Fugly Read online

  And people say those of us who have full online lives are sad.

  Wait a sec. Brat’s home.

  Oh, shit. Your mum okay?

  Dunno. Can’t hear her.

  She’s probably asleep.

  She’s on some pretty serious meds.

  Are you gonna say anything to him?

  That’s a very good question. I feel like I should. I am his big sister. I’m supposed to look out for him. But do I need the hassle?

  Dunno. What do u think?

  I’d go for the throat.

  Well, of course she would. That’s because she’s brave and daring, everything I’m not. Not in real life, anyway. But what would Tori think if she knew that? That I’m not the cool, fearless person she thinks I am, but rather I’m a big fat coward who gets her kicks making other people feel bad about themselves? I don’t want that. I really don’t want that.

  Right. Brb.

  I get up off my bed and peer out into the hall. Bratley’s groping at his door, obviously trying to deactivate his little trap. His movements are sluggish; he’s at least a bit drunk. I glance back toward my laptop. Tori’s Facebook page is displayed, alongside the little Metachat window. I was looking through her meager collection of photos of herself, as if that might bring her closer to me somehow. She’d do this. Be brave. Brave like Tori.

  I open my bedroom door. “Brad?”

  “Beth,” he yelps. “What the fuck?”

  “Uh, excuse me? I think I should be asking you that. What the hell are you doing, sneaking off and then not coming back until after midnight? You’ve got school tomorrow!”

  “Oh, like you give a shit!” He’s slurring and stinks, rather predictably, of cheap cider. “It’s none of your business, bitch.”

  The casual way he tries to dismiss me rankles, and I’m glad I intercepted him. No more being afraid. Time to deal with the beast.

  “Look, Mum’s ill, and you acting like this isn’t helping. You think you’re the only one with problems? Think again.”

  “Oh, just fuck ooofff . . .” He tries to push his door open, but the books that fell over earlier must be blocking it, meaning he can’t just slip inside and slam the door on me. Instead, he’s got to spend some time trying to figure out how to get into his room in his addled state.

  “No. I’m not going to fuck off, because you’re fourteen, and sitting in the park getting drunk is—”

  “How do you know I was in the park?” he slurs.

  Oh, crap.

  “Because I’m not a complete idiot, unlike you.”

  He screws his face up and shakes his head, as if that might dislodge me from his vision.

  “You . . . you . . . you think you’re so important,” he says when I don’t miraculously disappear. “That . . . that you’re so much better than anyone else.” His face is screwed up in an ugly pout, his eyes blazing with drunken indignation. “You’re not, though. Better than me. You’re just a stupid, fat bitch who can’t face reality. Poor sad, mad, fat Bethany, can’t cope with real life, so she drowns herself in chocolate, talking to her imaginary friends—”

  “Shut up!” I hiss, my hands clenched into fists. “I’m not the one worrying Mum sick—”

  He snorts. “Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that. Between Dad and you, Mum hasn’t stood a chance. Neither have I.”

  He says the last bit quietly, framing it as an afterthought. The ember of fury flares in me again. How dare he blame me for what Dad did? That’s about as low as you can go. He’s the one who needs to face up to facts. He’s the one who needs to sort his life out.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds more. A sneer curls his lip, but his eyes are oddly bright. He then shoves his door open and disappears inside his room, and I turn away, sharpish, back to my own sanctuary, wishing I hadn’t bothered trying to tackle him in the first place.

  ***

  So, how did it go?

  Tori’s message is waiting for me when I settle myself back down, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to tell her yet. I’m angry, and there’s now a lump in my throat that just won’t melt, and I don’t know why.

  He’s a shit.

  Oh. Not good, then?

  You could say that.

  I can piss off if you want.

  But you can tell me. I’m here for you.

  And, at last, the lump loosens—only rather than disappearing, the tears it contained flood out of me, and I find myself typing madly, telling her everything Brat said, and how life’s shit since Dad left, and that I don’t think I can cope with Mum’s illness and Brat’s awfulness all at once.

  Tori doesn’t interrupt me. She says nothing about my spelling mistakes or my repetitions. She lets me get it all out over the course of four messages, and I am grateful. When she eventually replies, she says just one thing.

  I am here for you. You know that, right?

  And I cry again, this time with happiness.

  33: #YOLO

  She knows how to cheer me up, that Tori. It’s now two thirty in the morning, but I don’t care. Tomorrow will take care of itself. I need to revel in the right now. YOLO and all that. She sends me her favorite Banshee and Midnight Jim strips—there’s a lot of crossover with mine, but that doesn’t surprise me. We talk about how great it would be to really be Banshees, deciding who lives and who dies, sending our own Midnight Jims after our enemies so he can envelope them in his darkness and leave nothing behind but a husk, their life force drained away into the ether.

  Imagine if we could do that to Dizzy. Or Indigo.

  Or one of those tossers who harassed you in the club.

  That would rule so hard.

  We could proclaim them void,

  and Midnight Jim could feed. So cool.

  Either that, or we could make him drown them in the sea.

  Haha! I know, right!

  Get in the sea, you fuckers.

  Bother me no more.

  Or off a high building.

  Or get him to slit their wrists,

  so it looks like they killed themselves.

  A sharp pain lances above my right eye. Maybe it’s time to go to bed.

  Haha. Hard to fake that, tho.

  Oh, I dunno. I’m sure it’s not that hard.

  Overdose first, then slashy-slashy. Easy-peasy.

  A queasy feeling turns my stomach.

  lol. Look, it’s late, and I have lectures in the morning. Need to go to sleep.

  Oh? All right. Shame.

  But I’ve got work in the a.m. too,

  so it’s probably a good idea. Like all your ideas. ;)

  Now I’m smiling again.

  Night night, Tori. Speak tomorrow?

  Try and stop me. Night night.

  I pause. Will she log off first, or will I? Is she sitting there in her bedroom, wondering the same thing? I rest my fingers on the keys, itching to type something, anything, but what—

  Something to help you sleep. Love you, babe.

  Another photo, this time of her blowing me a kiss. I close my eyes in joy. This time, the courage to take another photo comes easily, so I send one of me doing the same back.

  love u too, hun.

  And we log off, together.

  34: #livingthedream

  I’m not sure where I read it, but I know I liked the idea.

  Living online.

  Not just logging in and talking over the net. Actually, physically plugging yourself into a virtual world, forgetting about your physical body, living purely in your mind in a digital world. Imagine, no more worrying about what you really look like, because you can craft your own appearance. No worrying about eating—your body would be plugged into some kind of cryo chamber, keeping you in suspended animation. Want to smite your enemies? Feel free. It isn’t real, after all. You’re not committing murder, you’re just playing a game.

  If I was clever, I’d be working on this. Then Tori and I could be together, forever.

  35: #dread

  I wake up p
retty late. My morning lecture is a write-off, so I flop back in bed, trying to ignore my full bladder.

  My phone buzzes. A text from Amy.

  Where r u? xx

  Soz, overslept. Be in soon.

  Ok. Text me when ur in xxxx.

  I yawn, and my bladder wins out. I pad out to the bathroom. As usual, the house is quiet. I hesitate by Brat’s door, wondering if he’s in or if he’s actually gone to school today. I give myself a little shake. Why should I care?

  Back in my room again, I check my laptop. No sign of Tori. I wonder if she’s slept in too. In a way, that would be like us sleeping in together, which is an image I like, so I linger on it for a bit. I imagine her dark hair trailing over the pillow beside me, the warmth of her body next to mine, the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing. For a moment, I’m lost in the fantasy, and it is greater than any dream of fictional characters, because this is something that could happen, may already behappening.

  To celebrate this, I find a cute little meme, featuring a kitten showing someone unconditional love in many and varied ways, and share it on Tori’s page. I’m such an old romantic.

  I skip morning coffee and grab a granola bar to keep me going. Mum’s still in the living room, but she’s awake. She smiles at me when I go in and give her a kiss goodbye. I don’t mention Bradley. Why ruin an otherwise perfect morning?

  Outside, it’s drizzling, but I simply don’t care. I even manage to ignore the other bus wankers at the stop who are waiting with me. As soon as I can, I’m back on my phone—Tori has “loved” the meme I left her and has sent me one with a silly frog that’s completely twee and stupid, but I “love” it anyway, blushing to myself.

  I hear the chug of an engine in the distance and look up. It’s the 21, so I stuff my phone in my pocket and flash my bus pass at the driver with a smile. He grunts in return. Well, you can’t please everyone.

  On the bus, I text Amy to tell her I’m on my way and then stare wistfully out the window. No more messages from Tori; she’s obviously either on her way to work or is trying to weasel the day off—

  “Hi, Beth.”

  I look up.

  It’s Jenna Thwaites from school.

  “Oh. Hello.” I try not to stare as I regress back to being thirteen all over again. What the fuck is she doing, talking to me? This has to be the first time she’s willingly acknowledged my existence. “What are you doing here?”

  She shrugs. I notice that she doesn’t have those cloth daisies in her hair anymore. “Going into town. I moved away, tried the whole uni thing, but it’s not for me. I’m thinking of coming back. Too expensive to live on my own.” Without waiting to be asked, she sits down next to me.

  “That’s a shame,” I say, feeling extremely awkward as old memories fight their way through ancient scabs to bleed once again.

  “Nah, not really. It’s cheaper this way—means I can at least try to save some cash. I’d like to go traveling at some point, but I was forking out nearly everything on rent. It’s ridiculous. You off to uni?”

  “Yeah. I overslept, so I missed my first lecture. Can’t miss my second.”

  She smiles at that, and despite myself, I’m reminded of all the reasons I once hated and adored her.

  “It’s good you’re doing well,” she says. A pause. “I always knew you’d do all right.”

  A little stab of panic erupts in my chest. “You did? Oh.” The bus rumbles on. “I’m sorry. This is my stop.”

  “Oh. All right. Might see you around?”

  Seriously? After everything you put me through, you might see me around?

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I press the bell, which chimes my desire to get out of this nightmare.

  “Love to your mum, yeah?”

  Funny. I’d forgotten her mum was once friends with mine.

  “I’ll tell her. And love to, uh, your mum too.”

  She nods. The bus stops. I get off and let out a long, cleansing sigh of relief.

  ***

  Amy’s waiting for me in what I’m beginning to think of as her usual spot. Her other friends, Nicki and Carla, aren’t standing with her. They’re there, just not with her. Over the last few weeks they’ve kind of drifted away from her, and I kind of feel sorry for her. Is hanging out with me really so damaging to one’s reputation?

  Not that Amy seems to care. As soon as she catches sight of me, she waves, her face breaking into a broad grin. I find myself following suit—although I keep my arm pinned to my side and just wave with my hand; last thing anyone needs is the sight of my bingo wings billowing in the wind, even if they are covered by my coat. Maybe this is what friendship actually is. Geographical convenience, the ability to tolerate one another, and waving. Even I have to admit, there are a lot worse things in the world.

  “Hey,” I say as I stroll up. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Nah. All basic stuff. A brainiac like you could catch up in minutes. Brice says he’s putting the slides on the intranet this afternoon, so it’s all easy-peasy. Dunno why I even went, to be honest. I mean, if he’s just going to go through a Powerpoint and then shove them online, what’s the actual point of going to his lectures? Seems like we could all save some time there. Then again, I suppose he won’t get paid if he doesn’t teach. Anyway, have you seen about that open workshop thingie? What the fuck is that all about?”

  “Uh, what open workshop?”

  “It’s this thing where they split us all up into small groups and we all have to psychoanalyze each other using questionnaires, or something. They emailed out the details yesterday, but the names are on the bulletin board. Did you not get it?”

  A slick feeling of dread oozes around my stomach. “No . . . I didn’t check my email yesterday, though.”

  “We could go look on the board? It would be so cool if we were at the same workshop!”

  “Yeah, uh, maybe later. If we go look now, we’ll be late for Grindle’s lecture.”

  She play-slaps her forehead. “Duh. Of course. Lecture first. Always getting ahead of myself!”

  She slips her arm through the crook of mine. I try to ignore the way my stomach flips. Open workshop. That doesn’t sound like fun. That doesn’t sound like fun at all. That sounds like role-play and team games and all the things people! Who! Talk! In! Exclamation! Marks! find fun, but the rest of the population despises. I shiver and hug my folders tightly to my chest.

  Just when you think things are starting to go your way, eh?

  ***

  I’m kind of getting used to not sitting at the back now. I’m not saying I like it, but it’s sort of like eating broccoli or using mismatching cutlery.

  The lecture’s pretty interesting—historical methods of diagnosis—and leaves me with a distinct sense of gratitude that I wasn’t born a hundred years ago. The only thing that really bothers me is the looks that Nicki and Carla keep throwing me and Amy; furtive, nasty little looks that leave me in no doubt that we are their topic of conversation in the DMs they’re so obviously sharing. No whispering, just tippy-tappying away on their phones while Grindle drones on about electroshock treatment. Makes me wish he had a shock button on his desk. Not paying attention? Bzzz! Making up nasty little lies? Bzzzz! Gossiping? BZZZZ!! Heh heh, I think I could do with one of those. I’d have my brother on the straight and narrow within one afternoon.

  As the lecture ends and we all start to pile out, there’s a call from the front of the lecture hall.

  “Miss Hardcastle!”

  Amy frowns and gives me a facial shrug.

  “What does he want?” I whisper.

  “I dunno. I’ve done all my work. Better go see.”

  “Can’t you pretend you didn’t hear him?”

  “Miss Hardcastle? Can you come over here?”

  “Not really. I think he’s spotted me.”

  She turns and weaves her way easily through the crowd, like an otter gliding through water, leaving me to stare after her as people jostle me on all sides. I want to follow her, but at the
same time, I most definitely don’t, and so I allow the sea of students to carry me out of the room and back outside, where they break up into small groups. I hover at the edges, waiting for Amy to come back with the terrible news that she’s inevitably receiving. I glance up at the sky; it’s gray, like always. I gnaw on the edge of my thumb, biting off squidgy chunks of skin that I know will sting like hell later, but right now, I don’t care, I just need to let my mouth do something, anything, to ease the tension.

  Jesus Christ, how long is he going to keep her in there for? Maybe he’s chucking her out. Or telling her to pull her socks up. Or, or, maybe they’re having some kind of sordid affair, something she is forced to keep from everyone, or, or, or—

  “Hey. Thanks for waiting for me,” Amy says. I jump. “Are you all right?”

  “Uh, yeah. Of course.” I swallow, hoping it will steady my voice. “What did Grindle want?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just to clarify one of my sources. Said it was a clever find. It was one of yours, so no surprise there, eh?” She pauses. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  When people say all the color drained from her face, I’m never really sure what they mean by that. Oh, of course, I know what they mean, but it’s something you see written, not in real life. I still don’t know what it looks like, but I now damn well know what it feels like.

  “He asked about a source?”

  “Yeah. Said it was a clever link. I think he was probably trying to work out if I was plagiarizing someone, but I said it was something you’d found and had helped me with.” She gives me an impish smile, like she’s done me a massive favor. “It felt wrong, stealing your thunder. I wonder why he picked it up in my essay and not yours, though?”

  All that color that had drained from me suddenly rushed back in one big burning hit. “I dunno. Maybe he hasn’t marked mine yet.”

  “Yeah, must be it. Shall we go and see what work group you’ve been put into for the workshop?”