Big Mouth & Ugly Girl

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Some boys were saying that our principal, Mr. Parrish, had disarmed the student and called police—or had Mr. Parrish been held at gunpoint in his office, and had to be rescued? Someone said he’d heard it was Mr. Weinberg. Everyone was talking at once. A girl was saying she’d seen Stacey Flynn at her locker, pale and crying, on her way home early—“But Stacey wouldn’t say a word to me, what was wrong.” Maybe she’d been threatened by the gunman? The more we speculated, the more excited we became. It was like a lighted match set to dried grass.

  Some senior boys appeared, one of them Trevor Cassity, the football player, a popular, aggressive guy whose father happened to work for my dad. There was an awkward feeling between Trevor and me because of this fact, a kind of mutual embarrassment, and resentment, too, on Trevor’s part, for Ugly Girl was a girl who would’ve been beneath Trevor’s contempt as a sex object—except for these mitigating circumstances. So Trevor Cassity and Ursula Riggs instinctively avoided each other when they happened, not very frequently, to meet. Now Trevor and his buddies were animated, indignant: Had we heard it was Matt Donaghy, a junior, who’d been threatening to blow up the school and “massacre” as many people as he could, had we heard he’d been arrested?

  Matt Donaghy! This had to be wrong.

  I protested, “I don’t believe you. Matt wouldn’t do such a crazy thing.”

  “Well, he did. He tried.”

  Now, I didn’t know Matt Donaghy very well, but I’d been in school with him since fifth grade. This year he was in just one class with me, Mr. Weinberg’s. He was in with a popular clique of juniors, not at the center of the clique, maybe, but toward the edge. It was my impression he had lots of friends, and girls liked him. A “wit”—a “clown”—a “wise guy”—but his humor wasn’t mean or malicious. As far as I knew, Matt Donaghy wouldn’t make jokes to embarrass girls, or say crude things like lots of other guys did. Matt Donaghy, threatening to blow up the school! Bringing a bomb to school, or a gun! It was just too crazy. Matt had never talked back to any teacher, he’d never said anything sarcastic, in my memory.

  I said these things, and some people quickly agreed with me, but others disagreed. “Matt’s a computer nut, that’s the type. They contact each other on the Internet.” “Matt isn’t into computers. That’s Skeet.” “Skeet too. Probably they’re all in it.” “Russ Mercer, too? They aren’t arrested—are they?” “Look, none of these guys are the type, this has got to be wrong. It must be somebody else—” “What’s the type that does this stuff? Blow up schools?” “The shy quiet type. Y’know—repressed.” “That’s not Matt Donaghy. He’s got a wild sense of humor. He’s a class officer, for God’s sake.”

  One of Trevor’s buddies was saying that he’d been told by a “reliable source” that two senior girls had heard Matt Donaghy talking in the cafeteria at lunchtime, saying he was going to blow up the school, and they reported him. “Like, Donaghy had this plan to kill as many people as he could, including teachers, because he was pissed over some grade he got on a test—or something he wrote, that got turned down by the newspaper.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “That is not true.”

  Trevor Cassity stared at me. “How do you know?”

  “Because I was there.”

  They were all looking at me, challenging me. Suddenly I felt revulsion for these people, worse than I’d felt after the basketball game.

  I turned and walked away. Fast.

  A few people called after me, wanting me to come back, but there was Trevor Cassity saying in his low, mocking voice, “Sure! It’s just like big Ursula to butt in where she doesn’t know shit.” I could have kept going, pretended I didn’t hear, but I stopped and called back, with as much dignity as I could manage since I was trembling with anger, “You’re the ones who’re butting in where you don’t know shit. I don’t believe any of this.”

  I turned and began to run. Fresh, cold air! A feathery snowfall was swirling around me like a blessing. My face was burning, and my heart pumped adrenaline. It just disgusted me how people who knew Matt Donaghy, or should’ve known him and trusted him, were willing to believe such things.

  Worse, they were almost gloating about it. Like a lynch mob.

  FOUR

  “SON, YOU KNOW WHY WE’RE HERE.”

  “I . . . do?”

  “Do you have anything to say to us, maybe? Anything you’d like to get off your chest?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” He was frightened, his mind wasn’t working right. None of this made sense to him, yet (it seemed) it made sense to the Rocky River detectives. They were adult men, severe-looking men, why would they have come to the high school to speak with him, except for a reason? He saw (in the corner of his eye, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge) that Mr. Parrish, the school principal, was standing a few yards away, in the corridor, just standing there, waiting. Why?

  Matt began to stammer. His heart was fluttering like a small crazed bird trapped in his chest. “Is something wrong at . . . home? Did something happen to . . . my mom?”

  The detectives exchanged a quick, inscrutable glance. As if this were a new idea to them. Both spoke:

  “Did something happen to your mom, Matt?”

  “Yes, son? Did something happen at home?”

  It was then Matt Donaghy began to panic. Something was wrong with his breathing. His lungs seemed to shut down. A wide-winged black-feathered bird bigger than any eagle rose up behind him and brought its wings down over him, shutting out his vision, stopping his heart.

  FIVE

  NO I DID NOT. I DID NOT. I DID NOT.

  I did not say those things, and I did not plan those things.

  Won’t anyone believe me?

  Matt Donaghy had not been arrested by Rocky River police.

  Matt Donaghy had not been handcuffed and led forcibly from the rear of Rocky River High to a waiting police vehicle and taken to police headquarters to be charged with any crime.

  No one had been a witness to such a spectacle. But it would be talked of as if it had happened. It would be talked of, and shared, and discussed like a scene in a movie that not everyone had seen, but a few had seen, or claimed to have seen, and by being talked of with such zest, such dread and enthusiasm, it would shortly come to seem that, at Rocky River High, nearly everyone had seen it, and had opinions about it.

  “He was cuffed? Matt was cuffed?”

  “Not his ankles, though. So he could walk.”

  Had Rocky River police actually entered the school? During fifth period? Those classmates of Matt’s who’d seen the plainclothes detectives lead him out of study hall would describe the men in varied ways, disagreeing on details, but all agreed that the detectives had been wearing suits, and had spoken quietly to Matt.

  What happened outside the classroom was a matter for speculation.

  It began to be claimed that the plainclothes detectives had been backed up by uniformed, armed cops. It began to be claimed that there’d been a SWAT team with high-powered rifles, bulletproof masks, and vests. Few could truthfully claim to have seen the SWAT team on the premises, though the building wasn’t exactly deserted at the time Matt was led out of study hall.

  Where had the detectives taken Matt, exactly? Some believed that they’d all gone downstairs to Mr. Parrish’s office, and had left for police headquarters later; others, impatient with such an inessential detail, insisted that Matt had been “arrested” immediately and taken away to headquarters.

  “If he’d made a break for it, they would’ve shot him? Wow.”

  “No way Matt was gonna make a break. They had him, and he knew it.”

  “Did they search his locker? Did they confiscate stuff?”

  “Did he confess?”

  “Did you ever see any gun of Matt’s, like in his locker?”

  “I didn’t know Matt had guns.”

  “Stuff to make bombs? Or, like plans? Drawings?”

  “They’d be downloaded from the Internet. All that kind of shit you
can download if you know where to look.”

  In Mr. Parrish’s office, the door shut tight.

  Matt’s teeth were chattering. He tried to speak calmly.

  “Look, this is crazy. I never . . . what you’re saying.”

  “We’ve had a report, Matt. Two reports. Two witnesses. They heard you.”

  “Heard me . . . what?”

  “Threaten to ‘blow up the school.’”

  Matt stared at the detective, uncomprehending.

  “Threaten to ‘massacre’ as many people as you could. In the school cafeteria today, just a few hours ago. Are you denying it?”

  “Y-Yes! I’m denying it.”

  “You’re denying it.”

  “I think this is all crazy.”

  “‘This is all crazy.’ That’s your response?”

  There was an undertone of disgust and incredulity in the man’s voice that reminded Matt of his dad. Matt shivered.

  On the table a tape recorder was running. The detectives were also taking notes. Mr. Parrish had removed his glasses and was stroking his eyes as if they ached. There was a glimmer of perspiration on the principal’s upper lip, and his face was crisscrossed with faint lines like scratches with a dry pen. His assistant was there, a young woman frowning over a notepad. Mrs. Hale, the school guidance counselor, and Mr. Rainey, the school psychologist, were present, staring at Matt as if they’d never seen him before.

  It was then that Matt did an unexpected thing: He grinned.

  His mouth twisted like some sort of rubber mouth. Maybe he even laughed. Mr. Parrish said sharply, “Matthew, this isn’t funny. Very serious accusations have been made against you.”

  “I’m not . . . I don’t think it’s funny,” Matt said quickly.

  He was feeling tired suddenly. As if he’d been running around the track for miles.

  “Let’s go over what we’ve been told. You did, or did not, make threats to ‘blow up the school’ in the cafeteria today?”

  “Look, ask my friends! They can tell you.”

  “Certainly we will. If it’s necessary, we will.”

  Matt had given them the guys’ names: Russ, Skeet, Neil, Cal . . . Who else? But Mrs. Hale said, “We don’t want to involve anyone unless it’s necessary. We’d like to clear this up at the source.”

  “Well, if I’m the source,” Matt said, sarcastically, “I can tell you: I never threatened anybody or anything.” His heart was beating hard. He recalled a story of Edgar Allan Poe’s he’d read in Mr. Weinberg’s class last semester, “The Imp of the Perverse.” He said, his mouth twisting again, “And if I had, I wouldn’t tell you, about it, would I?”

  There was stunned silence. Mr. Parrish’s assistant shifted uneasily in her chair.

  “Just a joke, officers,” Mr. Parrish said. His face was becoming mottled as if with hives. “Matthew means to be funny.”

  “Do you think this is ‘funny,’ Matthew? Our conversation?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We’d hoped to clear the air, Matthew. Without bringing you to headquarters.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Didn’t mean—what?”

  “I didn’t mean—the last thing I said.”

  “Which was—?”

  They wanted him to speak into the tape recorder, that was it. Anything he said would be, will be, used against him in a court of law. Matt’s mouth twitched. It was funny!

  No, this was serious. Matt repeated what he’d said, and added an apology. The detective with the glasses was beginning to dislike him, he could tell. The other detective, younger and thicker bodied, regarded Matt with more sympathy. Or so Matt thought. “Now you’re saying you are serious, you are telling the truth, yes? You’re not lying now.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean—no.”

  “You’re not lying now?”

  “I wasn’t l-lying, no. It was just a dumb joke.”

  “Do you consider a bomb threat, a threat to ‘massacre’ as many people as possible, a ‘dumb joke’? Or something more serious?”

  “Look, ask the other guys! They’ll tell you.”

  “But why would they tell us, Matt, if you won’t? If you’re all involved in a conspiracy together?”

  “We’re not in any conspiracy, we’re not. This is all crazy! It’s exaggerated! I never said anything like that.”

  Mr. Rainey said quietly, to Mr. Parrish, maybe they should contact the other boys now; and Mr. Parrish said, in an undertone, he was hoping to avoid making an issue of this. “You know how upset parents in this district can get.”

  The questioning, the clearing of the air, continued. Matt had been thinking of it as a kind of TV sitcom in which he was the star, he’d have all the good lines (if he could only think of them), but it wasn’t like that at all. The others, the adults, had the script; and he was floundering. He was stammering, he was fighting back tears. He couldn’t stop his mouth from twisting, like a two-year-old on the verge of a tantrum. No, no! This was serious. He knew it was very serious. He’d clear the air, yes. He was an intelligent kid; Mr. Weinberg praised him. Other teachers praised him. He’d explain to these adults in an assured, mature voice, and clear everything up. Maybe his mom and dad would not be contacted. (Matt wanted to think this, so badly.) Maybe, if things got cleared quickly enough, he could return to study hall, and everybody would be relieved and happy to see him. Mr. Weinberg would make one of his jokes—“Well, Matthew Donaghy! I see you made bail.” Or—“I guess you’re being recruited for the CIA, maybe?” And Matt would blush, and think of some witty response. Everybody would laugh.

  He’d return to his desk, acting nonchalant. Stacey would be relieved. Maybe she’d squeeze his hand, in front of the others. “Oh, Matt! What was that all about?” Russ and Skeet would be dying to know, too. But Matt would tease his friends by taking out his play script and opening his laptop. In a mock-Brit accent he’d say, “Now, where were we when I was interrupted . . . ?”

  He wanted to think this, so badly.

  I never said anything. I never meant anything.

  Please won’t anybody believe me?

  Out in the corridor a bell was ringing. Study period was over, forever. It was like a plane you’d missed.

  Never could Matt Donaghy return to that study hall. Never let the other kids see it was all a joke, it was nothing.

  So strange: to hear the bell, to remain seated. With these adults. These strangers he feared and hated. While the other students were leaving classrooms, in a noisy herd on the stairs, rattling their lockers. He had a quick flash of Stacey, in tears. She was frightened for him! Or just embarrassed she knew him . . .

  “Look, can I leave now? I told you everything I can tell you, over and over. I’m . . . expected at Drama Club.”

  “Not just yet, Matt. Maybe in a little while.”

  “When we clear this up, Matt. We have a few more things to clarify.”

  “But I’ve told you everything. I just keep repeating myself. Please, would you talk to my friends? There’s Russ Mercer, there’s ‘Skeet’—Frank Curlew. There’s Neil—”

  Please. The word sounded so desperate, so cringing and begging, in Matt’s mouth. He was feeling sick.

  Mr. Parrish assured Matt they would talk to his friends, soon. If it was necessary. Maybe it wouldn’t be necessary.

  Matt’s spirits lifted a little, hearing this. Mr. Parrish liked Matt, didn’t he? He was a friendly principal, a “hands-on principal,” he called himself, determined to maintain and to improve Rocky River’s “tradition of high academic standards” but hey, just a regular guy, eyeglasses winking at you in the hall, a wide quick smile asking, How’s it going? He was an OK principal, a nice man, Matt believed, or wished to believe. He’s on my side. I’m a student here. He wants this cleared up more than I do. Matt’s mother came to PTA meetings and made it a point to speak with the principal, the guidance counselor, the psychologist, Matt’s track coach, all of Matt’s teachers. These were people who would be
writing letters of recommendation for Matt when he applied for college next year. Crucial to make a good impression on them! Get them to like you. Get them on your side.

  The conversation continued. The clearing of the air.

  The detectives asked to see the contents of Matt’s backpack, and he showed them. He was sullen but cooperative. An invasion of my privacy. Don’t you need a warrant? Next, as he’d known they would, they asked him to take them to his locker, to let them examine his locker, and at this Matt balked. “No, sir.” Suddenly he was stubborn, he would not cooperate.

  Mr. Parrish asked him. The others. Concerned for him. Pretending not to be alarmed, suspicious.

  But Matt shook his head no. His face was blazing hot.

  Why? Because he was ashamed. Didn’t want anybody to see the detectives going through his things.

  His mouth twitched in an angry grin. “If you’re expecting to find guns and bombs, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to put them in my locker, would I?” He knew this was a mistake. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “That’s the first place somebody would look, isn’t it?”

  The detectives were staring at him.

  “You tell us, son. You’re the one who knows.”

  Sure, he knew they could open his locker, legally, without his permission. The principal of Rocky River High was the one to give, or withhold, permission. Mr. Parrish might have waited for a search warrant, but he was eager to cooperate with police. “You won’t find anything,” Matt wanted to sneer at them. He wanted to laugh except he was too scared suddenly.