Нил Шустерман - Duckling Ugly

"Hmm," said Miss Leticia. "Tell me, is your father an honest salesman?"

"Not really," I admitted. "His cars are mostly pieces of garbage."

"Well, then, his business deserved to be cursed."

I told her about my ink drawings, and the green valley I go to in my mind, where the people don't seem to notice my face― and how the flowers of her greenhouse reminded me of the gar­dens I imagine there.

"Tell me, child―do you sleepwalk?"

I hesitated. First, because it was an odd question, and second, because I wasn't quite sure how I wanted to answer. "No," I fi­nally said.

"All right, then. I had thought that maybe the place you was seeing is real, and maybe it was calling to you. That happens, you know."

I was going to tell her about the problem I had with mirrors and cameras, but I stopped myself―maybe because I was afraid to hear what she might say.

"You talk about being so ugly," Miss Leticia said. "I wish I could see you to tell you that you're not. But all I see these days are shadows, like I'm lookin' through a shower curtain."

"That's all right," I told her softly. "If you saw me, you proba­bly wouldn't even let me in here."

She laughed at that. "Is that how little you think of me?"

I didn't answer her. I knew now that Miss Leticia was a great soul, but there were some things I didn't think even a great soul could stand.

"Come here, Cara. I want to show you something."

Then Miss Leticia took my hand and led me through the green­house to a far corner. We pushed our way through a row of dense, lacy ferns to see the strangest growing thing I'd ever seen.

It was a pod, about three feet high, with a fat stalk pushing its way out of the top.

"Now tell me what you think this is," Miss Leticia said with a smirk.

"I have no idea."

"It comes from the rain forests of Sumatra. That stalk will grow six feet before it opens up into a flower. Take a deep whiff."

I did, but all I could smell were the sweet blooms growing elsewhere in the greenhouse.

"I don't smell it."

"No, not yet, but you will." She reached over and gently brushed her hand along the smooth stalk like it was a beloved pet. "I've been nursing this one for years, and this is the first time it's going to bloom. The Titan Arum, it's called... but some folks call it the Corpse Flower. You know why?"

I shook my head.

"It's called that," she told me, "because when it blooms, it smells like the rotting dead."

I shuddered at the thought. "I guess the cemetery's the per­fect place for it, then," I said nervously. Why on Earth, with all the wonderful-smelling plants she had, would she choose to grow this thing?

She must have read my mind because she said, "Oh, the scent of roses and gardenias is fine, but everyone needs a break from all that cloying perfume. Now and again I treasure the scent of something... other."

I took in another breath, trying to imagine what the flower would smell like once it bloomed, but I guess my imagination wasn't pungent enough.

"The beautiful and the terrible, the sweet and the rancid―it's all part of God's glory and has its reason to be," Miss Leticia said. "Just like you, Cara."

Suddenly she grabbed my wrists so tightly I could feel her nails cutting into my skin. "You have a destiny, child," she said. "Don't let anyone tell you that you don't."

Then she looked at me, and I swear she could see me through the deadness of her cataracts. "You came to me in your dark time, confiding in me, and that binds us," she said. "And so I will make it my business to be there when your destiny comes calling."

All the way home, I felt the sting of Miss Leticia's nails. I knew her nail marks would be in my forearms for days―but I didn't mind.

You have a destiny ; she had said. Those marks were a reminder.

Miss Leticia was weird, but she was wise in a way few people could understand. Whether she knew things or just suspected things, I didn't know―but then, to a person with intuition, sus­picion had to count for something. No one had ever suggested I had a place and a purpose in the world. My parents, who on their best days saw life as an inconvenience, had never― could never― make me feel the way Miss Leticia had in the short time I had known her.

It was around 9:30 at night when I climbed back through my bedroom window. My parents were always respectful of my pri­vacy, so I don't think they even knew I'd been gone. They proba­bly just thought I'd wallowed myself to sleep―as if self-pity was some kind of narcotic.

Well, okay, maybe I did feel a little sorry for myself, but that never made me want to wallow in misery. It just made me mad. It made me want to do something about it, if only I could find the right thing to do. The satisfying thing to do.

I opened my door to the fading smell of fried chicken. Dinner was over, but I knew there would be a plate in the fridge for me. My chicken would have its skin peeled off, because Momma had heard that oily foods make acne worse, so what she serves me al­ways has the flavor and consistency of hospital food.

Mom was in her bedroom, probably reading a self-help book; Vance was in his room listening to music so loud I could hear which song was playing in his earphones; and Dad was in the living room, drinking a beer and watching RetroToob, the cable network devoted completely to old, goofy TV shows he grew up with.

I quietly closed my door again, not hungry for dinner or fam­ily time. Instead I turned to face my dresser and played the game I played every night. It's called Does Cara Have the Nerve? See, there's this big old mirror attached to my dresser. I've never actu­ally looked into it because it's covered with a sheet, just like most of the other mirrors in our house. I hear in some places it's a custom to cover mirrors with a sheet when you're in mourning, and I wonder sometimes if my parents are in mourning for the beautiful daughter they never had. Anyway, my momma won't let me get rid of the mirror because it's part of a set. So, just to tick her off, I glued a bunch of ugly things on the sheet covering the mirror: a baboon's butt, a dentist's image of advanced tooth decay, plastic vomit. Momma says I have a twisted sense of humor, but at least I have one.

My heart was racing that night, though, because I thought that this might be the night I win the game. This could be the day I actually defied her, and everyone else in this hateful town, by tempting fate and looking into that mirror.

I took a step closer to the dresser. My conversation with Miss Leticia had made me feel strong, purposeful. That's a good word, P-U-R-P-O-S-E-F-U-L. Spelling it even made me feel more so. I reached up my hand, and took another step closer. D-E-T-E-R-M-I-N-E-D.

My words gave me power. They made me feel that I could change the way things had always been. That I could pull off the sheet, look myself in the face, and the mirror would hold the re­flection, just like it did for other people. For normal people. My fingertips were against the sheet now. V-I-C-T-O-R-I-O-U-S.

But who was I kidding? I knew what would happen. The mir­ror would see me and shatter, just like every mirror. A-G-O-N-I-Z-I-N-G.

And then I would have to explain to Mom and Dad exactly what had possessed me to destroy this lovely piece of furniture. A-B-O-R-T.

In the end, my courage failed me. My words failed me. I pulled my hand back from the sheet and let it be. The game was lost. Tonight was not the night―but I refused to feel miserable about it. Mom with her helpless self-help books, and Dad with his TV nostalgia, had misery wallowing down to an art―but I refused to join them . . . because, as Miss Leticia had said, I have a destiny.

I just had to figure out what it was.