Born Ugly

by Beth Goobie

  Opening his eyes, he glanced at her, and for a brief scattering of heartbeats, Shir found herself looking directly into his gaze. Blue, his eyes were pale blue like hers, but larger and more intense. Every part of this boy was intense, she realized, observing him. He was all over his face, burning in every fiber—the pale ongoing blueness of his eyes, the heavy dark eyebrows, even the large hooked nose.

  Flushing, she looked away. “But what … if it’s something you didn’t make?” she asked uncertainly, her heart quickening, a foot kicking warnings against a half-open door. “I mean … well, it’s not your fault, but somehow you’re caught up in it?”

  “Caught up in it how?” asked Finlay, frowning slightly.

  Shir hesitated. Obviously she couldn’t get into exact details—she didn’t know Finlay well enough to be sure he could handle the information. At the same time, the Fox and Brier delivery box seemed to have jammed itself, dead center, into her brain and wouldn’t leave. “Let’s just say it’s something someone else is doing,” she explained vaguely, “and you happen to find out about it. Without meaning to, of course,” she added quickly. “And there’s nothing you can do about it, even though they’re sort of … using you to get it done.”

  Instead of responding, Finlay sat motionless and studied her. In the afternoon’s lazy, hovering quiet, Shir could almost feel his eyes tracing out every line in her face, touching it. “How are they using you?” he asked pointedly.

  She shrugged nervously. “They just are,” she said gruffly, “maybe. I’m not sure, actually. But it’s not me doing whatever’s wrong, if there’s something wrong going on—it’s them. So that makes me sort of like a bird or a tree, just being alive and full of life, right? And they’re the ones doing what’s wrong—the made-up stuff that’s only important inside their heads, right?”

  Unsure if she was making sense, Shir shot Finlay a quick glance and found his intense blue gaze still fixed on her. She had obviously asked another good question, at least, one that required deep thought. Uneasily, she raised what remained of her cupcake to her mouth, then lowered it without taking a bite. What was it with this guy? she thought, abruptly irritable. Did he have to think about everything? Hotshot, too-good-for-his-britches, Stanford Saber. Stanford Saber slag heap.

  On the opposite arch, Finlay took a long breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, so carefully it was as if he was sending his words out along a tightrope. “So I don’t really want to say much. But if it was me that someone else was using … or might be using … for something wrong, that is … well, I would want to know for sure.”

  There didn’t seem to be much to say after that. A sinking sensation took over Shir’s gut, sucking at her from the inside until she was nothing but dull, cold fear. Turning to look out over the river, she saw a dark mass of clouds moving in from the west and shutting out the sun.

  “Well,” she said, shivering, “I’d better get going. I have a ton of homework, and Mom’s been on my case about it.”

  Getting to her feet, she let her eyes sweep the river. With the approach of the western cloud bank, the swallows had disappeared and a brisk wind kicked up. Cautiously, just for a second, she let her gaze flick right to see Finlay hugging himself for warmth and watching her.

  “Okay,” he said, his eyes darting away, his voice defeated, almost mournful. “I’ll see you, then. If you come here again—when I’m here, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” said Shir, her voice equally defeated. “If you’re here when I am, I guess. Thanks for the cupcake.”

  “No prob,” he replied, looking out over the river. For a moment longer, they remained frozen, each staring across the water as if suddenly, abruptly, alone. Then Shir got a good grip on the pillar behind her, swung a reluctant leg around it, and began to work her way down.

  Eleven

  Seated on a parking barrier at the edge of the student parking lot, Shir was eating a tuna sandwich and watching Eunie Jahenny. It was Monday lunch hour and another warm day, which meant the school grounds were swarming with students. Here in the parking lot, there were at least fifty, divided into the usual cliques—the jocks congregated at the center of the lot, tossing a football back and forth, the preps in a boisterous huddle closest to the school, and at the lot’s opposite end, next to an overgrown hedge that skirted a low-rent apartment building, Eunie and her friends. Ensconced in the back of an old Chevy pickup, they were swigging a one-liter bottle of Coke and passing a cigarette.

  Well, maybe a cigarette, thought Shir, running her gaze over them again. And make that maybe on the pop, too. Fifteen minutes ago, she had been walking past the parking lot, intending to spend the lunch hour at a nearby park, when she had spotted Eunie, and, curious, taken up her observation post. Since then, the group’s initially rowdy conversation had grown decidedly languid. So had their body posture. And Eunie was just as languid as the rest. Slouched against the back of the cab, she was nuzzled in against a tattoo-obsessed guy, exchanging sweet nothings while the pickup’s radio blasted Lady Gaga.

  Whatever it was that Mr. Tattoo was whispering into her ear, however, it hadn’t changed Eunie’s perennially bored expression—she looked, mused Shir, about as excited as she had while talking to Mr. Anderson in the store. But that was probably due to the contents of the cigarette she was smoking. In contrast to the group in the pickup, every other student in sight was chattering, giggling, and roughhousing as if they hadn’t yet seen the end of junior high. To Shir’s right, someone let loose with a Pepsi-filled plastic bag, and the weapon sailed harmlessly past its intended target before erupting against the Chevy’s rear fender. Glancing down at his Pepsi-spattered jeans, the guy sprawled closest to the pickup’s open end shook out his pant legs in disgust. Other than that, no one in the Chevy even blinked.

  Class, thought Shir, as she scanned the pickup’s slouched inhabitants. These guys have class. Maybe they weren’t Collier High’s top students; maybe they couldn’t be bothered with hauling themselves out of bed to run 6 AM laps around a school gym; but they knew when to take something on and when to ditch it. Yeah, thought Shir, running her gaze over the tranquil group again. It’s important to know when to ditch something, when to let things just be.

  Thoughtfully, she raised her sandwich and took another bite. Seated five meters over from the pickup, she was hidden from view by an ancient Volvo; as a result, she hadn’t been noticed by Eunie, or, for that matter, anyone else. Realistically speaking, as far as every other student in the parking lot was concerned, she could have been nothing more than an odd bump growing out of the Volvo’s front end. But that, thought Shir, snorting quietly to herself, was better than getting stuck in dialogue with any of the jerks currently bouncing around the vicinity. The future leaders of society, she thought, snorting again. Civilization.

  A nearby voice brought her abruptly out of her ruminations. “Hey, Sullivan!” it called. “Look over there, behind the Volvo. Isn’t that your toonie babe?”

  Instantly, Shir was on red alert and turning toward the voice. The first guy her eyes landed on was no big deal—a grade-twelve nondescript getting into a Toyota directly across from the Volvo, who went by the nickname “Tombstone.” But next to him stood Ben, the maraschino cherries expert, and next to him, Wade Sullivan. The second Shir’s eyes focused on that familiar face, she was on her feet, nostrils flaring wildly as she assessed possible escape routes. Backing up was pointless—the hedge might still be in the budding stage, but its branches were too dense to break through—and any forward momentum would take her directly toward Wade. Cautiously, she began to edge around the Volvo’s front fender, intending to force her way between the hedge and the row of parked cars until she reached the street, but the next vehicle—a minivan—was parked too close to the hedge to permit passage.

  “Oh yeah, blind love!” moaned Wade as she turned desperately to face him. “Hey, Tombstone, move over.” Leaning past the Toyota’s apparent owner, he pressed the car horn and the sound blared a
cross the parking lot, cutting off conversation and drawing the carousing students’ collective attention. Quickly, Wade sent out a few more toots. Then, straightening, he faced the expectant crowd, a broad grin on his face.

  “What d’you say, kids?” he called out carelessly. “Our Ugly Contest winner is right over here. C’mon, everyone who voted for her, and we’ll show her what it means to win.”

  Trapped behind the Volvo, Shir watched riveted as myriad eyes zeroed in on her—speculative eyes, calculating eyes, the eyes of a pack. In the ensuing pause, a breeze gusted across the parking lot, rustling shirt sleeves and lifting locks of hair; still the eyes observed, dispassionate … considering what to do, what not to do.

  “What does it mean when Dog Face wins?” called a guy somewhere to Shir’s left.

  “What does it mean when any dog wins?” someone else replied.

  A snicker ran across the parking lot; a third voice hollered, “Who’s got a leash?”and they started to close in. Panic-stricken, Shir pressed against the hedge. Not everyone, she thought, counting the leering faces headed toward her. Yet. From what she could see, the girls seemed to be staying put, leaning against various cars as they watched, and most of the guys were also hanging back, several uneasily shaking their heads. This seemed, however, to be as much disapproval as anyone was prepared to offer, and it hadn’t been enough to stop the seven or eight guys headed her way—guys she would never have put together at a party or even in a school-hall conversation, but suddenly, here they were, united by common interest.

  “What d’you say, guys?” asked Wade, walking up to the Volvo’s back end and eyeing Shir coolly. “Anyone got a toonie? A quarter?”

  In the short distance that now separated them, Shir could see how his eyes had narrowed and his lips pressed in on themselves. Wade was so intent, so focused, so rigid, she could practically see the blood pumping through his veins. What is it with this guy? she thought frantically. Why does he keep coming after me?

  Without warning, an ear-splitting rev erupted nearby. Startled, Shir glanced left to see the Chevy pickup, horn blaring as it backed out of its parking spot. Gears crunched, the engine gave another raucous roar, and abruptly, the pickup was turning and lurching toward Shir, forcing the guys closing in on her to scatter. With a blur of red paint, it barreled past, allowing a brief glimpse of several smirking metalheads in the back. Then the pickup was gone, but not before Shir had seen who was at the wheel—Eunie, with the third finger of her right hand raised and pointing emphatically at the street.

  Get the fuck out of here! Shir didn’t need to be told twice. As her would-be harassers stared in stunned astonishment after the gunning pickup, she darted out from the Volvo and took off, heart thundering, arms pumping, mouth gasping for air, sweet air, freedom. Behind her, no one made a move to follow. Prey that was trapped, terrified, at the back end of the student parking lot wasn’t the same thing as prey with obvious predators in pursuit, tearing along the front of Collier High and the row of staff-room windows that traveled the building’s south wall. Which meant that for the remaining fifteen minutes of the lunch break, she was safe. As long as she didn’t go near the parking lot, Shir thought wearily. Or the practice field. Or the front lawn, the school halls, the …

  Slowing her pace, she crossed the street, walked a block east, and settled down with her back to a fire hydrant to finish the rest of her lunch.

  As soon as afternoon classes let out, Shir headed for the bike rack, unlocked the Black, and took off. Jeers and taunts followed her down the street, but she ignored them, pedaling in a manic blur past chattering students, women with baby strollers, and parked cars. Jacket unzipped and gym bag hanging precariously from one shoulder, she flew, halfway between earth and sky, the contempt she had endured all day and the bliss that awaited her at the end of it. Yeah, bliss, she thought, pedaling furiously onward. A bit of the magic fluid pouring down her throat—that was what she needed. It had been three days since her last beer, three long, miserable days, and her body was crying out for a Molsons, a Labatts, even a goddam Moosehead … from wherever the hell they made it.

  Turning down the alley to Gareth’s place, Shir locked the Black to a hydro-pole support wire and pushed open the backyard gate. With her first visit, she had started a practice of leaving the gate open behind her—wide open—and today, like always, she pushed it as far back as it would go before entering the yard. Next, she walked slowly toward Gareth’s door, keeping her eyes peeled for anyone who might be lurking behind a tree or in the shadows at the side of the house. A few times she had seen other guys, losers like Gareth, sitting with him on the stoop, and then she hadn’t come into the yard, just closed the gate again, and kept going. Even with no one here but Gareth, the place gave her the creeps, weird little ghosties hovering in the air. Old houses, she thought, shivering, that were decrepit and ramshackle should be torn down—no exceptions. Pulling her jacket closer, she took one last look around and knocked on the door.

  Gareth answered immediately, opening the door just as she was jumping off the stoop. Weird! thought Shir, her heart pounding as she backed up several steps. On each of her previous visits, Gareth had stopped to peer through the venetian blind before opening the door. The guy creeped her out big time.

  “Thought you might come today,” he said, eyeing her blearily. As usual, he hadn’t shaved, and his sweatshirt looked as if he had been sleeping in it. “Haven’t seen you since Friday.”

  “Been sick,” Shir lied automatically. “I need a couple of beers.”

  “Sure, sure,” Gareth said easily. “I’ve got two here for you. Two Molsons. Right here on the kitchen table.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Shir, taking another step back. “And how much are you charging today?”

  Before answering, Gareth slid his eyes slowly down to her chest. “Four dollars and fifty cents per can,” he said, clearing his throat. “Or maybe I could let you have them for two-fifty each, if you come inside to get them.”

  Stunned, Shir gaped at him. Four-fifty a can! she thought wildly. It was crazy—highway robbery.

  “Might even make it to two bucks even,” Gareth added carefully, his eyes sliding even lower, “if you sit down and chat for a bit.”

  Shir’s throat tightened. That she needed a beer, there was no question; she was practically going into the shakes at the thought of her first slurp. And she had ten bucks on her, so she could afford two cans. But $4.50 each—the thought of it made her stomach clench.

  “What do we have to talk about?” she asked warily.

  “Oh, anything,” Gareth said casually. “You make it up, I’ll just listen.”

  “Just listen?” asked Shir.

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Gareth, stepping back. “Just listen. Promise.”

  Shir hesitated. She didn’t like the thought of this—it gave her an ugly feeling, as if a dark, hairy monster was emerging from the back of her neck. On the other hand, it would save her five bucks … six, if she sat down at the table and talked. Cautiously she ran her gaze over Gareth. He looked wasted, worse than usual, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Which meant, she reasoned hastily, that he was probably not at his best, a bit slow on the uptake. Tired out like that, she should be able to beat him to the door if he tried anything. And anyway, what would five minutes’ conversation hurt her? They could talk about the weather—it didn’t have to get personal. Afterwards, she could put the six bucks she had saved toward replacing the runners she had lost at Dana Lowe’s party.

  “All right,” she said reluctantly. “Just for a bit.”

  “Just for a bit,” Gareth echoed blandly, holding the door open. “Come on in.”

  Sinkhole widening in her throat, Shir stepped over the threshold. Immediately, she was hit with the dense odor of moldy bread, garbage that needed to be taken out, and obviously overdue laundry. But there, sitting on the table as if waiting for her, were two cans of beer—Molson Canadian, the magic fluid.

  “Go on,” said Gareth to her righ
t. “They’re yours, two-fifty each—if you want them.”

  Shooting him a glance, she saw his hand resting on the doorknob. It looked casual enough, that hand, just sitting there gently, not as if it was about to pull the door shut or anything. Uneasily, Shir’s eyes flicked back to the beer on the table. Just a few more steps, she thought longingly, and it would be hers—two cans of the magic, magic fluid. Again, she glanced at Gareth’s hand on the doorknob, then back to the beer on the table. Choices, she thought bleakly. Life was made up of choices: magic fluid or no magic fluid. Swallowing hard, she started toward the table.

  Instantly, Gareth slammed the door. Then he was on her, jumping her from behind and shoving her to the floor. But Shir was ready for him, half-turning even as he tackled her, and the first thing she went for was his eyes, digging a finger deep into a tear duct and raking it across his cheek. Letting out a howl, Gareth clutched his face, and she stumbled backward, out of the stench of rancid sweat that surrounded him and up against the sink. Behind her something clattered loudly, and she whirled to see a large pot wobbling on the edge of the counter. Without stopping to think, she picked it up and thunked it hard against Gareth’s head. Silently, his eyes rolling upward, he sank to the floor.

  Blood thundering through her body, Shir stared down at him. Is he dead? she wondered faintly. Did I kill him? No, she realized, almost swooning with relief—tiny sounds were coming out of his mouth so he couldn’t be quite dead, at least, not yet.

  Which meant she had to get out of there, and fast. Darting to the table, Shir scooped up the beer and took off for the door. But when she turned the doorknob, the door jerked open a few centimeters, then caught on the chain-lock Gareth had slid into place. Swearing loudly, Shir slammed the door, undid the lock, and yanked desperately at the knob. This time the door opened easily, and there beyond it lay the outside world with its vast sweet air, sunshine, and beckoning gate.