Fugly Page 17

  Got to cut this stuff off at the root.

  Back to the computer. Back to scrolling through page after page of hate. Less than half of it is mine, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel responsible for it.

  There’s another ping from my phone. A text from Amy.

  Just making sure ur ok Axxxx

  I bury my head in my hands and cry.

  41: #BFF

  Teatime comes and goes. I make Mum a fish finger sandwich, and I have one too because I’m not up to any actual cooking. No sign of the Brat, but then again it’s only five. Maybe I could nip out and get some ice cream? But that means going out, and I don’t really want to do that. Apathy battles with my sugar addiction. This time, apathy wins. Hell, if it gets too bad, I can always eat the hot chocolate powder straight out of the tub.

  Mum doesn’t say much when I hand her the plate, and you know what? I’m fine with that. I sit next to her and eat in the fetid hole that was once our living room. Once upon a time, Mum would’ve gone mad if you’d worn your shoes in here; the mantelpiece was dusted to within an inch of its life, and God help you if you didn’t use a coaster when you put your cup down. Now, the floor is littered with old tissues and the inserts from magazines, and I don’t know the last time she undrew the curtains. Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow. Open a window, let the place air a little.

  Mum has yet to take a bite of her sandwich. Must remember to make sure she eats before she takes her meds. I swear that’s the only thing she can do now, apart from sleep. Anything to forget. Sounds kinda nice, when you put it that way.

  Once I finish my sandwich, I leave Mum in CSI’s capable hands. I know, I probably should’ve stayed with her, but it’s hard. It’s hard to look at the one person in your life you’re supposed to be able to rely on forever and realize she’s just as broken and as human as you are.

  I sit on my bed, my laptop open. Metachat’s blinking a code at me. I know Tori’s there, but for the first time ever, I don’t really want to talk to her. I don’t want to lose her, but I don’t think I can stand watching her gloat over one of our conquests, which now feel more like nasty, personal little terror attacks designed to cause as much heartbreak and horror as possible.

  My phone dings. Another text from Amy.

  Hi. U ok? I know this might sound a bit weird cos todays been so horrible, but I was thinking, maybe u would like to come over tomoz nite? I really think I need to do something to put my mind off this. Axx.

  I read the message over a few times. The knot that always lives in my belly tightens.

  I glance up. Tori’s code is still flashing at me.

  I look down at Amy’s invitation.

  Hey A. Yeah I’m fine. U ok too?

  You’re closer to Diz than me, and I found it horrible enough.

  I just can’t get my head round it all.

  U wanna do something tomoz?

  What u thinking of? Bxx

  Right now, I need fluffy. Sorry, Tori, I do love you, but sometimes it’s better to cuddle a puppy than run with wolves.

  Feels weird here. Everyone’s all sad.Even Paddy is quiet. Don’t like it.Was thinking you could stay over tomoz, have a sleepover?We could do silly things—die hair, eat pizza, watch shit films . . . Does that sound like fun? Axx

  “Die” hair. It’s an obvious autocorrect fail, but for some reason, it feels horribly apt.

  Do I want to go hang out at Amy’s tomorrow night? For, like, the whole night? I’ve only ever had one sleepover. I was twelve and it was hell. That was when I realized that frenemies were actually a thing. Year 7, just up from primary school, when friendships suddenly went from “we’re vaguely the same age, shape, and species, cool, let’s play” to “I both adore and despise you, and everything we do must now become a torturous game of one-upmanship, depending on who we are with or where we are.”

  How was I to know the sleepover was going to be a pecking-order sort out? That actually eating the pizza was a sign of weakness? That answering the Truth or Dare questions honestly would mean that everyone would know about my confusing crush on Ms. Pinter the following Monday?

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to remind myself that all that shit happened over six years ago and that Amy’s not like that, and I’m a fucking grown-up now, even though I’m not really sure what that means, because I don’t think I really feel any different from when I was twelve. Still as awkward, still as chubby (no pretending it’s puppy fat anymore, though, so I guess things do change after all), still as confused.

  I read the message again, looking for something that indicates this is all a setup, but of course there’s nothing, and it dawns on me that this is something I probably don’t want to screw up. I take in a deep breath in the hopes of steadying my wildly beating heart, and before my doubt-demons force me to change my mind, I rattle off, Yeah, that sounds cool, really need it, thanx xxxx, and then throw my phone on the bed as if it might bite me for my impudence.

  Awesome! Am so pumped! Sort out deets tomoz, ok? Axxx ♥ xx flies back at me and punches me squarely in the feels.

  This is so weird. I’m not used to this. I’m not even sure where to begin. I swallow as my eyes heat up.

  Is this what I’ve been missing?

  No wonder people will do anything to hold on to it.

  42: #avoidance

  Hey, hun. You there? Is everything ok?

  It’s Tori. I’ve been ignoring her Metachat keys, so she’s resorting to Messenger, which is something she never does.

  Yesterday, I would have crawled over broken glass to talk to Tori. When I’m with her, I feel I could conquer anything: move mountains, breathe fire, soar above mere mortals on wings of pure spite. Well, I did until today. Today, I still desperately want to talk to her, but each time I go to click the message, I can’t help but think of Dizzy lying on the stretcher, her arms cut and bloody, her eyes dull with self-loathing.

  I don’t know how to begin to talk to Tori about this. How do I tell her that I love her but I don’t know if I love what she does anymore?

  In the end, I play Aeon Valhalla for a bit. It’s been a while since I’ve picked it up, so it takes me a moment to get back into the story, which is suitably bonkers. I trawl around the countryside with Sable and Demonica at my side (seriously, where do they get these names?), seeking out random encounters to bolster my stats before I charge into the Ice Caves and kick the Ice Dragon’s ass. It’s a tough battle that leaves me muttering colorful expletives, but it’s worth it. Ice Dragon armor and a crystal bracelet to upgrade Sable’s iron one. Nice.

  Except it isn’t. Even though I’ve turned my phone off, it sits next to me, staring up at me, daring me to switch it on and check my messages. I’m keenly aware that I’m hiding, trying to make myself as small as possible, just like I do in the real world in the hopes that everyone will pass me by and leave me alone. Only for the first time I’m not hiding from strangers; I’m hiding from the people I care about most.

  I save my game, fully aware that it is just pixels, its only purpose being to eat time. The victory is hollow, a fantasy achievement that solves nothing.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. Jesus. Maybe I should just get some sleep. I’m beginning to sound like some pretentious philosophy student. Lighten up, girl. We all know life’s futile—you don’t need to keep banging on about it.

  I thought I’d really struggle to drop off, but nope—out like a light within a few minutes. I wake up pretty early, though; it’s still dark outside, and the soft swish of rain against my window tells me it’s another glorious British day out there.

  Out of habit, I switch my phone on again and kind of regret it. A twinge of anxious shame twists my guts when I see that Tori’s messaged me another three times, asking if I’m okay. I chew on my thumbnail, unsure of what to do. I want to answer, but that horrible, yawning pit in my stomach also wants to chuck my phone away and pretend none of this is happening.

  I grit my teeth and open the messages: Nothing unpleasant, just a
small collection of You ok?, Where are you?, and Hope you’re okays that make me feel even worse. Since I know Facebook would have tattled on me by now, I dash off a quick I’m fine hun—wasn’t online last night as I was feeling like utter shite, which isn’t really a lie, and hope that’ll do the job.

  I go downstairs and make a cup of tea. The living room is dark, which means Mum actually managed to make it to bed last night. That’s good. She rarely does that nowadays. Maybe she’s entering one of her “up” phases, where she starts to resemble the mother I once had. I pop another tea bag into a fresh mug and pour her a cup, too. She may not be awake, but I figure it’s the thought that counts.

  Back upstairs, I hover outside Mum’s room, two mugs in hand. The door isn’t shut, which is also a positive. It still smells pretty rank in there, though. Maybe I’ll be able to convince her to open the window later, and maybe help her do more than bare-minimum laundry. Change the bedclothes. Let some light in.

  Judging by her breathing, she’s still snoozing. I creep over to the bed, sheepishly aware of how stupid this is; I have a cup of tea for her, so how is not trying to wake her going to be helpful? Still, it’s habit. I set the mug on the bedside cabinet. There are at least five empty pill packets on it, and for a moment, my heart jumps as I worry she’s taken them all at once and the breathing I heard was just a figment of my imagination—

  She snorts, and I spill my tea over my hand. Habit makes me suck back the “Fuck!” that tries to escape me, because you don’t swear in front of your mother, Bethany.

  “What time is it?” Mum mumbles, waving her hand in the region of where her alarm clock was ten years ago.

  “It’s a quarter to seven,” I say. “I know it’s early, but I made tea.”

  “Quarter to seven?” she yawns, and goes to roll over.

  “Yeah. Remember, you have an appointment at nine.”

  “I do?” Her body slumps under the duvet. “Oh, yeah. I remember now.”

  I’m amazed I do, if I’m honest. I hadn’t even been thinking about it, which only goes to show how much you can squirrel away when you have to.

  “Shall I call a cab for 8:30?”

  Mum doesn’t reply, and suddenly I’m struck by the absurdity of the situation. I’m the teenager—shouldn’t she be the one struggling to get me up?

  “I’ll call a cab,” I say. “And I’m out tonight.”

  “You are?” That makes her sit up.

  “Yeah. Amy’s invited me over for a girls’ night in. Is that okay?”

  I can see it: the battle going on in her head as she struggles to settle on an appropriate response. This is all she’s ever wanted for me—to go out, to have friends, finally to be normal . . . but at the same time, I know she needs me here to do all the things she should be doing but can’t.

  “It’s just one night. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Mum gives me a tight nod. “Of course. That’s fine. Thanks for letting me know. Have fun.”

  I nod back, amazed that the slight fizz in my stomach isn’t nerves or anxiety or dread, but something else, something I never thought I’d feel—the simple excitement of going out with a friend, a real friend, not an online one but a honest-to-goodness flesh and blood one, one I can touch and laugh with and whisper stupid things at.

  Back in my room, a message is waiting for me.

  Boo. Hope you’re feeling better now. Love you. xxx

  The fizz dies down.

  Is this . . . cheating? Going to Amy’s, that is. It kind of feels like cheating. Should I tell Tori I’m going? No harm if I do. Hey, Tori, I’m out tonight. Yeah, going to my friend Amy’s. Yeah, the one I’m at uni with. Yeah, she’s a flake, but she’s sweet. Okay, speak later. Love you.

  A totally normal conversation. Thousands of people have similar ones every day. So why do I feel like I’m betraying her?

  Morning, hunny. Yeah, I feel ok now. Migraines suck.

  Not that I suffer from migraines, but hell, they’re always a good excuse.

  Urrr, migraines. Tell me about it. You free now?

  The fizz is replaced by something spiky and made of lead, making it hard for me to swallow.

  Nah, sorry babe. Got uni in a mo. Busy day.

  Well, that sucks. I’m at work atm but no one is here so I’m having a play. Was hoping you’d join me . . . ^_^

  Normally I’d jump at the chance, but not this morning. This morning, I’m glad I’ve got an excuse not to go online and play her vicious games. Still, have to keep up the pretense. You never know, by tomorrow, I may be over this newfound attack of conscience.

  Aww, jealous now. No excuses today tho. Test day.

  Nerd alert! :P Speak later, yeah?

  Yeah. Love you. ♥ xxx

  Yeah, love you too xxx

  I still get a flutter at that, a shameful little thrill. Maybe I should just blow Amy off. Sit in with Tori. Continue to live my life in the shadows. Yeah. I’ll do that. So much safer than pretending I only want one slice of pizza.

  Still, better shove some deodorant and a spare pair of knickers in my bag. You know, just in case.

  43: #flashback

  The rain hasn’t eased up, so by the time I’m at the bus stop, I’m soaked inside and out. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with a raincoat—I end up sweating so much, I think the rain might actually be preferable. Thank God I brought my deodorant. At least I won’t end up stinking like a dead whale later. See, it was a good idea after all. Beth Soames, ready for anything.

  Except today. I am definitely not ready for today.

  The bus turns up on time, which is good. Quite a few empty seats, good, which one to choose, a window one for preference, God, where did my headphones go, escaping down my top—

  That’s when I spot him, looking at his watch with that slightly dramatic motion people who still wear watches use. I don’t know why I chose to look at the exact moment he moved. It’s a gift, I suppose, a sort of hyper-awareness that means nothing gets past me. It comes from a lifetime of barely-disguised disgusted glances, or the tuts that come when you can’t quite get out of someone’s way, despite trying your very hardest. Anyway, my spidey-senses must have picked up on something, because there’s no way this was simply a coincidence.

  The man with the watch is the pervert. The one who groped me. Given everything that has happened to me recently, I’d almost managed to forget him. Almost, but not quite.

  My heart thumps once and begins to race. The edges of reality go fuzzy. I stumble past him and duck into the nearest seat, staring, bug-eyed, straight ahead, my headphones forgotten. All I can hear is the roar of blood in my ears.

  He gazes out the window, oblivious.

  I chew on my lips. I should say something. Be brave. Be strong and stand up for all the other girls who go through this shit every day. Maybe someone will record it on their phone and it’ll go viral, brave girl stands up to her harasser, gives all other girls hope, shows them they can fight back . . .

  The bus slows, and he stands up.

  Two seconds later, and he’s wandering down the aisle without a care in the world.

  And then he’s gone, off the bus, melting into the crowds of people trying to get to work, his paper held over his head to keep the worst of the rain off.

  I think I see the flash of a wedding ring before he disappears.

  ***

  Two stops later and it’s my turn to disembark. I try to stop my hand from shaking when I press the button for the bell.

  I pull my hood up and cram my hands into my pockets, hunching my shoulders in a futile attempt at making myself smaller. It doesn’t work; I still bump into two people. Because they’re terribly British, they apologize, but I can see the seething annoyance in their eyes. Sometimes I wish we were more like the Americans and were freer with our emotions, but today I’m glad of our stiff upper lip. I think if one of them had shouted at me, I might actually have cried.

  Outside Richmond building, crowds of students are milling, all with their hood
s up, all faceless. A growing sense of panic builds within me again: Where’s Amy? I’m not up to this today. Maybe I should just go home. Maybe I should just—

  “Hey, Beth!” My heart thuds. “I waved, but you didn’t see me. You okay?”

  I’m not quite sure how I didn’t see her, as she’s wearing a bright pink mackintosh and matching Doc Martens. I smile faintly.

  “Heya. It’s hard to see out from under this hood. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I am—and I know, right? When will this shitty weather end, eh?” She’s grinning, but it’s strained, like she’s forcing herself to be normal, to talk about normal things.

  “How’s Dizzy?” I say, cracking first. An unmistakable look of relief crosses Amy’s face.

  “She’s okay. Last thing I heard, they were discharging her and she was going home. Back to her parents, not here,” she adds, as if that even needed to be clarified.

  I nod, unsure of what else to say.

  “You were great, you know,” Amy says. “You really helped. I dread to think what might have happened if you weren’t around. You’re such a rock.”

  I swallow, my cheeks flaming. I try to mutter something along the lines of “No, I’m not,” but it comes out as a grunt. Amy’s giving me one of those aww, bless you smiles because she thinks I’m being bashful and self-deprecating, when in reality, the urge to yell “She only did it because of me!” is getting quite hard to resist.

  Amy links arms with me. I tense, but I don’t think she notices.

  “Come on, you lovely person. Door’s open. Let’s get out of the rain and plan tonight.”

  44: #itsaplan

  All the way through our lecture, Amy’s scribbling stuff down on her notepad, little questions about what we can do, little shopping lists for things we could buy, little hopes, little dreams, little plans for The Best Night Ever. She’s so damn adorable. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it all sounds a bit like my idea of hell. But after talking about Dizzy, I’m feeling bad again, and it strikes me that a distraction might do me good. Plus, a night out is the perfect excuse to put off talking to Tori a little longer. She can’t complain—I’m a student. That’s what we do. We go out on a Friday night.