Big Mouth Ugly Girl Page 17

  “We are little kids.”

  “You can’t prove this, Ursula! You know you can’t.”

  “Why, because you and your buddies covered your tracks? Because you’re smart? Well, we’re smarter.”

  Trevor said, whining, “Why’d I want his dog?”

  “Because you’re cruel, and stupid, that’s why. Because you’re a coward, terrorizing an innocent animal.”

  “Yeah, well, I never threatened to blow up the school, or shoot a thousand people, and my folks aren’t suing everybody for a hundred million dollars,” Trevor said, his voice shaking. He must’ve realized he’d said too much, for he stopped suddenly, and mumbled, “Anyway you can’t prove I had anything to do with it. There’s plenty of guys, plenty of people, who hate Donaghy’s guts, not just me.”

  I said, “I don’t have to prove it. If I explain all this to my dad—how you’ve been harassing Matt at school, and you assaulted him, and now Pumpkin is missing—my dad will believe me. He will know that I’m right because I am right, and he won’t require proof. And he’ll punish you, for sure. He’s a true dog lover! He’ll punish you through your dad, whose job depends upon my dad’s good opinion of him, be sure of it.”

  (Was this true? Just possibly. Ugly Girl was trembling so at this point, anything was possible.)

  Trevor was looking more and more sick.

  “In fact,” I said, “I could talk to your father right now. I could explain the circumstances to him. He might like to intervene, before I talk to my father.”

  “No! Leave my father out of this.”

  Now Trevor was backing away. He’d stopped glaring at us and just wanted to escape.

  I called after him, “Don’t think it over too long, Trev. You have only till six tonight.”

  As Trevor shut the door, Matt said, “She better not be hurt, Cassity, or I’ll—”

  I grabbed Matt’s arm and shook him. “Matt, no! Not a word more.”

  Amazingly, Matt shut his mouth.

  Big Mouth and Ugly Girl, warriors!

  FORTY-THREE

  BY FOUR FORTY P.M. THAT AFTERNOON PUMPKIN was back home. Safely.

  The four of us—Matt, Alex, Mrs. Donaghy, and I—had been keeping a vigil in the Donaghys’ family room, which overlooked the front and rear lawns of their property, and Alex was the first to sight the golden retriever slinking up the driveway. She’d been let out somewhere in the neighborhood and had made her way home. “Pumpkin! There she is!” Alex yelled. We all ran outside to meet Pumpkin, even Mrs. Donaghy, and what a relief it was to see that Pumpkin didn’t appear hurt at all, only just nervous and confused. As soon as Matt and Alex knelt to hug her, though, she began barking joyously, licking their hands, her tail thrashing.

  Inside, Pumpkin was fed her favorite dog foods, with much ceremony, and ate as if famished.

  Where she’d been in those nightmare twenty-two hours, who had snatched her away, and what might have been done to her, Pumpkin would never disclose.

  That night, just before I went to bed, I checked my e-mail and found this:

  Sat 3/24/01 11:15 PM

  Dear Ursula,

  THANK YOU for saving my life!

  I love you.

  Your friend Pumpkin

  FORTY-FOUR

  I LOVE YOU.

  And I love you.

  Ugly Girl wanted to hide her face, these words frightened her so much.

  “Ursula! Come back. We miss you, and I bet you miss us.”

  This was so.

  It didn’t take much persuasion for Ms. Schultz to talk me into rejoining the Rocky River High girls’ basketball team.

  I had to concede: Ugly Girl was restless without basketball, knowing that games were being played, and not as well played as they’d have been with me on the team. Not that I was Superwoman, but for girls’ high school basketball I was pretty good. What I missed was my teammates, though I wouldn’t have expected this; and the FIERY RED sensation that came over me just entering the locker room to change into my uniform, and all of us, the team, moving into the gym together. The feel of a basketball gripped in my hand.

  If I made mistakes, if I missed baskets: OK. Ugly Girl would have to live with it, no different than the other girls.

  It was strange about Ugly Girl. She was like a uniform, or a skin, I could slip into, but she wasn’t right for all occasions. When I was with Matt, for instance. And once when I entered the gym, just after rejoining the team, some of the girls who were already there for practice turned to look at me, as if they’d been talking about me, and they laughed, and whistled and applauded and gave me the high five. “Urs-la! Riggs!” I half expected them to call me Ugly Girl.

  It surprised me sometimes, that no one knew about Ugly Girl. She was my secret, even from Matt.

  I rejoined in time for the last two games of the season, tough games with Peekskill and Ossining, last year’s district champions. Rocky River’s final game, with Ossining, was in the district tournament, and though we didn’t win, we lost by only six points and it was a terrific, fast-paced game, well played on both sides, and something to be proud of.

  I was high scorer for Rocky River, both games. But Courtney Levao played really well too. Courtney had a way of easing herself almost beneath the basket, and I’d pass to her, so swift we’d take everybody by surprise, and Courtney could leap up and sink the ball: smooth as a big cat! Courtney had stayed on as captain when I returned to the team, though she’d offered right away to resign. “Courtney, no!” I protested. I saw that the girls really liked her, and I thought, That’s a skill too: being liked. Getting along with people and respecting them. Ugly Girl could learn.

  For sure, Ugly Girl could learn. A lot.

  I was slated to be captain next year, my senior year. I vowed I would not make the mistakes I’d made this year. I went to each of the girls on the team one by one and apologized for how I’d behaved. “I guess I basically forgot we’re a team. Basketball isn’t just one person.” One of the girls laughed at me and said, teasing, “C’mon, Ursula. You don’t mean that, you’re just ‘one person’?”

  Bonnie LeMoyne laughed at me too. “I feel more comfortable with you being your obnoxious self, Urs, than this way. C’mon!”

  Urrsss. That growly sound gave me the shivers—I loved it.

  What was really wonderful about the games with Peekskill and Ossining, I had to admit, was that Matt Donaghy came to both of them, and sat in the front row of bleachers, and hardly took his eyes off me all the while I was on the court. At first I felt self-conscious, then, once the game began, and the FIERY RED took over, I was OK. Each time I scored a basket, or passed the ball to another forward to score, Matt was on his feet clapping and cheering like he was the Rocky River team’s biggest fan. In fact the team had larger crowds than usual, including guys from school for the first time in real numbers, which was flattering to us and great for morale. We’d even been written up in the local paper. Ms. Schultz said we could be proud of ourselves and we were, and of her, too.

  Mom and Lisa came to both games, to my surprise. Though I tried not to let on I was especially surprised. Lisa wasn’t concentrating so much on her ballet lessons as she’d been; she’d said she was getting bored with ballet and wanted to do other things. Mom was disappointed, I could tell, but tried not to let Lisa sense it.

  I teased Lisa: “If you grow twelve inches and gain like seventy pounds, maybe you’ll be high scorer for girls’ basketball in a few years. Just like Big Sis.”

  “Oh, Ursula!” Lisa said, taking this seriously. “I could never play any sport like you.”

  Maybe that was so. Lisa wasn’t an Ugly Girl. It didn’t mean so much to her to win, win, win.

  After the Ossining game I introduced Matt to my mother and Lisa. It was a little awkward. I saw Mom blink at Matt, who was obviously not the troublemaker she’d been expecting: with his boyish, freckled face, his slightly shy manner, and his politeness. “Hi Mrs. Riggs! Ursula says some really cool things about you.”
>
  Mom’s jaw practically dropped. “Ursula does?”

  Lisa giggled at this, and suddenly we were all laughing, even Matt. I don’t know what was so funny.

  Mom took me aside and said, “That boy is so sweet! He’s nothing like . . . well, you know.”

  I told Mom that Matt and I were going out to get something to eat, and Matt would be driving me home, and Mom said impulsively, squeezing my hand like a little girl, “Come with us. Please! It’s my treat.”

  Just about the coolest thing about that day was my dad had called earlier, before the game, from Tokyo. He wanted to tell me he was thinking of me, and he “really, really wished” he could have made the game. I wiped at my eyes. This was so corny and weird! “Dad, come on. There’s nowhere you’d want to be less than a high school basketball game, and you know it.”

  “Honey, you are W-R-O-N-G. I can immediately think of”—he pretended to be counting on his fingers so that I could hear— “four, five—six—places I’d definitely want to be less.”

  “Oh, Dad! That’s mean.”

  I don’t know why I was crying, I was so happy.

  FORTY-FIVE

  FIRE ALARMS WERE RINGING, DEAFENING.

  “Fire drill!”

  On the Thursday following the girls’ basketball game with Ossining, there was a sudden rude interruption of fourth period at Rocky River High.

  Only a routine fire drill—or was it?

  The 2,307 Rocky River students knew from past experience (or thought they knew) that this was only a boring fire drill and not a real fire (they didn’t smell smoke—did they?), but still there was an atmosphere of excitement and apprehension. It might be on the TV news that night: Rocky River High going up in flames! For some of the less mature boys it was an occasion for mirth. (What’s so funny about a fire drill? It just is.) For others the relentless ring-ring-ringing of the alarms made their heartbeats quicken unpleasantly. Like Ecstasy—but no music. There were girls who pressed the palms of their hands against their ears, complaining of migraine headaches coming on. In each classroom and in the gym, library, study halls everyone was on their feet, gathering up books and backpacks. Teachers assumed looks of calm sobriety.

  “Students, line up quietly. File out in order. No pushing. Careful on the stairs. Let’s go.”

  There came Mr. Parrish’s voice over the loudspeaker. This was routine-fire-drill stuff. Mr. Parrish speaking in his earnest, forced-calm, paternal voice meant to reassure. Though some of the guys had to laugh, and mimicked him: “Move along quickly, students. This is an emergency situation but there is no cause for panic. Follow your teachers’ instructions precisely. Do not go to your lockers. I repeat: Do not go to your lockers. . . .”

  Do not go to your lockers! The mimicry sounded like demented parrots throughout the school.

  In Mr. Bernhardt’s German I class in room 229 Matt Donaghy was more shaken than the other students by the sudden eruption of noise. He swallowed hard, hoping this wouldn’t be blamed, somehow, on him.

  Obediently, Matt grabbed up his backpack and marched with the others, row by row, for the most part silently, out of the classroom with its big map of Germany at the front of the room, and into the corridor where the alarms were really loud. Mr. Bernhardt directed them, exulting in his Teutonic authority, shouting—“Move right along, students! Macht schnell!” Trying to contain their excitement, they marched down the stairs and outside into dismal weather, icy rain, sleet. And wind. “What a bummer!” a boy complained to Matt. “They should let us get our coats at least.” A number of classrooms had already emptied out, and more were on their way. Matt was always amazed how quickly hundreds of human beings could be mobilized to move. Still, the fire alarms were ringing.

  Except: Something was wrong. This wasn’t routine. Emergency vehicles were pulling up the circular drive in front of the school, Rocky River police cars, a fire truck, ambulances. Ambulances! Had someone been hurt? What was this? Instead of marching out onto the school grounds, standing in rows as teachers took attendance, and waiting dutifully to be led back into the school, 2,307 students were being hurriedly marched off the school grounds entirely, into the cordoned-off street and beyond.

  A TV crew was setting up cameras in the street. Overhead—was that a police helicopter?

  Walking quickly, worried now, Matt looked around for Ursula. Fourth period—Ursula’s art class. He couldn’t find her. What was happening? On all sides kids were panicking and beginning to run. There were shouts: “Bomb!”—“Bomb threat!”—“Bomb’s gonna go off!”

  A bomb!

  Now Matt Donaghy would surely be blamed.

  In fact, no bomb went off that afternoon.

  The emergency would turn out to be, as media headlines would designate it, a bomb scare, not an actual bomb.

  At the time, though, the scene was mass confusion. Students were urged to go immediately home, classes were canceled for the rest of the day. Police and firemen were setting up blockades around the building at a presumably safe distance. A Westchester County bomb squad arrived and prepared to enter the building. Already, anxious parents were arriving to take their children home. Yet some were reluctant to go home, preferring to mill about in the icy rain, coatless, hatless, shivering, talking excitedly with one another. A bomb? Where? What kind? As a Rocky River cheerleader said, interviewed by a local TV station for the six-o’clock news, “It was the first bomb threat in the history of Rocky River High and it does make you feel kind of . . . important.”

  “Matthew Donaghy!”—there came Mr. Parrish in Matt’s direction, in a plastic raincoat, glasses streaming moisture. He looked like an old, ravaged man. Matt saw that he was accompanied by a plainclothes Rocky River detective. Matt had an impulse to turn and run.

  Mr. Parrish was explaining that Rocky River police were going to take Matt into protective custody and drive him home. Matt protested, “Mr. Parrish, this wasn’t me! I don’t have anything to do with this! Please.” He was close to crying. He was close to striking at these men with his fists. The detective laid a hand on Matt’s shoulder, to calm him, or to restrain him, and said, “Son, we know it wasn’t you. You were in class when the call came in. Don’t be upset, OK? We’re going to take you home.”

  Matt stammered, “I am upset. I—what is this?”

  “We’re taking you into protective custody and we’re driving you home. This way.”

  Matt objected, “But I didn’t do anything. You just said.”

  “But you might be in danger, Matthew. Whoever the anonymous caller is, the call is related to you.”

  “To me? How?”

  “This way, son. Through here.”

  And so, for the second time in just over two months, Matt Donaghy was observed being led to a Rocky River squad car and urged inside. (Arrested? Again? Was he cuffed? Was he forced into the squad car?) Miserably, Matt had no choice but to obey. As he climbed into the rear of the car, he saw a ring of students watching him, staring avidly. Some were familiar faces from his German class. And there was Skeet Curlew, gaping. Skeet! Matt grinned. He had a wild impulse to raise his fist to Skeet in the notorious Black Power salute, and maybe Skeet would be taken away, too. Maybe a photographer could catch the moment.

  But no: Big Mouth resisted.

  Thurs 3/29/01 5:20 PM

  Dear Ursula,

  It’s your friend Matt in “protective custody”—“for my own safety”—but at home, at least. I AM NOT ARRESTED.

  I looked for you in that wild scene & couldn’t see you. I hope you were OK during our “evacuation.”

  Everybody expecting a bomb to go off at any minute. But the latest news is, I guess, there was no bomb. At least, nobody can find a bomb.

  Pumpkin’s here & says HELLO to you. Pumpkin is really REALLY glad she isn’t a member of the species Homo sapiens who are collectively & individually CRAZY.

  I don’t know what people are saying about Matt Donaghy, but the reason I was taken into protective custody is: The guy who called
the school about the bomb said, “This time I’m going to do the job right.” Police believe this is in reference to me. That the caller was pretending to be me. (Except he called at a really dumb time, when I was in Bernhardt’s German class.)

  The office at school tapes all their incoming calls now. Since January. Evidently they got a lot of weird calls then.

  Anyway, I’m in protective custody but probably not for long. With the tape, & a smart way they have of tracking phone calls, they expect to catch the bomber/ caller very soon.

  (Not T. Cassity & his buddies, I bet. You’d have to be totally crazy to pull a stunt like this.)

  I’m worried about Mom, mostly. She was sort of freaked out when they brought me home. Luckily, they called her first from the squad car. She started screaming at them, “Why are you persecuting us?” & the detective & I had to both try to calm her. We were saying it was a “routine procedure”—“protective custody”—but Mom just cried.

  Dad is flying home right away this time. I’m hoping that will be a GOOD THING.

  Love,

  Matt

  Fri 3/30/01 6:47 AM

  Dear Ursula,

  The anonymous caller is: Reverend Brewer.

  Police just informed us. He’s been arrested. Call me as soon as you read this, OK?

  Love,

  Matt

  FORTY-SIX

  EVEN AS IT WAS BEING RELEASED TO THEmedia, the news was spreading through Rocky River High.

  Two items of news, in fact.

  First, the bomb scare: An anonymous caller had telephoned the school at the start of the fourth period of the previous day with a warning that a bomb was on the premises timed to detonate “within the hour.” The caller added cryptically, “This time I’m going to do the job right.” No bomb was located, however, and the call was quickly traced to Reverend Brewer, who’d used a pay phone a few blocks from his church, hoping to disguise his voice by speaking through wadded cloth. Brewer’s voice, taped, was identified by forensic scientists; the call was traced to the pay phone, where Brewer’s fingerprints were found, and to Brewer’s astonishment he was arrested and charged with a felony, and his bail set at $500,000.