Big Mouth Ugly Girl

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Matt would have torn the clipping into pieces except his mother stopped him. “This is for your father to see. He needs to know.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “He needs to know! He’s gone all the time—none of this is real enough to him. We’re not real to him—enough.”

  Matt tried to joke, “Maybe we’re too real to him, Mom. Maybe I am.”

  But Matt’s mother wasn’t in a joking mood. She brushed past him, rubbing her reddened eyes with her fingertips. For a fleeting second she swayed on her feet as if she’d lost her balance.

  “I’m going to lie down, Matt. I’m exhausted. It’s only noon! It feels like night.”

  “Mom, I—I’m sorry.”

  “Yes. You’ve said.”

  “My big mouth—”

  “We’ve gone over it enough, Matt. I’m tired. I’m going to lie down, Matt.”

  “Mom, I—”

  Helplessly, Matt watched his mother walk away. Pulses in his head were pounding. Wasn’t Mom going to reassure him, as she’d done so many times, that it wasn’t his fault?

  Wasn’t she going to assure Matt that she and Daddy loved him, and believed him, and would protect him from all harm?

  EIGHTEEN

  TRUCULENT. I LOOKED UP THE WORD IN THE dictionary and it meant what I’d thought it meant.

  I liked the sound of it, too.

  Ugly Girl, truculent warrior-woman.

  I saw Matt Donaghy in homeroom and in our class. He didn’t smile and call out, “Hi, Ursula!” any longer. He didn’t seem to talk to many people any longer. He didn’t smile much. When Mr. Weinberg asked his enigmatic questions, Matt didn’t quickly raise his hand to answer as he used to. I felt bad about this, and I could tell that Mr. Weinberg felt bad too. It’s like Matt was fading away, in our presence. I’d heard about him resigning his class office and quitting the school newspaper, and he sat by himself at lunch instead of with his old clique, or didn’t have lunch at school at all. I wanted to talk to him but didn’t know how. My mouth went dry, my heart hammered just at the thought. Hi Matt. How are things going . . . ? It was all so banal and predictable, I just couldn’t. Ugly Girl scorned idiotic small talk.

  Especially with a guy.

  I’d sent Matt an e-mail message, that time. Maybe I could send him a message again?

  I tried, and tried. My brain went blank. I just couldn’t.

  Since they’d pushed me on the stairs, it seemed I kept seeing the Brewer twins around school. Of the hundreds of kids at Rocky River, if there was one individual you didn’t want to see, that’s the one you saw. In this case, two.

  It seemed to be by accident, because Muriel and Miriam never looked happy to see me. They looked almost scared, or were pretending to be scared. Like they were afraid Ugly Girl might rush over and punch them in their smirky faces.

  Mostly I ignored them. I was good at ignoring insult.

  Jew-girl. Jew-girl!

  I knew they were mouthing this. I wanted to laugh and call after them—“Sure, I’m a Jew! And I’m proud of it.”

  But one day it dawned on me: They were the ones.

  Of course! Muriel and Miriam Brewer.

  I tracked them down in the senior corridor and said accusingly, “You did it, didn’t you? You two. You reported Matt Donaghy to Mr. Parrish, and you lied.”

  I saw by the guilty expressions on their pale faces that I was correct. But they were such cowards, they denied it. One shook her head, backing away. “We did not. That’s a lie.” The other said defiantly, “Reported who? We don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You informed on Matt Donaghy. You lied, and got him into trouble.” I was getting more and more excited, now I knew I was correct. “It was you two, wasn’t it! The ‘witnesses.’”

  One of the twins said, “No! We did not. We don’t have to talk to you.” The other said, turning her lower lip out again, in that way that made me want to hit her, “Our father says we don’t have to answer any questions. We’re protected by the law.”

  “What law? A law to protect liars?”

  Suddenly they both began shouting. “He did too say those things! We heard him! We went right home and told our father, and he called the office here—and he called the police. That’s our duty as citizens.”

  I said, “You were lying! You never heard what you said you heard.”

  “We did too. We did too.”

  It was just following the last class of the day. Lots of people were trooping out, and this exchange was being overheard. I saw Ms. Zwilich, and she was just standing there, a few yards away, her jaw practically dropping. The Brewer twins! Why would anyone have believed them? They were saying, in mocking voices, “You can’t prove it, you can’t prove anything. We were not lying, we told the truth.” I was advancing upon these two like they were arrogant guards on the opposing team and I had the basketball and was bouncing it rapid-fire like a machine gun. If they stayed between me and my goal, I’d run them right over.

  They didn’t, though. They fled.

  NINETEEN

  EVERYBODY AT ROCKY RIVER HIGH WAS BUZZING.

  Two new, startling developments.

  The first was met with shock and incredulity, in some quarters even disgust.

  “The Brewer twins? They were the ones?”

  “Gosh, who’d believe them?”

  It had become general knowledge that Muriel and Miriam Brewer were the mystery witnesses who’d informed on Matt Donaghy.

  “Muriel and Miriam! That is so weird.”

  “Everybody knows they’re crazy.”

  “They’re not crazy, they’re mean.”

  “It isn’t them, my mom says. It’s their father. Reverend ‘Ike.’”

  “But who’d believe them? Any of the Brewers?”

  “Mr. Parrish must’ve. He called the cops.”

  Within a few hours the story had developed that Muriel Brewer—unless it was Miriam—or maybe both?—had had a “serious crush” on Matt Donaghy and Matt had snubbed her, or them. “That’s the reason for Muriel and Miriam taking revenge. If one twin wants to do something, the other always helps.”

  Next morning the story had become more complicated. Now Ursula Riggs was somehow involved.

  “Wow! Big Ursula.”

  “She stuck up for Matt Donaghy with Mr. Parrish and the cops. She practically punched out the Brewers.”

  “Ursula Riggs! She’s weird.”

  “Ursula’s cool.”

  “I never knew Ursula and Matt Donaghy were friends. . . .”

  “Since when? Are they?”

  “Nobody’s ever seen them together . . . have they?”

  “Matt’s tall enough.”

  “Matt isn’t big enough.”

  They lowered their voices, laughing together. This was all so weird, it was kind of wonderful.

  “. . . except you’re forgetting one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Big Ursula hates men.”

  The second development was equally shocking.

  “They’re suing? The Donaghys?”

  “They’re suing Mr. Parrish, and the school, and the school district, and the Brewers. For twenty or thirty million dollars, I heard.”

  “I heard fifty million. At least.”

  “They’re charging ‘defamation of character.’ ‘Mental cruelty’—something like that.”

  “‘Mental distress.’”

  “I wouldn’t mind ‘mental distress’ for that kind of money.”

  Within a few hours the story had developed that the Donaghys were claiming they’d received “death threats”—and Matt Donaghy was “seeing a shrink”—“an expensive New York shrink, who specializes in ‘disturbed adolescent boys.’” They were suing for $100 million!

  “Hell, I don’t blame them. Matt’s a good guy, and he’s had to put up with some serious crap over this.”

  “Not a hundred million dollars’ worth!”

  “It’s over now—the Donaghys should put it
behind them.”

  “‘Forget and forgive.’ Right.”

  They were talking loudly, indignantly. Upstairs in the junior corridor outside Mr. Weinberg’s homeroom. (Did they hope that Matt Donaghy, quietly shutting his locker at the far end of the corridor, slipping on his backpack, and walking quickly to the back stairs, might overhear?)

  Mr. Weinberg appeared, carrying a briefcase that tugged at his arm as if it were weighted down with bricks. The popular English and drama teacher was unsmiling and looked tired; even his mustache drooped.

  “Mr. Weinberg? What do you think about the Donaghys suing us?”

  Mr. Weinberg, who usually responded to questions with a quick wisecrack, frowned and said, shrugging, “No comment, kids.”

  “It’s a lousy idea, huh? It’s just gonna make things worse.”

  Mr. Weinberg continued toward the stairs. Over his shoulder he said, “Kids, I said no comment.”

  “Are you being sued, Mr. Weinberg?”

  “Better get a lawyer, Mr. Weinberg!”

  But Mr. Weinberg was gone.

  “He’s against it, you can tell.”

  “It’s a terrible mistake. Matt shouldn’t let his folks do it.”

  “It’s just gonna get in the papers, and on TV. More reporters coming around.”

  “The Donaghys should put this mess behind them, like we all did. ‘Forget and forgive.’”

  “‘Forgive and forget.’”

  “Whatever.”

  Ursula Riggs was shutting her locker. She turned to see three or four juniors standing indecisively a few yards away, as if they had something to ask and were steeling up the nerve.

  Ursula scowled at them. “Yes? What?”

  “Ursula, what do you think—”

  “—about the Donaghys suing the school?”

  Ursula’s big-boned face darkened with blood, and her eyes narrowed. She jammed the soiled Mets cap on her head. “That’s their business.”

  “But—do you think it’s a good idea, or—not?”

  “I said that’s their business.”

  They watched Ursula Riggs stomp off. She was a character. Today she was wearing a man’s white cotton long-sleeved shirt, buttoned at the cuffs, hanging loose and baggy over her rumpled khakis, and badly water-stained running shoes. And studs glittering in her ears. The daughter of Clayton Riggs, who’d believe it? And Ursula’s mother was a normal, attractive Rocky River wife, and her kid sister, Lisa, was a normal, pretty girl. Who could figure Big Ursula?

  This new rumor about Ursula Riggs and Matt Donaghy was so ridiculous, you almost wished it might be true.

  TWENTY

  THERE IT WAS: MATT DONAGHY’S EMPTY DESK, in homeroom. Three rows to my left, two desks back. From the corner of my eye I saw it was empty. And in Mr. Weinberg’s class Matt’s desk was also empty.

  I kept being distracted, during classes. Wondering . . .

  No. I was relieved Matt wasn’t around. I wouldn’t have to see him.

  People were making snide remarks, of course. Even his friends. (Ex-friends?) Sure, they felt sorry for him—but. And the jocks, who pretended to love ol’ Rocky River H.S., were talking of Matt Donaghy as a “traitor”—and worse.

  (The worst thing to call a guy, in jockese, is “fag.” You hear that a lot. Must be something about that syllable that really turns those guys on, right?)

  I missed Matt Donaghy. That empty seat. Like he’d moved . . . or died.

  Which was weird because, if Matt had been in school, Ugly Girl would’ve ignored him anyway.

  I guess.

  “More trouble at that school of yours, Ursula! Now lawyers are involved. Ouch!” It was Dad, reading the front-page article in the Westchester Journal. rocky river school district prime target of $50 million defamation suit. It was sort of shocking to see the name Donaghy in print for the first time. Claire and William Donaghy, plaintiffs. Matthew Donaghy, 16, their son. Now Matt’s name was right there in the paper, and would be on TV and radio, and it would be worse for him than before.

  I didn’t think it was such a hot idea. Asking for money made everything so cheap somehow. Maybe Mr. Parrish overreacted, but he wasn’t a bad guy, for a principal. Maybe the Brewers deserved it, though. Nobody’d ever brought a lawsuit against Reverend “Ike” until now. Dad laughed but was shaking his head. He’d had some really bad experiences with multimillion-dollar lawsuits, not personally but in business. “You’d think the Donaghys would want to put this mess behind them, wouldn’t you?”

  I said, “It’s their business what they want to do, Dad.”

  “How does the boy feel about it?”

  This made me really flare up. A Fiery Red right up my spine.

  “Dad, I’m not a friend of Matt Donaghy’s, you know that.”

  “Tell your friend Matt, free advice from Clay Riggs, this is a big mistake. Whatever the school district settles, however it turns out, the guys to profit will be you know who.”

  Lawyers, Dad meant. But I wasn’t listening to this. My face was burning and I was halfway out the door.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “HEY, DONAGH-Y!”

  “Hey, fag!”

  “You hear us, Donaghy! Don’t pretend you don’t.”

  Matt heard. Matt had seen them approaching, from the corner of his eye. He’d been hearing their voices. Their sniggering laughter. He didn’t look around, and he didn’t acknowledge them. It was probably hopeless, but he began to walk faster.

  “Hey fag, what’s the hurry?”

  “Where’re you going in such a hurry, fag?”

  Should he run? He was a good runner for short sprints, less good at distances. Two of the guys behind him were football players, which meant they’d be good at moderate distances and strong when they hit him. Matt’s heart was beginning to pound hard, pumping adrenaline. Run!

  He was headed for the steps at the end of the alley. A flight of concrete steps leading down to an asphalt parking lot below Main Street. The narrow alley was between the Rocky River Shoe Repair and Bon Appetite Gourmet Foods, a shortcut to the parking lot. Matt had been running errands for his mother, who wasn’t well. It was a few days after the news of the lawsuit had been reported locally, and Matt knew when he saw the boys from Rocky River High following him that there’d be trouble.

  The boys were mostly seniors, outweighing Matt by twenty or more pounds. Trevor Cassity, Duane Stanton, Rod Booth, and two or three others. He knew them from school—in the cafeteria especially they’d been taunting him.

  Making sucking noises with their mouths. “‘Sue me’! C’mon—‘sue me’! Fag.”

  Matt was going to run for the steps, but there was Duane Stanton blocking his way. He hesitated and felt a hand grab roughly at his shoulder, and at his backpack. He clenched his fist, swung at them blindly. This was happening so swiftly, it was impossible to see. His hand recoiled in pain. He’d struck Cassity on the side of the head. Cassity grunted in surprise and struck back. One of the others hit Matt a stunning blow on the jaw. The older, bigger boys were dancing around Matt, jeering, grinning. Like a hyena pack. Matt was panting and frightened, yet would recall afterward how strangely calm he was. This is what you deserve. Big Mouth. You know it is. His nose had begun to bleed. The front of his windbreaker would be stained. There were more punches thrown, some of them missing their target. The struggle wasn’t graceful or coordinated, like a boxing match or a fight scene in a movie. Matt ducked, and kicked at his opponents, who laughed angrily, jeered, even spat at him. They were calling him names, obscenities. He did not know why they hated him so much—or whether they hated him at all but were only attacking him for sport. “So what’re you gonna do, sue us?”—“Sue us?”—“Fag, gonna sue us?” One of them ripped off Matt’s backpack and threw it down the concrete steps, Matt lost his balance reaching for it, or was tripped—and next thing he knew, he was falling sidelong down the concrete steps. His arms flailed. He tried to grab onto the railing, but it was rusted and wobbly and couldn’t hold his we
ight. He fell, hard. He slid to the foot of the steps, a distance of about fifteen feet, and landed in chunks of ice and gritty snow.

  The boys ran away laughing. But their mocking words echoed in Matt’s head. Sue us—sue us—sue us!

  TWENTY-TWO

  THAT WEEK I WAS IN A FIERY RED MOOD . At least I was feeling pretty good about my drawing again: charcoal sketches and pen and ink. And a high grade (99 percent) in biology lab. Ms. Schultz was on speaking terms with me again, and (I guessed) I was on speaking terms with her. And some of the girls on the team, including Bonnie, who was my friend anyway, were behaving friendly, sort of, toward Ugly Girl.

  I had to admit, I was missing the games. Without a team sport there’s a hole in your life.

  This weird thing: There was Ms. Schultz and one of the girls on the team talking together in the hall, and it flashed through me that when they saw me, they were going to smile and call out, “Hi, Ursula!” and maybe wave me over, and it flashed through me I couldn’t trust myself not to be emotional, so I turned away pretending I hadn’t seen them and got the hell out of there fast.

  It was like Ugly Girl was spinning out of control. Even for Ugly Girl.

  At home, things were weird too. Mom was giving me the cool, hurt, silent treatment, as if Ugly Girl was somebody’s daughter who gave a damn about such tactics. Mom was waiting for me to apologize for my “atrocious behavior” at Lincoln Center, I guess.

  Well, I wasn’t going to apologize. I was thinking I would never apologize for anything again in my life that, when I did it, felt right.

  What surprised me, though, was how Lisa was starting to behave.