Born Ugly

by Beth Goobie

  Sadistic teenage minds had already gotten at her today. The encounter had taken place, not at her locker where she had been on her guard, but as she had been motoring downstairs and turning into the basement corridor that led to her homeroom. Suddenly, there he had been, leaning against a wall and grinning nonchalantly—blond, good-looking, grad-year Wade Sullivan. Next to him had lounged Ben and several others. As soon as she had caught sight of them, Shir had begun backing up, and had been immediately rammed from behind as someone bumped into her. Loud laughter had erupted from Wade and his friends, the sound slamming Shir like an electric wave, a brutal body-wide current of shock. Then, before she had been able to recover, Ben had stepped toward her. Quietly, his face expressionless, he had said, “Dog meat.”

  Without another word, the group had taken off down the hall, but not before Shir had caught sight of the expression on Wade’s face—calm and gloating, as if he had figured he could do anything he wanted to her, as if he had thought she belonged to him … and his dog-catcher friends. The rest of the Collier slag heap hadn’t been much better. While no one else had felt the urge to offload their comments directly into her face, snickers had followed her all morning, and the collective buzz inhabiting her classmates’ brains had been almost audible: Her entire face covered in dog shit! Stuff from a dog’s ass on her face! From what I heard, it didn’t improve the scenery much. Didn’t make it much worse, either.

  If there was sympathy out there for her, reflected Shir, munching on an apple, no one was making it obvious. Not that this came as a surprise; last night when she had told her mother about the assault, Janice Rutz hadn’t initially believed her … or worse—hadn’t cared. While Shir had stood hunched on the opposite side of the room, edging out her story in ragged bursts, her mother had sat staring at the dead TV screen, face sagging with weariness, but otherwise completely expressionless.

  “I don’t know what to do with you,” she had said heavily when Shir had finally fallen silent. “It’s always like this—another crisis. I’m ready to give up. It’s not your fault, I know that, but it’s not mine either, and I won’t carry the load of it anymore. I won’t.”

  Here she had closed her eyes and leaned back against the couch, face bleak and empty, as if speaking to the dead. “You’ll never amount to anything,” she had continued tonelessly. “You’ll never make good, just like your father never did. You got everything from him—your looks, your personality. You’re his kid, not mine. Go find him and get him to take care of you.”

  Blind panic had swung through Shir then, so intense she had almost blacked out. “Mom?” she had squeaked, swaying on her feet.

  In response, Janice Rutz had opened her eyes and simply stared at Shir. “All right,” she had said finally. “I’ll write you a sick note. But I don’t want to hear any more about this, y’hear? I just don’t want to hear any more about it.”

  At that moment, from down the hall, had come the quiet but defined click of a closing bedroom door, followed by the sound of a lock sliding into place. If Janice Rutz had noticed, however, she gave no sign. Without further comment, she had written the note, handed it to Shir, and turned on the TV. That had been the sum total of her reaction—on the one hand, no sympathy, on the other, no eviction. As Shir had left the living room, she had almost been able to feel an invisible force pressing against her back, her mother mentally pushing her out of her sight, her mind, and, as much as possible, her entire life. To make matters worse, as Shir had come down the hall toward her room, she had been greeted by the sight of Stella’s door, locked tight, with only silence behind it. There was just nothing between them anymore, Shir thought, letting the apple rest, uneaten, in her hand. Not with Stella, not with her mother. Everything was closed doors, locked faces. All things considered, a sick note was the best outcome to be expected from a woman who spent hours every day in front of the TV, worshiping bone structure. There simply couldn’t be two more different people than her mother and Finlay Cowan. In a million years, Janice Rutz wouldn’t be able to imagine something like a mushroom singing.

  As Shir pondered this thought, her gaze fell on a small white object poking out of the grass on the other side of the yard. A mushroom! she thought, honing in on it with lazy interest. One of the season’s earliest, it was nothing special-looking—at least, it didn’t appear to be about to break into a rousing chorus. Still, she thought, observing it speculatively, it was a mushroom. And Finlay hadn’t said anything about singing mushrooms having to be of a particular variety—with purple polka dots, for instance, or day-glow stripes. Which meant that if Vaclav-the-crazy-Czech-guy was right, this mushroom should be able to sing. If it trusted you, of course.

  What kind of songs do mushrooms sing? she wondered, observing it, chin in hand. Do they like one kind of music more than another? If there’s a group growing close to each other, do they sing back and forth or work out songs together like a choir? Getting to her feet, she crossed the yard and knelt before the mushroom. Close up, it appeared more beige than white, and its cap tilted slightly to the left. All in all, it seemed a rather unmusical mushroom. But maybe, thought Shir, observing it intently, that’s a disguise. After all, Vaclav said mushrooms don’t trust most people.

  “Hello, mushroom,” she said awkwardly. “I … heard from someone that mushrooms like to sing, and I was wondering—”

  At that moment, she became aware of a murky rumble vibrating the ground beneath her knees. Abruptly, a horn honked, and Shir shot to her feet to see a red pickup idling at the curb, its passenger door open. There in the gap, leaning across the seat and looking out at her, was Eunie.

  “Got a sec?” she asked, her face deadpan.

  For three deep-bass terrifying heartbeats, Shir stood frozen, her brain temporarily dysfunctional from shock. “Hey, come on,” said Eunie, a tiny twitch crossing her face. “I’m getting a cramp here, holding the door open for you.”

  All thoughts of singing mushrooms vanished from Shir’s head. Snapping out of her trance, she picked up her gym bag and climbed into the pickup, then sat, heart in mouth, taking in her surroundings—the crumpled McDonald’s wrapper on the dashboard, the crumpled Pizza Hut bag on the floor, the crumpled Doritos package half-covering the gear shift. Eunie obviously ate on the run, and had the money to pay for it.

  “So,” Eunie said casually, letting the pickup idle at the curb. “What the hell were you doing out there—kissing Mother Earth?”

  “Uh …” stammered Shir, her mind blanking at the prospect of an explanation. “I was just … looking at plants for my biology class. We’re supposed to observe plant life. You know—mushrooms and weeds, things like that.”

  “I get ya,” Eunie said tonelessly. “Mushrooms and weed. I’ve observed a lot of those.”

  “I wish!” said Shir, catching her meaning. “This was just a regular mushroom, but anything’s better than hanging around school during lunch.”

  “Hanging around school or Wade Sullivan?” Eunie asked drily. “Mr. Prick of the Dicks—he’s observed his fair share of mushrooms, but my guess is he was doing speed the day he came after you in the parking lot.”

  “Speed?” said Shir, glancing at her in surprise. “Wade does drugs? At lunch hour?”

  “Monday to Friday,” Eunie said coolly. “Tried almost everything, I bet—uppers, downers, inners, outers.”

  “Inners and outers?” repeated Shir, confused.

  “Just an expression,” shrugged Eunie. “It means anything that’ll take you down the rabbit hole, like in Alice in Wonderland. Great children’s classic—about a girl who takes drugs and has hallucinations. ‘Eat me, drink me,’” she singsonged sarcastically. “Wade Sullivan eats and drinks a lot of things. He was probably circulating something in his bloodstream when he came after you yesterday, too.”

  Instantly, Shir was back in the memory, surrounded by heavy-breathing bodies as a voice grunted, “Bulls eye!” Ducking her head, she rode out an intense flush. “Maybe,” she said hoarsely, staring fixed
ly at her runners. “I didn’t see who it was—they took off too fast.”

  Beside her there was a brief pause, and then Eunie said quietly, “The word going around is that it was Wade who did the dirty deed. No surprise, really—he’s one of the planet’s primary shits.”

  Eyes still glued to her runners, Shir stopped breathing, her body completely motionless as she assessed the gentler note that had crept into the other girl’s voice. Sympathy? she wondered, something twisting in her gut. Or pity?

  “Yeah, well,” she replied, her own tone hardening. “Next time I’ll smell it coming.”

  Silence followed, and she glanced furtively sideways to see Eunie watching her, an appreciative glint in her eye. “You’ll smell it or you’ll smell him?” drawled the other girl.

  “I’ll smell shit,” Shir said tersely.

  “All right!” exclaimed Eunie, a brief grin lighting her face. Then, reaching into her shirt pocket, she pulled out a small zip-lock bag. “For you,” she said, handing it to Shir. “No mushrooms, just weed—of the shit-destroying variety. Because I know what a bad day can be like. Next time you have a bad day, smoke one of these and all the shit in your life will instantly vanish. If you like the feeling, come see me and I’ll get you some more, okay?”

  Stunned, Shir sat staring at the bag and the three hand-rolled cigarettes it contained. “Okay!” she echoed, flashing Eunie a grin.

  “Okay,” repeated Eunie, her voice abruptly toneless, the interest fading from her face. “Well, that’s over and done with, and I gotta make tracks. Shit calls—you know how it is.”

  Taking her cue, Shir dropped the weed into her gym bag and slid out of the pickup. Then she stood, watching as Eunie gunned the engine and pulled out from the curb. Suddenly it came to her that she hadn’t thanked Eunie for the gift, and she stepped forward, waving furiously. But if the other girl noticed, she gave no sign, and Shir slowly lowered her hand, watching as the pickup receded into the distance.

  A girl making tracks, she thought admiringly. A girl who never looks back.

  Later that evening, Shir was sprawled on her bed, the zip-lock bag on one knee. Beside her sat the kitchen phone, which she had plugged into a wall jack next to the bed. For over ten minutes, she had been playing with it, punching imaginary phone numbers into the keypad, picking up the receiver, and setting it back down again. It had been years since she had phoned anyone other than family, or, perhaps, a radio station with a song request, and the thought of calling someone up for the express purpose of extended conversation sent a wave of numbing blankness through her brain.

  Hesitantly, she again picked up the receiver and scanned a phone number scribbled onto a small piece of paper. Her free hand hovered over the phone’s keypad, retreated, returned to the keypad. Though she was alone with nothing but her thoughts, her palms were sweating and her heart kicking. I am a zero, she thought miserably. Someone people do things to. That’s never going to change. Why bother?

  For another endless moment, she stared bleakly at the phone, and then, with a gulping sigh, jammed the receiver firmly to her ear and punched in a sequence of numbers. Heart thudding, she listened to the phone ring at the other end. On the fourth ring, someone picked up.

  “Hello?” said a voice.

  “Hello?” replied Shir, her voice trembling. “Is … Finlay there?”

  “Finlay?” grunted the speaker. An older male, he sounded slurred, confused. “Just a sec, I think he’s home.” A loud clatter followed as the receiver was set down, and Shir heard him call, “Finlay!”

  Almost immediately, there was the sound of footsteps, then the receiver being picked up, and a familiar voice said, “Hello?”

  A tsunami of nerves hit Shir. Clearing her throat, she croaked, “Hi, moose head. It’s me, moose head number two.”

  Instantly, Finlay’s voice brightened. “Hi yourself, moose head!” he said. “I was wondering if you’d call. If you didn’t, I was going to call you.”

  Giddiness swept Shir. “Hey, I talked to a mushroom today,” she giggled. “I tried listening to it, too, but I didn’t hear anything.”

  Finlay snorted. “I haven’t been able to hear anything, either,” he admitted. “I’ve tried listening several times, but I guess they didn’t trust me.”

  Again Shir giggled. “I guess we’re not the mushroom type,” she said.

  At the other end of the line, Finlay giggled back. “Nope,” he said. “We’re moose heads. Mushrooms probably get real nervous around moose heads.”

  “Yeah,” said Shir. “Hey, y’know what? Right now, at this very minute, I am sitting on my bed with a bag of happy stuff, and I’m about to open it.”

  “Happy stuff?” asked Finlay, sounding confused. “What are you talking about?”

  Glancing at her closed bedroom door, Shir dropped her voice. “Weed,” she said quietly. “Someone gave me some today at school.”

  “Weed?” repeated Finlay, his voice sharpening. “Have you smoked it yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Shir. “I was planning to after I got off the phone with you.”

  A barely discernible sigh sounded at the other end, and then Finlay asked slowly, “Who gave it to you?”

  “A girl named Eunie,” said Shir.

  “How well do you know her?” asked Finlay.

  “Just a bit,” said Shir. “I’ve seen her around school and we’ve talked … well, once.”

  Finlay breathed in and out several times. “Does she do a lot of drugs?” he asked.

  “Probably,” said Shir.

  Again Finlay breathed in and out, in and out. “I dunno, Shir,” he said finally. “I don’t know this Eunie, and I don’t know why she would give you free weed when she doesn’t really know you. But I’ve heard dealers give out freebies to get kids hooked. And some dealers lace weed with crystal meth without telling you, so they can get you hooked faster. Crystal meth does that—hooks you really fast—and it’s hard to kick. It’s not like weed; it runs you. Before I moved here, a guy I knew smoked some weed, thinking that was all it was, and got hooked on the crystal meth hidden inside. He was gone then; he was nothing.”

  A loud ringing in her ears, Shir stared at the zip-lock bag. A voice floated into her head, Eunie’s voice—cool, casual, professionally bored. Real thirsty, it said. So I thought I would come in for a Coke. And then, Well, that’s over and done with.

  What’s over and done with? Shir thought suddenly. What?

  Thin and tinny, as if coming from a long distance, Finlay’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Shir,” he said urgently. “Shir, are you there?”

  “I think so,” she mumbled, trying to get a grip. “Maybe.”

  “Are you going to smoke the weed?” he asked.

  Shir breathed in and out, in and out. “What would it matter,” she asked dully, “if I did?”

  “It would matter,” Finlay said quickly. “You matter.”

  “Maybe,” she muttered, “and maybe not.”

  “You do,” burst out Finlay. “You do, Shir. I mean it.”

  Alone in her room, Shir sprawled without speaking, staring at the bag on her knee. Without warning, she was so tired her eyes were going funny. The bedroom seemed to be reversing colors, light going dark and dark light.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “I won’t smoke it. I’ll ditch it down the toilet.”

  “Promise?” asked Finlay, his voice cracking.

  “Promise,” Shir repeated obediently.

  “Okay,” said Finlay. “Do it now.”

  “Now?” whispered Shir. She felt so tired, her limbs so dense and heavy, she didn’t think she would ever move again.

  “I’m waiting,” said Finlay.

  She imagined him then, at the other end of the line, hunched over the phone, his odd face scrunched into a worried frown. Intense, she thought weakly. Finlay was so intense.

  “Come on, Shir,” said Finlay. “Do it now. Right now.”

  “Okay,” said Shir. Numbly, she worked herself into a sitting
position, then pushed the immense weight of her body up off the bed. Briefly the room swayed about her, light-dark, dark-light. “I’m up, Finlay,” she said into the phone. “I’m going to put down the phone now, so I can go do it.”

  “Don’t hang up,” said Finlay. “Come back. When you’ve done it, come back.”

  “Yes,” said Shir. “Yes, I will.” Setting the receiver onto the bed, she walked out of her room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. There she opened the zip-lock bag and dumped its contents into the toilet. Dully, without a single thought passing through her mind, she flushed the toilet and watched the three hand-rolled cigarettes whisk out of sight.

  Come back, she remembered Finlay saying. Turning, she walked back to her bedroom and picked up the phone. “It’s done,” she said into the receiver. “They’re gone—all three of them.”

  “You mean it?” asked Finlay, his voice wobbling. “You’re not pulling my leg?”

  “Honest,” said Shir. Slowly, sensation was coming back to her, the dark-light clearing from her head; she could feel herself breathe. “Finlay,” she said hesitantly, “I’m glad.”

  “Me, too!” he exclaimed, gusting a sigh. “Yeah!” For a moment then, they remained silent, letting exhaustion ease out of them. “I’m sure glad we traded phone numbers yesterday,” said Finlay. “Just think what might have happened.”

  “Yeah,” said Shir, breathing, just breathing.

  “Well,” said Finlay. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I dunno,” said Shir. “Algebra?”

  “I’m reading this really cool story for English,” said Finlay. “Want to hear it?”

  “Okay,” said Shir.

  “I’ll go get it,” said Finlay. “It’s in my room.”

  “Come back,” said Shir, a tiny smile creeping across her mouth. “Come back when you’ve got it, moose head.”

  The grin that lit Finlay’s face was so loud, she could hear it at her end of the line. “Promise, moose head,” he said, and set down the phone.

  Sixteen