Vicious is My Middle Name

Contents

Praise for Vicious is My Middle Name

Vicious is My Middle Name

Copyright © 2022 Kevin Dunn. All rights reserved.

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Franklin Herald, page A1

16

Acknowledgements

Praise for Vicious is My Middle Name

Sydney is only a middle school student but she teaches her whole town a valuable lesson in the power of friendship, DIY, and tenacity. This book reminds us that punk is more than just good music and that one great show can change everything.

—Alice Bag, lead singer of The Bags and author of Violence Girl

"Vicious is My Middle Name is a compulsively readable novel with vivid storytelling and so much heart. It is impossible not to root for Sydney, even as she reveals her flaws and struggles to grow and become a better person. This is a powerful story about learning to be yourself and coping with change. It is a must-read for anyone who has ever felt like a misfit and found solace in books and music."

—Jennifer Whiteford, author of Grrrl

Sydney is funny, fierce, and fearless. She channels a punk rock attitude and do-it-yourself work ethic not only to cope with the daily horrors of middle school, but also to fight to save her community from the dangers of an asphalt plant. Sydney is a hero and a role model for all young people today, taking a stand and hoping to change the world. She definitely would not be holding anyone’s coat.

—Nancy Barile, author of I’m Not Holding Your Coat

When a punk grrrl relocates from New York to rural North Carolina, she misses her friends, her music, and more. And then there are the mean girls [kids] to survive. The school power structure is also reflected in the town, however, and battle lines drawn on the first page will widen to put others at risk. But Sydney Vicious Talcott will find allies in unexpected places, a mission bigger than her problems, and will come to see that mountain folk have a punk attitude all their own! An energetic and absorbing read.

—Valerie Nieman, author of To the Bones

"In Vicious is My Middle Name, Sydney ‘Vicious’ Talcott is a girl to be reckoned with. When she moves from Rochester, NY to Beaver Dam, NC, she realizes the full meaning of Grrl Power as she takes on the company H.D. Dunkirk and the powers that be when they attempt to construct an asphalt plant close to her school. In her punk rock way, Sydney proves her fierce individual freedom in keeping true to herself and the ‘big picture of life.’ Kevin Dunn writes in beautiful, hard, measured prose that stays with us long after the last page."

—Mary Sullivan, author of High and Dear Blue Sky

"Sydney Vicious Talcott’s life is disrupted when her mom moves them from Rochester, New York to the small town of Beaver Dam, North Carolina. Readers will root for her as she encounters a bully, an unsympathetic teacher and an environmentally hazardous project backed by powerful and threatening community leaders. Her love of music and determination to take a stand and make a difference propels the reader through this timely story. Vicious is My Middle Name is written with skill and a perfect sense of timing, placement and character."

—Roxanne Doty, author of Out Stealing Water

"Kevin Dunn is a firm believer in the power of youth, and individuals banding together to improve their community. Vicious Is My Middle Name combines these two tenets in an accessible yet fierce paean to punk rock and the way that seemingly small actions can resonate far beyond intention."

—Michael T. Fournier, author of Swing State

Vicious is My Middle Name

Kevin Dunn

Fitzroy Books

Copyright © 2022 Kevin Dunn. All rights reserved.

Published by Fitzroy Books

An imprint of

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27587

All rights reserved

https://fitzroybooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646032808

ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646032815

Library of Congress Control Number: ?????

All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

Interior by Lafayette & Greene

Cover images © by C. B. Royal

Illustrations © by Amanda Kirk

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To Strummer

1

Yankee Go Home!"

The sign was written in block letters with a black magic marker and taped to my locker. Clearly things were bad, but even then I had no idea how ugly it would get in the coming months.

Trouble had started that morning when the teacher introduced me to the eighth-grade class.

I’d like y’all to give a big Beaver Dam welcome to our new student from Rochester, New York, Miss Vicious Talcott.

A wave of high-pitched laughter swept through the classroom. I sighed.Actually, my name is Sydney. Sydney Talcott. Vicious is my middle name.

Oh yes, I see, she said, looking at the paper in her hand. Well, welcome to our social studies class. Please take a seat.

I wanted to turn around and walk back out of the classroom. Instead, spying an empty desk at the back of the room, I headed down the aisle. As I moved past the students staring at me, I noticed a small group of kids sitting together, still laughing. They were all dressed almost exactly alike, wearing expensive boots, what looked like the same brand of blue jeans, and red Beaver Dam Beavers sweatshirts for the girls, hoodies for the boys.

Hufflepuffs, I thought to myself.

But as I passed, the girl in the middle of the group looked me up and down with disgust, then locked her piercing green eyes on mine and sneered, Nice hair, freakshow.

The clump of clones around her burst into a loud chorus of giggles. I hurried to my desk as heat rose from my chest, up my neck, and onto my face. That one is pure Slytherin, I corrected myself.

Feeling self-conscious, I glanced down at what I was wearing: a black Epoxies T-shirt with Roxy Epoxy’s face on it. Black jeans with the knees ripped up. Purple Doc Marten boots. It was a look I’ve rocked for years. Classic Sydney Talcott.

Looking around the room I saw that everyone else was wearing hunting camos, button-down shirts, or designer whatevers. No one was dressed as awesomely as I was.

As for my hair, I have great hair.

It’s straight and black, reaching my shoulders with the last two or three inches dyed bright red. And the right side is mostly shaved. Like I said, I’ve got great hair.

Vicious really is my middle name. My parents had a deal that if they were gonna have kids, Dad would name us. He was way into punk rock when my brother and I were born. My older brother is named Joey Ramone Talcott. Not Joseph. Not Joe. Straight-up Joey. He was named after the lead singer of the Ramones, a New York City band that pretty much invented punk.

As for me, I’m named after the bass player of the Sex Pistols, a British punk band. That guy spelled his name Sidney, but Mom insisted they spell mine with a Y. Dad always said that if I had been a boy, he’d have named me after the Sex Pistols’ lead singer. I would have been Johnny Rotten Talcott.

So yeah, there’s that.

I actually like my name. Some friends have tried calling me Syd, but it never stuck. I am more of a Sydney.

But that was back when I had friends. Before Mom made us move to Beaver Dam, North Carolina. Right in the middle of my school year. Not disruptive at all. Thanks, Mom.

Rochester has a lot more going on than Beaver Dam, which seems like total Napville. There isn’t a single record shop, bookstore, or cool coffee shop here. Back home we had all of those things, even all-age punk shows in the basement of a church less than a mile’s walk from my house.

And a lot more kids who looked like me.

Sydney? Sydney, can you join us please? Mrs. Critcher’s voice brought me back to reality. Another round of snickering erupted.

Um, sorry, what? I just zoned out a little. More giggles, which seemed to be the primary way these kids communicated around here.

We’re beginning the chapter on the evolution of the American judicial system and I was wondering if you would mind reading the first paragraph on page eighty-seven, dear.

I pulled out the textbook Mrs. Critcher had handed me earlier, found my place, and began to read aloud. After a few sentences, I saw the green-eyed Slytherin waving her arm in the air.

Yes, Bethany? What is it?

The girl sat up a little straighter, tossed her blond hair over her shoulders, waited a second, obviously for effect, and then said in a syrupy voice, Excuse me, Mrs. Critcher. But could you please ask Vicious Sydney to speak English? I can’t understand a word she is sayin’!

A fresh wave of laughter swept through the class.

Half an hour at my new school and the mean kids were already picking on me.

Perfect.

I was pretty sure Bethany and her Brat Pack put the Yankee Go Home! sign on my locker door after lunch. They spent the whole lunch period laughing and pointing while I sat by myself at the end of a long table in the cafeteria. There was a whole knot of them, boys and girls, all looking extra crispy. I couldn’t tell if there were six or eight or ten of them at the table. It was hard to tell them apart and they looked interchangeable. I think I counted a couple of them twice.

When I got to my locker and found the sign, I tried to act casual. I pulled it down and stuffed it into my backpack, but I could feel the stares on my back and the barely suppressed giggles from the kids standing around me.

For the 387th time that day, I wished Kris were with me. Like a magical charm, she would have given me strength and support. Best friends since first grade, we shared the same twisted, silly sense of humor. She and I were always playing Sorting Hat, in which we guessed which Hogwarts’ house people would belong to: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff. It’s a Harry Potter thing.

We were both Ravenclaws. Naturally.

No one got me like Kris got me.

Plus, we shared the same interest in music and books.

Since I was a kid I was into music, especially by rad women. Everything from Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald to Debbie Harry and Sinead O’Connor. I’d spent my childhood flipping through my dad’s massive vinyl collection and if there was a female in the band, I’d wear that album out. I loved the first two Pogues albums with Cait O’Riordan in the band, but couldn’t be bothered with their stuff after she left.

Kris and I had been into punk rock since we were eight or nine. Dad had long since moved on to folk and jazz, but Joey was a constant source of punk music and information. He was always turning me on to bands. My bedroom in Rochester was papered over with pictures of famous female punk singers. My huge Roxy Epoxy poster loomed over some smaller magazine cutouts of Kathleen Hanna and Exene Cervenka. I had even printed out pictures of Alice Bag and Dani DeLite and put them into frames.

But that wasn’t my bedroom anymore. Mom sold the house at the end of last year.

After I told Kris that Mom and I were moving away, she dyed her short, spiky hair dark blue. To signify her mourning, she said. It’s called Midnight Blue. I was gonna go with black, but Midnight Blue just sounds way cooler.

We were walking home from school, up her street, like we did most days. Kris was kicking an empty soda can ahead of her on the sidewalk, which she had been doing for the last block. What’s Badger Dam like, anyway? she asked.

It’s called Beaver Dam, as you well know. We both laughed at the joke she had made a dozen times already. It’s really small and boring. There’s a hardware store. I think there might be a flower shop or something like that. A few touristy stores selling cheap crafts. If I’m downtown, I spend my time in the old library.

Of course you do, Kris said, laughing.

Like I said, Kris got me.

When we’ve visited in the past, we’ve mostly stayed on Granny and Grandpop’s farm outside of town. It isn’t a big farm or anything, but they’ve got chickens and gardens with vegetables and flowers. It’s super boring. And it’s so hilly, skateboarding can be a life-threatening adventure.

I told her the story of the summer when I tried riding my old skateboard down a steep hill. The smooth paved road had suddenly turned into gravel and I totally wiped out. Mom banned me from skating for the rest of the summer.

I remember that! Kris laughed. When you came back, you still had little bits of grit under your skin! We laughed our way up her driveway and into her house.

Man, I missed Kris.

When the school bell finally rang, I gathered up my backpack from my locker and pushed my way out the front of the building where a handful of buses were waiting. I scanned the buses for number 38, which was sitting at the end of the line. As I walked toward my bus, the freezing cold wind sent a chill down my back and I tightened the scratchy wool scarf around my neck.

Ravenclaw? Jabber? Minor Threat? It took me a second to recognize Bethany’s voice (the predictable chorus of giggles clued me in) and another second to realize that she was reading the buttons and patches covering my backpack.

For the last year, Kris and I had been making our own buttons with one of Joey’s old button-makers. The ones on my backpack were mostly of bands that I liked, plus a few girl-power ones.

"Oooooh, so that’s what a feminist looks like! Bethany said, acknowledging one of the bigger pins. I always knew they would look—and smell—like that."

Look like what? I wondered as I walked faster toward the bus. Climbing aboard, I took the first empty seat I saw. Glancing out the window, I saw Bethany surrounded by a pack of kids. They were clumped together so closely, it looked like a pile-up of expensive winter jackets, starched jeans, and trendy boots. When they got to a massive black SUV in the parking lot, Bethany reached for the front passenger seat while the other four—two boys and two girls—squeezed into the second row of seats. It was one massive suburban assault vehicle.

Nobody sat next to me on the bus, which was just as well. I was usually pretty strong and could put up with a fair amount of teasing. I had an older brother, after all. But I just felt so tired. Anger was being drowned by despair. If anyone spoke to me, especially if they were nice, I feared I might start crying.

From my backpack I pulled out a worn copy of the Rochester Skate City zine that I had made last year with Kris and a few other skateboarding girls. It was mostly collages of pictures we had taken, along with short write-ups of our favorite places in Rochester to skate. I started flipping through it, but the photos just reminded me of what I was missing. After a few tears landed on the pages, I put the zine away and stared out the window.

As the bus made its way to Granny and Grandpop’s house—I guess it was my home now, but I still couldn’t think of it that way—I distracted myself with the scenery outside. The bus drove through the town and then out into the countryside. We passed old farmhouses, churches, and thick stretches of forests along the curving road.

I tried to remember all of the landmarks in Rochester that Kris and I would pass on the way home from school. There was a Vietnamese restaurant, a Korean grocery store, and a vegan doughnut shop (so good!) on the last block before the bus would turn onto Kris’s street. Thinking about those places, and especially Kris, almost made me start crying again.

When I got off the bus across from Granny and Grandpop’s house, I’m sure the tears in my eyes were caused by a blast of cold wind.

I pushed my way inside the kitchen and the warmth from the old wood stove in the corner smacked me in the face like a hot pillow. My nose immediately started to run. I hadn’t realized how cold I had gotten from the long walk up their driveway. Their old farmhouse was set back a fair distance from the road in a little holler between the mountains (okay, steep hills). A shallow creek meandered through the back of their property. I’d loved playing in it during summer visits, but I hadn’t been back there yet, assuming the stream was iced over. The gardens out back were visible from the big windows of the kitchen.

Granny was standing by the sink, washing out two coffee mugs. Have a seat, sweetheart. I just put on some hot chocolate and I’m warmin’ up some of last night’s pumpkin pie. Would you like a slice?

That would be great, Granny. Thanks. I dropped my backpack on the floor and sat down at the old wooden kitchen table. The table was stained and pockmarked with dozens of dents and scratches. I peeled off my army jacket and scarf, but kept my thick sweater on, despite the heat coming off the wood stove. Is Mom here?

No. She went over to the university to get her registration sorted out. She shouldn’t be back till suppertime.

Granny poured the hot chocolate from a saucepan that had been warming up on the stove. She set one mug down in front of me and sat down across the table with the other one. She was wearing a big flompy sweater and an old frayed apron that I was beginning to suspect she lived in. Granny kept her gray hair pulled back, and her reading glasses were pushed on top of her head. Her wrinkled cheeks were rosy from the heat in the kitchen.

There you go, sugar. The pie will be ready in just a few minutes. So, she said, looking at me over the rim of her mug as she blew on the hot chocolate, how did your first day at school go?

I blew on my own hot chocolate, enjoying the way the steam circled around my face, while I organized my thoughts. I didn’t want to start dumping on Granny. I feared that if I started to complain about the homesickness I was feeling, I’d start to cry again. Plus, I didn’t have the closest relationship with my grandparents. I mean, I loved them and everything. They’d