Big Mouth Ugly Girl Read online

  Stacey Flynn hadn’t e-mailed or called Matt, either. Or any of the four or five girls with whom he’d have said he was “good friends.” By Monday morning he’d stopped expecting to hear from them, and he’d stopped (he told himself) feeling bad about it.

  They had their reasons, Matt supposed.

  Then, finally. Late Sunday night. Three of the guys e-mailed Matt. (A conspiracy?)

  Hi Matt—

  This really sucks, its so stupid.

  But my dad (who is going to vet this [hi Dad!] not that we have censership in this Democrat-registered household) says I’d better “keep clear” of the mess for a while. Our lawyer “advises.” So I can’t answer your e-mails etc. right now.

  Talk to you another time, OK?

  neil

  HI MATT

  I TOLD THEM EVERYTHING. THAT IT WAS A JOKE. I THINK THEY BELIEVE ME. (I’M NOT SURE.) BUT I CANT “COMMUNICATE” WITH YOU RIGHT NOW. SORRY MATT. HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND.

  SKEET

  Hi Matt,

  Sorry not to get back to you. I feel bad about this. But things will be OK soon. Can’t write much now. All e-mail exists in cyberspace, you know. It’s eternal.

  The police are OK. Just trying to get to the bottom of this.

  Russ

  Matt reread these messages a dozen times. Like those knotty little poems of Emily Dickinson in their American lit anthology. There was meaning hidden inside the words, and between the words. It didn’t require a rocket scientist to decipher much of it.

  Matt e-mailed Mr. Weinberg:

  Monday/Quarantine/Solitary Confinement

  Mr. Weinberg,

  I guess I’m a leper there? Nobody can “communicate” with me? Like it would be considered a “conspiracy”?

  WHAT ARE PEOPLE SAYING?

  Matt “Terrorist” Donaghy

  Matt hesitated before pressing SEND. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea? Sure, the cops were reading e-mail. Any e-mail from Matt Donaghy they’d read. If it weren’t for Mr. Leacock, they’d have confiscated Matt’s computer. And maybe, if the investigation continued, they would.

  Anyway, Matt sent his message to Mr. Weinberg. And Mr. Weinberg didn’t reply.

  Matt overheard his dad talking earnestly, angrily on the phone.

  With Mr. Leacock, he guessed.

  “. . . sue them! That’s what we’ll do! Parrish, and the school district, and . . . the ‘witnesses.’ And whoever else is responsible! They can’t do this to my son, and to the Donaghys. . . .”

  Yeah? They can’t?

  Hiking in the nature preserve. In his boots, on the icy boulders of Rocky River Creek. Pumpkin panted along behind him, whimpering at times because she couldn’t keep up. Snow and ice encrusted her big clumsy paws. Her tail thumping halfheartedly. The sky overhead was still tarnished like something badly scoured. But Matt’s heart was beating hard, and he was feeling good. What had Ursula Riggs written—FINGERS CROSSED FOR JUSTICE.

  She believed Matt, for sure. She must like him, too. Even if nobody else did.

  Matt heard it all, in his mom’s excited voice.

  “Matt! Good news! Pick up the phone.”

  He hadn’t had time even to blow his nose. He picked up the phone receiver, and his hand was trembling.

  And it was Mr. Leacock with the news Matt had been hoping for all weekend—“Matt? It’s settled. You’re no longer suspended. They’re going to call it, officially, a ‘misunderstanding.’ They’re going to issue an apology. Be back in school tomorrow, like nothing was ever wrong.”

  Matt was grinning as if he’d won the lottery.

  Before supper that night he e-mailed Ursula Riggs with his good news:

  Dear Ursula—

  Its OFFICIAL. Matt Donaghy is NOT A TERRORIST. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.

  Your friend Matt

  FEBRUARY

  TEN

  “HI, URSULA!”

  I used to be shy at school but Ugly Girl was never shy.

  I used to walk with my eyes lowered, hoping nobody would see me if I didn’t see them, but Ugly Girl never lowered her eyes.

  I used to hope nobody would bump into me, but now other people keep clear of Ugly Girl, not wanting Ugly Girl to bump into them. Ugly Girl striding through the universe!

  But now even Ugly Girl, whenever she saw Matt Donaghy, wanted to shrink away in shyness.

  “Hi, Ursula . . .”

  The voice came out of the air. It was a friendly-hopeful voice.

  “Ursula? Hi. You coming this way . . . ?”

  Matt Donaghy called out, smiling. Since he’d been suspended from school, then “reinstated,” Matt smiled a lot. This morning he was waiting on the stairs going up to homeroom; kids were passing him going up, and I was headed in that direction too. Obviously I was headed in that direction, where else? Matt and I were both in Mrs. Carlisle’s homeroom.

  “Ursula . . . ?”

  A weird hot flash came over me; my face burned. It was like, in the game with Tarrytown, I knew I was going to be tripped, a fraction of a second before I fell. I thought, I’m going to trip on the stairs.

  It was because Matt Donaghy was there, watching me.

  Matt Donaghy, smiling at me.

  Matt Donaghy. Who signed his e-mail Your friend Matt.

  My face shut up like a fist. My eyes went steely and I smiled a forced little half smile like I’d have smiled at Mr. Parrish, just to be polite. Ugly Girl is polite!

  Without knowing what I was doing exactly, I turned away from the stairs and walked blindly in another direction. Into the senior wing where everybody was opening lockers, talking, and laughing with one another. And Ugly Girl in their midst, tall and fast striding in her satin school jacket, Mets cap, and khakis and boots. What’s she doing here? Wow. Big Ursula Riggs.

  I saw, but did not acknowledge, the faces of Trevor Cassity and his jock buddies. I saw, but did not acknowledge, the startled-and-then-expressionless face of Courtney Levao, one of the girls on the basketball team.

  If there was talk around school that I’d quit the team cold, I ignored it.

  If there was talk that my teammates and Ms. Schultz were glad to be rid of Ugly Girl, I ignored it.

  Ugly Girl, warrior-woman. Going her own way.

  I took another stairway up to homeroom. The bell was ringing when I came in and took my seat. Dumped my backpack on the floor. If Matt Donaghy was in his seat (third row to the left from mine, two desks back) talking and laughing with his buddies, Ugly Girl wasn’t going to notice.

  ELEVEN

  WED 2/7/01 10:31 PM

  Dear Ursula—

  I’m wondering, is something wrong? Around school, you aren’t very friendly. (Of course, nobody is, much. Except to my face when they have to be.) I guess you must’ve got my e-mail THANKING YOU? I sent it right away. As soon as I heard.

  I said THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.

  It’s been 14 days now. Since I was “taken into custody” etc. No, I’m not counting (consciously). Like I died, & was brought back to life. Except it’s “life”—not like it used to be. I can’t explain.

  I’m wondering maybe my messages are not getting to you? I sent three.

  I shouldn’t complain I suppose, it’s over now. The newspapers & TV are on to other things. Anything local, it’s got to be exaggerated I guess. Nothing much happens in Rocky River except people live & die, & some of them betray their best friends.

  Mr. Weinberg says try to forget & forgive. Sure!

  (You aren’t mad at me, Ursula, are you? Or maybe—your parents are telling you not to “communicate” with me anymore?)

  What subject are you going to write on, for History? I thought I would write of how so many Northerners hated Lincoln & drew caricatures of him as an ape / “Negro”-ape. & how his enemies celebrated when he was assassinated. While Abraham Lincoln is considered such a hero to us today, he was hated & reviled in his own time. & that time was when he lived.

  February sucks! Even the snow is ugly & pocked. Eve
ry day is a Nothing Day. I skipped class meeting, couldn’t face it. (You probably skipped, too. But I’m the VP.)

  My word for this is NOTHING-TIME. Like, today is a NOTHING-DAY. This is a NOTHING-HOUR. Everything tastes like burned toast & smells like gym socks.

  Your friend Matt-the-Mouth

  Matt hesitated a long time with this. If he pressed SEND, it was gone to Ursula Riggs in a heartbeat. And couldn’t be retrieved, or erased.

  All e-mail exists in cyberspace. It’s eternal.

  (Who’d said that? Matt’s old friend from grade school, Russ Mercer. Except they weren’t friends, much, any longer. Hard to say why.)

  Instead of pressing SEND, Matt pressed DELETE.

  Easier that way.

  TWELVE

  UGLY GIRL, PRINCIPAL’S PET!

  This really weird bizarre thing.

  My homeroom teacher, Mrs. Carlisle, told me please to drop by Mr. Parrish’s office before going to my next class, and I told her I’d be late for biology if I went all the way downstairs to the front office, and Mrs. Carlisle said not to worry, I’d be given a pink slip.

  So, wondering what old Parrish wanted, I went to see him.

  Was Ugly Girl in some trouble I didn’t know about? I behaved myself in Schultz’s gym classes and uttered not a sarcastic word except, sometimes, under my breath. I practiced baskets by myself when the gym was open and nobody much was around. Had Schultz complained about me to Parrish? Was it against the law to quit a school team?

  But—what a surprise! Mr. Parrish was on his feet and came to shake my hand.

  He was embarrassed, but you could see he was sincere.

  What a weird old guy.

  Telling me in this voice like a speech at assembly that I’d behaved “very maturely” and “responsibly” in recent weeks. During the “crisis.” He apologized he hadn’t had time to tell me in person, but he wanted me to know.

  “Sure, Mr. Parrish. OK.”

  “We’re putting it all behind us, now. It was a misunderstanding pure and simple.”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Mrs. Hale and I have written up a very positive report on your participation, Ursula. You behaved like a true citizen of our little commonwealth here at Rocky River High.” Mr. Parrish paused. “College admissions officers will be impressed, I think, with what we’ve written about you. I mean, sometime in the future. I’m also drafting a letter to your parents. Commending them on their daughter’s exemplary behavior at a time when others were behaving . . .”

  Hysterically. Right!

  Mr. Parrish brooded, pushing his glasses against the bridge of his pudgy nose. “Of course, we did have to be . . . cautious.”

  “Sure, Mr. Parrish.”

  The principal continued, a little less certainly, “Is it your general sense, Ursula, that the crisis has been more or less forgotten?”

  I nodded, sure. I guessed so.

  “No one is talking about it . . . anymore?”

  I shrugged. I guessed not.

  “Do you . . . talk to Matt Donaghy, ever?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t! Ever . . . ?”

  “No.”

  I am not a friend of Matt Donaghy’s. I defended him purely on principle.

  During the “crisis,” as Mr. Parrish called it, Rocky River High had drawn more publicity than ever before in its history. Not the kind of publicity anybody wants, though.

  Generally it was believed that Mr. Parrish and his staff had dealt with the crisis intelligently, and the school board had issued a formal statement backing them. Matt Donaghy’s name had never been released to the media. But sure, everyone knew.

  Still, I didn’t believe they were talking about it anymore. It had become Boring. There were other subjects on people’s minds.

  Mr. Parrish was smiling in that strained hopeful way adults have when they want you to think something they aren’t a hundred percent certain of themselves. So if you go away thinking it, they can think it, too. Or maybe.

  “Again, Ursula—thank you. You can pick up a pink slip from my secretary to explain being late for class.”

  Was I supposed to thank him? I didn’t.

  On the stairs going down to the cafeteria I heard a rude loud whistle, shrill as a referee’s whistle. “Hey Ursula: Are you mad at me, or what?”

  It was Bonnie LeMoyne. Skinny wiry funny unpredictable Bonnie I’d been avoiding since the Tarrytown game. Bonnie who (I’d sort of thought) was mad at me.

  “No. Why’d I be?”

  Bonnie snorted with laughter. “Oh, sure. You look right through me, Urs. Like, I’m sitting in the cafeteria waving at you, and you don’t see me. Right?”

  Ugly Girl had to laugh, Bonnie had a way of being funny about dopey behavior. You could see how you appeared to her, and why it was funny, but your pride wasn’t injured, somehow.

  She’d called me Urs. This was Bonnie’s name for me since grade school and she pronounced it in a hissing growl: Errrrrsssss! Hearing it, I felt a warmth in my heart for Bonnie LeMoyne. We weren’t going to talk about the team, I vowed.

  I knew that Rocky River hadn’t been doing too well since I’d quit. I didn’t know if I was happy that they were losing without me or kind of sad. Mostly, I tried not to think about it.

  Ugly Girl was skilled at that. Cutting off things she didn’t want to think about.

  We had lunch. It was like old times. Or almost. Eveann McDowd came by. Since Eveann helped me out talking to Mr. Parrish, she was Ugly Girl’s best friend. I really liked Eveann now. I even liked her cranky mom.

  We were talking, and laughing pretty loud, and I saw Matt Donaghy coming through the cafeteria line. My mind just went blank.

  I couldn’t even see if he was alone, or with his friends.

  I swallowed, hard. It was so weird, as if the breath just went out of me.

  Like on the basketball court, when somebody’d jabbed her elbow right into my chest. Knocked the air out of my lungs.

  What was happening to Ugly Girl? It was scary, almost.

  Bonnie was telling us some comical story, and at the same time I was panicked thinking: What if Matt sees me, what if he comes over to say hi, what if he asks to sit with us . . . I hoped he’d given up trying to be friends with me. He’d sent two or three e-mail messages and he’d even called and left messages on my voice mail but I never called back. I hated the phone. Even calling friends, Ugly Girl was uncomfortable.

  “Ursula? What’s wrong?”

  “What? Nothing.”

  I scowled, so Bonnie and Eveann would drop the subject.

  Matt hadn’t seen me. He carried his tray to the far side of the cafeteria. To sit with his friends, I guess. That circle. Preppies and preppie-jocks. I never looked, I had no curiosity.

  Near the end of lunch hour Bonnie leaned across the table and said, “It’s pretty pathetic without you on the team, Urs. Sleepy Hollow walked all over us last week, you heard? Schultz was practically in tears.”

  Sure. I’d heard. It would’ve been hard to miss the headline in our school paper. sleepy hollow trounces rr 36–22, girls’ basketball.

  I leaned across the table too. “You want the rest of that yogurt, Bonnie? If not—”

  It was the sappy sugary fruit yogurt, not my favorite. But Ugly Girl was hungry.

  THIRTEEN

  IT WAS A FRIDAY AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY, after classes. Two weeks and one day after Matt Donaghy’s “arrest.”

  Another Nothing-Day. Smelling of dirty socks, and worse.

  Matt had made his decision. Nothing would deflect him from his decision. Though Mr. Bernhardt winced, just visibly. “Matt, I’m sure this isn’t necessary.”

  But the junior class advisor spoke so slowly, with such embarrassment, Matt picked up the opposite message.

  Not necessary, but a good idea.

  Matt was resigning his vice presidency of the junior class. This elected office he’d been so ridiculously, pathetically proud of.

  “No one’s sai
d anything to you, Matt, have they?”

  “No.”

  Matt laughed. No one’s said anything to me, much. That’s just it.

  “Then why resign?”

  “I only won by eleven votes, Mr. Bernhardt. If the election was now, I’d lose.”

  Mr. Bernhardt was looking at Matt Donaghy quizzically. (Pityingly?) Matt was taking Intro to German from this teacher, and his grades had been A–/B+ in the fall semester and had plummeted to C/C– in recent weeks. Nicht sehr gut. No, not very good. But German wasn’t the subject of this brief conference.

  Maybe Mr. Bernhardt was surprised that a sixteen-year-old “average” student would reason so logically? For it was true, of course. Except Matt Donaghy wouldn’t even be nominated to run for class office now.

  Mr. Bernhardt began to speak, then fell silent. Outside the second-floor window, voices lifted from the walk below. Muffled voices, laughter. Matt felt lighthearted suddenly. “So. I’m formally resigned, I guess?”

  “Better put it in writing, Matt,” Mr. Bernhardt said. You could see he was both embarrassed and relieved. “Just for the record.”

  FOURTEEN

  IT WAS A MONDAY AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY, after classes. Two weeks, four days after Matt Donaghy’s “arrest.”

  Another Nothing-Day. Smelling of dirty socks, and worse.

  “Matt, we just can’t.”

  “Can’t—what?”

  “We can’t print this in the paper.”

  “Why not, Mr. Steiner?”

  “It’s too . . . accusing. And it isn’t very funny.”

  Matt felt his lower jaw tighten. He’d been gritting, grinding his teeth lately. During the night, in his troubled sleep. But now he smiled. Tried to smile. Was it an ugly, angry smile? He was trying for the nice-guy preppie smile he’d always worn.

  He hadn’t realized he was trembling. He clenched his fists, dug his nails into the palms of his hands.