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Overview
Soon to be a junior at JFK High School, David Fisher spends his summer with friends at a theme park. Things are looking up. David not only conquers his fear of thrill rides, but also wins the affection of Carrie Cox, a tall, beautiful girl. When the school year starts, however, David and his friends realize JFK is under attack.
A vicious gang of bullies roams the halls and threatens the career of headmaster Jack Lucas. Mr. Lucas has just applied for a promotion at a prestigious New England prep school, but to get the job he must prove he can keep up a peaceful, productive environment at JFKand the bullies are ruining his chances.
In order to save Mr. Lucass career, David must become the Bullynator. With his newfound bravery acquired over the summer and the help of his friends, David will find a way to stand up to this gang of thugs. Even so, it could be a suicide missionbecause if they dont die as martyrs, the heroes of JFK will surely die laughing. Let the games begin!
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781475990508 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 07/23/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 330 |
| File size: | 306 KB |
| Age Range: | 13 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Bullynator
By E. Fanjon
iUniverse LLC
Copyright © 2013 E. FanjonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-9048-5
CHAPTER 1
Part 1:
The Quartet
David
It was exactly 10:05 when his neighbor knocked at the door.
"Ready there, buddy?" Chris asked.
David Fisher opened the door, and Chris George pulled him into what would have been a macho hug if Chris hadn't given him a hard slap on the butt immediately afterward. Good thing nobody was watching.
"So, have you had breakfast yet?" Chris asked.
"Yep, enchiladas with guacamole and black refried beans. Just paid the price, actually. Don't even remind me!" David replied, massaging his right butt cheek.
Chris burst into laughter as they headed for his car. "Dude, how many times do I have to tell you? Take it easy with the Mexican food! You're not there yet! You haven't lived in Mexico for ten years like I did. Your weak American stomach can't hold it yet. Jeez."
Chris was a tall, athletic boy with dark-brown hair and blue eyes. He was quite friendly and open, but sometimes a little hard to take. He was hyperactive and found it hard to remain steady; he always had to be walking or jogging. He seemed perpetually in need of exercise, and David rarely saw him without a soccer ball under his arm. Chris took the saying "My house is your house" literally. He would enter David's place the second the door was opened; he would ask if there were goodies to eat, but before David could answer, Chris would help himself to a glass of orange juice, a pack of Oreos, beef jerky, Pringles, or Doritos. Neither David nor his parents minded. The Fishers were quite welcoming, and the Georges responded in kind.
Chris also liked to laugh. Any joke he heard, no matter how childish or simple, would usually leave him on the floor, and he would clap David on the back in response. David learned this the hard way. He had told Chris a lame joke ("Once there was a guy who was so two-faced that any woman he married ended up being a bigamist."), and Chris, howling with laughter, smacked him on his sun-burned back.
Now, David had been invited to Chris's ranch to spend the weekend. He had been meaning to ask Chris if his sister would be joining them. Hell no! Chris might be eccentric, but he was not stupid. He knew David had a thing for Amy, and why wouldn't he? Every boy at school drooled over her. The Georges attended Ashton High, while David attended JFK. That actually seemed for the better. At Ashton, Amy, pretty and quite popular, was always surrounded by rich jocks, cheerleaders, and giggling girls. Yet, when she was on her own, she was usually friendly to David, though she showed no signs of being attracted to him.
"What are you thinking about?" Chris asked David. They were driving now, leaving the outskirts of Grafton, their hometown, about ten miles from Dallas. The Georges' ranch was less than an hour away.
"Oh, nothing. Just wondering how many exchange students JFK will be hosting this semester," David said coolly.
"It is still two weeks before school. You can't seriously be thinking about that!" Chris snapped.
"Just curious," David replied. He had an inkling of why Chris hated school. He was the least bright member of his family. Amy, pretty as she was, was far from dumb. She was the top senior at Ashton. A month before, she had been awarded a full scholarship to Harvard. Chris also had three older cousins, one at Stanford and the other two at MIT. He didn't think of himself as slow or trailing the rest of his family; his grades usually ranged from B to A minus. And his parents didn't push him or compare him with the others. Still, he always felt a little pressure.
David changed the subject.
"So who else is coming?" he finally asked.
"The usual gang: my sister, Diego, E.T., Sara, and Jackie. I think Carrie's coming, too."
"Carrie?" David said. "Who is she?"
Diego was one of Chris's closest friends; when he needed to tell him something in confidence, he usually spoke Spanish rather than speaking in code, since they both sucked at that. Eddie "E.T." Thomas was a sixteen-year-old sophomore, a year behind them. Sara and Jackie Lohan were identical African-American twins. David thought Chris ought to have a list of all the twin jokes he had told them. Except for Diego, who attended JFK with David, they all went to Ashton, but were friends of David because they were frequent guests at Chris's house.
"Oh, yeah," Chris said carelessly. "She's a friend of my sister."
"Mm. I see."
"Oh? Didn't I mention her before?"
"You must have missed it," David said.
"Yes. Well, to make a long story short, we try to avoid her."
David said nothing. He just nodded apologetically.
Chris waited a few seconds for a reply, but when he realized an explanation was required, he finally spoke. "It's not what you think. We don't really hate her. She's okay. It's just, just ..."
"What?" David asked, a little more intrigued.
"I guess it's a little uncomfortable being with her, a little intimidating. I think that word puts it better."
"Because?" David insisted.
Chris scoffed. "She's a monster. A freak." He wanted to say more but seemed unable.
"Because?" David insisted again, a little more impatient, as if addressing a five-year-old.
"Okay, okay. I'll just say it!" Chris barked. "She's seventeen and she must be over six foot three. She's enormous. A giantess, really. I mean, if she's that huge now, imagine how big she'll be when she is—at what age do girls stop growing? Nineteen? Twenty? Phew!
"And that's not all there is to it. I hear she was already six foot one when she was twelve. When she was fourteen, she was six two and a half. She keeps growing insanely fast. I also hear a few little kids in her neighborhood are terrified of her. I tell you, amigo, if she keeps growing at that rate, unless she moves somewhere in Northern Europe, she's gonna have a real hard time finding a date."
Probably not, David thought. Probably not.
He suddenly felt turned on. Shit, if Chris hadn't used the word grow so often, it probably wouldn't have affected him that much. Growing and growing. Giantess. Damn it, David, get a grip!
He had always been fascinated by tall girls. The taller the better. And he resented the fact that it was difficult to find a girl bigger than he was, since boys tend to grow taller than girls. At school, he would often see couples hanging out and fooling around. The guy was always taller, and the girl would usually sit on the guy's lap while he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her head and lips. Then the guy would pick up the girl, and she would wrap her legs around his waist and let him carry her away.
Sure that was nice. But why couldn't it be the other way around? A few times he had seen a guy sitting on a girl's lap, but still the guy was bigger. He figured this would be uncomfortable, like sitting in a tiny plastic chair for kids. It even looked, well, abusive.
David preferred bigger girls for two reasons. First, the bigger they were, the more there was to feel. For example, wrapping your arms around her would feel a lot comfier and a lot warmer; you could rest your head on her shoulder while your arms were busy stroking her waist, her back, maybe even her legs if she'd allow it; then, just like that, before you knew it, you would fall asleep. Then, when she embraced you, and her big hands and arms roamed over your body, it would not only feel good and relaxing, but you would feel protected from anything dark and threatening. You also would feel more cared for and loved.
David's ideas were sadly hypothetical, but he believed they were true. He also knew that most things in life were better appreciated according to a person's own perspective and not the opinions of others. And now he was going to Chris's ranch where he would meet a girl who fulfilled his expectations! He didn't think it would be easy to meet a girl that big, at least not in America. Would she be pretty? Que sera sera. He didn't think it mattered much. She was huge, and that would take care of at least 60 percent of her attractiveness.
Then a second thought visited his mind. What if she didn't find him attractive? What if she were horrible to him? What if she were one of those glamorous, arrogant, cold girls who boast about their height and consider the rest of humanity little people? Even if he had the courage to ask her out, she might mock him and say, "Aren't you a bit too short for me, you little loser?" It was too horrible to imagine.
"Earth to David Fisher." A voice suddenly pierced his mind.
"What?" he said. Back to reality.
"Earth to David Fisher," Chris called. "What happened to you, man? You haven't said anything for almost two minutes."
Jeez, he had been so concentrated on Carrie, a girl he hadn't even laid eyes on yet. Suddenly, he looked down and noticed he had an erection. Great! What the hell is wrong with me! Had Chris noticed? No time to find out. He immediately crossed his left leg so Chris couldn't see his crotch.
"Well," he said, discreetly trying to accommodate his condition, "I guess I gave deep thought to what you said about Carrie. I've never heard of a girl that big, even a full-grown woman."
"It's the truth. You'll see for yourself, compadre. But relax. She's actually quite meek. Not what you'd think," Chris added, as if he had read David's mind.
"Well, that's a relief. However, I think you exaggerated a little when you said she would have a tough time finding somebody. I mean, is she at least pretty?" David asked, trying not to sound too obviously interested.
"Well, she's not really my type. She's got green eyes, pale skin, and light freckles. Your typical all-American girl." Chris chuckled. "After living in Mexico for almost ten years, I guess I acquired a different taste. Hispanic girls are hot, man. Hot! Muy caliente!"
David said nothing. It was Chris's chance to get turned on, so he let him be. He had succeeded. Chris told him everything he needed to know.
"Hey, look! A 7-Eleven!" Chris yelled suddenly. "Think I'll get myself a burrito and take a leak," he said bursting into laughter. He slid his truck into the right lane and slowed down.
"Take your time. I'll wait here." Chris left the truck the minute he parked.
Damn right he was gonna wait here. His erection was still only halfway down. He thought of stuff that might help put it out—pictures, movies, jokes, anything. Grandma; 24, with Jack Bauer torturing and beating the crap out of some Middle East terrorist for information; Misery and Kathy Bates hobbling poor James Caan; Hannibal and Doctor Lecter performing an exquisite craniotomy; Voldemort, Snape, and Dumbledore dancing to disco music from the '70s: Staying Alive, Disco Inferno, and Physical; his literally shitty episode in the bathroom.
Yes! That was working. He realized that he was laughing out loud. His erection was now barely noticeable. He thanked the creativity professor from his former school.
As he waited in the truck for Chris, he thought of what lay ahead. Maybe he'd get lucky with Carrie. And then maybe it wouldn't be a big deal if Amy didn't find him cute. Que sera sera.
Neville
Five thousand miles away, Londoners were experiencing another typical English day. Rain drenched the city, and cars, limos, and taxis had their windshield wipers working to the max. Pedestrians clutched their umbrellas as they headed for their homes, the movies, or the pubs after a hard workday. The sky looked threatening, dark gray clouds turning day into night in a matter of minutes. But life went on.
Neville Fine, seventeen years old, lived at 12 Brooke Drive in South East London. His father got the house in the divorce, while his mother moved to Glasgow with her sister. That was twelve years ago. Neville had been five while his sister Andrea had been four. It hadn't been a nasty divorce, though his parents didn't talk much. They simply decided to part ways.
Neville's father was a successful ophthalmologist, while his mother owned a small but thriving wedding dress boutique.
Neville was a short boy with short, curly, blond hair, big, owlish, brown eyes, and a cleft chin. He had a very large mouth and most likely earned it by grinning like the Cheshire Cat every time he played a trick on his sister, his parents, or even his grandparents; he would howl with laughter, opening his mouth as wide as he could until his jaws hurt. He rarely appeared calm or serene. Sometimes he didn't even notice his clownish looks, since they had become so much a part of him.
Throughout pre-elementary, elementary, and midschool, he had been lucky to have a group of friends who shared his eccentricities. But he was also subjected to bullying.
Neville knew he had a funny face and was proud of it. He preferred to look silly rather than be thought handsome.
He always fought to be the class clown. Being funny came quite naturally to him. He thought humor was the solution to everything; to nobody's surprise, he was a huge fan of Patch Adams.
Neville also was deeply aware and concerned about how the English were stereotyped. He knew they were regarded as cold, pompous, and obsessed with eloquence and proper manners. Boring! Could such a life be more miserable and empty?
Neville and his sister attended Glastonbury School, well known for its strict discipline and severe punishments. Most of the teachers held doctorates and taught at a college level. The classes were hard and the discipline severe. The rules were simple: if you cheated just once, you were banned from everything Glastonbury had to offer—scholarships, studying abroad, belonging to student organizations, joining the rugby team, cheerleading, and the list went on. All that was left for you was the right to remain at school. And of course, cheating would also cost you an academic dishonesty stamp on your record card. Earning an A.D. stamp was like having a criminal record because it compromised your future after high school and therefore your professional life; only by dropping out of Glastonbury could the A.D. be expunged.
Neville wasn't intimidated by such drastic measures. He was the master of cheating, and over the years had come up with clever ways of copying.
And so, after managing a year and a half without being caught, he finally got the opportunity to study abroad. He would leave England for the first time to live on American soil.
At the moment, Neville was using his spare time to stroll around the Plaza Galleria, a five-story shopping center only a few minutes' walking distance from his home. He brought his camera with him as he always did. He enjoyed visiting the mall because it was easy to spot extravagant people with eccentric clothing and cartoonish faces like his. He loved spying on them and had his camera ready at just the moment when they weren't looking and took their pictures. Just like the damn paparazzi. He enjoyed feeding the photos into his computer and then, with the help of Photoshop, adding himself to them. Sometimes he also added Andrea (without her permission).
Neville was sitting at a table near the food court, helping himself to tea and biscuits, when he saw the perfect prospect. And this time he didn't think he'd need Photoshop. Twenty feet away sat a huge, fat man with a round belly and a head so large and bald that he resembled a Conehead. He was wearing brown trousers, a John Lennon T-shirt, and pink socks. And he was fast asleep, Neville deduced, since his mouth was hanging open.
Come to Neville, he said to himself, smirking. He would usually refer to himself in the first person, not because he thought of himself as superior to others but because he had a childish way about him.
Neville produced his camera from his jacket's breast pocket, walked toward the man, and fighting not to giggle, sat next to him. He made sure that nobody was watching. He had to be quick. There were a lot of people roaming around who might notice him. He sat as close to the man as discreetly as he could so as not to wake him, and aimed the camera, calculating the right angle so they could both appear in the picture. Do it! Do it now!
He took the picture.
It would have been perfect; nobody noticed, but there was a flaw in his trick.
Flash!
Bugger! You blithering idiot! How could you forget to make sure there would be no flash!
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Bullynator by E. Fanjon. Copyright © 2013 E. Fanjon. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
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