Read Online Bullyville by Francine Prose - Free Book Online

doin’?” “Whassup?” “How do you like the school?”
    â€œIt’s great,” I said. “It’s really great.” And at that moment I thought so.
    â€œWhatcha eating, Fart?” said Tyro.
    â€œTwo burgers!” one of the guys said. “Fart’s got two burgers. What did you do to get that , Bart?Screw the lunch lady?”
    â€œWell,” I said apologetically, “maybe it’s just because I’m new.”
    â€œBecause you’re new,” said Tyro thoughtfully. “Because you’re new…. That’s right, you are new. Very new, aren’t you, Fart. Practically…new born .”
    â€œIt’s my first day,” I said, idiotically. Obviously. Tyro knew that. There was a long silence during which all the guys stared at the two burgers on my plate, and I wished I’d sneaked off and eaten by myself at a distant corner of the refectory. Couldn’t they get seconds if they wanted? With all the tuition money their parents were paying, you’d think they could have had two measly little burgers. You’d think they could have had twenty!
    Finally, just to break the silence, I said, “Could you pass the ketchup?” I didn’t like ketchup all that much. But it was something to say.
    â€œSure,” said Tyro. “Ketchup! Coming up! Could you grab the bottle, gentlemen?” The bottle traveled toward me, hand to hand, down the table. I opened it, and shook it, then shook itagain. Everyone was watching. I checked to make sure that they hadn’t passed me an empty bottle on purpose. This was Bullywell, after all. But there was ketchup stuck up in the bottle. It just wasn’t moving.
    â€œStuck ketchup,” said Tyro. “It’s a Baileywell tradition.” Everyone laughed and rolled their eyes as if they knew precisely what he was talking about, as if the worst things they had to put up with at school were gummed-up ketchup bottles. “Want some help with that?”
    â€œSure,” I said, though I had the definite feeling that I didn’t.
    Tyro took the bottle and, with a single, powerful flick of his wrist, shook it over my burger. Something about the way he did it made him seem like an Olympic athlete performing some brilliant maneuver. A ski jump, a triple axle, a high-speed slalom run.
    A modest little blob of ketchup landed dead center on my burger.
    â€œBull’s-eye,” said one of Tyro’s friends.
    â€œThanks,” I said. “That’s great.”
    Tyro seemed not to hear me. “Want some more?”
    â€œNo, that’s enough, that’s great,” I said, but again he acted as if he didn’t hear. He gave the bottle another shake, and another plop of ketchup decorated my burger.
    â€œHow about some more?” he said.
    â€œNo, really,” I said. “That’s fine.”
    â€œBut if a little is fine, more is finer, right? More is more, am I correct?” He shook the bottle again. And as I and his friends watched, Tyro shook the bottle again and again. First the burger was swimming in ketchup, then it was drowning in ketchup, and then at last it disappeared beneath a red tide of ketchup. Soon both hamburger buns vanished beneath the spreading red blob, and still Tyro kept shaking the bottle, which by now was nearly empty.
    â€œGee, man,” said the friend Tyro called Buff, and you could see why. “I think something’s seriously wrong with your burger.”
    â€œRoadkill,” the one called Dog said.
    â€œI think it’s got a bleeding disorder,” Pork said. “I think your burger hemorrhaged all over your plate, man.”
    Everyone laughed.
    â€œThat’s not funny,” Tyro said. “You shut the hell up, Pork.”
    Everyone shut up. In fact, they lost all interest in me and my burger and my ketchup problem, and went back to talking and eating and laughing as if I weren’t there. I stared at