He saw Mr. Steiner glance at his fists. Just a quick startled glance.
“You mean, like, if it was ‘funnier’ it would be OK?”
“I didn’t say that, exactly.”
“Why isn’t it funny, Mr. Steiner? Isn’t the truth ‘funny’?”
Matt’s column was meant to be humorous. “Just for the Record . . .”
A comical letter of resignation written by an individual you realize, gradually, is “resigning” from life: He’s about to be given a lethal injection for the crime of being mistaken for a “famous and glamorous serial killer.” But the medical technician who administers the injection can’t find a usable vein. Until finally, the needle has to be inserted into the condemned man’s eye. . . .
“Sometimes the truth is funny, or can be made funny,” Mr. Steiner said slowly, “but sometimes . . . humor can fall flat, it’s just too raw.”
“It isn’t too long, is it?”
“Matt, it just isn’t funny.”
“Is everything in the paper funny? Every article, every photo? I never noticed that.”
“Matt, don’t get excited. This is—”
“Mr. Steiner, I’m not excited. I’m just, like, puzzled. Am I being censored by just you, or by the whole staff?”
There was a pained silence. Mr. Steiner, faculty advisor of the school paper, the youngest teacher at Rocky River and one of the most popular, was frowning at Matt. Whom he’d always liked. Whose “wild sense of humor” he’d praised. Now he was holding a copy of Matt’s “Just for the Record” between his fingers as you might hold something that gave off a distinct odor.
“The editors did confer with me, yes. That’s why I’m talking with you about the piece. They thought—”
“So you’re all censoring me, then?”
His friends. The editor, the features editor. The twelve-member staff. They must’ve had a secret meeting. To discuss Matt Donaghy. Behind his back.
Mr. Steiner winced. The word “censor” was a politically incorrect word. You could see it hurt this man, almost physically, to be so accused.
“‘Censoring’ is—is not—what this is about, Matt. It’s a matter of—good taste. Under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances? That I’m a formerly accused ‘psychoterrorist’ who ought to be grateful he isn’t in prison? That I should be extra grateful I’m allowed back to school at all?”
Matt’s heart was beating hard. He couldn’t believe that his mouth was uttering such words. He liked this! He liked the truth being exposed at last instead of disguised behind vague mumbles, averted eyes. And he liked Mr. Steiner on his feet, facing Matt. He liked seeing that Mr. Steiner, a math teacher revered for being quite a jock, a serious marathon runner, five feet nine to Matt’s five feet eleven, was getting visibly nervous.
“Matt, maybe you should make an appointment—to talk to Mr. Rainey?”
Matt shook his head, sneering. Rainey! The school shrink.
“I can understand your bitterness, Matt, and confusion—”
“I’m not confused, Mr. Steiner. I’m not.”
“It was a painful episode. Everyone regrets it. But it’s over now, and the best remedy for healing is—”
“‘Forgive and forget.’ Or is it—‘forget and forgive’?”
Matt laughed so harshly, Mr. Steiner stared at him.
This strange, angry edge to Matt Donaghy! His smile had grown ironic, suspicious. He looked taller, leaner, like a knife blade. Even his freckles looked bleached out. His faded-red hair was longer; he had a habit of brushing it impatiently out of his eyes. His skin looked roughened, as if he’d been rubbing it with sandpaper. He’d overheard his mother saying to his father, “He isn’t a boy any longer. He’s changed.”
Matt hoped this was true. He’d had enough of being a good American boy.
When he’d returned to school after the suspension, he’d been like a small kid at Christmas. So excited and hopeful. He’d expected—what? Something like a welcoming committee? Handshakes, hugs and kisses? And apologies? Stacey Flynn, tears in her eyes, kissing his cheek and saying, “Oh, Matt. We’re all so sorry. We never doubted you, Matt. We love you.”
He hadn’t even seen Stacey, that first morning.
Maybe he’d been unrealistic? He’d expected too much? Opening his locker that morning in the noisy junior corridor, glancing around with a self-conscious smile, waiting for people to notice him . . . Sure, Skeet and Neil and Cal and Russ and others were friendly enough. Friendly seeming. Kids whose lockers were next to Matt’s, and who sat next to him in classes. But they were embarrassed, too. They didn’t know what to say. Russ, who never lacked for words, was stammering, “That was really weird, I guess. . . . It must’ve been . . . weird.” Even Mr. Weinberg, cloaking his unease in witticisms, wasn’t the same with Matt. And when Matt did encounter Stacey, after classes, she was rushing to choir rehearsal and said, flush-faced, “Oh, Matt! I’ll call you—soon!”
Of course, Stacey never called.
It was like Matt had been wounded somewhere on his body he couldn’t see, and the wound was visible to others, raw and ugly. When they looked at him, they saw just the wound. They weren’t seeing Matt Donaghy any longer.
Even Ursula Riggs, who’d testified on his behalf, avoided him. Why?
Matt had written “Just for the Record” to express how it felt, but to be funny about it, too. Now Mr. Steiner and the staff of the newspaper, who he’d believed were his friends, were telling him it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t in “good taste.”
Life was a big balloon slowly leaking air, deflating.
“Matt? You can understand our perspective, can’t you?”
Mr. Steiner was looking “sincerely” at Matt in that way that all the teachers were doing lately. They were being “earnest”—maybe they thought they were being “profound.” Sure, he knew that most of them, who knew him, had defended him. But that wasn’t enough.
Mr. Steiner had been one of Matt’s friends, he’d thought. But now Matt could see that Steiner wasn’t his friend either.
Matt took the copy of “Just for the Record” back from the teacher and tore it into long strips. Steiner winced, saying, “Matt, c’mon. Don’t be childish. You’re taking this too seriously. As an editor, you’ve turned people down.”
“Sure. People who can’t write. People with nothing to say and no idea how to say it.”
“This isn’t your best writing, Matt. In a few weeks—”
“That’s what the paper publishes, ‘best writing’? Like, everybody in the Rocky River Run is a Pulitzer Prize winner?”
“—in a few weeks you’ll be grateful we didn’t print it. Believe me, Matt.”
“Sure. Thanks, Mr. Steiner.”
Matt’s voice was so laced with sarcasm, it tasted like poison in his mouth.
Steiner, trying to be upbeat, walked with Matt to the door of his office. If the teacher laid a hand on Matt’s shoulder, big-brother crap, Matt was going to shrug it off.
But Steiner didn’t.
Dear Mr. Steiner:
This is “just for the record . . .” I am resigning from the “Rocky River Run” staff.
The Rocky River Psychoterrorist
Matt laughed, typing up this message. But no, better not send it. Big Mouth had gotten into enough trouble this term.
Dear Mr. Steiner:
It is with regret but necessity that I am resigning from the “Rocky River Run” staff.
Matthew Donaghy
Matt clicked SEND. And presto—it was gone.
* * *
“This is getting easier and easier, Pumpkin. I’m liking the feeling.”
Pumpkin, misinterpreting Matt’s mood for happiness, thumped her tail and nudged her eager head against him to be petted.
“Hey, Matt? Is something wrong?”
“‘Something wrong’? With who?”
Matt saw Alex wince. He said, relenting, “I got work to do. Math, it’s a bummer.”
Mat
t eased the door shut on Alex.
When you feel such total disgust with the world, it’s best not to infect other, innocent people.
One thing you don’t want to do, Big Mouth. Bring Alex down to your level of existence.
This terse item appeared in the school paper, the Rocky River Run, on the Friday following Matt’s resignation. It was buried on page four, without a headline.
Seeing it, Matt laughed aloud.
What had he been expecting, a front-page photo spread?
Now people had another reason to stare at Matt when they thought he wasn’t seeing them, and to look quickly away when it became evident he was. In Tower Records at the mall, Matt ran into three girls from the junior class, and one of them, Wendy Diehl, who was in Matt’s history class, said, with a curious downturning of her lips, “Hi, Matt Donaghy. I voted for you.” The three girls giggled, and Matt blushed, and stammered, “Thanks,” and walked away.
What did this mean? That they supported him?
The president of the junior class, who’d campaigned hard for the office, was a high-energy, political-minded girl named Sandra Friedman who already spoke of hoping to get accepted by Harvard Law in five years’ time. She told Matt she was sorry to hear he’d resigned, but—“It’s kind of a nothing job, vice president, I guess,” Sandra said tactlessly. “It’s not like you have anything to do.”
The only other person to speak to Matt about his resignation was the kid who’d replaced him, Gordon Kim, a popular Korean-American transfer from Berkeley. He’d entered the election as a joke. Gordon, a math genius, behaved as if he thought most Rocky River events were jokes; he hadn’t seemed to catch on to why Matt was resigning. “Any time you want to be vice president again, it’s OK with me, Matt. You won the election.”
None of Matt’s friends, who’d helped him campaign, spoke of his resignation. To his face, anyway.
My heart is a stone.
I can feel it hardening.
Leaving the school library, Friday afternoon. God damn! He had to pass by some of his friends, hanging out by the stairs. They were talking about a party that weekend. Russ Mercer saw Matt, and blushed, and caught up with him on the stairs. “Hey, Matt? How’s it going?” and Matt shrugged, not looking at Russ, who’d been one of his closest friends since sixth grade, and Russ said, guiltily, “We’re just making plans to get together . . . want to join us?” and Matt said with a stiff, fixed smile, “Thanks, but I’m busy all weekend. Thanks, Russ.”
Thanks, Russ.
Thanks to all of you.
My heart is a stone—it won’t be broken again.
Matt Donaghy loved his mom and dad. He did! But now he was starting to hate them. These are the things they said to him, to his face.
Things are fine, Matt!
It won’t be on your school record, Mr. Parrish promised!
Try to put it behind you, Matt.
Don’t be moping!
Please let Evita get into your room to clean it, will you?
You’ll feel better when . . .
It’s just the weather . . .
In a few weeks . . .
And when they believed Matt wasn’t listening, these are the things they said in lowered, anxious voices.
I can’t talk to him any longer.
He won’t talk to me.
He isn’t himself. He’s changed.
He’s sarcastic, he’s hostile.
His room smells.
He’s depressed. I know what depression is.
I’m exhausted too.
I can’t sleep and I’m exhausted.
He’s rude to Alex. Alex loves him.
I hate this community. I used to love it.
I know what depression is, and Mr. Parrish and the school district are to blame.
He refuses to let me make an appointment for him to see a . . .
He refuses to let Evita into his room to clean it, and his room smells.
I know what depression is, and it’s blanketing this house like smog.
Matt Donaghy loved his mom and dad. But now he was starting to hate them.
FIFTEEN
FRI 2/16/01 2:11 AM
Dear Ursula,
I saw you in school yesterday. Not seeing me. Or if you did, you looked right through me. (Maybe I’m a ghost?)
OK—I understand. (I guess.) Big Mouth Donaghy isn’t cool & Ursula Riggs is one of Rocky River’s coolest individuals.
(I’m not going to harass you like some nut, I promise. This is the final time I will write.)
(It’s just . . . I’m so lonely.)
I think people wanted me—or somebody—to be the psychoterrorist. When it didn’t turn out, they were—are—disappointed.
Ursula, who were the “witnesses” who reported me? Do you know? I keep asking myself: Did they hate me so much? Did they really really HATE ME SO MUCH? Or—did they think they were reporting the truth?
Ursula Riggs is cool because: 1) You don’t give a damn for them. Their false eyes & smiling mask faces. 2) You are YOU. Everybody respects that.
I never used to be lonely at home, but now I hate them talking to me. They act like I’m sick. They want me to see a shrink. (Sure! “For the record.”) Maybe I can get a prescription for Prozac, like Mom. She says it “helps her cope.”
My dad is away a lot, & when he’s home he is tired & distracted. He blames me (I know) for jeopardizing his job. His company is superconscious of “image.” I have sullied the name DONAGHY. I know that Dad & Mom are ashamed of me though they’re careful not to say so to my face.
It’s true. Except for Big Mouth none of this trouble would have happened.
My heart is a stone, & I like the feeling. I guess.
They think I’m “depressed.” I’m not, I am only seeing now the TRUTH.
I wish you could be my friend, Ursula. The girls I used to know, I don’t trust now. You’re different—you’re not a “girl”—like them.
Even your name—URSULA. It’s special.
(OK, I’m through. I promise I won’t write again.)
Your friend Matt Donaghy
It was two forty-seven A.M. Matt was hunched over his computer, sweaty and anxious. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on his schoolwork, which seemed so trivial now, and he’d avoided eating dinner with his mom and Alex, and he’d wasted hours clicking around on the Internet looking for people worse off than himself, and now this crazy dorky letter to Ursula Riggs—this was the weirdest behavior yet.
He could imagine Skeet’s reaction if Skeet knew.
Matt’s got a crush on Big Ursula?
He could imagine Stacey’s reaction. . . .
But nobody really knew Ursula Riggs. She stood outside all the cliques. She truly was special.
She was the only one who’d defended him.
Not enough that Matt’s got himself into trouble, now he’s hanging out with Ursula Riggs. Weird!
Big Mouth’s desperate, that’s the reason.
Matt reread his e-mail to Ursula and decided not to click SEND, but DELETE.
Are you sure? Y/N.
Y. Matt was sure.
If the guys had known, they’d have approved.
SIXTEEN
UGLY GIRL, WARRIOR-WOMAN.
Ugly Girl, flying high in Manhattan.
That wasn’t the plan, for sure. Poor Mom!
How this adventure began was, Mom goes: “Ursula, we hardly ever see you anymore. Lisa misses you.” When I don’t say anything, but am feeling a little guilty, Mom adds, “Lisa looks up to you, honey. You’re her big sister.” (Like I’m Frankenstein, or something. B I G.) “I’ll get tickets for the three of us, this isn’t ballet but modern dance and I think you’ll like it. We can have lunch at Fiorello’s before the matinee, come on, honey, say yes.”
You’d have to see this scene to believe it. Why Ugly Girl gave in, with a shrug. OK, Mom. Mom was actually stroking my hair that needed washing, and sort of tickling the nape of my neck like I was a big cat, and I liked the
feeling, I guess. I liked Mom OK, sometimes. She was so proud of me when Mr. Parrish sent his letter, even more than Dad. She’d admitted it was wrong—“cowardly”—of her to beg me not to get involved, she was “very sorry” she’d tried to interfere. Dad wasn’t so sure, I guess.
So anyway, I said OK. And Mom bought three tickets for this Sunday matinee at Lincoln Center. And there was the joke in our household then that Ursula agreed to come into the city with Mom and Lisa to see a dance program mainly because of having lunch at Fiorello’s before the matinee. Dad said, “There’s a gal after my own stomach.”
Since quitting the team I’d been running more, and hiking, in the Rocky River Nature Preserve. I shot baskets in the gym if nobody was around. At home I lifted twenty-pound dumbbells, Dad’s weights he hadn’t touched in years, to firm up my arm and shoulder muscles so they wouldn’t get flaccid. Actually I guessed my weight was down by a few pounds, because my clothes didn’t fit tight like they sometimes did. Ugly Girl never weighed herself. I knew there were girls at school, and my own kid sister and Mom, who weighed themselves every morning like fanatics. I only found out what I weighed when I had to get examined by a doctor or nurse. Who cares what you weigh? It’s a Very Boring Fact.
When I was a young girl, beginning at age nine, what I’d loved best was swimming. Swimming and diving. Diving and swimming! Our coach for the team in middle school used to say to us, “Happy flying, girls!” If it was an outdoor pool, you’d be flying into the sky. And slicing into the water like a knife blade, so clean. But I was growing fast. Most of the other girls stayed skinny except for me. My thighs, hips, and breasts were taking shape as if every night while I slept a sculptor was adding flesh to me, like clay.
One day, when I was in eighth grade, I heard my dad say to my mom, “She’s getting big, isn’t she?” They were in another room; I wasn’t supposed to hear.
Another time Dad said to me, “Ursula, you’re getting to be a big girl.” It was like he had more to say, but stopped. His eyes were on my face, like he didn’t want to look anywhere else.
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