Fugly Read online

No. I don’t want to traipse all the way over to the Richmond building to see what fucking group I’m in for this piss-balling workshop. I don’t want to go to this workshop. I wish this workshop didn’t exist! For fuck’s sake, I thought uni would be lovely lectures and libraries and studying and basically being left to my own devices, not being made to spend time with a bunch of wankers who’ll inevitably hate my guts! Gah! Just drop it! Please!

  I don’t say any of that, of course. Instead, I put on my best apologetic face and make up something, because lying is something Beth does best: “Oh, sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to get home. I’m babysitting, and I need to be there early.”

  “Oh, bummer. Would have been good to see if we’re together. I might wander over there anyway. I can text you your group.”

  She gives me a hopeful Has Amy Done Good? look that makes something in my heart twist painfully. I chew on my lips so I don’t yell out, “For God’s sake, no!”

  “If you want. Don’t go out of your way, though.”

  “Cool!” She beams at me again and hugs me goodbye, and I kind of hate her for it. And then I kind of hate myself too, because there is literally nothing to hate about Amy.

  36: #panic

  When I get on the bus, I wish I was as tiny as a mouse and that no one could see me. I sit as near to the back as I can manage. (The very back seat is taken by two scary-looking men chugging Monster energy drinks.) I’m huddling against the glass as if I might meld into it and become invisible. Sparks of panic are crackling all over my body; my breathing is all over the place. It seems like ages since I felt this way. I suppose Tori has to take the credit for that. She sure can keep my mind off the horrible stuff.

  I wonder where Amy is now. Is she already in Richmond building? Or has she decided not to bother? I hope it’s the latter. I pray it’s the latter. Oh, I should have told her not to bother, it’s probably online, I’d find out that way. Then I could ignore it. This was so much easier before I found a friend. I should have known other people cause complications. Just look at my family.

  I’ve run out of fingers to chew on, so I resort to the inside of my cheek. It isn’t long before the skin starts sloughing off, and I taste the bright tang of blood. I suck on this, hoping it will give me something to focus on, but it doesn’t help. The worries won’t be silenced, even with a blood sacrifice.

  I want to eat. I want to gorge and gorge and gorge until I can’t think of anything else but how wonderfully, painfully full I am, drowning myself in a world of taste and texture. Crunchy, smooth, wobbly, stringy, hard, chewy, lumpy, crisp, chunky . . . I go through the words of food, and my heart rate begins to slow. I might order in a burger for lunch. And fries. And onion rings. And those little jalapeno popper things—

  My phone buzzes, and I almost fall off my seat. Behind me, one of the Monster-drinking men snorts in unmistakable amusement.

  Hay! Just looked on the board—ur name isn’t on the list? Maybe u shud ring ur tutor? Axx

  My mouth runs dry. All thoughts of my lunchtime burger feast flee. I turn my phone off.

  I’ll deal with that later.

  ***

  Mrs. Olgive has just left for her class, and I still haven’t turned my phone on. Haven’t checked Facebook, either.

  If I don’t read it, I don’t have to deal with it. If I don’t acknowledge it, I don’t have to accept it.

  The kids want a bedtime story, so I read Sometimes I Like to Curl Up in a Ball to them. It’s a cute story about a wombat who likes to curl up with his mum at the end of the day, because that’s where he feels safest. I used to like that too. When I was small, I’d curl up into a ball with my mum and my dad. Can’t do that now. Don’t think I’ll ever be able to do it again.

  I toy with my switched-off phone. Its surface looks like a black void in the low lights of the kids’ bedroom. They snuggle down under their covers, and I run my hand over both their silky heads. Oh, to be that small, that innocent again. When your biggest worry was what your mum had packed in your lunch box, or whether your friends would want to play with you at breaktime. Those worries felt so huge then; right now, I’d do anything to go back to those days, to when the world was simple and made perfect sense.

  I snap the light off as I leave and linger by the door.

  “Sleep tight,” I murmur.

  “Ni-night,” they chorus back to me, sleep already infecting their voices.

  I creep downstairs, my insides growing heavier with each step. My laptop is on the sofa. I know I can bypass all my Beth accounts and go straight into troll mode, but for some reason I’m not that into it tonight. I kind of want to talk to someone—Tori, mainly—but at the same time, I kind of want to be alone. But I also don’t want to be alone with only my own thoughts for company, because they scare me and I don’t want to deal with them, and I need to switch my phone on just in case Mum needs me, but I can’t because Amy’s going to be on there, asking where I am, what I’m doing, have I spoken to my tutor yet, workshop, workshop, workshop . . . I close my eyes, my heart thrumming in my head, making it ache so badly that I feel sick.

  In my bag, I have three Mars bars. I mainline the lot, and for five blissful minutes, I let my mouth calm my mind. Chew. Swallow. Savor. Get lost in this. No one can harm me here.

  I switch on the TV. Mrs. Olgive has Netflix. Netflix is another good way to waste time and forget yourself. I put my phone in my bag.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  It’s the only way, really.

  ***

  I awake with a little snort. Must have drifted off. My right hand feels all weird and fizzy. Shit. Are the kids okay? What woke me up? Is Mrs. Olgive home already? Only feels like five minutes since I sat down.

  It’s longer than five minutes, but only just. Out of sheer habit, I reach for my phone and switch it on, and the world crashes into me.

  My home screen is flooded with messages, mainly from Amy. It takes all I have not to fling the fucking thing at the wall.

  Okay. Okay. Okay. All I have to do is say, Thanks for looking—I’ll ask and find out. That’s it! Just that, and this nightmare will be over.

  Except it won’t be over, because then she’ll want to know whose group I’m in and what did my tutor say and who is your tutor and all sorts of little questions that I simply don’t want to deal with, so I drag my laptop over and log straight in to Metachat, where I know Tori will be waiting for me. I send her my chat key and sit there, waiting, waiting, waiting, oh, come on, where are you? It’s never taken you this long before, come on, Tori, I need you, I need you to tell me everything’s going to be okay, to reassure me that I’m fine . . .

  No reply.

  For the first time since I met her, Tori isn’t there.

  37: #stupidcheckmark

  I keep one eye on Metachat while I half-heartedly watch something sci-fi-y that features the heroics of some impossibly beautiful people. Yeah, I’m pretty sure they don’t have eyeliner and hair straighteners in the far dystopian future, and even if they do, it’s hardly going to be a priority when you’re reduced to eating rats.

  I drum my fingers on the arm of the sofa. Mrs. Olgive left me a Penguin bar, and I’m allowed as much tea as I want, but what I really want is my burger feast (which I didn’t get earlier because I don’t have enough cash, hence why I’m here, babysitting), or more chocolate. Anything to take my mind off my crushing anxiety.

  My phone is buried back in my pocket. I hope the simple act of switching it on hasn’t sent anyone that check mark that says I’ve read their message. I hate that stupid check mark, always watching me, always telling tales. Okay, so I use it to keep tabs on the people I’ve messaged, but I never said I was perfect, or indeed, not a hypocrite.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God, what am I going to do? I’m catastrophizing and I know it, but I can’t help it. My life currently feels like a loose association of strings, all wriggling off down their own little terrifying avenues, and I haven’t a clue as to which one to grab and drag back first.<
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  Still no Tori.

  The big blue F is watching me from my laptop screen.

  I have enough proxies to quickly log in and take a look. No one needs to know. I’m invisible. Like a ninja. Like a cowardly, anxious ninja. I check all my security protocols again, and then click on the F. My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my forehead and bounce around the room.

  Facebook flicks open, and I mutter under my breath, “I’m invisible. No one knows I’m here,” but I’m not totally sure of that because I’ve never actually tried this before.

  A few new links sent from both Tori and Amy. Tori’s are the earlier ones, sent this morning. Amy’s are more recent. One message immediately stands out.

  R U okay?

  Now I don’t just feel anxious—I feel bad too.

  There are a couple of other notifications. One is a friend request from—get this—Patrick. I don’t confirm his request, but I don’t delete it either. The other notification is from Messenger. From Amy.

  I gnaw on my thumb.

  I wish I’d taken my security measures out for a trial run so that I could be sure they’d cheat the dreaded check mark. Because if Amy sees I’ve read her messages without responding, she’s going to know I’m avoiding her, and for some reason, that really bugs me.

  Ding

  Metachat. I almost hit the ceiling.

  Babe? What’s up?

  It’s Tori, blessed, blessed Tori, come to save the day!

  OMG. So fucking anxious right now.

  Need to check something,

  but don’t want other person to know.

  Have software but haven’t run it yet.

  Yeah? If you want I could just hack the back door,

  retrieve messages for you

  without anyone ever knowing I was there?

  Really? Seriously? That’s high level stuff!

  Hey, how do you think I get half my dirt? I’m a pro!

  I smile. She sure is. She’s a rebel.

  I wish I was a rebel too.

  Without thinking, I give her the nod. She warns me it’ll take a mo—settle down, have a cup of coffee. She’ll get back to me when I log back in.

  Half an hour later, Mrs. Olgive is home. I gather up my things and run down the road. It’s drizzling again, just enough for me to be uncomfortably damp by the time I let myself in. Mum’s asleep in front of the TV, a half-finished plate of macaroni and cheese in danger of sliding off her lap. I rescue it and pick at the leftovers absentmindedly whilst I root around for the TV remote, which I find stuffed down the arm of the chair Mum’s propped up in, and lower the volume to a more socially acceptable level.

  In my room, I snap open my laptop and log in even before I plug the damn thing in. Straight away I clock Tori’s Metachat ID. She’s good. Very good. It’s only been twenty minutes or so since Mrs. Olgive got home and she’s already got something for me. I feel weirdly proud of this.

  So? What’s the verdict?

  That Amy chick says you’ve been left off some list,

  but no one was in the office so she couldn’t find out why.

  Then there’s loads of “are you okay” type messages.

  Seems a bit needy to me.

  I feel like crying.

  That’s it?

  Yeah, that’s it. Why were you so worried, babe?

  I lie back for a moment and let it all wash over me. Sure, it won’t go away, but I can sort something out in the meantime. What’s important is that my life is still intact.

  For now.

  38: #emergency

  I spend the rest of the evening mucking around with Tori, building new extensions on our empire of hate and generally enjoying ourselves. Eventually I pluck up the balls to message Amy; I make up some bullshit about my internet going tits up and not having enough mobile data left on my phone, which she swallows hook, line, and sinker. Even so, in the morning I feel a twinge about that, to the point where I seriously wonder if I should even leave the house. But then I catch a glimpse of Mum, slumped on the sofa, a half-drunk cup of tea in one hand as she stares blankly at the TV. Sure, it’s hell going outside, but sometimes, staying in is even worse.

  It’s raining again. I quite like the rain. People tend to mind their own business when it rains. Only major problem is the coat issue, and by the time I’m at the bus stop, I’m sweating like a pig.

  I hardly have time to cool down before the bus comes chugging around the corner. I’ve arranged to meet Amy at our usual spot, which is enough to send uncomfortable tingles of anxiety through me. I know we have a lecture, but what if she says we should go to the office first? Not only is that a good five-to-ten minute walk away—not much of an issue if you’re a normal person, but a huge, sweaty mess when you’re fugly—but the whole . . .

  I close my eyes. No. Just don’t mention it. Avoid it, and it will go away. That’s the Beth Soames way.

  I get off at my stop and take a moment to pull my hood up over my head. The rain has eased up a bit, but I like the anonymity the hood gives me. Now I’m just another fat chick in the crowd. Say what you like, you don’t know me, and so it doesn’t matter.

  I’m just about to cross the road when my phone buzzes. Damn thing has me on a leash, so before I can think about it, I’m looking. A text from Amy.

  Won’t be able to meet. Come to mine. Pls. It’s an emergency. Need ur help. Axxxx

  What? Why on earth would she need my help? Oh God, she hasn’t hurt herself, has she? But why text me? Call a fucking ambulance! I end up sending K and then add hope ur ok and turn back.

  ***

  By the time I arrive at Amy’s, I’m breathing hard and feeling more than a bit self-conscious. Thankfully, there’s hardly anyone around, so I spend a couple of minutes trying to compose myself.

  I press the buzzer to Amy’s floor. It takes a good minute before anyone answers (why is it taking them so long—come on, you knew I was coming!), and although I can’t work out exactly who says “Hello?” I can tell they’re panicky.

  “Hey, yeah, it’s Beth—Amy’s friend?”

  They don’t say anything else as the door releases.

  Okay. This is weird. I hesitate by the lift, which, thankfully, is working. Do I want to get involved with whatever’s happening up there? Fine, so Amy asked me, but it really doesn’t have anything to do with me, and I quite honestly have enough on my plate as it is. Does that make me sound callous? It does, doesn’t it? Oh, balls. My chest twinges, a nasty, twisting sensation that makes me feel sick. Okay, okay, I’m doing it.

  The door to Amy’s floor is wide open when I reach the top, and I can hear a lot of people talking in a wheedling way. An undercurrent of tension crackles around me, making the hairs on my arms tingle.

  “Hey, anyone there?” I call out, rather than just enter. Gives them some warning. God knows what’s going on.

  “Yes!” I hear Amy squeak, and her head pokes out round Dizzy’s bedroom door. “Oh, God, I’m so glad you’re here!”

  What is she doing in Dizzy’s room? And why is she crying?

  “Dizzy! Please, honey, let us in.” It’s Patrick, and he sounds both commanding and incredibly scared. I really, really don’t want to go in there, but backing out now doesn’t seem like a viable option, so shuffle in, giving everyone who glances my way an apologetic look. And everyone is in there—Amy, Patrick, Indigo, Richard, plus another annoyingly thin girl who I can only guess is friends with Dizzy—all of them looking worried.

  “Oh, Beth!” Amy stage-whispers. “Dizzy has locked herself in her bathroom! Says it’s all too much, that she can’t cope—we’ve been trying to get her out of there for the last hour, but she’s totally refusing to come out.”

  “What do you mean, she can’t cope?” I ask, genuinely bewildered. I mean, for fuck’s sake, what can’t she cope with? Being perfect?

  “Someone has been harassing her online,” Indigo deigns to say. “Look.”

  I can see her trying to smother her instinctual revulsi
on at having to communicate with me as she hands me her phone.

  And there it is.

  Everything Tori and I have ever thrown at her, plus some more we simply encouraged.

  On that little screen, in stark black and white.

  Fake ass basic bitch.

  Think ur something? Ur not. Ur no one.

  Fuck u. So fucking vile.

  Look at that fat ass. Fuck sake. Shouldn’t be allowed.

  And there’s more. Stuff I wasn’t involved in. Stuff I don’t recognize. But what I do recognize are the various handles and the style.

  It looks like Tori carried on having fun way after I bailed.

  I swallow.

  “That’s horrible,” I manage to croak.

  “Yeah. I know.” Indigo sniffs, and it dawns on me that it might not actually be revulsion that made her hand shake when she gave me her phone. Well, not revulsion at me, anyway.

  “What do you think she’s done?” I find myself asking. “Do you think she might have overdosed or something?”

  “We don’t know,” Amy says.

  “She used to self-harm,” Indigo adds. “She plucked up the courage and told me a couple of weeks ago. She was bullied at school, and this has just totally torn all those old wounds open. She’s an absolute mess. I mean, I kept telling her that they’re just stupid little trolls, trying to wind her up, and that they don’t really mean it, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

  My head’s spinning. I’d quite like to be sick, but I force myself to gulp it back. Oh, they’re trolls all right. One of them might not mean it, but the other one certainly did. Because the other one thought bashing someone better than them might make themselves feel better. And it did. Right up until this specific moment, it did.

  “Dizzy, please!” Paddy implores through the door. “Just open up!”

  “Fuck off.” Dizzy’s voice is thick with pain.

  “Have you called anyone?” I ask.

  “What? Like, who?” says the girl I don’t know. She has a light, breezy voice that perfectly complements her light, breezy body.

  “Like, an ambulance? If she’s hurt herself, or worse, we really need to get someone out.”