Duckling Ugly (7 page)

The principal looked at me. I took a long moment to think about this one, knowing full well what the consequences would be, either way. Finally, I said, “Every word is spelled right.”

“Excuse me?” the principal said.

“The written answers. Every word is spelled right. I’m the county spelling champion, five years running.” I looked at the questions on the test in front of me. Question number six was:
What do you call the engine of a human cell?
“Why don’t you ask Marisol to spell
mitochondria
?”

The principal took away both tests so Marisol couldn’t see. “All right, Marisol,” he said. “Spell
mitochondria.
”

“Well, I don’t see a reason—”

“Just do it,” said the principal.

Marisol gripped her chair. First she went pale, then she started to go beet red. “Mitochondria,” she said. “Mitochondria. M…I…T…O…K…O…N…D…R…Y…A.”

The first time Marisol had been caught cheating she got a three-day suspension. This time she was expelled, and she spent the rest of seventh grade homeschooled.

She was back at school in the fall, though, and it had become her life’s mission to make me pay.

Well, now she had. I had a trash can full of dead animals to prove it—and I knew I’d be a fool to think it would stop there.

When I was done cleaning, I took a long, hot shower, but no matter how much I scrubbed, I just didn’t feel clean. I could never wash away pretty filth like Marisol Yeager, just like I could never wash away my hideous face.

I threw out my clothes. I threw out my covers. Even my mattress was ruined, so I slept on the floor that night, clutching in my hand the shimmering satin note. My one ray of hope was that letter.

Find the answers.

It seemed like a lifeline that could somehow save me from this terrible, terrible town.

T
hat night I dreamed about the boy with blue eyes so intense, I couldn’t see the rest of his face. I didn’t know where I was at first, but as my vision cleared, I saw that we were in my special place. The green valley where all my troubles didn’t seem to exist.

The boy held my hand, and we strolled down the winding stone path. His hand was soft, and the air was warm and full of wonderful floral smells, just like in Miss Leticia’s greenhouse. I wished that she would appear in the dream so I could show this place to her, but she didn’t.

“Are we there yet?” I asked the boy, even though I didn’t know where “there” was.

“Almost,” he answered. “Keep your eye on your destination.”

But just as before, I couldn’t. I tried to turn my head, but it seemed my eyes were locked on his. He didn’t look away, the way most people do anytime I stare.

“How can you look at me?” I asked him. “I’m horrible.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t look away, either. So I took the bamboo brush that had suddenly appeared in my hand and gently brushed it back and forth across my face. Instead of leaving a
line of black ink, the brush erased me. I could feel my features blur into nothingness.

“There,” I said. “All better now.”

We kept on walking. The feeling of fury I had taken to bed was leaving me with each step down the stone path, and although this growing contentment felt wonderful, I fought to hold on to my anger. I
owned
that anger. I had earned it, and I didn’t want to lose it.

I woke up standing in the northwest corner of my room.

I
t turns out I was wrong about Gerardo Sanchez.

I had thought he’d be just a one-lunch-stand, but he came back. Oh, he didn’t come back to the mercy seat right away, but about a week later. The letter was in my pocket. I had carried it in a pocket since the day I had received it, and no matter how much I fiddled with it, it never got wrinkled or worn. I was so pleased that Gerardo actually came back to sit with me, I was going to show it to him—tell him about it, and ask him what he thought it meant—but I stopped myself. Two visits to the mercy seat wasn’t enough to earn that kind of trust. And besides, Marisol might be watching. The thought of her coming by and snatching the note from my hands was enough to keep it in my pocket.

“So who are you trying to impress today?” I asked when Gerardo sat down.

“No one,” he told me.

“Nikki Smith still doesn’t think you’re sensitive enough?”

“Yeah, she does,” he said. “We’re going out now. Been to the movies and everything.”

“Goody for you.”

There was an awkward silence, but not as bad as the first time he had sat there. “So,” he asked, “what do you think’s in this burger?”

I lifted my bun to reveal a gray slab beneath a sickly pickle slice. “Kangaroo,” I said.

“Yeah, you can tell by the way the burgers bounce.”

I looked at his plate. He wasn’t touching the burger, but he had already eaten his brownie, so I gave him mine. “There. Two for the price of one.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you gonna tell me why you’re sitting here?”

“Okay,” he said, “here’s the deal. If I hang out at tables with other girls, Nikki gets jealous. And if I go sit at a table with my friends, Nikki gets suspicious, thinking I’m talking about her and stuff. But she doesn’t care if I sit with you. She thinks I’m being noble or something.”

“Why don’t you just hang out with Nikki?”

“Hey,” Gerardo said, “I really like her. But it’s not like I want to be around her all the time.”

I knew what he meant. Nikki Smith was an okay girl, but she was also a chatterbox, and the worst kind: the kind that insisted that you respond to her chatter. She would not accept the typical “yeah…yeah…uh-huh” kind of responses that a person could usually get away with. Nikki required an in-depth analysis of every pointless thing she said, to prove you were actually listening.

“So anyway,” Gerardo said, “sitting with you is like my only safe zone. Nikki doesn’t get jealous because she knows there’s nothing going on, and my friends don’t care because it’s not like I’m sitting with their enemies.”

“So I’m like Switzerland,” I told him.

“Huh?”

“I’m like Switzerland; I’m neutral territory.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Only thing is,” I reminded him, “Switzerland is beautiful.”

“Well, to be honest, if you were beautiful, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now, so there’s something to be said for being the dog-faced girl.”

I picked up my spoon and flung some peas at him, but I couldn’t help but smile, because for once, someone was laughing with me, not at me.

Gerardo didn’t sit with me every day after that—only when he couldn’t stomach being around Nikki, which was often enough. He told Nikki he felt bad for me. He told his friends I was doing his homework for him. Neither was true. The truth was, he sat with me because he wanted to.

“I like you,” he said one day. “Not in the way guys like girls, because to me you’re not a girl.”

I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t hurt, but the hurt didn’t come anywhere close to how good it felt to have him say “I like you” and know that he meant it. I could live with all the unintentional insensitivity in the world because of the unintentional honesty that came with it.

Gerardo would tell me things about himself that he couldn’t tell anyone else, because unlike other kids in school, I didn’t have a network of friends to gossip with. In turn, I’d tell him things, too.

One day he asked me the big question—the one he’d probably been dying to ask since that first day he took the mercy seat.

“I know it’s just a stupid rumor,” he began, “and I know it
couldn’t possibly be true…” I saw how hard it was for him, so I made it easier by guessing the question myself.

“You want to know if my face breaks mirrors.”

“You know what? Forget I asked,” he said. “It’s just a stupid thing people say—”

“It’s true.”

I don’t think he was expecting that. He just stared at me, probably wondering if I was joking.

“Water’s the only place I can see my reflection,” I told him, “and even then, the water goes cloudy in a second.”

“No way.”

“Think about it,” I told him. “The whole idea of ugly people breaking mirrors had to come from somewhere, didn’t it? I’m sure it’s pretty rare, but there must have been other people in history who did it.”

I told him about how, when I was a baby, my father had to take out the rearview and side mirrors in our cars, because I couldn’t help but look in them. “They don’t have to do it anymore, since now I know better.”

“That’s wild!”

I guess he was right. It didn’t seem wild to me, though. It’s amazing the things you grow used to. “There was this one professor at the community college who tried to do a study of it,” I told Gerardo. “He thought he could find some kind of scientific explanation.”

“So did he?”

“Well, my mother and me went to his laboratory when I was eight. He hooked me up to wires, and computers and stuff. Then he had his assistants bring in mirrors of all shapes and sizes, on the other side of this Plexiglas barrier, and had video cameras
recording the results. I looked into each of those mirrors, and I’ll tell you, you couldn’t have destroyed those mirrors more completely if you’d taken a hammer to them.”

“Wow,” was all Gerardo could say.

“In the end, the joke was on him,” I said. “He couldn’t get any of the results on film because the lenses of the cameras blew up, too. I wasn’t sad about it, though. In some weird way, it felt like I had won. It’s like I had beaten science! Anyway, as we were leaving, I saw the professor guzzle a few swigs of whiskey from a flask, and I heard him say to his workers, ‘That girl is so ugly, the mirrors don’t just break, they break a sweat.’”

Gerardo laughed nervously, still not sure whether or not to entirely believe it.

So I leaned closer to him and whispered, “I’ll show you if you want…”

He found me after the last bell had rung and the school was beginning to clear out. In his hand he had a little round makeup compact—the kind that flipped open with a mirror in the top half. He looked around at the crowds of kids going through their lockers and filtering out of school.

“Not here,” he said. “Come on.” He checked several classrooms, but they were either locked or there were teachers inside. Then he tugged on the door of the janitor’s closet, and it swung wide. We checked to make sure no one was looking and stepped in, closing the door behind us. The room was cramped and smelled of Pine-Sol. I giggled. The janitor’s closet was a notorious makeout spot. “Bet you never thought you’d be in the janitor’s closet with me,” I said.

“Don’t gross me out,” Gerardo answered. “So are you ready?”

“You may want to cover your eyes.”

He didn’t. Instead he held the little compact at arm’s length and flipped it open. “Okay, what do I do now?”

“Just angle it toward me so I can see it.”

He shifted it until I caught my reflection. The compact hummed for a second, like a cell phone set on vibrate, and the glass fractured into a hundred pieces. Some pieces stayed in the little round frame, some flew out. I felt a piece hit my blouse, then I heard it tinkle to the ground.

Gerardo just stared at the compact still clutched in his hand. “That,” he said, “was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Then he tilted his hand slightly. A piece of glass was sticking out of his wrist.

“Oh, crap!” He dropped the compact and reached for the glass with his other hand, grimacing as he pulled it out. It hadn’t hit a major vein or anything. Just a couple of drops of blood spilled out. He put his wrist to his mouth to suck the blood off. When he looked at it again, it had already stopped bleeding. He looked at the half-inch sliver of glass in his other hand.

“You know what?” he said. “I’m going to keep this.”

“What for?”

“Evidence,” he said. “Evidence that Cara DeFido’s got some kind of magic.”

“Yeah, ugly magic,” I said.

“That’s better than no magic at all.” Then he shook his head. “There’s got to be some reason for it,” he said.

Find the answers,
I thought, and gently touched the pocket where the folded letter rested—but I kept the thought to myself.
That was the day I started wondering if maybe Gerardo was one of the answers I was supposed to find.