Fugly Page 10

  Crap, I’d forgotten about Amy. I’d forgotten she’d asked me if I’d like to go out for the evening. Can I blow her off? I could. There’s no rule that says I can’t. But I would feel a bit bad bailing on her. She’s even bought me a ticket. I can’t let her down. Can I? As I dither, a little thrill runs through me. I’ve never been so in demand before.

  I don’t text Amy back. Not yet, anyway. Texting back at a quarter past six in the morning smacks of desperation. Anyway, I’ll see her later today, won’t I?

  I pick out some leggings (black) and dig out one of my oversized jumpers (also black). I don’t fret too much about what I’m going to wear. Why bother? No one who matters is going to see me. Plus, I like black. It’s a safe color. First lecture is at nine, so I wolf down some toast, check on Mum, yell at Brat to get up (yeah, I know, like that’s going to happen), and rush out to get my bus. My head’s so full of imagined conversations that I don’t even feel the familiar twinge of dread that usually comes from squeezing down the bus aisle to find a seat. Bottom-fondlers are forgotten. Nothing is going to get me down.

  I space-walk off the bus and down the road toward uni. Outside, I hear a squeak; it’s Amy, waiting for me. She waves furiously, grinning from ear to ear. I grin back, which is a first for me. Usually, I wouldn’t dare for fear of The Chins, but today I genuinely don’t care.

  “Here you go!” Amy flourishes a badly printed piece of card at me. I take it from her.

  “Disaster Zone. Interesting name for a club,” I say.

  “I know, cool, right?”

  There’s an awkward pause. I haven’t actually confirmed whether I’m going or not yet, but now that she’s given me the ticket, I kind of feel trapped. Some of the warm, fuzzy feeling leaks away, making room for the more normal buzz of dread.

  “How much do I owe you?” I ask, trying to keep the reluctance out of my voice.

  “Aw, don’t worry about that.” Amy flaps a hand at me. “It wasn’t much.”

  I really don’t know how to proceed from here. These really are uncharted waters. If she won’t let me pay, then I really don’t have an excuse not to go.

  She ignores me and jabbers on about how much fun we’re going to have, so much fun, fun fun fun, as if she’s trying to convince herself. I just nod helplessly and stuff the ticket into my purse, vowing that I’ll give it an hour and then make my excuses.

  After lectures we go back to Amy’s for lunch. Patrick the Bear is thankfully out. I don’t think I’m up to dealing with him right now, and I’m too scared to ask Amy if he’s coming to Disaster Zone tonight. A very pretty, very skinny student saunters into the kitchen to make herself a coffee at one point; Amy welcomes her with her trademark enthusiasm, introducing her as Dizzy. She offers Amy a smile that may as well be a sneer and completely ignores me.

  “Oh, and Amy,” she says in a slightly plummy accent. “Don’t forget the milk next time you buy groceries.”

  Amy blinks and nods tightly. “Oh, yeah, of course.”

  “Hate relying on Coffee-Mate. Feel like I’ve been to a fucking food bank. And don’t get the crap supermarket stuff. God knows what they pump into that. Makes me break out. Organic.” She takes a sip of her coffee and pulls a face, as if that makes her point.

  “Oh. All right,” Amy says, and I feel my insides scrunch up as I try not to scowl at Dizzy. Who does she think she is? Actually, I know exactly who she thinks she is. Posh bitch, used to getting her own way, but not bright enough (and Daddy not quite rich enough) to get into one of the better universities, so she’s slumming it here. Then it’s off to whatever internship Daddy can secure her, but before that, it’s all snooty glances and pushing around the little people to get what she wants, not because she’s trying to be nasty but simply because that entitlement has been bred into her. My palms itch. Well, love, there’s one great leveler . . .

  “What’s her full name?” I ask Amy.

  “Uh, Denise Reitman. She’s from Guildford, I think. I haven’t really talked to her much, but she’s kind of like our floor’s den mother, always reminding us to make sure we clear up after ourselves, or to get the milk—”

  “Whilst never doing any of those things herself, I bet,” I can’t help interjecting.

  “Uh, well, you know, she’s not that messy, and . . .” She trails off, her fingers clenching and unclenching from around her mug.

  “Yeah. Whatever. You do know you don’t have to listen to her, right?”

  “Yeah, I know, but, you know, for an easy life and everything.”

  It’s weird how angry this makes me. Dizzy has clearly picked up on Amy’s I don’t care what you do—just love me! vibe and is exploiting it up to the hilt. I doubt she talks to the rugby twat like that.

  It’s a shame I’m not the kind of person who’s good at standing up for other people. But since I’m not, I can do the next best thing.

  Denise Reitman, beware the infamous MidnightBanshee and all of her various heads. She’s a fucking hydra, and if you don’t tread carefully she is going to eat you alive.

  23: #reallife

  I feel a bit bad exploiting Amy’s trusting nature, but a few leading questions and she’s shown me Denise “Dizzy” Reitman’s social media accounts. As predicted, she goes by Dizzygirl on one and Dizzybabe00 on the other, and I have to hold in a cruel chuckle. I’m not going to target her straight away, mainly because I don’t want to run the slightest risk of her connecting me (and, by proxy, Amy) to the carnage that is about to rain down on her profiles, but that’s fine. Half the fun’s in the anticipation. Plus, this means I can key Tori in and we can plot. Dizzy will never talk to Amy like she’s a piece of shit again.

  After grabbing a baguette (tuna mayo and cucumber—well, it’s kind of healthy, especially compared to Amy’s cheese and bacon monstrosity), Amy and I head to the library to do some studying. And, dare I say it, it’s kind of fun. We don’t do a lot of work. Amy can literally turn any topic into a conversation, and I find myself lurching from Bake Off to Stranger Things by way of the Neon Seven’s new album. Her sense of fun is infectious, and so we end up giggling a lot. I even sketch out a quick series of stickmen on the edge of her notebook and flip the pages, making the little stickman dance. Amy claps gleefully, which earns us a disapproving look from the librarian. We exchange guilty looks and then burst out into snorting laughter. It’s stupid, it’s childish, but it’s also glorious, and a little remote part of me watches everything with wary eyes, wondering if this is what it’s like to have a proper friend and predicting when it’s all going to come crashing down around my ears. But I squash that miserable bitch down and try, for once, to just live in the moment.

  At four, it’s starting to get dark, and so I wander over to grab my bus, but not before Amy throws her arms around my neck and says, “See you later! Remember, eight at Sanford’s, okay?” and I can’t help but be struck by the note of desperation in her voice. For a moment, I let my arms hang by my sides—I’ve never been one for hugging, mainly because I was never initiated into the Circle of Friendship that involved hugging—before I eventually cave in and do this weird half-pat, half-rub on her back that might be a hug but might also be a plea to let me go. When she does, she grins at me and jiggles on the spot.

  She’s actually excited. I can see it twinkling like a little star above all the other fake twinkly stuff she projects.

  Oh fuck.

  ***

  I spend most of the bus journey home hoping the thing will crash and get me out of this evening. No such luck. Could I step out in front of a car? That certainly would sort the issue out.

  But before I know it, I’m sticking my key in the front door, completely unscathed.

  The house actually smells of cooking. Mum only cooks on her good days. Maybe I should take that as a sign. The club might be called Disaster Zone, but the omens aren’t all that bad. If I find Brat sitting at the table doing his homework, I’m going to start wondering if I’ve fallen through a dimensional hole and am in a comp
letely new reality.

  In the kitchen, Mum’s sitting at the table, reading a magazine. In the oven, what looks like a sausage casserole is cooking. Okay, so it came out of a packet, but it’s definitely better than nothing. It looks like the cupboards actually have food in them, meaning the Tesco delivery’s finally come. For a moment, I can almost kid myself that everything’s back to the way it was. Maybe Dad’s on his way home from work. Maybe the Cosmic Overlords have decided to load an earlier saved game, and everything’s going to be okay from now on. I have to admit, I like the sound of that. Sure, things weren’t perfect then; I was still a struggling chubster, but at least home was stable.

  Brat storms downstairs, barges past me, and starts yelling about internet connections lagging and how Mum is fucking trying to fucking ruin his fucking life, and her eyes well up, and we’re back in reality.

  Mum’s all but cowering in front of Brat, and I’m paralyzed. I want to go over and stop him, to break his teeth, to tell him that’s not okay you little shitbag, but none of it happens. Finally, Brat storms back off. The house shakes with his every footstep. I stare helplessly at Mum, who is still weeping. The smell of the casserole, once so promising and wholesome, now seems cloying and rank.

  I want to go to her. I want to comfort her. But I don’t know how. I’ve just stood to one side and watched her other child abuse her, and I did nothing. Something hot bubbles up within me, something horribly familiar: shame.

  “Mum . . . ,” I manage.

  She shakes her head. “No. No!” She raises one hand at me as I take a step toward her, but she doesn’t look at me. “Check on the casserole. I don’t want it to burn.”

  So that’s what I do. That’s all I do. And I hate myself for it, every step of the way.

  24: #rulesandregulations

  The problems that one might face when going clubbing when you never go clubbing because you are basically the dictionary definition of fugly are myriad and hideous. Allow me to outline them for you:

  1. What should I wear? Can you get away with jeans? Do clubs even let you in if you’re wearing jeans? Why am I worrying about wearing jeans, anyway? I never wear bloody jeans! But what else is there? Can’t really go down the old faithful route of leggings and oversized top, can I? Which leads to . . .

  2. What can I wear? I don’t have much of a wardrobe, because most shops don’t cater to my “unique” shape, and those that do are usually aimed at fifty-year-old women called Beryl. I have found some gems on the internet, but you do rather run the what size is it really? gamut with online purchases. Spin the dial to see if it’s eight sizes too big and makes you look like someone is trying to drown you in cloth, or eight sizes too small so you look like a badly stuffed sausage. Send us all your financial details to find out! In the end, I settle for the black 50s-style swing dress with the applique skulls on the hem I bought for my prom (which, of course, I didn’t go to), but then that only leads to . . .

  3. What kind of place is it? According to Google, it’s “banging.” Right. Is it mainstream? Alternative? Get your head kicked in if you look like you might have, at some point in your life, flirted with emo? Watch your best friend snort drugs off the toilet seat whilst someone else is doing it doggy-style in the stall next to yours? “Banging” does not give me sufficient information! I could rock up in my skull dress and spend the rest of the night shuffling to Little Mix. Which would be hell, and leads me to . . .

  4. Music. I will admit that my taste is somewhat eclectic, and I’ve managed to cultivate a taste for stuff that sounds like someone beating R2D2 to death with a guitar. This is fine when you’re feeling angry and alienated, but how does that work in a clubbing scenario? Will I be forced to listen to Chart Shite for the whole evening? Which nicely dovetails into . . .

  5. Club etiquette. As in, I do not know it. Get smashed and dance ironically? Cool indifference whilst sipping on a bottle of something I’ve carefully purchased and nursed? (I don’t know why I’m paranoid about date rape drugs. It’s not as if anyone is going to be clamoring to drag my fat, drugged-up ass home. You’d think, anyway.) Do we buy rounds? Shots? Pints? I JUST DON’T KNOW!

  6. Coats. It’s fucking freezing out there. Do I take one? Will I need to queue for a cloakroom? Or will I just sit in the corner all night, clutching mine? Or should I just risk it and wear a cardigan and hope it doesn’t rain?

  7. Forget cloakrooms—what about simply arriving? Amy said to meet at Sanford’s first. What, inside, outside, in the beer garden, by the bar—where?! I can’t just wander in there on my own. Everyone will look and judge and give me those looks that say “Jeeeesus,” and then I’ll have to run away, which might be a good thing, because then I won’t have to deal with . . .

  8. How the holy fuck do I get home? I’m not walking—it’s, like, four miles into town. No buses at that time of night. Uber? Taxi? But that means getting into a car, with a stranger, on my own. Even the thought is enough to make me feel violently ill—how would I cope with the reality?

  I think it is safe to say that I did not think this through when I agreed to go out, and now that I have thought it through, I have come to the conclusion that it’s literally the worst idea anyone has ever had in the world, ever. Yes, I know, countless people manage to do this quite happily every week, but I am not one of those people. Those people are well adjusted, non-paranoid, and normal.

  I want to cry.

  ***

  When I tell Mum I’m going out for the night, she looks surprised. Well, I suppose it’s better than the usual slack-jawed zombie expression.

  “You’re going out?” she says.

  “Yeah. With some friends” (yeah, okay, a friend) “from uni.”

  “Oh. Oh, that’s good. That’s what you should be doing. You have your phone on you, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mum, I have my phone.” I wave it in front of her.

  “Good. So, if you get into any problems—”

  “I’ll call. I know.” The fact that you’ll probably be in a medication and wine induced coma by eight thirty won’t interfere with your availability, of course.

  “Right. Well. Have fun.”

  She smiles at me. I think she’s going for bright but it has come out more brittle. I can’t help but glance toward the stairs.

  “I don’t have to go—”

  “Yes, you do,” Mum interrupts, with more force than I thought she could ever muster. “This is the kind of thing you should be doing. I did it at your age, and so should you.” It’s the first bit of spark I’ve seen in her in a while now.

  “As long as you’re sure,” I mumble.

  “I am sure. He isn’t your problem.”

  Of course, that’s where she’s wrong.

  ***

  I don’t like getting the bus at night. Okay, so at night encompasses everything after 4:30 p.m. in the UK in winter, but you know what I mean.

  I try to make myself comfortable and fight the urge to rub my eyes, aware of how much makeup I’ve plastered on myself. I feel like a fucking rodeo clown. And this dress feels weird. I don’t usually wear dresses. What does one do with one’s legs when wearing a dress? I tug the hem down in a futile attempt at covering my knees. Tights are not the same as leggings. God, I wish I’d worn leggings—

  I catch a glimpse of the little rotating info sign. My stop is next. Bollocks. I nearly missed it. Maybe I should take that as a sign and just go home?

  But I don’t. Instead, I smooth my skirt down, sling my bag over my head so it crosses my chest like some kind of shield, and grit my teeth.

  Time to go get this godforsaken night over and done with.

  The bus grinds to a halt and a stream of underdressed people gets off. The night is cold, the air damp. I wish I’d decided to bring my coat and not just my cardigan. Oh well. Too late now. Time to add frizzy hair to tonight’s inevitable list of disasters. If this is the worst thing that happens to me, I guess I’m lucky.

  Sanford’s is two streets away. I’m out of my
usual Doc Martens (fashionable, comfortable, and above all, wide) and in a ridiculously tottery pair of heels that pinch my toes. I wonder if it’s too early to change into the ballet flats I’ve secreted in my bag. I mean, who am I kidding? I look like I’m walking on ice.

  All around me, music blares and signs flicker. The town has transformed from a homogenous shopping blob to a kind of low-rent Vegas. I spy Sanford’s up ahead, and my stomach flips. Come on, girl, you’ve managed to make it this far without completely freaking out. Just a little farther. You can do this.

  What if Amy’s late? What if I go in alone and have to sit there, waiting? What if all of this has been a hoax and she’s invited me just to leave me sitting in there while they all stand outside and take photos of me, laughing at how trusting I am, at how easy it is to fool me—

  No. Fuck this. I am not going to be made to look like an idiot. Why the hell didn’t Amy say meet her in halls? That’s where she lives—she can’t stand me up there. I know where she lives. I—

  My phone buzzes, and I bark out a high-pitched “Shit!” A few scantily clad girls turn in alarm and stare at me. I blush, thankful for the green gunk I bought to go under my foundation, and fumble my phone out of my bag.

  Hey u! Are u there? We’re inside—in the corner, by the door! See u in a mo, yeah? Axxxxxxxxxx

  I clutch my phone. She says she’s there. But she might not be. She still might be playing a cruel trick. I text back:

  I’m outside.

  Oh! Cool! Can u see me? I’m waving!!

  And lo and behold, when I look up I can indeed see the shadowy form of someone waving out of one of Sanford’s windows.

  She wasn’t lying. She is here. And she texted me to make sure I was coming. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh or cry.

  25: #HELL

  Bars in the UK are odd beasts. Some are light, airy affairs with award-winning menus and organic ales on tap. Others are dingy holes with dartboards and sticky floors and a clientele seemingly made up of elderly sex offenders. Then there are the “family” ones, which sell generic beer and chicken nuggets and chips, with sad-looking “gardens” tacked to the back, filled with desperate smokers and a slightly terrified-looking family who actually took the sign at face value. There are also ones that look more like cottages, where everyone seems to own a Labrador called Jasper and they all drink expensive gin and tonics. And then there are the town pubs, catering mainly to students and people hoping to smash pint glasses into the aforementioned students’ faces.