B.u.g. Big Ugly Guy (9781101593523) (18 page)

“We need another song,” Sammy said at practice that night. They'd played their five songs, timing it with Skink's watch, and they'd come out to twenty minutes. “We need a seven- or eight-minute song to fill out the half hour.”

“So not a little pop song,” Julia said. “Something with meat. More of an anthem.”

“Meat,” Gully said, managing to sound hungry even though he never ate.

Skink picked a couple of thoughtful notes on his guitar. “Maybe something built around our band name. Like Bad Company's
Bad Company
.” He looked up from his fret board. “And like, what is our band name, anyway?”

“Well,” Sammy said, “Mr. Kraft thinks we should name ourselves BUG.”

“What?” the band chorused the question together, almost as if it had been rehearsed.

“And I kind of agree with him.” Sammy was as shocked as the others when these words popped out of his mouth.

“BUG? Why that?” Julia asked. “Isn't that what James Lee and his crew call you?”

“Better to own it, than fear it.” Sammy didn't tell them that was what the principal had said.

Laughing, Skink did a run up and down the guitar. “I got it. Name it and shame it.”

“Shame James Lee,” added Gully. He hit the drumsticks simultaneously on the big cymbal. The crash was nearly deafening.

“Besides,” Sammy said, enlarging on something he'd been thinking a lot about ever since his talk with Mr. Kraft, “the Beatles are named after bugs.”

“Bugs are B-E-E-T-L-E-S,” Julia said. “Not B-E-A-T-L-E-S.”

“No—BUGS 'R' US,” Sammy explained carefully. “And that's how we'll introduce ourselves. I'm Sammy GreenBUG. Gully is BUG—BIG UGLY GUY. Skink is BROWN ULTIMATE GUY. And Julia is . . .”

“Beautiful . . .” Skink said

“Unattainable . . .” Sammy added.

“Gurrrrrrrrl!” purred Julia.

“BUG!” Gully shouted.

Sammy thought about owning and naming and lines popped into his head. “I've got something,” he said.

“Well, like, spill it!” Skink said, running a riff on his guitar.

Sammy began chanting:

 

You can fear it, or you can own it.

You can dull it, or you can hone it.

If you name it, then you shame it.

BUG!

 

Skink started chunking some thick chords behind the chant, and Julia doubled him on the low strings of her violin. Gully thumped the low tom of his kit in a vaguely Native American rhythm.

They thought a bit more and together came up with:

 

You can quit, or you can play.

You can leave, or you can stay.

If you name it, then you shame it.

BUG!

 

They all shouted the last word into their microphones, except for Gully, who didn't have one, but didn't really need one for his booming voice to be heard.

It was Skink who managed the next two lines.

 

You can run, or you can fight.

You're not wrong if in the right.

If you name it, then you claim it.

BUG!

 

“Then,” Sammy said, “we stand up and claim it by each saying our BUG name. I could start. By saying, ‘I'm Sammy GreenBUG.'”

“I'm Big Ugly Guy, Gully,” said Gully.

“Brown Ultimate Guy.” Skink played a quick series of chords underneath. “Skinner John Williams.”

“And I . . .” Julia said, bowing up the strings and once again hitting that dog-calling high note, “am Beautiful Unattainable Girl.” She blushed. “It sounds silly for me say it.”

“She's—like—right.” Skink nodded his head toward Julia. “It would be embarrassing for her.”

“What if . . .
I
say it?” asked Sammy. “Will that help?”

Julia nodded, her cheeks now crimson.

“And then we repeat one of the verses,” Sammy said to change the subject.

“No,” Julia said, “we play the tune without words afterward, and when the last drumbeat crashes down, we all shout out ‘BUG!' together, And lights out.”

“Hey, that's like
very
cool,” Skink said.

“Very cool!” Gully shouted.

“Very, very cool,” Sammy said, very, very quietly, but everyone heard, especially Julia.

By then it was the end of practice. They could hear grown-ups laughing upstairs.

When the kids made their way into the kitchen, they found Julia's mother and Skink's mother had already arrived and were just finishing coffee with Sammy's parents. And when they told everyone about the gig, the adults sounded even more excited about it than the band had been.

“We'll definitely come,” Mrs. Williams said to Skink, “your father and I.”

Julia's mother promised an entire busload of relatives and neighbors, to which Julia rolled her eyes.

“Gully, will your mother be there?” Mrs. Williams asked.

Sammy threw his body into the way of that blast. “She works nights,” he said.

Gully nodded. “Nights.”

“Well,” Sammy's mother said, “maybe she can get off work just this once. Or go in a little late.”

“Gully will ask,” Sammy said, “won't you, Gully?”

The gray teeth were set wide in a great gray grin. “I will ask.”

And off he walked, out of the front door, into the dark, heading—Sammy was sure—down to the river to talk to the mud.

“He's a strange young man,” said Julia's mother.

“He's Amish,” Sammy's mother responded. “I'm not sure he understands everything we ask.”

“I thought he was from the Czech Republic,” Mrs. Williams mused.

Sammy got ready to panic as his conflicting lies were tossed out so casually, but both women merely shrugged and dropped the topic. Soon after, good nights were said, and everyone left.

“Sammy, can we talk?” his mother said as soon as the door was shut. “It's about Gully.”

“Homework, Mom. It's already late.”

She nodded. “Tomorrow will be fine.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow.” But all the while he was thinking: O
nce more the BUG manages to escape the swatter!
Then he went down to the band room, took out his math homework, and played around with equations until one of them finally made sense.

21.

Escapes 'R' Us

Over the next week, Sammy escaped again and again. He was out the door early to school, and BUG practiced every night. He made sure there was no time to talk to his mother. Perhaps, seeing him so involved and happy with friends, she was willing to drop whatever concerns she'd had about Gully. Perhaps she realized Gully wasn't her business. Or perhaps she was just biding her time. As long as she didn't ask more questions, Sammy was content.

Content,
he thought.
Or as much as an almost-thirteen-year-old can be.

Besides, he was massively busy. Not only did he have daily homework. And papers. And tests. He had Gully's homework and papers, as well. He couldn't take any of Gully's tests for him, of course. But Gully managed not to flunk them all.

And with the dance less than a week away, BUG had to run through their set list over and over, pretending they were actually at the gig. There were no stops, even if someone made a mistake.

“You can't stop in the middle of a song when you're playing live,” Sammy reminded them.

Julia agreed. They were the only ones who'd actually ever played in front of people—and those were just a couple of recitals while they were both still playing classical music. Sammy wasn't sure those counted as gigs, but the rest of the band thought so.

And they didn't just practice the songs: they practiced the show as a whole. They made sure the transitions between the songs were smooth and not too long, that Sammy had some stage patter ready if Skink broke a string, or Julia had to tune her violin. Or if Gully . . . well, whatever Gully might do. Sammy shuddered thinking about that, then pushed it way to the back of his mind.

The phone rang Wednesday evening right before dinner. Sammy snagged the call. His parents were both too busy to pick up the phone.

His mother was wrestling with a leg-of-lamb roast, and losing.

And from the studio came the sound of his father singing at the potting wheel. Sammy knew that meant things were going so well that his dad would prefer a dish of food brought in rather than walking the twenty steps into the kitchen to eat with them. As he liked to say at such times, “The clay is a dictator, though a benevolent one.”

“Got it!” Sammy yelled. When he saw who the call was from, he was hugely relieved he'd been the one to answer it.

“Er—hello, Reb Chaim,” he said in a low tone, walking the phone out into the living room so neither of his parents could hear. “It's Sammy.”

The rabbi didn't bother with a hello, but got right to the point. “The golem?”

“He's . . . doing well in school. And in the band, too,” Sammy said. “He's our drummer.”

“Of course he is,” said the rabbi. “Until he isn't.”

That was too opaque for Sammy. Unless the rabbi was talking about getting rid of Gully. Again.

“Really, you should come and hear him, Rabbi,” Sammy said. “We've, ah, got a gig this weekend and I think you'll like him . . .”

“You should be having a gig with me every week, Samson,” Reb Chaim said. “Learning Hebrew, preparing for your bar mitzvah. Instead you are playing with a fire that is going to burn down
your
house and everyone else's. I know this too well. As it is, I have given you too much time to do this thing and now I must demand you do it tonight. Now.”

“Or what, Rabbi? You said yourself that only I could do it!”

There was silence on the phone for a moment. Then Chaim spoke softly. “I will think of something. Even if it kills me. Maybe then you'll see what it is that you've created.”

“A friend, Rabbi,” Sammy said. “I've created a friend and a musician for my band. We're pretty good, you know. It's a klezmer/jazz/pop/rock fusion band. We're called BUG, and we're opening for Armageddon at the high school this Saturday.”

“Armageddon!”
It didn't sound like a band the way the rabbi said it. “That's exactly what it will be.”

Suddenly, the image of the dead coyote filled Sammy's mind, the snarling mouth, the staring eye. He almost dropped the phone. “What's that, Rabbi—Armageddon?”

“The end of the world, Samson. The end of
your
world.”

Sammy took another big breath and whispered into the phone, “Hope you can make it, Rabbi.” He didn't mean to sound snarky, but he did. Just a little.

“And I hope
you
can make it through to your concert, Samson,” Reb Chaim said, with a little snark himself. “I will be there to help.”

There was a click as the rabbi hung up.

Sammy wasn't sure what Reb Chaim had meant about being there to help. After all, Gully was all the help Sammy needed. And
he
was around all the time! And then he shuddered, because deep down he did know exactly what the rabbi meant.

“Who was that on the phone?” his mother called from the kitchen.

“Wrong number,” Sammy said, the lie sour in his mouth, and heavy.

22.

Getting Ready to Gig

The kids at the Tour Bus table could talk about nothing but the upcoming gig. They even asked if they could—maybe one at a time—sit in on rehearsal.

“We'd be quiet,” Bobby Marstall had promised, a finger to his lips.

But the band voted Bobby's request down that very night.

“I'm not ready to have someone sit in on rehearsal,” said Julia. “I'm still making too many mistakes.”

“None I noticed,” Sammy said gallantly, though she'd actually just flubbed the high notes on her own song.

The next day, though, Sammy gave the Tour Bus table kids each a set list he'd printed up on his computer. Even though he thought of it as a consolation prize, the list seemed to excite them even more.

“Wow,” one girl said, “awesome titles.”

The rest of the table agreed, arguing over what “Shiva” might mean, or “Power!”

Each time someone said “Power!” Gully reacted, slamming his big fist down on the table and growling the word. Soon the entire table of kids were doing it and looking pointedly over at James Lee's table.

Minus James Lee. He was once again in detention.

“He, like, owns the place,” Skink said, nodding his head in the direction of the Boyz.

“The lunchroom?” Sammy asked, through a mouthful of mystery meat.

“No, detention.”

Sammy couldn't help himself. He began to laugh, mystery meat spraying across the table.

Luckily Julia had already left.

The last rehearsal, they checked that the band's gear was ready and that they had spare strings and spare sticks, spare reeds and spare picks, and batteries.

“Let's rotate through,” Sammy said. “Each of us check someone else's stuff.”

It was Skink who suggested Julia bring her spare bow. Julia who asked Sammy to print up several extra set lists. And Sammy who made sure about the batteries, strings, picks, and extra reeds. Surprisingly, Gully himself found a second pair of drumsticks. Sammy didn't dare ask him where he'd gotten them. He was afraid he knew.

By dance weekend, everything about the show was polished and shiny, and still everyone was nervous when it finally arrived. The school had buzzed all Friday about the scheduled events, even the youngest kids, and about the dance that was to happen on Saturday night.

The football team, with James Lee finally back—though benched—had played their biggest rival on Saturday and won by a last-minute kick. The kicker had been Erik, the one who'd talked to Gully about drums. The team carried him on their shoulders, and everyone up in the wooden stands went wild, jumping up and down screaming and clapping and calling Erik's name, till the stands shook dangerously, and Mr. Kraft had to hold up his hands to quiet them. But he was grinning while he did it.

Only James Lee wasn't part of the celebration. Instead he sat fuming the whole time the school cheered.

“Look at him,” Skink said, nudging Sammy with his elbow.

“Yeah, what a stoop,” Sammy answered.

Julia agreed.

Sitting in front of the three of them in the stands, Gully started yelling, “Stoop, stoop, stoop!”

“Like—what's a
stoop
?” Skink asked.

“I assume it's short for someone stupid, someone who moans when a friend is celebrated,” Julia said.

“Someone who wants all the glory,” added Sammy.

Gully thought a minute.

Or at least
—Sammy thought—
it looks like he's thinking. Only I never made him a brain.

At last Gully spoke. “A stoop is someone who is like James Lee.”

They all laughed. Even Gully.

That evening, when they met at Sammy's house to pack up the gear, it took only minutes before they started talking about how they felt.

“Butterflies,” Julia said.

“Elephant in bowling shoes here.” Sammy pointed to his forehead. A vein was throbbing. He was sure everyone could see it.

Skink said, “My fingers are itching, and not in a good way.”

They turned as one to look at Gully who was standing seemingly unconcerned.

“Not hungry,” he said at last.

For a moment, Sammy was startled. Then he remembered, it had been one of the very first things Gully had ever said. Quickly he added, “I'm not hungry, either. Must be the butterflies-in-stomach effect.”

“We'll eat afterward,” said Julia. “We'll be starving then!”

“The mics are packed,” Sammy told them. “The rest of the PA is already in my dad's pottery van along with Gully's drums.” He looked at Skink who was standing at the bottom of the basement stairs with his guitar in one hand an amp in the other. Gully and Julia were right behind him.

“Go! Go!” Sammy urged them. “Go on up. I'll get the lights.”

And then they were gone.

He stood for a moment staring after their retreating backs, then turned. The basement looked strange to him, empty of all the gear that had filled it for the last few weeks. He only had to pick up his clarinet case and walk upstairs, out the door to the car. Still . . .

Skink had returned. “Hey, Samson, what's the hold up?”

Still staring at the room, Sammy muttered, “What am I forgetting?”

Skink cracked a sudden grin. “Like, shoes, Sammy.”

Sammy blinked and stared down at his feet. “You're kidding!”

Julia suddenly poked her head down in the basement. “What's the hold up, fellas?”

Laughing, Skink said, “Sammy's deciding what shoes to wear.”

Now Julia was looking at his feet, too, bare except for his socks. Sammy realized that just a week ago he would have died of embarrassment. But now he just laughed. “I'm thinking sneakers,” he said, “but only because they're the only shoes I own.”

That earned him a giggle from Julia that made his heart miss the next two beats.

“That's a shame,” she quipped. “You'd look great in a pair of three-inch heels.”

“Like—eeeeuuuuuw,” Skink said, and headed back up the stairs.

“Channeling his inner girl,” Julia quipped, following Skink back up.

“I'll meet you guys at the car,” Sammy called after them before running up the stairs himself. “Don't want to be late to our first gig!”

Minutes later, he and Julia exchanged high fives, and then—all wearing shoes—they were off in the pottery van and the major's big car. The mothers had gone ahead to get good seats.

In the van, Sammy sat next to Gully wishing all the while he could have gone with Skink and Julia in the car. But of course he had to keep an eye on the golem.

Sometimes it's hard to know who's protecting who
.

Maybe he needn't have worried. Gully wasn't talking and neither was his father.

Sammy giggled. Maybe we're all nervous.

“Something funny, Sammy?” his father asked.

“Just nerves.”

Gully cleared his throat. “Butterflies,” he said. “Elephant in bowling shoes here. My fingers are itching, and not in a good way.”

“Oh, son, you've got it bad,” Sammy's father said to Gully. “But don't worry, you guys will be terrific. I've heard some of your practice. Hard to miss it, actually. There's a lot of power in your little group.”

Sammy knew what Gully was going to respond, but he wasn't quick enough to stop him.

“POWER!” Gully beat the extra drumsticks against the back of Sammy's seat.

“A little less volume, Gully,” Sammy's dad said. “It's just nerves.”

“Nerves,” Gully echoed, but he sat back and was quiet the rest of the way to the school.

All of the TBYOT kids were there to help carry the gear into the gym and onto the stage. Within seconds, under Bobby Marstall's surprisingly competent direction, they were dragging speakers around and setting up microphone stands and running cords to the middle of the floor where the school's AV guy calmly plugged them into a much bigger board than Sammy's.

“Well, look at Bobby!” Sammy said to the band.

“Sometimes we all have to grow up,” Julia said, running her hand nervously through her hair.

“We grow up,” Gully said.

“You were born grown up,” Skink told him, which made Sammy startle.

What does Skink know about Gully? What do any of them know? Indeed—what does Gully know?
Sammy had been so busy trying to hide things, he hadn't noticed if anyone had figured it out.

“Guys . . .” he said, trying a diversion—a good enough word he supposed for what he was doing—“it's time to seriously get our act together. Consolidate.” He liked the word, said it again. “Consolidate.”

“It feels more like coagulate,” said Julia. “None of the blood seems to be running into my hands.”

“What are you two, like, talking about?” Skink looked genuinely concerned.

“Just trying to relax,” Sammy said.

“Just trying to relax,” Gully repeated.

“Well, you're, like, creeping me out,” Skink told them. “Let's just get things done.”

But there wasn't actually much for them to do as the TBYOT kids had everything sorted within minutes. Still Sammy felt the need to help, if only to keep himself from thinking about the gig.