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Fugly Page 16


  “No, no one has—I mean, they’re really busy and we didn’t want to waste their time . . .”

  You didn’t want to waste their time? Seriously. You’re actually going to sit there, with your massive baby-blue eyes and your perfect, baby-pink hair and tell me this isn’t an emergency? You dense bitch, you have no idea what’s going on in there! If she’s taken something, this could be it. She’s been in there, what, an hour? AN HOUR!

  I shake my head and close my eyes, stopping my mental rant.

  “Okay. You need to call someone. Now. Someone else needs to find Hall security. They should be able to get the door open.”

  Richard, his eyes huge behind his thick glasses, nods at me. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” He tears off down the stairs. Indigo’s now talking to someone on the phone. Paddy’s still talking to Dizzy through the door, which is also good. Baby Colors launches herself at me, falling into my arms so I have no other choice but to catch her and hold her.

  “Thank you!” she sobs as I pat her awkwardly on her back, trying to make comforting sounds. All I can think is I’m the last person you should be thanking, but in a way, it’s weirdly gratifying. No one has a clue that I’m partially responsible for what’s happening. If nothing else, this proves that all my privacy paranoia has been totally worth it and all the measures I’ve taken to stay anonymous have worked. I know that sounds all shades of wrong, but look at it this way: None of this would be fixed by my cover getting blown. It could only get worse.

  We sit in silence, apart from Paddy, who keeps up his wheedling, until we all hear sirens in the distance. The lift buzzes to life. A security guard strides in. She’s a solid lass, older, a stern face like a bulldog chewing a wasp, and let’s be honest, that’s exactly what we all need. She barks orders at Paddy that might be questions; he stares at her, a deer caught in headlights, and points to the door. The security guard shakes her head and mutters something under her breath. How many times has she been in this particular situation? Judging by the way she whips out an electric screwdriver and takes out the lock, I’d say pretty often.

  Next she says, very loudly and very firmly: “I’m coming in—stay back from the door!”, gives it a few seconds, and then shoves it open. Before I can stop her, Baby Colors is up like a whippet and charges into the bathroom.

  The sirens are now deafening, and blue lights strobe the room. I can hear the security guard saying, “All right, all right, you’re okay, can you get out of here, I know she’s your friend, but back off.” Baby Colors stumbles back out of the bathroom, groping at the wall as if it might offer her some comfort. Before she can grope toward me again, two paramedics come charging in, with Richard reluctantly in tow.

  The paramedics immediately set to work, asking us questions. I inch out of the room until I’m back in the corridor. Richard’s there too. He’s hugging himself and looks like he’s about twelve rather than eighteen. It strikes me that for all the legal stuff we can do at eighteen, all the things that declare our fresh adulthood—voting, drinking, getting married, driving—most of us really haven’t seen much of life, not really. Kind of unfair, when you think about it. Child, child, child, no, not old enough, nope, nope, n—yes! Eighteen. Adult now. Off you go. Adult away. What do you mean, you don’t know how? What’s wrong with you? Why not? Are you defective?

  Amy wanders out into the hallway. “The paramedics say she’ll probably be okay,” she says. She’s pale and visibly shaking. “There’s no evidence she’s taken anything, but they’re going to run tests just in case.” Her eyes well up. “There’s blood everywhere, though. She’s really torn her arms up. Probably going to need lots of stitches. Oh, Beth, Indigo showed me some of the stuff she’s been dealing with . . . it’s so vile. People like that! How can they live with themselves? How can they sleep at night?”

  I could answer those questions. In great detail. I could say that doing this actually makes their lives easier and that they sleep very well, thank you very much.

  But I don’t. Because that would be a lie.

  Instead, I hug her, as much for my benefit as for hers.

  39: #guilt

  There’s that scene in thriller movies, you know the one, where everyone gets into one room and they all realize that one of their number is the killer/betrayer/alien/whatever, and they all go nuts with paranoia because they can’t work out who it is.

  I kind of feel like I’m in one of those scenes, except I’m the betrayer, the alien, or whatever.

  And I know it.

  We’ve been moved from halls to let the cleaners sort out Dizzy’s bathroom. The university’s offered counseling, but right now, we’re sitting in the student union, each nursing a stiff drink, even though it’s still technically the morning.

  Dizzy’s friend Baby Colors isn’t with us. She and Indigo left with Dizzy. My last glimpse of them in the back of the ambulance showed them wrapped around each other, their shared grief almost a parody of some sort of illicit affair.

  Amy’s phone buzzes, and we all jump. She fumbles at it, cursing when it doesn’t recognize her fingerprint the first time.

  “It’s from Indigo,” she whispers. “Okay, she says Dizzy is okay, they’re treating her now, but there are no signs of overdose.” She closes her eyes, one hand on her heart. “Thank God for that. Okay, then it says that they’re probably going to keep Dizzy in, as her head is a mess. They’ve called her mum and dad, so hopefully she’ll be fine.”

  Everyone stares at their drinks for a second before saying anything.

  “I don’t get it,” Paddy says, his usually unctuous voice now thin and rough. “Why do people do it?”

  Oh, I don’t know. Why do you call me Big Bird? Knobhead.

  “Because they’ve got nothing better to do with their lives,” Amy whispers.

  Even I have to nod in agreement with that.

  “Why didn’t she just ignore them, though?” I say. “It’s just words.”

  The moment it leaves my mouth, I know I’ve said the wrong thing. From the way the others are looking at me, with a mixture of surprise and disgust, they have come to the same conclusion.

  “What?” says Richard, his face screwed up in disbelief.

  “No—I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I didn’t. I know better than anyone how much damage words can do. But—Dizzy? She doesn’t come across as the type that would let something get to her so much. I mean, she’s pretty and successful and popular . . .” I trail off under the weight of their collective stares.

  “Dizzy has some pretty serious anxiety issues,” Amy says. For the first time, her voice has lost its bounce, replaced with an icy brittleness I really don’t like. “She was bullied really badly at school. She ended up being homeschooled because of it. She told me that uni was a way of starting afresh. You know, that whole ‘be whoever you want to be’ thing. Looks like she couldn’t escape it, though. Fucking bullies still found her.”

  “Seriously, though,” Patrick says, “they should be strung up by their balls, or whatever chicks have instead of balls. Their tits, I suppose. Totally out of order.”

  His lack of self-awareness is almost hilarious. I really want to shout that it’s the likes of him, the ignorant ones who carelessly name-call and thoughtlessly make hurtful comments, who are the main problem.

  But I don’t. Because although I know I’m right, that would make me the biggest hypocrite in the room. Sure, Patrick’s mindless nickname for me is horrible and derogatory and reductive—but it doesn’t come from a place of malice, unlike my trolling. I troll because I want the beautiful people to hurt the way I’m hurting.

  Only, I’ve never had to face any actual consequences of this before. I’ve read the online meltdowns, gloated over the closed accounts, laughed as they tried to block my accounts like someone trying to stamp out an anthill. But I’ve never actually seen it before, up close and uncomfortably personal.

  How many of those girls I’ve tormented have ended up like Dizzy? How many
of them hurt themselves? Once I’ve destroyed someone’s account, I rarely revisit it (unless they come back cockier than ever, of course). How many of those girls I’ve tormented have ended up like Dizzy? How many of them hurt themselves? How many of those accounts were deleted, not to escape me and my ilk, but because their owners aren’t around anymore to maintain them?

  My stomach boils. I feel sick again. The old phrase is true, I suppose: It’s all just a bit of fun until someone gets hurt.

  “We should get her a card or something,” Amy says. “Make one. Make it personal. Let her know we’re thinking of her, and that she is special.”

  Special? Really? The sickness is now replaced with the bitter tang of anger. I glance at the solemn faces around me, and I feel a switch flip within me. Fucking Dizzy. Sure, she was bullied—but for what? Being too pretty? Too bright? Too goddamn perfect? Fucking snowflake. Try being fugly. Try having insults thrown at you every single day to the point where you’re scared to walk down the road. No one wants to send me a fucking card telling me I’m special. Oh no, that’s only reserved for the Beautiful People. Because they’re the only real humans. Not us. Not the Fuglies. We can quite literally go to hell for all anyone cares.

  ***

  After we finish our drinks, Amy wants to go out and do some window shopping to take our minds off Dizzy. I’m not really feeling up to it, but don’t have much of an excuse. I can’t very well say I’d prefer to go to lectures, can I?

  So I spend the next couple of hours being dragged in and out of shops containing clothes that will never fit me, trying to ignore the narrow-eyed glares of the stick-insect shop assistants who know damn well I shouldn’t be in there. I halfheartedly nod at each thing Amy shows me, occasionally daring to touch the shiny heels of shoes I would never be able to walk in without breaking them, or indeed, myself.

  I genuinely don’t think Amy sees how uncomfortable I am in these places. I don’t want to upset her by making a big deal of it, but it does kind of hurt that she is so oblivious, especially after this morning’s events.

  “What about this?” she asks, holding up yet another pair of skinny-fit jeans, with holes artfully torn into them.

  “Uh, yeah. They’re nice.”

  “They are, aren’t they? Shame my student loan won’t cover that price tag.” She sighs heavily and hangs them back up. “Oh well. Maybe when I’m a big-shot psychologist to A-list stars, eh?” She flashes me an uncertain smile, as if her little quip might be too much given the circumstances.

  “Yeah. Maybe we could be in practice together. I’ll do the Jolie-Pitt kids, you get the ex-Disney stars on drug benders.”

  “Oh, I want the Jolie-Pitt kids. More money there!”

  “Yeah? Why do you think I called dibs on them first?”

  She giggles, and I feel a little bit of the weight crushing my heart lift, just a teensy bit.

  “Why don’t you pick something?” she says, stroking a nearby top. “All this stuff is really nice, and it would so suit you.”

  I try not to stare at her in utter disbelief, and fail miserably. There’s nothing over a large in here, and even those are thin on the ground, if you’ll excuse the pun. For a split second, I’m not sure if she’s trying to be nice or if she’s taking the piss, but then it strikes me. She’s being neither. She genuinely doesn’t see that there is a massive problem with her suggestion—massive being the operative word. I shrug and half-heartedly flick though one of the rails of T-shirts, hoping the large might stretch enough to keep her happy. Of course, there aren’t any in large, but there are plenty in extra-small, just in case you’d forgotten that was the size society thinks you should be, so I can’t even pretend to play along and am in the end forced to admit that nothing would fit.

  “Really?” Amy’s face screws up in disbelief. “There’s loads of sizes here. You’re not that big!”

  You’re not that big. I know she means well, but she may as well have slapped me. It’s like when people say you have nice hair, or pretty eyes, as if that makes everything okay. Newsflash: it doesn’t.

  I shrug and automatically try to find solace in my phone. No messages about Dizzy’s state for me—I’m not important enough to have anyone’s number except Amy’s—but it means I don’t have to look at Amy, who is now awkwardly checking out a tiny strappy top that might just about cover my left tit if I’m lucky. She holds it up and goes to say something. I catch her eye before she can say it, because I know what is coming, and no it won’t do, and no I won’t fit into it despite what you think, and no I’m not selling myself short, I’m just being realistic, so please, just put it down, shut up, and let me get the hell out of here before I end up screaming.

  She hangs up the top.

  “Wanna grab a coffee?”

  That sounds more like it.

  I can put sugar in a coffee.

  40: #evil

  Every now and again, throughout the rest of the day, Amy’s phone pings and whistles, telling her various updates. My phone, in contrast, is fairly quiet. It did buzz once, but that was Amy tagging me into a status about Dizzy, so I’m not sure if that counts. The upshot is, I’m feeling pretty distant from something I was actually directly involved in, and it’s making me want to quit and go home.

  Eventually we bump into a couple of people Amy knows and, well, you know Amy—she’s everyone’s friend. After hovering for a few minutes I make the excuse of having to catch the bus, and I split.

  It’s only just past two, and as lectures don’t usually finish until four, I feel kind of up on the deal. It’s the closest you can get to time travel without knowing anything about quantum physics. I’ve managed to gain an hour and a half. Go me! Or that’s how I would be thinking if I didn’t just feel numb.

  Indigo’s last text said Dizzy’s parents were on their way and that she and Max were coming back. I assume Max is Baby Colors, but who knows in this weird, hyper-connected world? On Facebook, people are talking about it on Amy’s page, and it leaves me feeling incredibly uneasy. Surely it’s up to Dizzy to tell people she had a meltdown that ended up with her being hospitalized? I know I wouldn’t like any of my issues being aired out in public like this, whilst I was in the hospital waiting for my parents to turn up, trying to think up a decent explanation for slicing my arms up like so many tomatoes and breaking their hearts yet again.

  And yeah, sure, people are being supportive now, but what about when the vultures come circling? For fuck’s sake, she did this due to trolling. Talking about it openly just gives them a whole new playground to trash.

  Except maybe not. Because while Dizzy thinks it was a group of people targeting her, it wasn’t. It was just two. Me and Tori. And I’m not about to start trashing this playground. I’m not about to let Tori do it, either.

  Yes, yes, I know. I’m the one who told Tori that Dizzy existed, but I just wanted to dole out some payback. She was the one who took it to almost criminal levels.

  Dizzy’s ripped-up arms are going to haunt me for some time. Too many memories I’d rather ignore being nudged awake.

  I’m not nice.

  And neither is Tori.

  I almost clap my hand over my mouth, as if I’ve yelled it out at the top of my lungs rather than just thought it.

  More thoughts come, thick and fast, piling up and up until they form a tsunami that teeters over me, threatening to crash down and drown me.

  Never hacked anyone’s account until you met Tori.

  Never destroyed a man’s marriage until you met Tori.

  Never drove anyone to self-harm until you met Tori.

  Never, never, never, Tori, Tori, Tori . . .

  I cower in my seat.

  I’ve allowed myself to be turned into a monster.

  I just hope it isn’t too late to turn back.

  ***

  When I get home, I don’t even check on Mum. I log in to my laptop, careful to avoid Metachat. Knowing Tori, she’s probably already worked out a way to tell if I’m logged in, despite it bein
g supposedly completely anonymous.

  First stop, new proxy. New VPN. New everything. I want to be as untraceable as I can for this. It takes a while to do it properly, but it’s worth it.

  Then, Instagram. My favorite stomping grounds. If I’m honest, I can’t remember all the accounts I’ve shat all over, but I can remember enough of them to see a pattern—a wide trail of destruction and abandoned accounts. I stare at the screen. I can’t lay all of this on Tori, as some of these were before her time, but it is telling that most of the closed accounts are from the days of us tag-teaming. And to think, I once thought getting people to close accounts was a win. Getting one over the Beautiful People. Now, all I feel is shame as visions of Dizzy lying broken on the paramedic’s stretcher dance through my head.

  How many more people have ended up like that? Not just at my hands, or at Tori’s hands, but at the hands of all the trolls? How many people have we laid judgement on? Destroyed their lives, and for what? A brief high, where we get to vent our hate and our frustrations and punish those who don’t live our lives.

  Until we find out that they do live our lives. The struggles may be different, but we all have them, one way or another. I mean, what was I thinking? That Dizzy wasn’t real?

  Just goes to show how easy it is to forget when people are an abstract concept, a few lines of code, a brace of photshopped pictures. To forget that they have feelings and emotions as real as yours, as legitimate as yours.

  I stare out my window. A thin film of black mold is creeping up the seals, making the plaster bubble around it. Condensation has always been an issue in this house—it’s old, not that well-ventilated—but Dad used to keep it under control with yells of “Open your windows and let the place air!” while Mum came round with bottles of mold-killer that made the house stink of bleach. She hasn’t done anything like that this year, and now the price is being paid. I didn’t even notice how bad it was getting until now. I wonder if it’s too late to stop it. Probably.