Born Ugly

by Beth Goobie

  “I don’t have any more money,” said Finlay.

  Desperately, Shir stared at the roll of tape hanging off the upside-down box. “I don’t have any on me either,” she whispered. “What am I going to do? We don’t have time to waste.”

  “Just a sec,” said Finlay, turning back to the glove compartment. “There might be something else in here.” Rustling, rummaging sounds followed as Shir stared at the box, trying not to lose it completely. “Aha!” Finlay cried triumphantly, holding a small object aloft. “This should work.”

  Returning to Shir’s side, he handed her a penknife and she cut the tape. But as she examined the finished job, panic hit again—immense, overwhelming. “You can see!” she cried frantically. “Where I cut the original tape with the pen—you can see it through the new tape!”

  Fists clenched, she was shrieking at Finlay, her brain a whiteout of fear. Wordless, he stared at the resealed box, a flush rising in his cheeks. “It’s not that bad,” he said uncertainly. “No one’ll notice unless they look really close.”

  “Easy for you to say,” hissed Shir. “They don’t even know you exist.” Repeatedly, she ran her fingertips over the bottom of the box, smoothing the surface of the tape. Maybe Finlay was right, she thought, trying to convince herself. The fix-up job wouldn’t be obvious unless the box was turned over. And why would anyone turn it over … unless they were getting suspicious and decided to check up on her.

  “Well,” she said weakly. Clambering to her feet, she was hit by exhaustion so extreme that all she could do was cling, whimpering, to the van’s middle passenger seat.

  “Are you all right?” asked Finlay, touching her arm.

  Instinctively, she pulled away. “I guess we’d better get going,” she whispered.

  “I guess,” Finlay said dully.

  Without speaking, they took their seats and drove off toward the Sunnyville Rec Center.

  Seventeen

  Shir eased the van up to the curb and sat staring at the house to her right. Late into Saturday afternoon, this was the final address on her delivery list, and, unfortunately, it hadn’t changed since the last time she had seen it—a two-storey ramshackle stucco, its porch windows blocked by stacks of old newspapers, and weird little ghosties flitting all around it. Even in broad daylight, the place gave her the creeps; just looking at it made her want to put the van into gear and burn rubber. But after yesterday and the stupid mistake she had made listening to Finlay, today had to go by the book. No question about it—she had to make this delivery, and she had to fake absolute normal while completing it.

  Not that Mr. Anderson had given her any indication that he had found out about the Sunnyville Rec Center box. He had been distant when handing her the van keys and cell phone, but that had happened before. His mind had simply been somewhere else. Besides, Shir told herself reassuringly as she climbed out of the van, when the problem had come up with the Fox and Brier box, he had asked her about it immediately. That was the way he was—direct, straightforward, to the point. So if he hadn’t mentioned the Sunnyville Rec Center order today, it was because he didn’t know about it … which meant that Mr. Dubya, the rec center coach, hadn’t noticed anything wrong with the box.

  Pushing the matter firmly from her mind, Shir pulled the last box out of the van, placed the clipboard on top of it, and headed up the front walk. For a Saturday afternoon, the neighborhood was quiet—no children playing in nearby yards, only a single dog barking at the end of the block. With a grim feeling in her gut, she placed one foot resolutely on the bottom step, rested the box on her knee, and knocked. From inside came the sound of footsteps, then the door opened and Manny looked out. “Bill’s Grocer,” he said, his face expressionless.

  “Yes,” said Shir, and lifted the box toward him. Quickly, Manny reached out as if to take it, but to her astonishment, instead of grasping the box, he took hold of her forearms. At the same time, someone moved in behind her, pressing against her back, and a male voice said, “Walk up the steps and into the house. Don’t make a sound and you won’t get hurt.”

  As he spoke, he shoved his left knee into the back of hers, bending it up and forward, and Manny pulled simultaneously on her arms, forcing Shir to stumble, stunned and silent, into the porch. Immediately, the outer door swung shut and she was pushed, still carrying the clipboard and box, into the house’s front hall. For the second time, there came the sound of a door closing behind her, followed by a brief swim of darkness as her eyes adjusted to the interior light.

  “All right,” said the man at her back. “Take her down the hall.”

  His voice was familiar, but in her terror, Shir couldn’t place it. Moreover, with the unidentified man still pressed to her back and Manny holding onto her arms, she couldn’t run, and, carrying the delivery box, couldn’t strike out. Besides, thought Shir, realization rolling in like a dead weight, this wasn’t a backyard beer-bargaining session with Gareth—these guys were pros at everything she didn’t want to know about, and they were coming down on her because they had found out that she had opened the Sunnyville Rec Center box. She had this coming, there was no escaping it, and her only option now was to get through whatever was ahead of her the best way she knew how.

  “Put the box down,” said Manny and she complied, then followed him along the hall, not daring to glance at the man on her heels. At the end of the corridor, a doorway opened to their right; without comment, Manny turned into it, and, hesitating only slightly, Shir walked in, too.

  It began with a hard shove from behind that pitched her forward onto her knees. At the same moment, Manny whirled and launched himself, knocking her sideways so suddenly she didn’t have time to brace herself, and came down hard on her head. Blackness rolled thickly through her brain, followed by pain as her right arm was jacked up behind her back.

  She didn’t cry out. Crying out wasn’t going to get her anywhere in this place, any more than it had helped when she was five years old and it had been her mother coming after her. Instead, Shir hunched inward, sucking up the pain as her right arm was jacked further up her back and her head slammed a second time, deliberately, against the floor.

  “What did you think?” Manny shouted into her ear. “We wouldn’t notice? We wouldn’t know you opened it?”

  There was no point in denying the obvious. Whatever was waiting for her here, lying would only make it worse. “I didn’t take any,” mumbled Shir, her mouth rubbery with fear. “Nothing is missing—I didn’t open the package.”

  “So what?” screamed Manny, his voice skyrocketing. “Was the box yours? Did you have permission to open it, bitch? Did you?”

  “No, sir,” whispered Shir.

  Again her head was slammed into the floor; again black sludge rolled through her brain. “Deliver the boxes!” screamed Manny. “Deliver them, don’t open them! That’s your job, those are your orders. You open a box again and you’re dead, you got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered Shir, almost fainting under a massive wave of relief. Not dead, she thought, sucking in a sob. Not going to be dead in this ghostie, creepy place.

  “Just remember, bitch,” hissed Manny, breathing onto the back of her neck. “You open a box again and I’ll kill you. I’ve done it before; I’m good at it.”

  Abruptly, he jerked her upward and into a standing position, Shir crying out as her right arm was once again jacked up behind her back. “That’s good,” Manny said quietly into her ear. “You’re learning, bitch. I’m teaching and you’re learning. Some of us are slow, but we all gotta learn somehow, don’t we?”

  With that, he pulled up her chin, and through the hair falling across her face, Shir saw they were standing in a small dilapidated living room. On a sagging couch to her left sat Mr. Anderson, his face carefully neutral. Face equally neutral, Eunie stood opposite, leaning against the wall, and next to her, huddled on the floor like a frightened dog, was Wade.

  Before Shir could grasp the implications of what she was seeing, the unidentified man
stepped out from behind her and sat down on the couch beside Mr. Anderson. For a long stretched moment, everyone remained motionless, watching as Shir stared open-mouthed at Officer Tursi. Bent forward, her right arm still jacked painfully behind her back, Shir couldn’t keep her gaze from darting between her boss, Officer Tursi, and Wade. That Mr. Anderson was involved came as no surprise; neither was Eunie, or even Officer Tursi. But Wade? she thought, confused. How was Wade Sullivan, Collier High popular preppie, connected to a guy like Manny and a rundown crack-house halfway across the city?

  And then she got it. Uppers, downers, she remembered Eunie saying. Inners, outers. It means anything that’ll take you down the rabbit hole. Swallowing hard, Shir tore her gaze from Wade’s ashen face and glanced furtively at her boss. Apparently indifferent, he gazed back, his expression so cold it was almost unrecognizable, but as she watched, she began to see something familiar—a softness, an inner weakness, a kind of cringing away from what was going on around him. Clearly Mr. Anderson wasn’t here by choice any more than Wade, and just as clearly, he would do anything he was told to do. Whatever she was about to face in this place, there would be no point in looking to him for help.

  With a quiet clearing of his throat, Officer Tursi began to speak. “It wouldn’t take much,” he said softly, his eyes like a hunting cat’s. “Not much to put you away, girlie. D’you think we don’t know you? D’you think we didn’t assess you carefully before taking you on as a courier? Every detail, honey—we know every detail of your miserable, worthless life. Your sister Stella, for instance—she’s one grade below you, isn’t she? And the two of you don’t get along. And she just so happens to take a Tuesday and Thursday evening course at the Y. Comes home around 8:30, alone, at night, with no one watching out for her.”

  Eyes widening, Shir gaped at him. Stella? she thought frantically. What did Stella and her self-defense course have to do with this? As she continued to stare, bewildered, Officer Tursi casually lifted the second finger on his left hand, and Manny immediately shifted her right arm further up her back. Hit by a sheer whiteout of pain, Shir screamed. Gradually, the pressure on her arm lessened, and she came, sobbing, out of her agony to discover Officer Tursi studying her, assessing what he had just seen. For a moment, he allowed her to watch him watch her, and then he continued.

  “And there’s your mother,” he said, his voice weaving coolly through the raw rhythm of her breathing. “Cleans houses for a living, doesn’t she? And she has a drinking problem that goes back years. Hasn’t been much of a mother to you; knocked you around more than she should have. Still, her drinking problem is legal, and not as bad as yours. Nowhere near as bad as yours. You’re quite the beer-guzzler, aren’t you, Shirley? Underage, back alley, black-market beer-guzzler. What would happen if your contacts behind the liquor store on 23rd Street decided to cut you off? Or Gareth Fenske—what if he decided to stop doing business with you? Poor Shirley—no more Labatts to guzzle, no more Molsons to pour down your ugly, stinking throat.”

  Eyes closed, Shir fought to get a grip. That Officer Tursi knew about her drinking and back-alley negotiations was a given after last week’s police stakeout at the liquor store. But Gareth! she thought, beside herself. How had Officer Tursi found out about him?

  She opened her eyes to find the police officer still studying her, a knowing smile on his lips. “Ah, yes,” he said, almost singsonging. “We know you, Shirley—like an open book. And here’s the most important thing we know—your favorite Bill’s Grocer delivery stop. A Mrs. Duran, isn’t it? Such a sweet little old lady. A nice old lady who invites you in for a lovely twenty-minute visit every time you make a delivery. Let’s say, sometime soon, this nice old lady gets burglarized. It could happen while she’s out, it could happen while she’s home. If she’s home, she might survive it, and she might not. Either way, Mr. Anderson would be sure to hear about it. And when he did, he would be duty-bound to notify the police that his delivery girl, specifically a delivery girl named Shirley Jane Rutz, made regular deliveries to that address. And because Mrs. Duran is such a little old lady, it’s a sure bet she would have asked Shirley to carry those heavy delivery boxes into her house. Which means that Shirley Jane Rutz is well acquainted with the house layout, and has the old lady’s trust.

  “That would be enough, girlie,” hissed Officer Tursi, leaning forward to emphasize his point. “Enough to pin the whole case on you and your accomplice, Gareth Fenske. You’re turning seventeen in a few months; the case would probably be bumped up to adult court. Armed robbery and break-and-enter—that could get you five to ten years. Murder is life.”

  Mind blank with shock, Shir gaped at him. Murder? she thought. He’s going to … murder Mrs. Duran?

  “I …” she stammered, dry-mouthed. “I won’t … talk, tell anyone. I swear, I swear. I—”

  Face expressionless, Officer Tursi once again raised his second finger; on cue, Manny eased Shir’s right arm further up her back and she cried out sharply. “Please,” she whimpered as the pressure on her arm decreased. “I mean it. I won’t tell, I—”

  “No, you won’t,” snapped Officer Tursi. “You won’t even think about telling anyone; you got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered Shir.

  “Yes, sir,” repeated Officer Tursi, his voice mocking. Glancing at Mr. Anderson, he asked, “How many times does she say that to you on the average shift, Bill?”

  Mr. Anderson jerked slightly, as if poked with an electric prod. Reluctantly, his eyes slid across Shir’s, then away. “Yes, sir, no, sir,” he said quietly. “About fifty times a week, probably.”

  “Fifty,” mused Officer Tursi, his gaze shifting back to Shir. “Well, that tells me exactly how much it’s worth—zero. ‘Yes, sir, no, sir’ to your boss’s face, but opening boxes without permission behind his back and rooting through what doesn’t belong to you. You’re going to have to learn, girlie. You’re going to have to learn the hard way what ‘yes, sir’ really means.”

  As he spoke, he unwrapped something from his wrist—a long metal chain with a leather handle at one end. Her mind exhausted and uncomprehending with fear, Shir watched dully. Even when the police officer dangled the object at full length, she didn’t catch on.

  “You’ve got a nickname at school, don’t you?” he said evenly. “Something all the kids call you? ‘Dog Face’—that’s what they call you, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Shir, her stomach lurching as she finally recognized the object for what it was—a dog leash.

  “C’mere, boy,” snapped Officer Tursi, and Wade scrambled shakily to his feet. Crossing the room, he stood, head lowered, before the police officer.

  “You know Wade, don’t you, Shirley?” Officer Tursi asked smoothly. “Wade Sullivan? Popular kid at Collier High, I hear. Smart, good-looking; a lot of kids like him. Yeah, with the face he’s got, Wade used to have everything going for him, but unfortunately, he developed a big hunger. A big hunger for what he shouldn’t be hungry for, and consequently an even bigger debt. And that, y’see, is how Wade Sullivan became our boy. Anything we tell him, he does. Am I right, boy?”

  Eyes fixed to the floor, Wade nodded. A grim smile crossed Officer Tursi’s mouth and he added, “So y’see, Shirley, hungry-boy Wade is going to be our eye on the back of your head. As you might have noticed, he’s already been on your case, but from now on, it’s going to get worse—a hundred times worse. Everywhere you go at school, every second of the rest of your miserable flunk-out year, he’s going to have his eye on you, aren’t you, boy?”

  Convulsively, Wade nodded, and Officer Tursi handed him the leash. “Go on, boy,” he ordered. “Put the leash on the dog and lead her around. Show her what ‘yes, sir’ really means.”

  For a moment, Wade stood transfixed, staring at the leash in his hands. Then, trembling visibly, he turned to Shir and slid the leash around her throat. “Down on your hands and knees, Dog Face,” he said gruffly, pulling tentatively on the leash. “We’re going for
a walk.”

  Without warning, Manny shoved Shir violently, releasing her jacked-up arm and pitching her onto her knees. “Teach the bitch!” Officer Tursi roared at Wade, half-rising from the couch. “Teach her what ‘yes, sir’ means!”

  “Yes, sir,” stammered Wade, jerking the leash so it tightened around Shir’s throat and sent her scuttling forward. “C’mon, Dog Face,” he added hoarsely. “We’re going for a walk. Keep your nose to my heel. That’s right—right on my heel. Okay, now we’re turning left …”

  Blinded by tears, her sore arm clutched to her chest, Shir crawled awkwardly wherever the tug on her throat dictated. On command, she turned this way and that, put her nose to Mr. Anderson’s sandals and sniffed, even licked Officer Tursi’s cowboy boots. Pain pulsed nonstop in her right arm, it danced and sang in the bruises on her head, but her only thought was to keep the tip of her nose to the back of Wade’s runner, do what she was told, survive.

  “All right,” Officer Tursi said finally, a satisfied note in his voice. Beckoning to Wade, he took the leash, then grasped Shir’s chin and forced it upward. “Now you know what ‘yes, sir’ means, don’t you, bitch?” he hissed. “Don’t you, Dog Face?”

  “Yes, sir,” whispered Shir, eyes lowered, tears running freely.

  “And you’ll remember what it means every time you say it from now on,” added Officer Tursi. With a snort, he released her chin and Shir knew it was over, they had done what they had planned to do, taught her what she had needed to learn. “Get up, girlie,” snapped Officer Tursi, and she worked her way carefully to her feet, trying not to wince at each fresh wave of pain.

  “So now you know the way it’ll be from now on,” said Officer Tursi as she straightened. “At school, Wade and Eunie’ll be keeping an eye on you. And when you’re not there or at the store, don’t be surprised if you see Manny around, also keeping an eye out, making sure you know that we know everything—what you do, where you go, what you think. Believe me, girlie—from now on, you’d better be careful what you think.”