than
most of them, anyway. They’re just here to dance
and hang out.”
“Then why—”
“It was my father’s dumb idea. Same reason he in-
vited you. He actually thought it would help,” she
rolled her eyes. “But nothing helps. Nothing will
ever help,” she finished with teenaged drama.
Audra ignored it, her own dejection forgotten in
the girl’s self-indulgent revelations.
“I think it’s nice, your dad caring enough to
throw this bash for you,” she said slowly. “But what
do I have to do with it—?”
“Oh don’t pretend to be innocent!” The girl ex-
claimed. She inhaled as if gathering up all the attrib-
utes of her most grown-up self. “I know all about
this plan you and my father have cooked up.”
Audra blinked at her for a long second, recovering
from the pure shock of Penny Bradshaw’s accusa-
tions. Then she let her hand slip to her hip and shook
her head. “Look, sweetie. I’m not sure what you think
is happening here but—”
“I know exactly what’s happening here,” the girl
spat with teenaged venom. “You think you’re the
first ugly woman my father’s asked to ‘talk to me’?
You think this is the first time he’s invited one of
his homely co-workers or one of his ‘great person-
ality’ friends to meet me?” She shook her head.
“Please.”
Her words settled over Audra like a shroud.
Homely co-workers . . . “great personality” friends . . .
70
Karyn Langhorne
“What—what are you talking about, Penny?” she
demanded.
“The minute I saw you, I knew he was doing it
again,” Penny continued, almost as though she
hadn’t heard Audra’s question. “Trying to find me
someone to talk to about being a big, ugly giant. A
tenth-grade freak on the road to becoming a grown-
up freak—”
Audra’s heart stilled, stopped. Homely co-workers . . .
“great personality” friends . . . Talk to my daughter , he’d
asked her . Talk to my —
“I—I don’t believe your father thinks you’re a
freak—” she stammered in a tiny, uncertain voice.
Penny didn’t hear it. “Of course not. He’s my fa-
ther! He has to say that I’m beautiful—but I know
what he really thinks,” Penny railed on to the night,
seeming barely aware of Audra standing beside her
in her rage. “I know, because he keeps introducing
me to the ugliest women he can find!” Her eyes
found Audra’s, no longer hard with fury but wet
with unshed tears. “Women like you.”
It felt like the last straw—the last brick—bringing
down any remaining illusions Audra had about her-
self. Ugly, ugly, ugly . . . the word was coming at her
from all sides now . . . and there were no movie-
queen lines, no quips or character to erase it. That
was the reason she was here tonight. That was the
reason, of all the women in the prison, Art Brad-
shaw had invited her. It had nothing to do with her
sense of humor, the things they seemed to have in
common or even her sterling character. It was just a
matter of being the ugliest woman in the prison—
the ugliest woman he could find.
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
71
Fatigue, sudden and exhausting, settled over her
like a garbage bag, hot, stifling.
“You didn’t know, did you?” Penny Bradshaw
asked, suddenly grasping Audra’s arm.
Audra shook her head, not trusting her voice. A
lifetime of hurt, loneliness and pain seemed lodged
in her throat. Penny’s image swam in her wet eyes
and Audra thought she read in them the echoes of
her own pain.
“God . . . I’m sorry . . . I thought . . .” Penny whis-
pered. “Oh my God . . . you like him, don’t you?
And he didn’t tell you—about Esmeralda or—
anything?”
Audra cleared her throat, willing herself to
speech. “No.”
“It’s not quite like it seems. My dad isn’t a bad
guy, but—” the girl sighed. “He’s a guy. You and I
both know how they are. Niceness and goodness
and smartness don’t matter. If you’re pretty,