The Bullynator

By E. Fanjon

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!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475990508

E. Fanjon

E. Fanjon currently works as an insurance agent and has a passion for writing. He lives in Mexico. This is his first novel.

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Copyright © 2013 E. Fanjon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-9048-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9049-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-9050-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908853

iUniverse rev. date: 07/18/2013

Contents

Prologue

Part 1:

The Quartet

Part 2:

Disney

Part 3:

The War Begins

Part 4:

January–June

Epilogu

To my friends from UNCG and the D.College Program, who may have thought I had forgotten them.

Prologue

Jack Lucas, headmaster of JFK High School, sat in his office, waiting for the call he had been expecting for almost a month.

He was a fat man with a round belly and a walrus mustache so thick it sometimes tickled his nose. His looks were somewhat comical: his face gave the impression that he was fighting not to sneeze or cough, while his red nose made it appear that he had a permanent cold; in contrast with his face and belly, his arms and legs were quite thin, which made his appearance even more amusing.

Jack was studying a profile of Neville W. J. E. Fine, an English exchange student soon to arrive at the school. The application said Fine had had trouble with bullies, and Jack wasn’t surprised, judging by the boy’s appearance.

Normally this information wouldn’t have troubled the headmaster, since JFK had long maintained a reputation for being friendly, tolerant, and peaceful.

But not this year.

This year, JFK was also to host two infamous students: Lucy Elizabeth Stone and Jack Omar York. And the last thing the headmaster needed was for his quiet school to become an inferno.

Especially this year.

Just a month before, he had sent his résumé to North Shore, a prestigious prep school in New Hampshire that sent most of its students on to Harvard and MIT. North Shore had an opening on its board. Jack was a North Shore graduate and had later visited the school on several occasions.

He remembered the conversation as if it had been yesterday.

Hello. Dr. Lucas speaking.

Dr. Lucas, a man with a deep voice and a British accent replied, this is Professor Alan Phelps from North Shore. Were you notified about our calling?

Jack took a deep breath. He held a doctorate, and the man calling him apparently did not. That made him feel a little more confident.

Yes, of course, Professor.

I read your résumé, Phelps said. Pretty impressive. Graduated with honors, six months studying in England, six months in Switzerland, and a PhD at the age of thirty-one. Dear me, I still have two more years before I’m done with my doctorate. He chuckled. However, beyond your academic credentials, North Shore wants to see whether you can maintain a peaceful, friendly environment at your school.

Jack considered this for a second. I see, he said, surmising where Phelps was going.

Understand that this is a more recent consideration, something we began discussing less than a month ago, actually. You see, over the last year, bullying incidents at North Shore have increased by 12 percent. And to make matters worse, a twenty-year-old sophomore attempted suicide two weeks ago—I’m sure you read about it in the paper. We had never had an incident like this before. She’s in stable condition now, thank God.

Jack could guess why the poor girl had attempted to take her life. North Shore was a school for privileged students. Of course, there were always those attending on scholarship. To some, they were charity cases.

I’m so sorry to hear that, Professor, he said with compassion. He had read about the incident and had indeed felt terrible about it. He too had been on scholarship at North Shore. But he didn’t expect this would put his promotion in jeopardy. He took a deep breath.

Phelps said that North Shore would evaluate the student atmosphere at JFK for the next term and, based on its observations, would determine whether Jack was the right man for the position.

Now, feeling acutely alone in his office, Jack put away Neville Fine’s application and glanced at all the diplomas, certificates, and recognitions that hung on the walls. Before the call, he had always felt proud of his achievements. Now they seemed to have little importance. These were different times, and top positions required more than intellect. He wondered whether he was capable of doing the job.

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!

The fat man immediately began muttering and coughing, as if he had been awakened by a bucket of water. Neville had just enough time to stuff away his camera and pretend nothing had happened. Probably drunk as a skunk, he thought. He would have cackled as usual, but now he was scared.

Ah, who are you, boy? the man asked in a grouchy, drunken voice.

Er, nobody, Neville said.

You must have a name, boy, the man insisted. He didn’t seem angry, just confused, not having the slightest idea of where he was.

Neville, sir, the boy answered. Hey, look. Sorry if I …

Have you seen Topher? the man interrupted.

Er, who? Neville asked. Who the hell was Topher? Who the hell did he think he was talking to? Did the man even notice that Neville had awakened him?

Topher! My precious Topher! the man said, now gaining consciousness. He was sitting right next to me, he snapped.

Er, sorry, sir, er … is he your son? Your nephew? Neville asked helplessly.

My lover! the man cried.

Neville immediately got to his feet and turned his back to the man, running as far away as possible. He burst into laughter; it was not forced but came naturally. He hadn’t even had time to consider discretion. The man’s reply had been so sudden and unexpected. If the man was yelling or cursing at him, Neville could not hear, since he was laughing at the top of his lungs. As soon as he had heard the man’s response, he imagined himself in a sitcom, hearing the audience laughing along with him. Ha ha ha!

After what seemed a full minute, he realized that his stomach was burning. Why did it have to hurt when you laughed? He pressed his stomach with both hands and bent down to the floor as if throwing up. His stomach burned worse with every second that passed, and still he could not contain himself; he realized that the pain soon would be unbearable, and he tried not to think about what had just happened.

Impossible. Every time he thought about what the man had said, it was like Neville had heard it for the first time, and another wave of laughter would invade his body, restarting the whole vicious cycle.

Finally, he was able to take a deep breath. He did it again and again. That helped him diminish the burning sensation in his stomach and even the psychological stimulation to laugh.

His phone rang. Good. Another distraction, he thought.

Hello.

Dumbo! Where the hell are you! I have been calling you for the last two minutes! a young female voice bellowed in his ear.

Oh, hi, sis, Neville said sardonically. What did I not do this time?

You need to come home right away. Father says we need to pack our bags now.

Coming, he said patiently.

Fine.

What? And since when do you call me by my last name? he asked, chuckling.

She didn’t bother to laugh at his joke. She never did. She hung up.

Neville went home.

Carrie

David and Chris were unpacking and setting up their tents.

Every once in a while, David would take a look and see if there was any sign of Carrie, the mysterious giantess. Chris noticed this, but thought David was searching for Amy.

She ain’t here yet, Chris said in a gotcha tone. She’ll be here later with my parents.

Uh-huh, David thought.

So, did you bring any games? Chris asked.

No, but I think I left my Twister game last time I came.

Oh, you’d like to play that one, wouldn’t ya? Chris said, grinning. With my sister?

Oh, he wanted to play all right, but with somebody else.

David shrugged indifferently.

Think she’s with somebody now, sorry to say, Chris said with a little compassion in his voice.

Mm-hm.

Chris’s parents owned a couple of flower shops—one in downtown Dallas and another in Grafton, their hometown. David had been invited to Chris’s ranch several times. The ranch consisted of twenty-five acres. It was a quiet place, peaceful and relaxing, and it was a mile away from the Big Lake.

David enjoyed the ranch because there was always something to do. He had fun playing Scrabble because the words he formed might not earn him big points but would make Chris drop on all fours in laughter.

On one occasion, he asked Mr. George if he would teach him how to milk a cow. Mr. George was happy to do so; when David got the hang of it, he did it himself and managed to fill two buckets in a little less than thirty minutes. But a big oops occurred that day. The sun was shining and the air was insanely hot and dry, so David decided to crawl under the cow to milk it. This would have been a great idea if the damn cow hadn’t peed all over him, and boy can cows pee! The pee felt as if it were coming from a shower stall at great pressure. David eventually laughed about the incident; however, for the rest of the weekend Amy would not go near him. That was the worst of it, back when his attraction for her was strong.

Ah, here they come,