Fugly Page 11

  Sanford’s is definitely the last one. No organic ales or canine Jaspers (although potentially quite a few sex offenders). The music is deafening as I enter, and despite knowing exactly where Amy is, I feel that familiar swell of panic rise within me. A few people turn and watch me come through the door, which doesn’t help. Just stop it. Stop it and go back to whatever you were doing. You don’t need to watch me. I’m nothing to you. Finally, as if hearing my silent entreats, they stare back at their phones.

  Amy hares across the bar, a vision in chiffon and pink sparkles, looking like she’s raided the dress-up section of a toy store. Suddenly I don’t feel quite so self-conscious about the skull dress.

  She flings her arms around my neck, squealing, “You’re here! I thought you might not come!” I awkwardly hug her back, hoping I don’t suffocate her with my arm flab.

  “Everyone’s here,” she continues to squeal, and takes me by the hand to drag me over to the corner.

  By everyone, she means three people from her halls. I recognize Paddington Patrick immediately. He grins widely at me as I approach the table. One of the others is Dizzy, who looks like she’s been forced to suck eighteen lemons off at once. Next to her is another stick insect—this one has painfully fashionable rainbow hair and a pierced lip. She doesn’t have to say anything. I already hate her. Amy introduces her as Indigo, because of course she’s fucking called Indigo. She sips on a straw and gives me a narrow-eyed smile that on the surface could look friendly if you scrunched your eyes up a bit, but we both know better. Indigo is a Beautiful Person, I am Fugly, and never the twain shall meet—well, until someone like Amy comes along, anyway.

  I say a quiet “Hi.” Dizzy all but ignores me; Indigo mouths a tight “Hi” back. Patrick booms, “Big Bird!!” I know it’s coming, but my cheeks flame nonetheless. I wonder if I could fit under the table.

  “Paddy,” Indigo says, with no small measure of contempt.

  “Do you want a drink?” Amy says, breathless with excitement. “I like your dress. Very new-goth. You should have got some gauzy wings to go with it. Was the bus ride okay? I’m so glad you’re here. Shall I get you a drink? Yeah. I’ll get you one. They do two for one cocktails here. I’ll get us the same, and then we can be drink-sisters! How cool is that?” And before I can even begin to sort through what question I should answer first, she’s off, skipping up to the bar. It’s a miracle they’re serving her, to be honest. She looks about twelve.

  Dizzy and Indigo share a look, and Patrick beams at me.

  “Tinks said she’d invited you. Good job you could come. Might have someone with the poundage behind them to keep pace with me, huh? I like a bird who can drink.”

  He winks at me, and I don’t have the heart to tell him I rarely drink, mainly because I don’t have anyone to drink with. I let the Big Bird stuff slide, too, even though it smarts like hell. It’s perfectly okay for fugly chicks to say they’re fugly, but for someone else—no, not cool, bro. Still, Patrick’s got this sort of full-on affability thing going on, and so I kind of forgive him. At last he’s willing to engage with me, unlike The Poison Twins who are busy muttering at each other and rolling their eyes. Yes, I’m so sorry that I’m somehow polluting your oh-so-perfect airspace with my fatness. How dare I even come within twenty feet of you, you stuck-up, skeletal bitches?

  I wrap my arms around myself but then self-consciously unwrap them again when I remember how that makes me look like I’ve got an innertube. Oh, Christ, this is horrible.

  “Anyone seen Bake Off?” I ask, desperate for common ground. “I’m team Fahmida, but I think Alison might win . . .”

  The Poison Twins each give me a disdainful look, obviously wondering why I’m even bothering to speak to them. The go back to their own whispered conversation. I chew on the inside of my lips. Where is Amy? I know the bar is busy, but come on. I’m not sure how much of this I can put up with. I knew this was a bad idea. I just knew it.

  “Oh yeah,” says Patrick, “that cooking thing with the weirdo in it? Had a banging little chickadee in it earlier—what was her name? Ruby? Robin?”

  “Rachel,” I all but whisper.

  “Oh, fucking hell, yes, Rachel! Amazing tits. When she bent down to open those ovens—woof woof!” He waggles his eyebrows, and I feel kind of sick.

  Suddenly, like a tiny, sparkling angel, Amy appears, bearing two violently colored drinks, a straw stabbed in each.

  “There you go!” she says triumphantly. “Cheers!” She grins at everyone. Patrick roars heartily in return and takes a massive gulp of his pint, draining it. Dizzy and Indigo sneer and continue sniping together. I take a tentative sip; it’s so sweet it almost tastes metallic, and the alcohol makes my cheeks burn immediately.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” Amy says. “They call it the Attitude Changer. Dread to think what that means, huh?”

  “I’ll tell you what it means,” Patrick beams. “One for the chicks, to get them ready for us fellas, hey, am I right, girls? Yeah!”

  He nods to himself while the rest of us stare awkwardly at the table.

  “Has he come out with us, or is he waiting for someone?” I whisper to Amy.

  She shrugs and takes another long slurp of her drink.

  “Indy and I are going off,” Dizzy says, standing up. “Petra is meeting us in Bombshell’s with McNeil and Pengy. See you later, Tink.”

  They don’t even nod in my direction.

  “Babes! What? What’s going on here? You can’t leave!” Patrick whines.

  “We’re going, Paddy,” Indigo drawls with an unmistakable air of finality. “See you later.”

  She doesn’t need to add on the don’t follow us—it’s obvious from the way she looks at us.

  “Oh, bollocks, the totty has upped and left,” Patrick says. “Oh well!” To my shock, he slings his arms around me and Amy. “What do you say, ladies? Jägerbombs all round? I think so.” He winks at us again and then lopes off.

  “Do you think we could just . . . go?” I stammer.

  “Go? Why? We can’t leave Paddy here by himself.”

  I hear a guffaw from the direction of the bar.

  “I don’t think he’s going to find it too hard to find new friends,” I say. “I’m just finding him a little bit—you know.”

  “Aww, he’s not that bad,” Amy says, but I can tell by the guarded way she stirs her drink with her straw that he is that bad and probably more besides. I stare into my drink for a bit and check my phone. No messages. I don’t know why I thought there would be. Then Amy nudges me.

  “Okay, let’s split. Paddy’ll be okay. Let’s down these and go find some fun.”

  ***

  Go find some fun translates to wandering around town for bit, trying to find a bar where the bouncers will let us in. Despite us completely adhering to all dress codes (if anything, Amy’s the one on shaky ground, wearing a hot-pink tutu), we’re turned away from three other pubs. The fact that two of them seemed quite happy to let Amy in when they thought she was a sole agent says it all, really.

  In a way, I wish the last one we went to had sent us on our way, too. Then I’d have had the perfect excuse to go home and put all of this behind me. But no, this dive’s bouncer gives us a distasteful look but waves us in, and now we’re huddled in the corner, drinking bottles of cider, our voices drowned out by the music. I think they’re having a nineties rave night here. We try to talk, but it’s futile. Maybe we should have stayed at Sanford’s after all.

  I steal a glance at my phone, mainly so I can see how late it is. 10:15. Blimey, I can’t remember the last time I was out this late. Usually I’m cruising the highways and byways of the internet now, surveying my domains, terrorizing the locals. Instead I’m cowering in a corner drinking something that might be apples dissolved in battery acid, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  Finally Amy gestures that we should leave and all I can do is hold in a big sigh of relief. Now I just have to suffer a coup
le of hours in a student nightclub, and then I can go home.

  26: #WORSE

  I will admit that I’ve been harboring a secret hope this evening. I still don’t have my student card, so I’m kind of praying that they won’t let me in. Then I can act all disappointed, say sorry to Amy, and head home. Okay, so it means running the taxi gauntlet, but I’m going to have to do that anyway at some point tonight, so why not get it over with sooner rather than later?

  The bouncers at the door of Disaster Zone (I maintain that it’s a stupid name for a club) don’t seem to be so picky as the Guardians of the Beautiful People at the pubs, in that they barely look at us. As long as you’ve got what looks like a ticket in your hand, they’re allowing you in. Bastards.

  Amy’s giggling with excitement, or maybe just nerves, I don’t know. The way she’s acting, you’d think she’d never gone clubbing before. I mean, okay, so I’ve never actually been clubbing before, but she could show a little dignity.

  The whole place stinks of cheap aftershave, stale beer, and BO, with a faint undertone of piss. It’s pretty dark, so actually seeing who you’re trying to talk to/dance with/run away from is pretty much a nope. Lights strobe at a dizzying degree, making me worry if photosensitive epilepsy runs in my family.

  The dance floor is everything I dreaded it would be. The atmosphere is similar to that of a low-rent strip club (or so I imagine, given I’ve never been to a strip club either—one for the bucket list, I guess), with bulgy-eyed males (I hesitate to call them men, but it feels spurious to call them boys, given most of them have beards, and the rest badly maintained stubble) gawping at the dead-eyed dronettes who gyrate to a thumping beat, desperately trying to figure out who they might be able to cop off with, hoping to fill their various orifices to plug the emptiness that yawns within them.

  I feel like David Attenborough again, observing the actions of a troupe of bonobo monkeys just before everything hits the freaky-time fan. It’s horrible and I want to get away, but at the same time, I’m mesmerized by the scandalous clothes, by the gyrations, by everything, and a little part of me howls in jealousy that I will never do this, that I will never be one of those girls twerking in a pair of hotpants so short they may as well be a thong . . .

  I tear my eyes away from the animalistic display and follow Amy to the bar, once again in pursuit of colorful alcoholic beverages. I don’t catch what this one is called, but it tastes of coconut and industrial solvent and has a kick like a mule. Since apart from the odd snowball at Christmas I’m basically teetotal, I’m actually beginning to feel a little fuzzy—four drinks in and I think I’ve had more alcohol this evening than the rest of the year combined. My cheeks burn and I find that I am grinning, which is a bit embarrassing. Amy keeps grinning back and giving me little thumbs-up signs. I am struck by just how adorable she is, and yet again wonder exactly what kind of freak she is that she’s seemingly settled for me as a friend. Still, I don’t complain. As long as I don’t look at the heaving mass that is the dance floor, I could probably kid myself into thinking that I am actually having a good time.

  The tunes change, and the DJ mumbles something at the crowd. Amy’s eyes widen as she proclaims, “I LOVE this track!” Next thing I know, I’m being dragged onto the hated dance floor, where she begins her own manic-pixie-girl version of the gyrating mating call dance. I am so out of my depth, I don’t know what else to do but jiggle—it isn’t really dancing, but it isn’t really standing still. I must look like I’m being zapped with a cattle prod.

  My dress feels too tight. Every now and then, the strobe lights find me and blind me momentarily, forcing me to blink away bright purple spots from my vision. The drink Amy got me is too strong—what I really want is a nice, cool glass of Coke, but I can’t really ask for one of those here, can I? Maybe if I sling some vodka in it, that would be okay. Amy twirls in front of me and throws her arms around my neck. For a moment, I freeze, unsure of what to do, but the drink has loosened me, and I find myself wrapping my arms around her waist, and before I know it, we’re hugging, and Amy is laughing, and I’m laughing, and for once, everything is good—

  Until I notice the slinking pack of hyenas.

  There’s four, possibly five of them, all of the badly-grown-stubble variety. They’re nudging each other and winking. One says something to his mate that is obviously the most hilarious thing ever.

  I pull away from Amy, who twirls in front of me again. The good feeling’s gone, replaced by an acute desire to flee. Amy’s oblivious, though. Or maybe she’s not. Maybe this is normal and I’m freaking out over nothing. I jiggle to one side. Maybe I might be able to sidle away? But that would leave Amy alone, and I’m not doing that to her.

  One of the hyenas breaks from the pack and sidles over to us, behind Amy, making a crude cupping gesture toward her backside. His friends find this the epitome of wit and roar with laughter. Amy frowns and mouths “Fuck off!” at them, but this seems to egg them on, and I am reminded of all those horrible romantic films where the male character remarks that he likes a girl with spirit.

  In defiance, Amy keeps dancing and takes my hand, trying to encourage me to do the same. It’s admirable but futile; the hyenas continue their circling until I can’t keep all of them in my line of sight, and before I know what’s happening, one is behind me in a cloud of cheap deodorant and aftershave, trying to snake his arms around me so he can get his hands on my tits.

  I freeze. This is worse than the bus. Amy’s usual childlike expression of glee turns ugly and she pushes past me, screaming at the lowlife to fuck off and leave us alone. For a moment, I think she might actually punch him.

  This is obviously the most fun he and his friends have had all evening, and they’re not about to give up their game just yet. Behind them, a couple of the Skinny Girls are smirking, their eyes wide, whispering behind their hands, no doubt saying, “fucking hell, she deserves it,” and maybe I do deserve it, because I knew something like this would happen. It’s inevitable. It’s my punishment for even attempting to be normal.

  The groping hyena now has his hands up, feigning innocence whilst Amy jabs her finger at his chest, snarling at him like an angry Chihuahua. All I can do is stare. The more he smirks, the more a tight, spiky ball in my chest grows; my heart thuds as adrenaline pounds through my system and my inner MidnightBanshee fights back.

  This is not right. THIS IS NOT RIGHT. Come into my domain, little boy, and I will destroy you. I will hunt you down and I will tear you limb from limb. You’ll never be able to show your face in public after I’ve finished with you.

  Except none of that is going to happen because this is Real Life, not the internet. I yearn for Tori because I know she’d be able to find out who he is.

  The hyena cackles one last time, shakes his head in mock disdain, and finally slinks back to his mates, who offer him high fives.

  And you wonder why I don’t go clubbing.

  ***

  After that, Amy loses her taste for dancing. She says it’s because the track is crap, but I know that’s not true. I glance toward the dance floor; the hyenas have picked a new target. I can see them circling her and wonder where the bouncers in this godforsaken place are.

  It’s my turn to get the drinks, but I have no idea what to buy. I settle on Jack and Coke for the both of us. At last, something with a name I recognize.

  “Dickheads,” Amy seethes as she takes furious little sips from her drink. “Who the fuck do they think they are?”

  I don’t say anything, but I know exactly who they think they are, and exactly who they think we are, too.

  “There’s always one,” I say. “Or, in this case, five.”

  “Well, I’m not going to let them ruin our night. Fuck them. Come on, drink up. We’re having fun tonight. Let’s get another one in.”

  27: #anotherone

  After yet another horribly sweet and stupidly strong cocktail, Amy drags me back to the dance floor—the edge, thankfully—where she can shake her groove th
ang and I can sort of sway in a hopeless attempt at mimicking what humans call dancing. The music’s actually not too bad. The overhyped corporate pop shite has now given way to something a little harder and a little darker, possibly mirroring the night as a whole, but hey, I can’t complain too much.

  The hyenas are now bothering yet another group of girls. The one who went for me is leering at the plumpest of a group of four. She is obviously a prize in a “pull a fatty” competition. It’s heartbreaking; I have no doubt that the poor girl knows exactly what’s happening, but she’s helpless to stop it. Tell them to piss off, and you’re a frigid bitch. Play along and you’re a gullible idiot. Try to play them at their own game, and you’re a presumptuous little whore who needs to be taught a lesson. No matter what avenue she takes, she’s going to lose.

  Another guy, not one of the hyenas, is now chatting to Amy, who is making gooey eyes at him and giggling. I kind of don’t blame her, as he is pretty cute in a scruffy, doe-eyed sort of way. Technically, she’s still dancing with me—but yeah, who am I kidding.

  After a minute, Scruffy-but-cute wanders off toward the bar.

  “He’s going to buy me a drink! Oh, I can’t believe it! Isn’t he just adorable? Tight little buns in those tight little jeans!”

  “Yeah, he seems nice,” I say. “What’s his name?”

  “Uh, Petey, or Piers, or something like that. It begins with a P, anyway. Or it could be a B. It’s hard to hear in here.”