Fugly Page 13

  Dizzy’s Instagram account is a goldmine of selfies, “healthy student food” snaps, and twee inspirational quotes. It looks like she documents her every move here, and there’s such a smorgasbord of attack opportunities laid out, I’m not really sure where to start.

  Eventually, I send Tori a link to the account, and she takes the initiative, going for a particularly ripe selfie. She’s such a connoisseur.

  So here we are, ready to teach the bitch the lesson she’ll never forget. We can’t say too much right now. Not if we want to trap her good and proper. Like building a house, you have to lay the foundations first. Let them settle. Then expand on it brick by brick. Create detractors. Fake defenders. Photoshop a few images. Make a few memes. You wanna go viral, honey? Yes, but not like this? Too late . . .

  Shame we have to stop. So much more fun if we could just keep at it.

  Yeah, I know.

  But if we don’t, mods get suspicious . . .

  And we get banhammered before we can reap any real rewards, I know, I know. You’re totally the yin to my yang, hun.

  I smile at that.

  Haha. Lookit, ppl coming in now . . .

  oh, and I do believe I might know one of them.

  It’s the lovely Indigo, indignantly telling us both to fuck right off.

  Oh? Another biatch to take down a peg?

  You know it

  We take a moment to peruse Indigo’s account. If anything, Indigo’s an even bigger target than Dizzy. Mega-healthy vegan meals photographed? Check. Pouting selfies of her in a string bikini as she perches on the edge of an infinity pool somewhere exotic? Check. Artfully posed snaps of her doing something bendy that hints to any muscled hunks out there that she’s not only skinny but flexible too? Check and check and check again. She quite literally embodies everything I despise, and everything I want to be.

  Fucking hell.

  This one needs something spiky

  shoved up her perfectly pert ass, and soon.

  Tell me about it.

  The 2 of them look at me like I’m a bit of dirt

  they’ve scraped off their shoes.

  Poison Twins. They need destroying.

  Oh, they will be, my sweet, they will be.

  Let’s just strategize for a bit. We need to plan this.

  Oh? Any ideas?

  A couple. I know you’re not into hacking much,

  but I could really fuck them over with something really nasty.

  Some dog shots, or something.

  This is where I get a bit queasy. Although we’ve had hacking fun before, doing it here kind of feels like crossing the line. Whether I like it or not, I know these girls. The aim is to wind them up to the point where they destroy themselves, not force myself into their lives and trash everything I find there. Plus, even I draw the line at extreme porn. That shit’s nasty.

  I dunno. . . Why don’t we see how things turn out before you crack out the big guns? Give them a chance to respond, and play them that way?

  Oh, Beth! You’re so sweet.

  You’ve got to stop worrying about what other people think.

  Umm, no, not so much worrying about what other people think, more worrying about Special Branch smashing down my front door and confiscating my laptop.

  Nah, just don’t see that it’s necessary.

  Maybe later, huh?

  Right now, let’s just destroy her externally.

  Ok. :/ You need to chill!

  Fucking hell, I thought you liked the adrenaline rush.

  Maybe I was wrong.

  Ugh.

  In the end, Tori amuses herself by posting pictures of slaughtered animals all over Indigo’s page. I’m not all that comfortable with it, but I go along with her because the last thing I want is for her to think I’m a wuss, or even worse, boring. Plus, I’m the one who told her to destroy the Poison Twins. I can’t unleash hell and then complain that a bunch of demons have burned the carpets.

  Still—half-skinned calves? Yeah, it’s going to take me a while to get that image out of my head. Mac and cheese for tea tonight, I think.

  30: #HOT

  In between the devastation on Instagram, Tori and I also have a quite sweet, quite normal exchange on Facebook. Because Facebook is the domain of middle-aged mothers talking about gin, we actually feel pretty safe here. I don’t look up Dizzy or Indigo, and since they’d have no reason to look for me, Tori and I exchange a few silly cat memes and compliment each other’s photos.

  Until Amy joins in.

  Who’s this Amy?

  Second time she’s crashed our party.

  Is this the chick you stole your name from?

  What gives?

  I wince. This isn’t awkward at all.

  Nothing.

  She’s just a friend from uni.

  I used her name cos she was the last person to text me.

  Nothing else!

  A weird prickling crawls over my skin. The last thing I want is for Tori to get the wrong idea and target Amy—which in itself is weird, because in the past I wouldn’t have given two hoots what Tori might do to Amy, but now I do, and I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because (whisper it) I actually like her. She’s sweet, kind, and completely harmless—unlike Tori, who’s caustic, a bit scary, and absolutely, wonderfully exciting; kind of like the difference between a kitten and a Siberian tiger, I suppose.

  I switch over to Instagram. A shiver of delight trickles down my spine and roots itself deep in my belly, sending a warm flush of intense pleasure to my nethers. Tori’s abandoned the gruesome animal shots (thank goodness) and is now dancing circles around Dizzy, exposing her for the fraud she is.

  I don’t even have to join in, Tori’s such an expert. Doesn’t mean I don’t join in, because of course I do; I can’t help it, it’s like dancing naked in the rain with batteries strapped to your nipples—dangerous, electrifying, and deeply, deeply satisfying in only the way doing something so wrong can be.

  Dizzy’s now trying to block our accounts, but each time she does, the random IP generator conjures up another, until she might as well be trying to swat wasps with wet tissue paper.

  And then, like that, she’s gone. I let out a crow of delight. Tori joins in on Metachat.

  Ha ha! Lolololol!! She deactivated!

  I know! Can’t stand the heat, get outta the kitchen!

  Oh, you were perfect! You know you’ve done it right when they lose the ability to construct a coherent sentence!

  And then you went all grammar nazi on her!

  I thought I’d die laughing at that!

  Cos she’s doing a fucking English degree and everything!!

  I couldn’t resist it.

  Sometimes you don’t have to shock,

  you just have to be really fucking annoying . . .

  I know! And you did it perfectly!

  You totally showed her up,

  god that was amazing, better than sex!

  Better than sex?

  I dunno about that.

  It was good, but orgasmically good?

  You get off on this stuff? ;)

  Okay, that’s a sudden change in gear. My heart speeds up, and my palms go a bit sweaty, forcing me to wipe them down my thighs. Did I really mean that? I don’t know. I don’t really have any reference points—hang on, what’s this? A picture?

  I click on the file, and it unfolds before me—Tori, in her underwear, giving me a peace sign. She’s winking and poking her tongue out.

  You like?

  Oh, I like. I like very much indeed. I feel all floaty, like this isn’t quite happening.

  Omg. I dunno what to say.

  Other than you’re killing me here.

  WOW! xxxxx

  Hehehe.

  Thought you might like that.

  Do I get one too, or are you gonna make me beg, babe?

  The floaty feeling flees. She wants a picture like that of me? I can’t do that! Jesus fucking Christ!

  Or maybe I could. Maybe I should j
ust throw caution into the wind and give her something. Not a full underwear shot—talk about running before you learn to crawl—but . . . a cleavage shot? Would that do? It would mean taking my T-shirt off, but if I worked on the lighting and took my hair down and smooshed my arms like this . . . okay, maybe not like that, because how the hell am I going to hold my phone to take the picture? Okay, if I lay on my front and angle myself a bit like this and then hold my phone there, and . . . oh, crap, that looks dreadful! Try again. Uh, and again. And, oh fuck me, that one’s being deleted straight away. Aaaaand . . . is that one all right? Okay, so to me it looks awful, but it isn’t as awful as the rest of them, and it’s kind of the best I can do given the material I am working with—

  Babe, what are you doing? Did I scare you off? :/

  No! Course not! Just trying to get a good pic . . .

  Ooooooo! Now I’m all excited! Like Christmas, only hornier!

  Oooooookay, I’m not going to be able to get out of this, am I? Go on, Beth—take a risk for a change. Just send it. Upload it and send it. It’s just a bit of fun. She might send you more pictures if you send this one. Come on, girl—you can do this, you curvy diva!

  Uploading . . . oh God, am I really going to do this? My heart is going like the clappers, caught between terror and excitement. Then, before I can change my mind, it’s gone, into the Metachat ether, and into Tori’s inbox.

  I hold my breath.

  Now that’s what I’m talking about!

  Woo hoo, hun—you look gorgeous.

  If I could bury my face in that cleavage just once, I’d die a happy girl . . .

  Can’t believe how much I love you. I’m so lucky. You’re everything, the whole package—funny, smart, sexy . . . ♥

  I love you.

  That’s it. There. Instantly, I reply:

  I love you too.

  I’ve never felt anything like this before. Oh, I had silly schoolgirl crushes when I was younger, but this is something completely different. Love. Proper love.

  If you’d asked me a week ago if I thought such a thing possible, I’d have told you not to be so stupid, but now? I’m a believer, baby. I may not have met Tori in the flesh, but I don’t have to. This is the beauty of the internet. Here, it’s all about the mind, the soul, our very inner beings, not appearances or what we wear or what bands we like, but something far deeper and far more profound. People say you can’t make friends on the internet, that relationships forged are a thin emulation of the real thing, but they’re wrong.

  This is as real as anything I’ve ever felt.

  31: #hatemybro

  I go downstairs at ten to grab myself a snack. I’ve been so wrapped up in Tori and the new level our relationship has reached, I hadn’t realized how quiet the house is. I stick my head round the living room door, and yep, there’s Mum, playing zombie. All that’s missing is the rat-a-tat-tat of fake gunfire from the room above.

  I creep back upstairs, my euphoria slowly leeching away. Is Bratley even in? He should be. Maybe he’s in there, doing horrible teenage boy things to awful porn? I don’t want to see that again.

  But what if he’s not? What if he’s not even here? If he isn’t, then where is he? But, then again, why should I care?

  You care because he’s your little brother, a voice pops up in my head.

  Is that true? Maybe, once upon a time, when he was a blond-haired moppet who wanted to share his Pokémon facts with me. But now? No. I don’t care, I just don’t need him piling any more stress onto Mum.

  I hesitate by his door. I could just walk on by, go back to my own room, scarf down biscuits, and cocoon myself in Tori’s digital embrace. I could. No one would blame me. I’m not his legal guardian. But his legal guardian isn’t exactly in any fit state to legally guard him, is she?

  I gnaw on a biscuit for a bit and then tentatively knock on the door.

  “Brad?”

  No answer.

  I turn the handle. There’s no lock, but the door catches on something. An unpleasant smell wafts out of the tiny crack. I push the door a little more, but it just bounces off whatever is on the other side.

  “Brad?”

  My fear of his teenage wrath is replaced by something deeper and more nebulous.

  “Are you in there?”

  No reply.

  I shove the door and cringe as something crashes down. Now the door opens easily. The foul stench of unwashed clothes, BO, cheap deodorant, and an indefinable musk (which isn’t unidentifiable, unfortunately) rolls out.

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter as I cover my nose with my hand.

  I find the source of the door’s resistance pretty quickly. Brat tied some string to a pile of heavy books, which he then looped around the door handle. There’s enough give to slip a hand in to untie it, but because I didn’t know about it, the books have crashed off the shelf and onto the floor. Well, screw him; I’m not picking them up. I don’t care if he knows that I’ve been into his room.

  I glance around. Dirty clothes litter the floor and piles of gaming magazines and tissues are scattered around the bed. Eww. I’m not going near those. Posters of scantily clad women line the walls, broken up only by the odd game poster. His current game is paused, his characters frozen in time. No sign of any schoolwork. Lots of evidence of him pissing his life away. Nothing whatsoever that might give me a clue as to where he might be.

  I wonder how long he’s been doing this. The thought strikes me, hard. In the evening, I’m usually so wrapped up in my online world that I have never really given his whereabouts any thought at all. Has he stayed out like this before? When did he leave?

  Is he ever coming back?

  I don’t like that thought. He might be a colossal cockwomble, but he is still my little brother.

  Back in my room, I grab my phone and bring up his profile. A flashing on my laptop screen catches my attention—Tori, asking me if I’m okay. My heart swells at that. She does care. She really does.

  Soz. Went to get a snack, noticed my brother isn’t in.

  Problem?

  Could be. He’s 14 and annoying af. I . . .

  I pause, my fingers hovering over the keys. I don’t talk about my family much, especially online. I prefer to keep them out of that world, slotted into different little compartments in my brain. Telling Tori about Brad would basically be like dragging him into the room.

  And yet I’m feeling the need to share, the need to confide, and I realize it’s because I want her in my offline life as much as my online one—

  I take in a shaky breath.

  . . . I don’t know where he is, and that’s an issue. My mum’s not well and so doesn’t have a great grip on him. He’s going off the rails, tbh.

  God, hun. Sounds shit.

  Yeah, it is. I think he’s been bunking off school, and now he’s fucking off at night. I dunno where he goes or what he’s doing. I was gonna text him, but I don’t reckon he’ll reply.

  That is worrying. He could be doing anything.

  Give me his number. Might be able to track him?

  Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Brat doesn’t feature in my online world—we’re not on each other’s social media, and I have no idea where his main stomping grounds are or even what his usernames are. But I do know there will be ways to track him via the GPS on his phone. I don’t have the expertise, but I have a feeling Tori does, so I give her his number. She tells me to wait, so I spend a tense few minutes sorting through my empty candy wrappers, jumping each time my screen flickers. I’m getting notifications for Project Destroy the Poison Twins every two seconds; normally I would’ve been on them like a whippet on a rabbit, but now I’m ignoring them.

  Finally, Metachat flicks up, showing me a screengrab of a Google map. It’s the park just down the road from us. At its center is a little red dot.

  Near you?

  Yeah. It’s just down the road.

  The little shit. Here I am, worrying myself sick, and he’s a five-minute walk away? I can see him now
, in my mind’s eye, sitting on the swings with his dickless little friends, swigging cheap cider, possibly sharing a badly rolled joint, thinking they’re the Big I Am because they’re out at night, when in reality they’re just showing themselves up as the stupid little kids they are, and all the grown-ups they’re so desperate to emulate are sitting in their nice warm homes, drinking their proper drinks and smoking their expertly rolled joints, possibly while watching a nice film or maybe eating a nice dinner or lazily making love. The one thing they’re not doing is huddling around the kiddies’ play equipment, pretending they’re rebels while freezing their tiny bollocks off.

  You ok?

  Yeah. Just pissed off.

  You gonna go get him?

  Are you kidding? Let the little fucker freeze. I don’t care.

  Lol. Atta girl.

  At least now I can tell you where he is if he does this again.

  Saves you from worrying.

  She is so considerate. I am so lucky. Sure, giving out my brother’s number without his permission might seem a bit foolish, even wrong, but he shouldn’t sneak off at night. And she’s totally come through for me, managing to make me feel better in a split second. Why couldn’t she have come into my life earlier? It’s a shame she lives so far away—well, at least I think she does. Remind me to ask her some time.

  Come on. Forget your shitty bro. Let’s go and have more fun.

  We do. Lots of it. Indigo’s online now. For all her mindfulness and veganism, she’s got a tongue like a lash and swears like a docker. It’s enormous fun—as the old saying goes, I like a girl with spirit.

  Soon I’m laughing so hard, I think I might actually wet myself. Most of that is down to Tori’s caustic commentary on Metachat. Indigo and her little fan club try to wrestle back control, but it’s absolutely futile. Me and Tori and our legion of sockpuppet accounts are merciless, and in the end, after blocking and reporting half of our accounts, the lovely Indigo goes the way of the equally lovely Dizzy and shuts down her account.

  Two in one night? It’s a new record, people.

  32: #hereforyou

  Downstairs, the front door slams. I jerk my head up, my heart hammering. I’d been so wrapped up in my online world that I’d forgotten about the dreary real one. I glance over at my clock: past midnight. Has Bratley seriously been sitting in the park this whole time, freezing his nuts off—for what? Some booze? A drag on a spliff?