Duckling Ugly

This was Marisol.

I spent the rest of that day and halfway into the night in rub­ber gloves, disposing of the mess and scrubbing down my room. How had things come to this? One escalation after another ...

I should have realized she'd get revenge for her ink-stained blouse?but this was beyond a single shot of ink thrown in the heat of anger. This was premeditated, and carefully planned. She had to know when no one would be home, and she'd need ac­complices to do the dirtiest of the work. How could someone so beautiful be so mean- spirited? As I scraped up nasty bits of fur, I thought back to the one and only time Marisol had been nice to me. Even then she had had an agenda.

'Cara, I know we haven't really been friends, but I think that can change.'

It was seventh grade. We had just gotten pink slips to go to the principal's office. Something about cheating on a science test.

'The thing is,' Marisol said, 'I was sick before the test.' She gave a little fake cough. 'That's why I couldn't study. So I thought just this once I could borrow some answers from some­one smart. Someone like you.'

Then she went on to give me this whole sob story about how she was once 'framed' for cheating, and if she got caught this time, the punishment would be bad.

'So what do you want me to do about it?' I asked her.

'Well, Cara,' she said sweetly, 'you've never been in trouble, so I figure if you admit to cheating off of me, they'll go easy on you. You just look at them with those sad eyes?how can they help but feel pity?'

'And what do I get in return?' I asked.

'My friendship,' she said, 'and a promise that one day I'll pay back the favor.'

Ten minutes later, we were in the principal's office, and the principal told us exactly what we expected to hear, in exactly the tone of voice we expected to hear it. 'Blah blah blah identical tests, blah blah blah zero tolerance.' And then he waited to hear our response.

'Well,' said Marisol, letting it all roll off her back, 'I know nothing about this. Maybe Cara has something to say.'

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.

6 Are we there yet?

That 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.

7 Breaking a swet

It 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.