Нил Шустерман - Duckling Ugly

And I laughed, because it was true!

Flock's Rest wasn't exactly on their way, but they didn't have the heart to leave me by the side of the road somewhere. That's an­other thing about being beautiful: People go out of their way to help you. It was almost midnight when they reached Flock's Rest. I had them drop me at the entrance to my trailer park.

Dad would be sitting with a beer, watching RetroToob and dreaming of his lost youth. Momma would probably still be up reading. Vance would be asleep, if he hadn't had too much pop at dinner.

As excited as I was, I was scared, too. My father always said, "You can't make a Ford a Ferrari," and yet here I was, all shiny and new. Cara: the sports model. I could give them no explanation for the change I had gone through. I couldn't tell them where I'd been, or about the water of the fountain, no matter how much they asked.

I knocked on the door. No answer at first, so I knocked again. Finally, Momma answered it and looked at me, squinting her eyes.

"Hi," I said.

She wasn't shocked. She didn't even seem surprised. She just seemed a little put out over answering the door in her robe at midnight. "Can I help you?" she said.

I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. She had no idea who I was.

"Momma, it's me."

She looked at me blankly, her mind trying to mesh what she saw with what she knew.

Then she backed up and went kind of white.

"Franklin," she said, her voice all wavery. "Franklin, come quick."

Few things would lift my dad off the couch once he had settled in. But that tone of voice did the trick. As he came to her, I stepped inside. Now Vance was standing at his bedroom door, half-awake, wondering what was going on.

"It's me," I said. "It's Cara." And then, just for effect, I flicked my hair the way models do. "Don't you recognize me?"

Just silence for the longest time.

Vance was the first to react. "No. Way."

"Honey?" Dad said in the same wavery voice that Mom had.

And then it was like whatever was holding them back just fell away. Momma rushed at me and took me in her arms.

"My baby, my baby," she cried.

Even Dad cried. "We thought you ran away," he said. "Or worse."

"I did," I told them. "But it's okay now."

While Momma and Dad were still hugging me, Vance came over and looked me up and down. "What happened to you?"

And then, to my surprise, Momma turned to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and looked at him sternly. "Don't you ask that! I'm sure Cara will tell us in her own time, won't you, honey?"

I nodded, knowing that I wouldn't. Maybe Momma sensed that, because she said, "Besides, true miracles don't always have explanations. Otherwise they wouldn't be miracles."

Vance looked down. "Yes, ma'am."

I told them I was only back for a little while―that people were waiting for me.

"I understand," Momma said, even though we both knew she didn't.

We all hugged and hugged. Momma whispered things you whisper to babies, and when all the hugging was done, I went to my room.

I thought they would have changed it in the months that I had been gone. I figured they'd turn it into a reading room, or a sewing room, or something. Make the memory of me go away. But they hadn't. It was just as I had left it. I even found the little "find the answers" note―a reminder that the answers had been found, and were waiting for me back in De León. Back home.

Before going to bed, though, I went up to my dresser and, for one final time, played my old familiar game. Would Cara do it to­day? Was today the day she would win? Without the slightest hesitation, I grabbed the sheet that covered the mirror and pulled it down. No more mourning in this house! At last I looked at myself in my own mirror. As far as I was concerned, I could have looked forever.

The next morning, we ate our family breakfast like usual, but there was a certain air of terror all around the table, because miracles are frightening things. No matter how much Momma wanted to follow a don't-ask-don't-tell policy with regard to my metamorphosis, it demanded some explanation. Dad began to delicately ask about it. It was like playing a game of twenty ques­tions around a time bomb.

"Was it something. . . surgical?" Dad asked, without looking up at me.

"Not really," I said.

"Herbal, then? They're making amazing strides in vitamin therapy these days."

That was actually closer to the truth. I wondered if the foun­tain could be considered an herbal treatment.

"Vitamin therapy doesn't straighten teeth," Momma said. "That takes some sort of... intervention."

"So we're back to miracles again," said Dad, a bit frustrated.

No one said anything for a bit, and then Vance mumbled, "I think maybe Cara made a pact with the devil."

Momma brought down her fork so hard it cracked her plate in half.

"Sorry," Vance said. Momma didn't scold him. Maybe be­cause she secretly felt it was in the realm of possibility.

"Actually," I said, with a completely straight face, "I was ab­ducted by aliens."

Stunned silence from everyone . . . until I couldn't hold it anymore and cracked a smile. Vance was the first to laugh, then Dad, then Mom, and before long, we were all engulfed in a giggle fit that lasted at least three or four minutes. After that, they stopped asking.

I finished my breakfast quickly and asked if Momma could take me to school early. If I was going to accomplish anything during my single day in Flock's Rest, I'd have to use the time wisely―and the more I thought about it, the more things I real­ized I wanted to do . . . because this wasn't just about saying good-bye. This was also about saying "good riddance."

Momma brought me to school and told the office staff I was her niece, Linda. I might be moving into town, she said, and could they be darlings and let me sit in on class while I was visiting? She sold them on me like my dad sold a car―not a word of truth, and bought for the highest price possible. I didn't mind being Linda DeFido for a day. After all, Linda was my middle name.

There was still plenty of time before the bell rang, so I went out into the yard to size up what had changed since I had left. As I suspected, nothing had changed. The same kids in the same groups. Of course, some girls were hanging on different boys' shoulders, but even then, the shoulders on which they hung were the predictable ones. One couple, however, had stood the test of time. Marshall and Marisol. They were all slithered around each other in the yard, like always. I made a beeline straight toward them.

"Excuse me," I said innocently, getting their attention.

I had Marshall's eye immediately. Marisol already looked worried.

"Aren't you Marshall Astor, of the famous Astors?"

Marisol answered for him. "That's none of your business. Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, as sweetly as could be. "I'm Linda DeFido. I'll be moving here from Billington." I kept my eye on Marshall, totally ignoring Marisol. "I remember you from one of last year's football games. I have never seen a run that long. I re­member wishing that you were on our team."

Marshall just smiled dumbly. I made sure I had a lock on his eyes like a tractor beam. "So you're moving here?" he asked.

"And she's a DeFido?" said Marisol. "That family is a bunch of losers."

"Oh, we're all right," I said, still smiling. "Except, of course, for my poor cousin, Cara―wherever she is."

Marshall broke eye contact and looked down. "The DeFidos don't like me much. They think I'm the reason their daughter ran off. Your cousin, I mean."

"Oh, they don't think that," I said. "They know that Cara brought it on herself. They don't blame you at all."