Sully Messed Up Read online

  Copyright © 2021 Stephanie Simpson McLellan

  Published in Canada by Red Deer Press,

  195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, ON L3R 4T8

  Published in the United States by Red Deer Press,

  311 Washington Street, Brighton, MA 02135

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews and articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Red Deer Press, 195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, ON L3R 4T8

  Red Deer Press acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

  Edited for the Press by Peter Carver

  Text and cover design by Tanya Montini

  Proudly printed in Canada by Houghton Boston

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Sully, messed up / Stephanie Simpson McLellan.

  Names: Simpson McLellan, Stephanie, 1959- author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana 20200362070 | ISBN 9780889956377 (softcover) | ISBN 9780889956551 (ePUB) | ISBN 9780889956544 (PDF)

  Classification: LCC PS8575.L457 S85 2021 | DDC jC813/.6—dc23

  Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S.)

  Names: Simpson McLellan, Stephanie, 1959-, author.

  Title: Sully, Messed Up / Stephanie Simpson McLellan.

  Description: Markham, Ontario : Red Deer Press, 2021. | Summary: “First day of Grade 9 is a literal horror for Sully. He can’t seem to find his own face in the mirror, and soon attracts a trio of bullies at school. He is the perfect target, lacking confidence and with only two other misfits for friends. It’s only when he begins to overcome his fears and see that the friends have much to offer that he finally discovers his true face” -- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: ISBN 978-0-88995-637-7 (paperback) | ISBN 9780889956551 (ePUB) | ISBN 9780889956544 (PDF)

  Subjects: LCSH: Bullying-- Juvenile fiction. | Individual differences in adolescence -- Juvenile fiction. | Friendship in adolescence -- Juvenile fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Social Themes / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.M435Sul | DDC [F] – dc23

  www.reddeerpress.com

  For Trysten, who is both Sully and Morsixx, and for Sarah and Eryn, who fueled the heart and soul of Blossom

  CHAPTER 1

  “Out of bed this minute, Sullivan Brewster.”

  Sully woke to the whack of his mother’s fist on his bedroom door.

  “You’re going to miss the bus if you don’t get a move on.”

  He pushed his curtains aside with his foot. Darkness still crouched at the window and clung to the corners of his room.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you, Mom. I’m getting up.”

  “Come on, Sleepybones. You’ve had all summer to sleep in. You don’t want to be late on your first day of Grade 9.”

  Sully rolled his eyes and rolled over.

  “I’m up. I’m up.”

  “Breakfast in ten. Pedal to the metal, Sullivan.”

  Untwisting himself from his sheets, Sully stumbled to his feet and hitched up his boxers. He shuffled across the hall and flicked on the bathroom light.

  And screamed.

  “Sullivan?”

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  It wasn’t okay.

  Sully jerked back at the sight of something inhuman staring at him from inside the bathroom mirror. The creature in the mirror jolted back at the exact same moment.

  Sully thrust his arms in front of his face to push the apparition away. The creature mimicked the gesture in perfect unison. Its muddy brown hair rippled in loose curls to its shoulders in exactly the way Sully’s did, and its pasty white skin became whiter still as Sully felt the color drain from his own pale face.

  It was wearing Sully’s boxers.

  Through the weave of his fingers, Sully spied the creature spying at him through the weave of its fingers. With a shriek, he realized he was looking at himself.

  But not himself.

  Sully leaned into the mirror, meeting his reflection halfway.

  His nose, pink and dripping, hunkered sideways on his left temple. One of his ears—it was hard to tell which one from the unfamiliar angle—bulged where his nose should have been. The other protruded, antenna-like, right above his lips, which quivered, post-scream, in the middle of his forehead.

  Thinking he might still be asleep, Sully pinched the soft skin on the inside of his arm.

  “Ow!”

  He rubbed his eyes, one on either side of his chin, and squinted at his reflection again.

  Nothing changed. He still looked like a frightened Picasso or deranged Mr. Potato Head. As he watched, the black hole in the middle of his forehead opened wider, spilling shrill sound into his ears, perched just north and south of the eruption.

  Sully slapped one hand across his forehead to stop the sound, the other over his chin to block the image. He staggered backward out of the bathroom and tripped across the hallway into his room. Twisted configurations of socks and t-shirts grabbed his ankles, causing him to slide head-first across his bedroom floor on a direct collision course with his dresser.

  CHAPTER 2

  As he regained consciousness, Sully’s left temple twitched at the smell of frying bacon. His Star Wars action figures came into focus, knocked to the floor when his head hit the dresser. Luke Skywalker’s legs protruded from the waistband of last week’s underwear. Darth Vader dug into Sully’s right cheek.

  The nightmare still fresh, Sully let his fingers crawl up the sides of his face, intrepid explorers torn between hope and fear. They didn’t have to go further than his chin to discover the unmistakeable contour of his eyes, before he threw himself sideways. And threw up.

  “Breakfast is on the table, Sullivan.”

  Mom’s words, shouted from the bottom of the stairs, might as well have been in a foreign language. They sat in Sully’s brain for several seconds before he could decipher their meaning. Mopping dribbles of puke from his forehead, his reply was a barely audible grunt.

  He pushed himself to his knees to see his reflection in the dresser mirror.

  “Sullivan?” Mom said.

  This in reaction to a choked scream Sully muffled by savagely grabbing his forehead as he stared at his reflection.

  “I’m not feeling well, Mom. I don’t want breakfast.”

  The scene staring back at him was reminiscent of that painting of the screaming man on the bridge. Sponge Bob stared at him from a poster on the left of his mirror, fractured steel reflections of Billy Talent to the right.

  “Open the door, Sullivan.” Mom’s voice was now mere feet away. “I know you’re nervous, but it’ll all be fine. I promise.”

  “I’m not dressed!” Sully threw himself at his bed-room door. He needed time to think before sharing his predicament.

  “Seriously, Sullivan. You need to speed it up. Dressed and at the table in two minutes.”

  “Wake up, Sully. Wake up.” Sully slapped his cheeks with both hands, narrowly missing his nose.

  He pulled some jeans over his boxers and rummaged through the pile of clothes furthest from the vomit. He found a t-shirt under some underwear and jammed a wool cap over his head. Rearranging his hair so it covered most of his face, he navigated the stairs and skulked into the kitc
hen.

  “So, you had a good sleep?” Mom’s back was to him as she scooped eggs onto a plate at the stove.

  Sully slid into his seat as inconspicuously as circumstances allowed and contemplated his own breakfast. His stomach felt as messed up as his face, as he tried to logic how to get food into his mouth. Which was on his forehead. Under his cap.

  Outwitted by the riddle, he pushed scrambled eggs and bacon around his plate.

  “I just want a little.”

  “Take your hat off at the table, Sullivan.” Mom put another plate on the table and turned back to the stove.

  “Rooster, look.” His little sister, Eva, pushed some bacon into her mouth through her missing front teeth.

  Mom handed her a napkin. “Manners, young lady.”

  “Cool look, Rooster.” Eva placed the napkin on her head and pushed her hair in front of her own face. “Twins!” she giggled and swiped at Sully’s hat.

  “Let your brother eat, Eva,” said Mom. “He’s got a bus to catch.”

  Sully slouched sideways and scooped a small forkful of eggs under his hair when no one was looking.

  “Your mother said take your hat off, Van, my man.” His stepdad, Bill, tousled the top of Sully’s head before swinging into the chair across the table.

  No sooner had Sully yanked his cap back in place than Eva snatched it herself and jammed it on her own head. “I’m Rooster! I’m Rooster!”

  Sully’s flying hands were inadequate to cover up his seriously messed up face. His nose sprinted back and forth across his temple. His right eye twitched at the edge of his chin.

  “Sullivan!” said Mom.

  “Rooster!” said Eva.

  “Why, Vanny,” said Bill.

  Sully curled forward and shut his eyes. He jammed one finger into the ear in the middle of his face and the other in the one on top of his head.

  “Seriously, Sullivan.” Mom pulled his hands away from his face. “Stop horsing around and eat your breakfast.”

  “There’s something on your face,” said Eva.

  “Give your brother his hat,” said Bill.

  “But he’s got ketchup on the end of his nose,” said Eva.

  Sully’s hand darted to his left temple to inspect his nose. His stepsister was right. There was a slime of ketchup there. But was that the point?

  “Can’t you see something’s wrong with me?”

  “Don’t yell at your mother, Vanny,” said Bill.

  “I’m not kidding,” Sully said. “Look at me. Look at my face.”

  “Don’t worry, Rooster,” said Eva. “It’s just ketchup.”

  “I’m not talking about ketchup!” Sully’s voice tripped across three different octaves in five words.

  “Scrambled eggs, too.” Eva slid her fingers along some strands of her hair to indicate where Sully should check his own.

  “Give your brother back his hat, Princess,” said Bill.

  “Please,” said Mom. “Everyone settle down so we can have a nice family breakfast.”

  “Can I eat in my room? I really don’t feel like myself right now.”

  “Stay where you are, Vanny.” Bill said. “Like your mother said, we’re all going to sit together and have a nice breakfast.”

  “Seriously, Mom. I think I might have leprosy or something.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sullivan.”

  “Don’t I look any different to you?”

  “Only with your hat on,” Eva offered. She nodded at Sully encouragingly.

  “Mom, please!” Sully said.

  “It’s hard to see with your hat and all that long hair.” His mom cupped his chin and turned his face to the right and then left, as if sizing up a garage sale find.

  “Something really strange is happening.” Sully pulled away from his mom. “Look at my face.”

  “You’ve just got first-day jitters,” she said. “You look perfectly normal to me.”

  “Except for your hat,” tried Eva again. “And the ketchup.”

  “Eat your breakfast, Eva,” said Mom. “Sullivan, there’s nothing wrong with you that a good haircut wouldn’t cure. Now, everybody stop the dramatics and let’s finish breakfast in peace.”

  Sully slumped back in his chair and slid a piece of bacon into his forehead.

  “Doesn’t it look strange to you the way I’m eating?” he tried one more time. “Look at my eyes. And my ears. That’s definitely not normal!”

  “Maybe you got ketchup in your eyes, too?” With a look of concern, Eva leaned forward to peer into Sully’s face.

  “Look at me, Mom.” Sully pawed the sides of his chin. “Look at my eyes. Just look at them. They’re not—”

  “It might be ketchup,” insisted Eva.

  “It’s not ketchup!” Sully pushed away from the table. “Look, just forget it. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I have to get ready or I’ll miss the bus.”

  “Wait, Rooster.” Eva grabbed his arm and jabbed the napkin toward the ketchup on his face.

  Sully pulled himself free and bolted up the stairs. After tossing his vomit-soiled clothes in the laundry, he shut his bedroom door and approached his dresser mirror again.

  “Can’t anyone see what’s happened to me?” he whispered.

  CHAPTER 3

  As his mother predicted, Sully was lucky to catch the bus.

  Before he’d even crossed the road en route to his designated stop two blocks away, the school bus barreled past him. Pulling his cap down, his backpack up, and his hair forward, he broke into a sprint down the middle of the road, pacing the big wheels and wheezing with effort.

  Faces pooled at the back of the bus and heads poked out the side windows.

  “Run, kid!”

  “Faster, Brewster!”

  “Niner! Niner!”

  While he arrived at the bus stop only seconds after the bus did, the driver greeted him with a sigh.

  “Seven twenty-six tomorrow, Curly.” The driver pointed to the clock on the dashboard. “Got a schedule to keep.”

  “Sorry.” Sully scanned the crowd of smirking faces through the strands of hair that hung in front of his face.

  He couldn’t see Morty anywhere. Instead, he found himself looking straight into the eyes of six feet of solid muscle. While he’d never laid eyes on him before, Sully had no doubt this was Tank, celebrated linebacker and legendary overlord of Wild Forest Secondary.

  Sully’s middle school was one of a dozen that fed the local high school. Over the last two years, Tank’s reputation had spread to the feeder schools like a swollen river seeps through the streets after a nasty rain.

  Tank dragged a hand across his military cut and impaled Sully with narrowed eyes. The stocky kid to Tank’s left squinted his own little pig eyes. He took off and then replaced his backward ball cap, after mimicking Tank’s hand-dragging gesture.

  “Hey, Ox.” A wiry kid with matching ball cap, and pants slung halfway down his backside, reached behind Tank to punch Pig Eyes on the shoulder. “It’s a real live hippie.”

  “Shut it, Dodger.” Tank raised his hand to accentuate the command.

  Sully flinched and jolted backward. Unbalanced, he staggered to right himself but tripped forward and landed face first in Tank’s lap.

  A combustion of laughter from behind extinguished even before Sully found himself briefly airborne, landing this time on the bus floor at Tank’s feet.

  “Find a seat, kid.” The bus driver watched through the rear-view mirror as Sully pushed himself to his knees.

  “Look at his face.” Dodger’s exaggerated guffaw revealed irregularly spaced teeth a touch too small.

  Sully’s hands raced for his face to feel the map of his new reality.

  “Is that ketchup on your face?” said Dodger.

  “Scrambled eggs for breakfast?
” said Ox, pointing at Sully’s hair.

  If they noticed how rearranged his face was, they weren’t saying.

  “What’s your name?” Tank’s expression remained decidedly unamused as Sully pulled himself to standing.

  “Who, me?”

  “No, the little fairy in front of me.”

  “Uh . . . Sully.”

  “Sally?”

  “No . . . Sully. Sullivan.”

  “You look more like a Sally to me,” said Tank.

  Ox and Dodger punched each other.

  Tank shot a look at their hyena laughter and then focused on Sully again.

  “You remind me of someone,” said Tank. “Does Sally remind you of anyone, Dodger?”

  “Cousin Itt?” said Dodger. “Only curly. Cousin Itt with a curling iron.”

  “All you losers look the same,” said Tank. “That stupid hair can’t hide who you are.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Well, I—” Dodger mimicked.

  “No one respects someone who doesn’t respect themselves, Sally,” said Tank. “Do you deserve your own respect?”

  Sully’s gaze darted right and left, hoping someone might supply him with the correct answer. A strange woman with a big black purse stood on tiptoes outside the bus window with her mouth hanging open. Even she seemed to be waiting for his reply.

  “Exactly what I thought.” Tank waved his hand in dismissal.

  “I can’t drive until you sit.” The bus driver stood and waved Sully to an empty seat.

  Sully shrank backward and into the space indicated.

  “Dude,” said the kid beside him. “Talk about off to a bad start.”

  Through strands of hair, Sully spied a tall, lanky boy with long, dark, poker-straight hair, dressed entirely in black, from his skeleton hoodie to his belted, chained knee-high runners. Sully shifted as close to the edge of his seat as he dared without making any part of himself visible to Tank.

  “Look at me, Dude. Man, what happened to you?”

  Sully’s hands flew up to the still unfamiliar landscape of his face.

  “I—”