,” said Uncle Phineas.

“I know w-what I did was wrong,” Millicent stuttered. “And—What did you say?”

“I said thank you.”

“But I did a bad thing.”

“If you're speaking of taking the Hooky Spray and attending an after-school function without my permission—” Uncle Phineas said.

Millicent squinted, ready for her punishment.

“All is forgiven,” Uncle Phineas continued.

Millicent gave him a bewildered look.

Together, Uncle Phineas and Felicity told her the whole story of how they believed they were reunited. Uncle Phineas told how he had applied his old cologne, Strong Like Bull, and Bully-Be-Gone in liberal doses. Felicity told how her memory had returned when the beautiful smells of her life rained upon her in the park. Piecing their fragments of stories together, they had come to the conclusion that Bully-Be-Gone traveled all the way to Pinnimuk City, where it had awakened Aunt Felicity's memory. There was, they said, no other explanation.

“I don't know the hows and whys and wherefores of this
miracle,” said Uncle Phineas. “It is my theory, though, that you have brought my Felicity back to me.” He clasped Felicity's hand between his, as if he feared she might get away if he let go.

Millicent was speechless. Was their reunion Bully-Be-Gone's doing, or was it a fluke of galactic proportions? Or was it both?

“My dear child,” said Felicity, “say ‘you're welcome.'”

Taking credit was like a pair of uncomfortable shoes for Millicent, after all she'd been through. Accustomed to taking blame, yet intrigued that, perhaps, this stroke of fortuitousness had something to do with her, she scratched her head. Why not? She'd give accepting merit a try. She put her hands on her hips and said, “Okay. Okay. You're welcome.” Saying it felt good. Great. She cocked her head to one side. She could get used to this. She said it again. “You're welcome.” Then she shouted it. “You're welcome!”

Felicity laughed. Uncle Phineas slapped his knee.

Millicent beamed. Maybe she'd been a bit hasty in vowing to quit inventing. If this was the accidental outcome of her handiwork, then imagine what she could accomplish on purpose!

M
illicent, Uncle Phineas, and Aunt Felicity sat on the front porch for a long time that evening, talking over lemonade and tea and cake. Millicent told them about everything—her friends, the bullies, and their stolen bikes.

When she mentioned that she had considered giving up her career as an inventor, Uncle Phineas shook his head and told her that he was glad she changed her mind. “I have always had faith in you, dear niece,” he said. He took a sip of tea. “Besides, your parents would be proud, yes? Yes.”

“I should think so,” Aunt Felicity said, using her free
hand to dab the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Her other hand hadn't let go of Uncle Phineas's since they'd been reunited.

“I think so, too.” Millicent admired the stars set far away in the night sky. She picked out two that shined brighter than hope and imagined they were her mother and father. The pair of stars pulsed as if speaking to her in Morse code.
We are so very proud of you
, they seemed to be saying. Millicent closed her eyes. She could almost hear them talking to her.
So very proud.
A warm feeling caressed her heart.

Uncle Phineas poured himself and Aunt Felicity another cup of tea. As he stirred in some sugar his spoon hit the sides of his cup and broke the silence.

Millicent opened her eyes, the warmth in her heart spreading to her stomach like hot chocolate.

“This thing about bullies,” Uncle Phineas began.

“What about them?” Millicent asked.

“They've been around for all of recorded history,” he said. “I think evolution put them here to test our mettle. Yes. If we've nothing to fear, we've nothing to become.”

“Are you saying there's nothing we can do about them?” she asked.

“No, I didn't say that.” He chuckled.

“What are you saying?” she asked.

“I'm not sure, exactly,” he said. “But, to use an aquatic illustration, yes, I'm reminded of the humble blowfish who, when sensing the threat of attack, inflates himself to an unmanageable size.”

“I don't get it,” said Millicent.

“Yes. I don't know that I do either,” he said. “But I think the answer lies in becoming more of yourself in the presence of bullies, not less.”

More of myself
, Millicent thought.

They talked for a while longer and were about to call it a night when a small figure approached in the dim evening light.

“Millicent,” a voice said. “I've been searching everywhere for you.”

Roderick. He trotted up the walkway, his hands behind his back. He was dressed up, wearing neatly pressed trousers, a white shirt, and a bow tie. Millicent cringed. If she were a betting kind of gal, she'd wager he was dressed for dinner. Pizza, to be precise.

“We should take our leave,” said Uncle Phineas, winking at Aunt Felicity. “We've dishes to wash and much catching up to do, yes?”

Aunt Felicity smiled. “A stack of dishes and years of catching up.”

“Please don't,” begged Millicent in a hoarse whisper.

“Good night, dear niece,” Uncle Phineas said, arching an eyebrow in Millicent's direction. He rose from the porch and helped Aunt Felicity up. Aunt Felicity bent down and kissed the top of Millicent's head, then they both went inside the house, the screen door snapping shut behind them.

Roderick hopped onto the first porch step. “I brought
you these,” he said, presenting her with a bouquet of flowers from his yard.

She took them, biting her tongue.

“Uh, thank you?” She didn't mean for it to sound like a question, but it came out sounding like one.

“Eat'cha Pizza is still open,” Roderick hinted. “It's pizza-my-heart night.” He sat on the step next to her.

“Is it?” she asked, scooting away.

Up close and under a pool of moonlight, Roderick didn't look half bad. He'd slicked his hair up into little spikes and his breath smelled like peppermint. Millicent thought she might be able to tolerate a meal with him—
might.

“What do you say?” Roderick asked. “Pizza? With
moi
?”

Millicent had been to Eat'cha Pizza a few times. She found the atmosphere entertaining. You were given 3-D glasses with which to watch the dinner tables. Three dimensional movies of Mama Giovanni, the pizza parlor's owner, ran nonstop on the tabletops under your plate. “Eat'cha pizza, eat'cha pizza! You look too skinny!
Prego, prego
,” Mama Giovanni's image shouted repeatedly as you tried to scarf down your food. Millicent thought it might be distraction enough from dining with Roderick. She might actually enjoy eating with him. She glanced again at his swooning face. Then again, maybe not.

“I don't know…” Millicent mused aloud.

Roderick leaned toward her, and the secret chamber key he wore around his neck—the very key that had been handed down through generations of the Madding clan—
swung like a pendulum. She stared at it, not uttering a word.

“My treat,” said Roderick, breaking the silence. “I mean, I
am
rich. My father
is
an attorney and my mother
is
president and CEO of Beauty Goo Cosmetics, you know.” Millicent winced. He rotated his shoulders back so that his chest bulged, then grinned at her. “Besides, isn't that what boys do? Treat you girls to pizza?”

Millicent gasped. Girls could, just as easily, treat boys to pizza. Evidently, even Bully-Be-Gone couldn't erase Roderick's huge ego, much less his chauvinistic attitude. And “chauvinist” was just another word for a boy bully.

She tried to recall the point Uncle Phineas tried to make with his blowfish example. What was she that she could become more of in the presence of bullies? “Clever” was the sole adjective that came to mind. Slyly, she took something out of her pocket, turned her back on Roderick, and pretended to smell the flowers he'd brought.

“What are you squirting on those flowers?” asked Roderick.

She turned to face him again.

“Uh…a sort of smell enhancer I invented,” she said, her face flushed. “Yeah…Magna-Sniff, I call it. Mmm-hmm. Magna-Sniff.” Uncle Phineas was right. This becoming more of yourself was fun. “Think of it as…uh…a magnifying glass for your nose,” she added for good measure. She thrust the bouquet at him. “Here. Smell 'em.”

“I've already smelled them,” he said. “They're from my own yard.”

“Smell 'em again,” said Millicent, fanning the bouquet in his face.

“Nah,” said Roderick. “I know what they smell like.”

“Pleeeease,” she said, batting her eyelashes as she'd seen Tonisha do. “Please—honey.”

Roderick's face sparkled. “I'll gladly partake of your invention,” he said. “I'm sure nature's fragrance is made doubly delicious through your ingenuity.” He took the bouquet, nestled his nose in its petals, and sucked in a lungful of scent.

Millicent handed him a hanky as he began to sniffle. “I think you'll be needing this.”

She giggled to herself and, overhead, two stars seemed to giggle in return.