Big Mouth Ugly Girl Page 11

  My sister wasn’t even twelve, and almost it seemed she was beginning to be aggressive with me.

  I’d try to tease her like I always did. Saying things like “Hey Lisa, how’s your bale-lay lessons?” but she would stiffen like I’d poked her a little too hard, wouldn’t even look at me, or she’d whisper, “Leave me alone. I hate you.”

  Well. I knew Lisa didn’t mean it.

  I hate you. That hurt, kind of.

  In the beginning, when Lisa started dance lessons, she’d been a little girl, maybe four years old. All the little girls taking lessons were so cute, and it seemed innocent enough, “training” them like real dancers. But within the last two years I’d noticed a real change in Lisa. The dance lessons weren’t just about dancing but about competition. No matter how good you were, some other girl was possibly better. The nightmare was, in a troupe of struggling girls, one girl had to be the least talented. One girl, maybe, had to be just a little “overweight.”

  It scared me that Lisa was going through what I’d gone through on the swim team.

  Every few months it seemed girls were dropping out of Lisa’s class, feeling like failures at eleven or twelve. I’d overhear Mom and Lisa eagerly discussing who was in, who was out. I hated how edgy and anxious it was making them both, and I told them so.

  There she was, my little sister, pushing food around on her plate like it was poison. Like she had a dread of gaining a pound on her flimsy sparrow bones. And Mom wasn’t noticing? I said, “Lisa, what the hell? Are you dieting?” making dieting sound like something really stupid, and Lisa didn’t look at me but muttered, “No, I am not. You should.” (Which was the first time, ever, that Lisa said anything like that to me.) And Mom got into it quick, saying, “Ursula, leave your sister alone. You’re always picking on her.” And I shot back, “If Lisa becomes anorexic, Mom, it’s going to be your fault.” And both of them turned on me then, practically beating Ugly Girl back with sticks.

  I saw they were allies in this. Like it was the two of them against me.

  I just laughed. Took my dinner upstairs on a tray, to eat alone.

  Dad was in Tokyo, or maybe Bangkok, and couldn’t be home for dinner anyway.

  * * *

  In my room I read in that art book about women artists, by Germaine Greer, I’d discovered in New York. This copy I borrowed from the Rocky River Public Library, and I resolved I would buy a copy of my own.

  The “obstacle race,” the author called it: trying to maintain your own integrity and your own talent, no matter how others tried to influence you. Germaine Greer was talking mostly about how men oppressed women, but, I could see, women and girls did it to themselves, too.

  Why?

  Sure, I’d been thinking about Matt Donaghy, too.

  Next day, a Saturday, I had to get out of the house.

  The nature preserve was less than a mile from our house. Something was drawing me there—I could almost feel it.

  The preserve was about forty acres, and a lot of it was hilly. Most people used the shorter trails closer to the roads. There were hiking trails marked .5 mile, 2 miles, etc. My favorite was Windy Point Trail, which was five miles, almost too hilly and rock-strewn for winter, when ice covered shale outcroppings and made hiking dangerous. But you could go a couple of miles on this trail, where it ran beside the Rocky River Creek.

  The creek was so beautiful, I thought. Frozen at its banks into lacy ice patterns but clear and fast running in the middle.

  Just chance I took Windy Point. Or maybe I had a premonition.

  TWENTY-THREE

  NOBODY WOULD KNOW! NOBODY COULD EVEN GUESS.

  Turning into stone . . . and no one can hurt you.

  “Pumpkin, no. Sorry, girl—you’re staying home today.”

  The golden retriever peered up at Matt with her moist, yearning eyes. I love you! Why can’t I go with you? What’s wrong? What’s wrong with you?

  Matt rubbed the dog’s furry-bony head, stroked her soft ears, scratched behind her ears. He was feeling guilty, which was ridiculous. Pumpkin loved him no matter what. “See, I’m just not in a happy mood, Pumpkin. You’re too optimistic for me.”

  If something happened to Matt Donaghy, they’d search in the preserve. They’d send Pumpkin after him. Sniffing eagerly along the trail. Barking, whimpering. Like a scene in a sentimental TV movie. Matt didn’t want to think about it, and erased it from his mind as he was erasing so much now.

  Like Mom’s sobbing in the bathroom. Dad’s voice raised on the telephone. Alex’s hurt eyes, turning away from Matt.

  Like the front-page articles in the local papers. defamation. $50 million. rocky river residents initiate lawsuit. Like Matt’s friends—his former friends—avoiding him, and those who didn’t avoid him, Denis Wheeler for instance, trying so hard to be nice to him, Matt had to be the one to shake Denis off, saying curtly, “Thanks, Denis. But I don’t need your charity. That’s an insult to me.” (Matt was trembling with some weird emotion he couldn’t recognize. He wanted to laugh in Denis’s surprised, hurt face. He liked it that Denis would spread the word among his friends. Matt Donaghy doesn’t want our charity.)

  Most of all Matt wanted to erase the memory of Cassity, Stanton, Booth, and the other Rocky River jocks jeering at him, shoving and punching. “Fag!”—“So? Gonna sue us, fag?” No one had ever hit Matt like that. So deliberately, purposefully. Wanting to hurt him. Really wanting to hurt him. As if they’d forgotten that Matt hadn’t wanted to blow up the school and shoot people, was innocent of that charge. You deserve this, Big Mouth. They’d knocked him down the steps and run away laughing. Things like this didn’t happen in Rocky River. At the bottom of the concrete steps Matt lay in the gritty snow trying not to cry, bleeding from his nose. A woman parking her car discovered him and helped him stand, wiped at his face with tissues, offered to drive him to the medical center, but Matt insisted he’d just slipped and fallen from a few steps up. He hadn’t fallen far, and he wasn’t hurt. “Are you sure?” the woman asked doubtfully. She was Matt’s mother’s age; he was grateful she didn’t know him.

  All these things Matt meant to erase just by hiking in the preserve on this windy blue day.

  Erase. Delete. Exit.

  Are you sure? Y/N.

  Y.

  “I love it here. I could die here . . . and be happy.”

  The township of Rocky River was misnamed, for the body of water that ran through it was a creek, not a river. Rocky River Creek was maybe one hundredth the width of the Hudson River and no more than five or six feet deep at its deepest. It flowed down in a westerly direction into the Hudson, in a twisty, boulder-strewn streambed, out of the hills of Rockefeller State Park. The creek was often nearly dry in summer and overflowed its banks in rainy seasons. Early settlers on this eastern bank of the Hudson River had named their fur-trading post Rocky River in the 1600s. All was wilderness then. Now there was an unbroken string of suburban villages, most of them affluent, on the river, linked by Route 9 descending south into Manhattan. Rocky River was situated between Briarcliff Manor and Tarrytown, a half-hour train ride to midtown Manhattan, the most expensive real estate in the world.

  Matt started up the trail beside the boulder-strewn creek. He knew the trail well, but it was icy in winter, and you had to be careful not to slip. It was a good feeling—his heart beginning to beat harder, and his leg muscles pulling. And his breath steamed. It was so terrific here! This was his place; he was happy here. Storm clouds at the horizon, but much of the sky a clear hard blue. Arctic blue. The wind was picking up—maybe it would blow the clouds away. Matt didn’t care. Maybe it would snow, there’d be a snowstorm. He’d be authentically lost. No one could blame him. An accident.

  Outside the preserve there was a Nothing-World.

  Outside the preserve there were only Nothing-Days waiting.

  Matt missed Pumpkin trotting and sniffing in the woods, peeing on rocks, logs, chunks of ice, with that comical-thoughtful doggy expression. As if thinking, Peein
g is my duty, I don’t know why. So I’d better do it.

  By nature Pumpkin was a retriever, a hunting dog. Matt used to feel guilty that he wasn’t a hunter, that the most he could do for Pumpkin was toss sticks and Frisbees for her to retrieve, and that quickly became boring.

  Pumpkin would miss Matt. If he failed to return. Matt felt a stab of guilt . . . but no. Alex could love Pumpkin enough for them both. Alex was a smart, sweet kid.

  “He’ll understand.”

  The boulders were icy but partly wet. Shimmering in the sun. Matt stared. He felt he could be hypnotized by the cascading water. So cold! The creek was frozen at its edges, a stark frost white, but thawed in the middle as that dark water rushed downward. The wind was picking up. His nose was running. There was something he was trying to think of. . . . He was very tired suddenly. He wanted to lie down. No, he wanted to climb into that ravine, and up its steep farther bank. Why, he couldn’t have said. Everywhere were boulders and rocks and pebbles. He loved a stony place. He lost his footing, almost fell, grabbed onto a boulder. If Pumpkin was here, she’d be sniffing around, peeing and trotting and glancing back at Matt to see where he was, how he was. Keeping him in view. She’d be leading him, except she’d circle back to follow him. Maybe they were hunting? But hunting what? Matt was determined to get to the top of that ravine. His boots were slipping. He clutched at—what? A tree limb that broke off in his hand.

  Still, he was determined. He wasn’t going to give up.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “MATT?”

  I saw him, and I knew it was him. I recognized his dark-green windbreaker. A green knit cap on his head. Matt Donaghy.

  What was Matt doing? Crouched there on the edge of a cliff just staring down at the rushing water . . . like he’s hypnotized.

  That look in his face. Preparing for something. What?

  “Matt? Hey.”

  Now he had to hear me—I’d raised my voice pretty loud. I made a lot of noise hiking up the trail behind him, deliberately. To wake him. He was blinking at me. As if it took a few seconds to recognize me, or to realize where he was.

  He began to stammer. “Ursula? What—are you doing here?”

  “This is one of my places. I’m always here.”

  I spoke quickly, and smiled. It was a swift Ugly Girl tactic to smile when you’re scared as hell.

  Had Matt been about to jump? “Slip” on the icy rocks and fall into that ravine? It was about thirty feet down. Big boulders, and through the center, like a razor-blade cut, that dark cascading water.

  Should I let Matt know I’d seen? And I knew?

  There wasn’t time to think, much. I was scared and nervous, and my adrenaline was pumping like in a game, when you could lose, or you could win, depending upon your strategy.

  I kept approaching Matt, off the trail now and climbing the hill. It was tough going. It was dangerous. I’m not the kind of outdoor type who does reckless things, like rock climbing without the right gear. You could say that Ugly Girl was savvy as a pro for her young age, but there I was practically stumbling and crawling up this ridiculous icy-rocky hill where, even in good weather, there was no trail. I said with a big smile, like one of the Personality-Plus girls at Rocky River who think it’s their duty to spread sweetness and light among the underprivileged, “Yeah! I really love it here! This creek. It’s kind of a secret place. Up here in the winter . . . nobody’s around, much.”

  Matt’s face was pale, like he was going to be sick. His freckles looked bleached out. He looked scared, too, but he was trying to smile. He looked like a sleepwalker wakened in a place puzzling to him but trying not to let on. He said in this weird slow voice like every word had to be considered, “I . . . didn’t know . . . you were here, Ursula. I . . .”

  “Yeah, like I said. I’m here a lot.”

  Matt squinted at me as if he didn’t trust me, clambering up the hill toward him. But he couldn’t seem to think of the right thing to say, to make me stop.

  My voice got brighter and brighter. Like a nurse’s. Like my mom greeting guests for a dinner party she’s been anxious about for days, but you’d never have guessed that now. I was saying whatever came into my head—“It’s really nice to run into you here, Matt”—“We could hike together sometime, OK?”—“Why don’t you come down from there, though. It’s icy and dangerous and you could fall.”

  Matt nodded dazedly. Typical Rocky River upbringing, it’s your instinct to be polite in just about any circumstances. Still, the guy was stubborn, he wouldn’t move.

  “Matt, like I said—it’s kind of icy there, those rocks, OK? Matt, come on.”

  Matt was listening. But still he was crouched at the edge of the ravine.

  “Know what?—We could hike together. Right now. I know some cool places. Sort of secret places. A perch like an eagle’s nest where you can stand and see the river, and across the river. Matt? OK?”

  I was almost pleading now. This went on for five minutes, maybe. But it seemed a lot longer. I was so scared, Ugly Girl seemed to have departed. It was just me, Ursula. Talking to Matt Donaghy I’d gone to school with for years in Rocky River but didn’t really know well, but we were like in this movie where somebody had to save Matt from “accidentally” falling and smashing his skull on those rocks.

  I could see Matt’s knees tremble. I could see his jaws tighten.

  I could see him thinking. Now.

  I knew: It’s like diving off the high board. Your mind has to release you, give you permission. Your body wants to survive, it doesn’t want to throw itself into space. Never! Your mind has to instruct you. Now. Move.

  Except something changed Matt’s mind, and he turned, and stepped back from the edge. Some little stones loosened and fell as he turned. He made his way down the hill, from about fifteen feet above me, slipping and sliding, that sickly-pale scared look still on his face, and I put out my gloved hand to grab his.

  Matt grabbed my hand, hard.

  MARCH

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THURS 3/1/01 5:25 AM

  Dear Ursula,

  Thank you for the other day.

  Your friend Matt

  TWENTY-SIX

  FRI 3/2/01 9:12 PM

  Dear Ursula,

  I’m thinking about the other day.

  The last Saturday of February.

  In biology there is always a PURPOSE to things.

  Nothing is “just accident.”

  What do you think???

  Your friend Matt

  Fri 3/2/01 10:47 PM

  2 mars

  dear matt—

  yes/no/maybe

  BUT einstein said god wld not play dice with the universe SO

  maybe you’re right, there is ALWAYS PURPOSE.

  u r

  Fri 3/2/01 10:51 PM

  Dear Ursula,

  The other day it was like, it’s hard to say it was like something that had never happened before yet was very familiar like an old dream you had a lot when you were a little kid and forgot but now you have it again and remember and it scares you, it’s so real, it belongs to YOU.

  That was how I felt. With you. Hiking back down and not needing to talk, like there needed nothing to be said.

  Your friend Matt

  But for this message, quickly as he’d typed it out, Matt struck DELETE.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “PUMPKIN! HEY.”

  It was like he’d come back from, where?—some other planet.

  Ursula must be taking French, she dated her e-mail mars for March. That felt right: mars.

  “Pumpkin, I wasn’t really going to—you know. Not really.”

  Pumpkin was kissing his hands, like she knew but she forgave him.

  “No, but I wasn’t, really. I—I’m not the type.”

  They were upstairs in Matt’s room. Quickly he’d come upstairs, and quickly he’d shut the door. Matt, is that you? his sleepy, startled Mom might’ve asked, but he didn’t hear.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t have
left you.”

  Pumpkin was making her low excited barking sound, not an actual bark, not loud or sharp enough to classify as a bark. More like a friend saying Yeh? yeh? to show you he/she’s listening.

  “I wouldn’t have left any of this.”

  Matt made a vague sweeping gesture of a kind he’d often seen his dad make, a wave of his hand meaning, like, all-of-the-world-that’s-my-experience. Sometimes when he made that gesture, his dad grimaced, like he was tasting something and he couldn’t decide, Is it edible? Is it poison? But Matt was smiling, actually. Pumpkin was a dog who understood smiles, she could smile herself, grin actually, grin and laugh, in the right mood. “You believe me, Pumpkin, don’t you? I was coming back.”

  Pumpkin believed. Even if Pumpkin didn’t believe, Pumpkin trusted him.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  HE’D FELT HER STRONG FINGERS CLOSE AROUND his. He’d never gripped any girl’s hand like that, he’d never gripped any human being’s hand like that except his mom’s and his dad’s and maybe his grandparents’. But that was a long time ago, like a dream he hadn’t had in so long he’d mostly forgotten it.

  TWENTY-NINE

  SAT 3/3/01 11:03 PM

  Dear Ursula,

  This is going to sound really REALLY corny but I’m still thinking a lot about the other day.

  Your friend Matt

  Sat 3/3/01 11:48 PM

  3 mars

  dear matt—

  so why’d you snub u r yesterday/ lunch?

  u r

  Sat 3/3/01 11:54 PM

  Dear Ursula,

  I wanted to sit with you & your 2 friends but—I thought you were just being “nice.”

  Hey: I did not SNUB YOU, Ursula!

  Your friend Matt