A Collection of Short Stories

Ugly

Lisa always had been a scrappy kid.

It was a cool evening when the grass was a deep saturated lime green in the dawn of summer. She was about 7 years old rough housing with some boys from the neighborhood in the front yard. There were about 3 of them laughing and shoving each other, some of them a little older than her.

"Go on inside Lisa. Wouldn't want you to get hurt," the 11 year old snickered.

"I wanna play with you guys, I'm not gon' get hurt," she exclaimed excitedly. 

"Yes, you are, girls always get hurt and run off crying like lil' babies," the boy mockingly whined and pouted and did a little dance. All the boys laughed.

"I'm not gon' cry and I'm not a lil' baby!" Lisa said.

"Yeah-huh," he said.

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-huh!"

"Nuh...uh!"

They stared at each other, fists balled as if cowboys waiting for a tumble weed or some thing to signal draw.

Suddenly, the boy lunged at her, pinning her to the ground pushing her face in that sweet grass. She kicked and screamed struggling under a laughing him.

Her mother looked up through the kitchen window periodically from washing dishes to check on her daughter. She looked up, saw her practically being used as a digging tool in the ground and gasped. She dropped the dish in her hand to the sink and lunged for the door. Her husband came up behind her and grabbed her shoulders.

"Wait, just look," he said to his ashen wife.

Lisa wiggled from under the lanky boy and stood up, grimacing.

"You got some dirt on your cheek honey," the boy threw his head back in laughter. When he calmed to a chuckle, Lisa wound up her fist and punched him clean in the face. He grabbed his cheek, his eyes wide with fear now. The air was still. Lisa straightened her shirt and raised her chin royally all without breaking eye contact. The other boys fell out laughing. They rolled on the floor and got grass in their hair just like Lisa, they were so tickled. Soon Lisa let the laughter over come her, relaxing as the tension passed. The boy did the same. He raised his hand to Lisa.

"You're alright," he said shaking her hand. They went on playing, full of laughter and joy.

"See, she can take care of herself. That's my baby!" He kissed his wife's cheek and went back to his newspaper at the kitchen table. Lisa's mother never took her eyes of the children playing outside.

On Lisa's 16th birthday her father got her boxing gloves and her mother bought her first tube of lipstick. The gloves where crimson red and black, fittingly. The lip stick was a nice cherry hue, beautiful.

Soon all Lisa ever did was practice. She watched the greats, Ali, Tyson, Mayweather. She exercised more and ate increasing amounts of protein. She lived for he craft of boxing and her mother started to worry.

Her mom came to the basement which her dad turned into a him gym for himself he doesn't use anymore.

"Come shopping with me, Lisa, it'll be fun," her mom said.

"I'm not done training," Lisa said. She was doing pull ups on an old machine.

"Why don't you be careful down here on these old rickety machines, I'd hate to you to get hurt."

"I'm not gon' get hurt."

"Well, can't you take a break for a little while? Get yourself something pretty."

"No. You get it for me, surprise me."

Her mother sighed, "okay, I'll be back in time to cook dinner." She left. Lisa moved on the the punching bag.

She put on her old gloves, the cotton and fake leather crumbling. She started punching the bag. Left-left-right. Righ-left-right. She was getting stronger everyday.

Later, her mother came home. She came down the basement steps with a big white back and a shoe box.

"Look what I got you! I think these are so cute, try them on for me," she said quickly taking some black boot heels put of the box.

"Mom..." Lisa started.

"Here, I'll put them on for you," she said sitting Lisa down and grabbing at her feet. Lisa sat there limp. Yielding uncomfortably.

"Now stand up," her mother said, helping her up by the arm, "let me see you walk."

Lisa hobbled stiffly two steps forward.

"Quit playing girl!"

Lisa walked with a slight sway in her hips, forced by the shoes but also her feeling of impeding beauty. She felt like a show stopper, a head turner. She examined herself in the mirror. Her mom came over to her and let her hair down, she placed her hands on her shoulders.

"Now, just look at how beautiful you are," she said softly.

Lisa looked, long and hard at herself. She felt a sourness curdling in her mouth. She went over to the punching bag again and slowly started back up.

"What are you doing you're gonna ruin your shoes!"

Lisa was inexorable.

"That's the problem, you're always down here "training". And then when you finally do get some sunlight, all the boys run away from ya cause they all scared of ya. You wanna be tougher than them, hell, you look just like one of em! That's not a girls place, to be better than a man, especially a girl with so much potential like yourself. Why, Lisa, why. Are you a lesbian? You can tell me of you are..." Her mother went on.

"No, I just like boxing,” Lisa said. She plumped down on the bench and started fumbling with the zipper on the side of the shoe.

"Why don't you take your glove off first," mom said. Lisa ignores her, eventually getting the zipper down and the shoe off her foot. Her mother softens a bit.

"You could take up a more womanly hobby. I mean, boxing is so dangerous, what if you ruin your face, and get hurt?"

"I'm not gon' get hurt," Lisa said. "Besides, there are women boxers." She maneuvers the other shoe off and holds it in her hand staring at it.

"Well, sure but they're not beautiful anymore. All swollen with muscles. What man is gonna want that? I just want you to be happy, baby," her mother said coming closer to her. She tries to place a hand on Lisa's shoulder, Lisa weaves from her embrace. Her mother grimaces.

"Well, what the hell do you want me to say! My own daughter would rather look like a bruised and bloodied man than a - a daughter! They're so - ugly! Just ugly!"

Lisa drops the other shoe and looks at her gloves. The pealing leather and crumbling cotton. "No, you are," she says flatly.

"What?" Her mother frowns, confused.

"Ugly. In here," Lisa holds her glove to her chest, her heart. She walks past her mother and leaves. Her mother is left weeping silently in the basement. She cleans herself up, wipes any runny mascara, retouches her lip, collects the shoes and leaves for upstairs, turning off the light just before she closes the door.