Big Mouth Ugly Girl

“I . . . got your message.”

  Matt was speaking in a lowered, shaky voice. He was feeling a leap of irrational hope.

  Ursula said, still guardedly, “You know me, I guess? From school?”

  “Ursula, sure. Sure I know you.”

  As if they hadn’t been going to the same schools most of their lives.

  Ursula said, “This hasn’t been such a . . . great day for you, I guess.”

  “No. But—” Matt paused. He wanted to say, At least I’m home, not in jail. But that wasn’t much of a reason to be grateful, considering he hadn’t done anything wrong. “—I’m alive, anyway.”

  Was that meant to be funny? Matt laughed, but Ursula remained silent.

  Matt had begun to sweat, this conversation was so pained. He hated calling girls on the phone if he didn’t know them really well and if it hadn’t been understood, more or less, that he was going to call, and was expected. He was even uneasy sometimes calling his friends. Which was why he liked e-mail. Maybe Ursula Riggs was the same way? Her telephone voice was unexpectedly hesitant, diffident.

  Or maybe she just didn’t like Matt Donaghy, personally. But had to talk to him for some mysterious reason.

  Ursula began speaking rapidly, as if her words were prepared. “Look, Matt. I heard what you said in the cafeteria today. I was walking past your table, and I heard. I know you were joking, and there’s no way any intelligent person could misconstrue your words or gestures. If it’s taken out of context, maybe, but there was a context. And I can be a witness for you. I’ll go to Mr. Parrish first thing tomorrow and talk to him. Or the police, if necessary.”

  By the end of this speech, Ursula was speaking vehemently. Matt wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Witness? He felt like a drowning swimmer whose flailing hand has been grabbed by someone, a stranger, whose face he can’t see.

  He said, stammering, “You . . . heard me? You know I didn’t . . . wasn’t . . .”

  “A friend of mine, Eveann McDowd, was with me. She heard you, too. I’ll talk to her.”

  “You’d—be a witness for me, Ursula? Gosh.”

  Ursula said quickly, “You’ve been falsely accused. I’d do it for anybody.” She added, “I mean—even somebody I didn’t like.”

  Matt was too confused to absorb what Ursula Riggs seemed to be saying. That she liked him? All he could say was to repeat, “Thanks, Ursula. I—really appreciate it.

  “You’re the only person who’s contacted me, Ursula,” Matt added impulsively. “I’m a pariah, I guess—is that the word? Like leper. Outcast.” When Ursula didn’t reply, Matt said, “I’ve been suspended for ‘at least three days.’ Till they can investigate me.”

  “Investigate you? They’re the ones who should be investigated.”

  Ursula Riggs spoke so heatedly, it was as if, suddenly, she was in Matt’s room with him and Pumpkin.

  EIGHT

  FRIDAY MORNING, I WAS DESPERATE TO LEAVE for school as soon as possible, before Mom could stop me and make one of her Earnest Mom Appeals. But there she was, blocking my way.

  And we go:

  “Ursula! You are not going to get involved in this . . . situation at your school. Just because you happen to have overheard a few words you might have misunderstood. Your father and I both feel—”

  That was Mom’s way. Trying to cast doubt on what I knew to be absolutely true.

  “—it would be a terrible mistake.”

  Ugly Girl inquired politely, “Whose mistake, Mom? Mine, or yours?”

  “Ursula, this isn’t funny.”

  Ugly Girl stood grave and attentive.

  “It’s just like you to get involved with a boy who’s been publicly accused of plotting to blow up your school, a boy we don’t even know—”

  Ugly Girl let this pass. Don’t even know?

  “—it will reflect upon you.”

  (And upon you?)

  “Ursula, aren’t you listening? I’ve been awake all night worrying—what if you’re questioned, too? As a—a coconspirator? This could be a nightmare. It might get in the news. And if it gets put in your record—”

  So that’s where this was going. Sure. Everything was risky, it could wind up in your record.

  “—it will jeopardize your college application. You know how competitive the Ivy League schools are. Reckless behavior now might ruin your entire life.”

  All right, Ugly Girl made a mistake. I’d told my mom what I’d heard in the cafeteria, and she’d told Dad. Evidently. I’d thought for sure they would want me to speak up for the truth.

  But Mom had worked herself up into a state by now. It was like her to take one small thing and exaggerate it while neglecting everything else. Ugly Girl wanted to scream but bit her lower lip instead. One of Ugly Girl’s principles was: Do Not Quarrel With the Enemy Unless Cornered. Mom was winding up by saying that she and Dad had “only your best interests at heart, honey”; in fact, she and Dad had been “up half the night, discussing this.” They did not want me to speak with Mr. Parrish this morning—“For your own good, Ursula. You’re much too impetuous and careless. This is your life, and not just some . . . whim.”

  Whim! As if Ugly Girl’s principles were based upon whim.

  Calmly, Ugly Girl said, “Right. It’s my life, Mom. Not yours or Dad’s.”

  Friday morning, an hour later, at school:

  Wild! Ugly Girl could see Mr. Parrish start to squirm. His eyeglasses winking nervously, and his doughy face darkening with blood.

  This was a morning very different from the previous afternoon in the gym. Ugly Girl was at her sharpest. Her most compelling and articulate. You would never guess she’d botched two foul shots and lost a game for Rocky River before a resentful, angry crowd. Of course, her opponent, a middle-aged high school principal, presented nothing like the competition of the canny Tarrytown team.

  Ugly Girl was facing Mr. Parrish across his big glass-topped desk (as if being principal of Rocky River High was such a big deal) with her spine ramrod straight, which made her appear a little taller than she actually was, and Ugly Girl was no runt. She was wearing her glittery ear studs, and her maroon satin school jacket with her gold school letter, and her khakis, and her faux palomino-hide boots; she’d removed the soiled Mets cap, of course, out of courtesy. Unflinchingly she fixed her steely blue eyes on the man’s drawn face.

  Ugly Girl was explaining to Mr. Parrish that she’d been passing by Matt Donaghy’s table at lunch the previous day, and she’d heard every word he’d said, and his friends’ responses, and it was obvious—“Even a moron would understand, Mr. Parrish”—that Matt was joking.

  “But, Ursula, how could you be certain? If—”

  “Mr. Parrish, this friend of Matt’s, Skeet Curlew, asked Matt what he’d do if his play wasn’t chosen for the Festival, and Matt said, ‘What could I do, blow up the school? Massacre some people?’ The implication was that Matt could not—would not—do such a thing. No one in a million years would interpret it any other way.”

  Mr. Parrish sighed, staring at Ugly Girl.

  She said, patiently, “If you analyze Matt’s remark, he was actually saying the opposite of what he’s been accused of saying by these ‘witnesses.’ Sure, the guys were clowning pretending to be shooting guns; you know how guys that age are: immature. But everybody was laughing. It was a joke.”

  Parrish removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, and replaced the glasses. Ugly Girl perceived that he believed her.

  “I didn’t laugh,” Ugly Girl said, “because guys’ humor doesn’t turn me on. It’s gross, it’s dumb, but it isn’t a national emergency or anything.”

  “Ursula, you are absolutely certain that you heard what you’ve just told me? Absolutely certain?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Parrish.”

  “I’d hoped that someone . . . uninvolved with the boys would come forward, before this got out of hand.”

  “A friend of mine was with me, Eveann McDowd, who will corroborate what I’ve said.”

&
nbsp; I wasn’t sure of this. But Ugly Girl could try.

  “Eveann McDowd.” Mr. Parrish noted this on a memo pad. “Very good. It’s a relief to hear what you’ve said, Ursula. I want to thank you for coming forward. Still, the investigation will have to be continued . . .”

  “No!”

  Mr. Parrish looked at Ugly Girl in faint disbelief. Had this girl really said No to him, principal of Rocky River High?

  Ugly Girl said, “I’d be worried, Mr. Parrish, if I were you. You might be liable for suspending Matt Donaghy without probable cause, and defaming his character.”

  At this, Mr. Parrish’s doughy face grew even darker. “No one has defamed that boy’s character. His name has not been released. We’ve been very careful.”

  “But everyone knows, Mr. Parrish. It’s an open secret.”

  “Naturally there’s gossip. And the media is just as bad as everyone says. We can’t help that. But . . .”

  “But you do believe me? You do?”

  Mr. Parrish said, thoughtfully, “Yes, Ursula. Personally, I do. What you’ve said does sound . . . convincing. It’s almost exactly what Matt has been insisting he said. We’ve questioned his friends, and they tell the same story, generally. Matt’s teachers say he does a lot of joking, he’s immature for his age, sometimes. But he’s a very good student and everyone likes him.” Mr. Parrish paused, and here Ugly Girl could see the Earnest Principal Appeal approaching. “The reports brought to me, however, were serious. Very serious. I felt I had to call the police, not try to handle it myself.”

  Ugly Girl said, disgusted, “None of it was handled right! Lots of people are thinking—and saying—that Matt Donaghy really did something wrong. They’re saying he’s been arrested and questioned by the police. It’s on TV and in the papers that there’s a police investigation going on, like there is after an actual crime. You caused this by overreacting, Mr. Parrish.”

  Mr. Parrish said sarcastically, “You’re a friend of this boy’s, I take it?”

  “I am not. I don’t know him except by name.”

  “Look, we had to take into consideration the safety of every student and teacher in this building. We had to act swiftly. With school shootings in Colorado, Kentucky, Washington, and bomb scares, and threats, we had no way of knowing—”

  “These ‘witnesses’ who accused Matt—who are they?”

  Mr. Parrish frowned. You could see he’d been asked this question many times and was finding it difficult to repeat the same words.

  “They have asked that their identities remain anonymous. For their own protection.”

  “If there’s a lawsuit,” Ugly Girl said shrewdly, “their identities will be revealed. Fast.”

  “A—lawsuit?”

  This hit a nerve. Ugly Girl knew.

  She said, “If this goes on any longer. If Matt Donaghy isn’t reinstated, and the whole thing called off. And publicly explained.”

  Perspiration gleamed on Mr. Parrish’s soft upper lip, and his forehead furrowed like a haphazardly plowed field. At last he was losing his composure. “Ursula. Miss Riggs. Even if what you say is one hundred percent true, and there’s another girl to verify it, we had no way of knowing, yesterday afternoon, that—”

  “Well, now you know, Mr. Parrish.”

  And Ugly Girl stood, with dignity. And walked out of the principal’s office without a backward glance to see how he was staring after her.

  Friday morning, later:

  Eveann McDowd was saying in her weak, apologetic voice, “Ursula, gosh, I’d like to help him out. But I just can’t. My mom doesn’t want me to get involved, you know? I told her about yesterday, and how it’s all exaggerated on TV and Matt Donaghy is innocent, and she says I’ll be called a ‘terrorist’ too. On TV this morning there was something about a ‘conspiracy of students’ planning to blow up—”

  Ugly Girl said severely, “Eveann, that’s just crazy. And you know it.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “You know it. Where’s your conscience?”

  Eveann looked at Ugly Girl shyly. She was a strange, unpredictable girl: sometimes as outspoken as Ugly Girl herself, but at other times uncertain, hesitant. Ugly Girl was always dropping Eveann as a friend, then taking her up again. This had been going on since sixth grade. “Ursula, I told you. I would talk to Mr. Parrish . . . except for my mom.”

  Ugly Girl said, “I’ll call your mom. Right now.”

  “Oh, Ursula! Maybe that isn’t a good idea—”

  It was eleven o’clock. Mrs. McDowd was sure to be home. Though Eveann protested weakly, Ugly Girl marched into the front office to make the call, insisting she needed to use a phone, it was very important, related to the Matt Donaghy investigation. She called Eveann’s mother and explained the situation to her, politely but emphatically. Ugly Girl knew that Mrs. McDowd was a devout Catholic, so she figured Mrs. McDowd must have a conscience too. “If Matt Donaghy gets into serious trouble, his life might be ruined. And anyone who knows he’s innocent, and has been falsely accused, and doesn’t speak up for him, will be morally guilty. We have to ‘bear witness’ for one another, Mrs. McDowd. That’s our Christian duty.”

  After a few minutes’ conversation, Ugly Girl signaled for Eveann, who was close by biting her nails, to come talk to her mother. Ugly Girl was smiling, and almost immediately Eveann was smiling, too.

  “Mom? Oh, thanks. I will.”

  I was feeling so good by the end of classes on Friday, the Inky Black mood evaporated like polluted air when the wind sweeps in from the Atlantic. Almost, I hadn’t had time to think Ms. Schultz never e-mailed me back asking me not to quit the team.

  NINE

  “MATT! GOOD NEWS! PICK UP THE PHONE.”

  On Monday, the second day of Matt Donaghy’s suspension from Rocky River High, Matt’s mother called excitedly to him, as he and Pumpkin entered the house at about three thirty P.M.

  Matt had just returned from a snow-blown two-hour hike in the Rocky River Nature Preserve, with Pumpkin trotting and panting at his heels. It was weird—kind of exhilarating, but definitely weird—to be out tramping alone in the preserve when everybody else was in school. But Matt had needed to get out of the house, badly. He hadn’t slept much since the previous Thursday, and his thoughts were coming rushed and confused like those strange thoughts you sometimes have on the verge of sleep; he’d shake his head to wake up, and then he was too much awake. Suspended for three days. Minimum. Pending investigation. He didn’t want to think what might be happening, or not happening, at the high school. If Ursula Riggs and her friend had testified on his behalf. (He was sure they had, if Ursula said so.) If the guys had testified on his behalf. (He was sure they had. Though, still, over the long weekend, not one had e-mailed or called Matt.) He still hadn’t been informed who his accusers were. (It was generally known that there were two of them, and they were in some way “related.” Meaning what?) Mr. Weinberg had e-mailed him a terse, thoughtful note on Friday morning:

  This will be cleared up, Matt.

  Use the unexpected free time to READ WRITE BROOD DREAM.

  Ursula Riggs had also e-mailed him a terse, hopeful note on Friday afternoon:

  dear matt,

  i spoke w/ principal perish this AM

  eveann spoke w/ him this PM

  FINGERS CROSSED FOR JUSTICE

  UR

  “My two friends. And you, Pumpkin.”

  Matt was hugging Pumpkin a lot lately. He hadn’t had so much time for Pumpkin since he’d been sick with the flu two years before.

  * * *

  It was a long weekend.

  It was a long Monday morning waiting for a call that might not come. (Mr. Leacock was “negotiating.” Matt’s parents had insisted that Matt be spared as much distress as possible.)

  Sure, Matt tried to use the “free time” profitably. He’d tried to work ahead in his classes, and to rewrite William Wilson: A Case of Mistaken Identity, but the play just seemed childish to him now, like something he’d wri
tten in middle school. Matt wasn’t even sure he understood the story by Edgar Allan Poe, which he’d reread. (There were two William Wilsons. Except there was just one William Wilson. Do they both die at the end?) Anyway, what was happening in his own life was like a play. A dark, nasty comedy where people’s misery was held up to ridicule.

  Matt’s parents tried to shield him, and Alex, from what was being published in local papers. But Matt was too shrewd—he’d seen the headlines:

  —Westchester Journal

  —Rocky River Gazette

  —The New York Times (Metro Section)

  The only good thing, Matt’s father said, was that, so far, the name “Donaghy” hadn’t been printed or spoken on TV or radio.

  Matt didn’t want to point out to him that everybody he, Matt, knew, knew. And those were all the people Matt cared about.

  He’d hiked, hiked, hiked in the preserve until Pumpkin showed signs of faltering. Must’ve gone two or three miles in one direction, then circled back home. It was a bleak January sky like tarnish. The kind of day you’d never believe there could be spring. Matt was thinking, I could run away! So easy. There’d been a documentary on TV about runaway teenagers in San Francisco. Thousands of runaways a year, and their parents looking for them. (Maybe they weren’t all looking very hard.) Climbing into, then up, a ravine strewn with icy rocks, he’d lost his footing and almost fallen. So easy. Crack my head. No more misery.

  In ninth grade a boy named Tim had died suddenly, over a weekend. The cause was something called an aneurysm. Blood leaking through the brain and swelling the skull.

  Easy. Fast.

  But, no: Matt wasn’t going to be morbid. Ursula Riggs was his friend, and was helping him. And Mr. Weinberg. And others were helping him. He knew.

  “Suburban hysteria”—the Times reporter was the only journalist so far to be shrewd enough to perceive what was happening. Still, the small, single-paragraph piece had run on the front page of the Metro Section where everyone in Rocky River who read The New York Times, which was more or less everybody in Rocky River, would see it.