Fugly Page 18

  Which in turn makes me feel weird, because being a stereotypical student who goes out on a Friday night is veering dangerously close to Everything I Hate. But then, why bother even going to uni in the first place if I didn’t want a chance of belonging?

  I screw my eyes up and massage my temples with my fingertips, as if that might help me order the chaos in my head.

  It doesn’t work.

  Amy slides her pad in front of me, nudging me as she does.

  U ok?

  Oh, God, she even writes in text speak. She really is a lost cause.

  I glance over at her and nod. She’s giving me a concerned look, so I scribble: just a headache.

  She pulls her pad back.

  Break in a min. We’ll leave early. No one will notice. Start the prep early.

  It’s all I can do to stop myself from beating my head against the bench in front of me.

  ***

  After the lecture, it’s still raining, but that does nothing to dampen Amy’s enthusiasm.

  “First we’ll go to Superdrug and look at hair dye. I’m thinking of going Harley Quinn—what about you?”

  “Uh . . .” But before I can answer, she’s off again.

  “Doesn’t matter, there’s plenty of colors to choose from. Then we can go to Tesco and grab some snacks and loads of booze!”

  So it’s Superdrug first, followed by a supermarket. I should be grateful. She could have suggested we buy new pajamas—

  Pajamas!

  Oh crap, I forgot those. I brought spare knickers and deodorant, but I was so sure I wasn’t actually going to do this that I didn’t think about pajamas. Will I even need pajamas? Or will we be up all night? I bet Amy has those posh silky ones, rather than the slightly graying cotton nighties I still have to suffer wearing—

  “You okay?” Amy trills as she hands me a box of baby-blue hair dye. “Hmm, I think I’m going to get some peroxide, too—my hair’s too dark for this color.” She reaches out in front of me and grabs another box and drops it into our basket. “You found a color you like?”

  I scan the shelf. “Uh, this one?” I pick up a box of burgundy dye, the one color everyone gets away with.

  “What? That? Really? I think my mum uses this color.” She wrinkles her nose and picks up a violent shade of violet. “How about this one? Still purple, but a bit more purple, if you get what I mean? I never understood why people chose basic colors. If you’re going to dye your hair, then fucking well dye it, right?”

  She reaches past me and grabs a pink box and chucks it in the basket to join the blue and the peroxide. I take the violet box from her. I will admit, I’d love to give it a go, but do worry I’ll end up looking like a Teletubby.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Oh, go on. Live a bit. How about this?” Fire-truck red. “Or this?” I can’t see what it’s actually called, but I’m going for Hulk Green, which is NOT a comparison I wish to draw to myself.

  I take the red off her. “I think this one. Loud, but not too weird.”

  Amy screws up her lovely little nose. “Where’s the fun in not being weird? Okay, you can have the red, but I’m going to lighten your hair first so it really pops.”

  Forget the Hulk, I’m going to end up looking like a chubby Pennywise the Clown if Amy gets her way. I put the red back and pick up the purple again, which makes Amy grin and exclaim, “That’s my girl!” It really is a pretty color. Live a little. Purple it is.

  She pays for everything. Don’t get me wrong—I offer to pay for my own, but Amy waves me away and sticks it all on a credit card.

  I’m beginning to suspect that, for all her protestations to the contrary, Amy’s quite rich.

  After that, it’s off to Tesco, where Amy fills a basket with as many freezable cocktail slushie things as she can carry, a bottle of cheap vodka, family-sized Galaxy bars, microwavable popcorn (sweet, of course), and more flavors of Pringles than even I know what to do with. Again, everything goes on the credit card.

  “You sure you don’t want me to chip in?” I ask, feeling rather guilty, and again Amy screws up her face in disbelief and mutters, “No, of course not,” at me.

  We gather our spoils and trek back to halls. Even though the bags aren’t all that heavy, I kind of want to call a cab, but it really isn’t that far, so admitting I want a cab would in fact be an admission that I don’t really like walking. When we get back to Amy’s, I’m trying to hide the fact that I’m breathing a lot heavier than she is—not that she seems to notice as she continues to chatter and we get in the (blessed, oh so blessed) lift that takes us up to her floor.

  There’s a weird moment when I flash back to yesterday, and judging by the way Amy hesitates by the door, I can tell she’s experiencing it too. I wonder how long it will be before we can get the image of a bleeding Dizzy being hauled away on a stretcher through this very doorway out of our heads. A month? A year? Blood has a funny way of lingering in the psyche long after it’s been mopped up.

  There’s a crash from the direction of the shared kitchen, followed by some rather ripe language. We traipse in to find Paddy up to his armpits in suds, valiantly tackling what looks like a month’s worth of dishes. A smashed mug lies forlornly at his feet.

  “You wouldn’t believe what these absolute cockmunchers have done. They’ve only gone and left all the washing up to me. So unfair.” He raises his hand out of the sink and waves at me. “Hey, Big Bird! How’s my favorite girl doing?”

  His favorite girl? Yes, I’m confused too.

  “It’s all yours, Pads,” Amy says, emptying her bag of cocktail slushies into the freezer. “We told you, we’re not your slaves. You make a mess, you clean it up.”

  My chest twinges with pride, just a little bit.

  Paddy rolls his eyes dramatically. “Always nagging me, that one. What you got there, Tink?”

  “Cocktails. And they’re not yours. They’re for me and Beth, so don’t drink them.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it!”

  “Paddy, I mean it. They’re for us, tonight.” Amy straightens up and looks almost proud. “Me and Beth are having a girls’ night in. We’re going to get absolutely wankered and eat loads of pizza. Right, Beth?”

  “Yep.” I nod, trying to look as sincere as possible. “Booze and pizza warriors, that’s us. If you value your life, you’ll stay out of our way.” I risk a little smile.

  “Really?” Paddy grins broadly at me. “Will there be silky nighties and pillow fights, too?”

  Amy narrows her eyes at him. “Fuck off, pervert. Come on, Beth—hair dying time!” She shakes her other bag at me.

  I lift the remaining bag of snacks I’m carrying. “What about these?”

  “Bring them with us, otherwise Porker over there will trough the lot.”

  “Oh, I resent that remark!” Paddy grins, and I’m struck by just how easy this whole back and forth is, as if all the awkwardness of a few weeks ago has just melted away. It’s sorta, kinda nice.

  “Anyway, I don’t need your stash. Going out for drinkies later with the rugger team.” He gives me a shrewd look. “Actually, you ever thought of playing, Big Bird? You’d be really good. I know the ladies’ team is after—”

  “Paddy!” Amy says. “Don’t be so fucking mean.”

  Paddy looks hurt. “I’m not being mean. The ladies’ team really is looking for new players and I think Beth would do really well. I could just see her, striding across the pitch, flattening the opposition like some kind of warrior woman of old. Yeah. Boudicca Beth.”

  “I don’t know, Paddy,” I say. “Not really into violent sports.” Apart from ones in a virtual world, of course.

  “Oh, rugby’s not violent,” Paddy says. “It’s intense, but no one wishes anyone any ill-will. Have a think about it. I’ll talk to Katie. Just give me the nod, yeah?”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I shrug.

  Amy sticks her tongue out at him and drags me off to her room. “I can’t believe him sometimes,�
� she says as she dumps her bags on her bed and begins to organize our Trial by Hair Dye. “So sorry. He totally has no idea whatsoever.”

  “It’s okay. He wasn’t being mean.” And it strikes me that Paddy’s suggestion doesn’t actually hurt. He thinks I should play rugby. I don’t necessarily agree, because despite my generally low opinion of myself, I do actually value my ears and my nose, not to mention my knees. But there’s no getting away from the fact that Paddy looked at me and saw something other than a tub of lard for once. He saw a potential sport-playing person. A warrior woman, no less.

  Before I know it, I’m standing with my head bowed over Amy’s sink, a slightly musty-smelling towel draped around my shoulders. The water’s a bit hot, but I don’t dare say anything. Amy’s already got her peroxide on, and the fumes it gives off make my nose tickle as she smothers my hair in her leftovers. I’m quite glad she’s decided to take on the role as hair-dyer-in-chief. Those little gloves they put in the boxes are always too small, and the last time I tried to do my own hair, I ended up resorting to sandwich bags to cover my hands.

  The door outside bangs, and Amy skips over to peek outside.

  “Oh hey!” she squeaks, and Indigo pops her head round the door. She’s smiling.

  “Hey Beth, you all right?” she asks, as if she’s actually interested. I nod, relying on a slightly sheepish yeah, okay, right smile. “Amy said you were coming over tonight. We’re all going down to the union later. You interested?”

  I try not to let my eyes widen in panic at that. What is going on? Who is this girl? Why is she talking to me like this? I literally don’t understand.

  Luckily, Amy comes to my rescue. “Maybe. We really were just planning on chilling out.”

  “Oh, okay, well, that sounds like fun too. If you change your minds, you’ll know where we’ll be.”

  It’s Indigo’s turn to try on the sheepish smile. “By the way, Beth, I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for your help with Dizzy. None of us knew what to do. I dread to think what might have happened if you hadn’t been there. We really owe you one.”

  “But I didn’t do anything,” I say, as a nasty red flush creeps over my chest and up the sides of my neck. I can only hope Indigo mistakes it for embarrassment and not the deep, burning shame that’s still eating me from the inside out.

  “Credit where credit’s due, Beth. You girls have fun, yeah?”

  “See you later, alligator!” Amy sing-songs as Indigo’s head withdraws. She jerks her thumb toward the now-closed door. “She’s so lovely. Isn’t she lovely?”

  And it dawns on me that she probably is.

  45: #PARTY #yay #maybe

  Those supermarket cocktails aren’t very strong, which is why Amy bought the bottle of vodka. We’re now on our third one—margaritas topped off with voddie—and I’m well on my way to being a little bit squiffy.

  “I so love your hair!” Amy says for about the squinchillionth time, and strokes it. I actually kind of like that. It makes my spine feel all fizzy and melty. Maybe this is why cats arch their backs when they’re stroked. “You look like someone’s poured pure liquid amethyst over your head.” She slurs a little over “amethyst,” which comes out more like “ameshyst.” This makes me giggle and take another long suck on my straw. I wince. God, that’s strong.

  “And you look just like Harley Quinn,” I say. “She always was the best and mosht beautiful.” And she does. One side turquoise, the other pink. She looks even more like a fey creature than usual, with her enormous liquid brown eyes and her sculpted cheekbones and those pink, slightly parting lips . . .

  Jesus Christ. I think I need to slow up on these cocktails.

  As it turns out, Amy’s idea of a Proper Girls’-Night-In Entertainment isn’t some crappy rom-com but is in fact a bunch of nasty, low-budget horror DVDs she cadged in a three-for-a-tenner deal. Color me surprised. She also ordered half the pizza menu after declaring that she was “shtarving” and clutched her nonexistent stomach as if that would emphasize the point.

  She’s poured out another cocktail-slushie for us. We’re dangerously low on vodka now, something I think is probably for the best. I hope she doesn’t suggest going out to get more—she’s half my size but is definitely handling the huge amounts of alcohol better. I literally have no idea how she does it. Metabolism? Must be. Either that or she really is a moon-child from beyond the stars who was raised on mead and little else.

  The buzzer to the flats goes off just as we’re anticipating yet another contrived-yet-secretly-terrifying jump scare, and I have to stop myself from screaming, which makes Amy laugh hysterically. She asks me to pause the film and then runs out of her room shrieking “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” while I sit awkwardly on her bed, blinking in an attempt at trying to stop the room from spinning.

  A few moments later, Amy comes back bearing gifts . . . and what gifts they are. Three large pizzas, garlic bread with cheese, potato wedges, mozzarella sticks, BBQ chicken wings, sour cream dips, and a large bottle of Coke. I have to stop myself from drooling as she lays out the feast on her floor. She plonks herself in front of it and pats at the space next to her, inviting me to sit with her. I grab what remains of both our cocktail slushies and pick my way through the food mountain to join her.

  “Need a plate?” she says, with a mischievous grin.

  “Are you kidding me?” I quip back.

  And she laughs, long and hard, before picking up a quite frankly enormous slice of pepperoni and cramming half of it in her mouth. I think it’s safe to say that it’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen in my life, and I stare to the point where she has to nod meaningfully at the food while saying something that might be “tuck in” if her mouth wasn’t already full to bursting with pizza.

  I reach out for a slice, grinning, and then hesitate as the don’t eat in front of others instinct kicks in. I’ve said it so many times to myself now that I’ve conditioned myself; can’t be greedy, don’t eat that, mustn’t let them think I actually like this, where’s the salad, the salad, the savior, my last bastion of defense, something green, something healthy—

  “You all right?” Amy wipes her mouth with the back of one hand, her half-eaten slice drooping from the other.

  I glance at her. She’s put her hair up in pigtails. There’s a smear of tomato sauce on her chin. She doesn’t care. She’s never had to care. Look at her. She’s perfect.

  The old, hated jealousy unfurls like an infected flower within me. Why can’t I be like that? Why can’t I eat whatever I like and not have to worry? Why can’t I sit there, with tomato sauce on my chin, and still look like a fucking goddess? It’s not fair. It’s not fair, because it’s ruining something good, making me hate someone I actually really like, someone who genuinely seems to be able to accept me for who I am, or at least I think she does, I hope she does, I—

  Fuck it. I grab the next slice and defiantly chew off its point. Screw that voice. Screw all of it. This is my moment of rebellion—true rebellion, not a virtual, made-up one—and it tastes sweet.

  “Oh! Forgot! Film!” Amy staggers to her feet, cramming what’s left of her pizza slice into her mouth. She grabs the TV controller, sending the potato wedges flying. “Whoops!” she giggles, and flicks the movie back on, catapulting us both back into a world of almost pornographic violence. “You gotta watch horror when you eat pizza,” Amy explains. “Cos pizza and violence, pizza and violence, they go together like a horse and carriage . . .”

  She sings the last bit, badly.

  “That doesn’t rhyme,” I giggle back.

  “Oh, fuck it, it doesn’t need to rhyme! Eat, my amethystial beauty—eat!” She picks up a bit of garlic bread and feeds it to me. I try not to choke, both on cheese and on joy, because this is what it should be all about. Not petty sniping and insults and making people feel bad, but laughter and sharing and not giving a crap what anyone else thinks.

  And there it is. The revelation. I reckon there’s a choir somewhere, hitting the h
igh notes as something fundamental clicks into place within me.

  When Amy reaches for her phone to take a selfie with me, for the first time ever, I don’t protest. I don’t even flinch.

  I want this moment to be remembered forever.

  46: #drunktalk

  “This bit’s really funny. Wait for it . . . wait . . . Ha! Chainsaw to the face. Classic!” Amy takes another huge gulp of her last cocktail slushie while I try not to imagine her as a closet serial killer. This is literally the most fun I’ve had in forever.

  There’s pizza devastation laid out in front of us, hideous gore on the TV, and no more vodka left. The world feels fuzzy and soft, and my head spins. I haven’t checked my phone in hours; I’ve only used it to take photos so I have a lasting memento of tonight’s events—proof, if you will, that it happened, insurance in case I start to doubt (or indeed, it never happens again). Amy rests her multicolored head on my shoulder, and I lean into it, resting my cheek against it, and my world fills with the strange scent of synthetic coconut and harsh chemicals. I could put my arm around her . . . but I don’t. Why spoil this by pushing too hard? It’s already far beyond anything I’d expected.

  Amy yawns, and I follow suit. The movie is stupidly violent, so over the top that it could never be considered scary, just ridiculous.

  “Do you want that last piece of garlic bread?”

  I shake my head, surprised that it’s true. Usually, when presented with this kind of bounty, I eat until I puke, but not tonight. “You have it,” I say.

  “Hmm, garlic bread . . . ,” Amy says, doing a perfect Homer Simpson impression as she dangles the last bit in front of her mouth before cramming it all in. She giggles through a full mouth, saying something that sounds like, “m sush a foo slug,” which I think roughly translates to “I’m such a food slut.” Speaking as a fully paid-up food slut, I know she isn’t one, but I don’t disagree with her. I get it. Temptation and sin are fun when you’re the one in charge.