Fugly Read online

  And people wonder why the internet has taken over the world.

  Twenty to nine. Come on, hurry up. We’ve been caught up in roadworks, and now I am running dangerously close to late. I can’t do late. Late means entering the lecture hall when everyone else has already sat down. Late means a sarcastic quip from the professor running the session. Late means everyone turns and stares.

  Can’t be too early, either. Got to be just right on time, that sweet spot when everyone is moving, worrying about themselves—can I get that seat I like, have I got my notebook, oh shit my favorite pen is running out, just three more hours and then I can drown my sorrows at the student union bar . . . No one has time to notice me. Even with my dumpiness, I am invisible, and it is wondrous.

  At ten to nine, the bus slides into the stop. Luckily, the building my lecture is held in isn’t too far away. I hike my bag higher up onto my shoulder, keep my head down, and power on. By the time I reach the end of the road, my heart is hammering and my face feels like it’s going to explode. An uncomfortable trickle of sweat tracks its way down my back. I hate the winter. You have to wear a coat because it’s cold, and there’s the ever-present threat of rain, but when you’re fugly, moving means you get hot real quick. Maybe I should get one of those blanket things to wrap myself up in. Or a poncho. They sell them in Primark, so they’re quite socially acceptable now. Only problem, I fear I may look even more like a Weeble in one of those. Ahh, the cardinal sin of Making Yourself Look Bigger Than You Already Are. Believe me, it’s easy to do, and as soon as the universe notices, it’ll never let you forget that.

  A bell chimes in the distance. Nine now, and I’m still a street away. Buggerbollocksballs, fuck, fuck, fuck. I need to pick up the pace, but I’m in danger of The Wheeze now, and my back feels like eels are crawling all over it. Stupid roadworks! Ten minutes to get through them. Ten minutes!

  No. Mustn’t dwell. It’s happened. Get to lectures. Just keep going. At last, the corner—and there, the stairs leading up to the building. Usually when people think of university buildings, they think of great Baroque things, all crenulations and limestone slabs, with massive sets of sweeping stairs. The stairs here are three steps that lead to a nondescript pair of double doors. I could be entering a job center. Still, I’m grateful. Three steps are far more manageable than a sweeping staircase, especially when you’ve been made to run for two whole blocks.

  Still quite a few people milling around. Good. Good. If I can just tag myself on to the edge of the group—

  “Oh my God! Beth? Hi! Remember me? I met you in the library yesterday!”

  The sweat on my back turns cold. I turn around, slowly. Amy’s standing there with a huge grin on her face, dressed like she fell into a Japanese comic book store display stand. The only thing she’s missing is a flaming katana.

  “Oh. Yeah. Amy, isn’t it? Hi,” I say weakly.

  “I wondered if I might see you again. Normally I go in with the others, but today I thought I’d wait. And here you are. Yay!”

  Yay? Seriously? What is she? Twelve? Still, I can’t pretend I’m not flattered. Twice in two days, people have actually seemed genuinely pleased to see me; Amy, then Tori . . . maybe my luck is changing. Maybe things will be different now.

  Someone shoves past me, tutting, giving me that particular filthy look reserved only for those of us who err on the side of Socially Unacceptable. No, nothing’s changed. Tori wants to be my friend because she doesn’t know the real me, and Amy is being nice because she’s obviously suffered from some kind of brain injury, which leaves her permanently happy and with the temperament of an excited puppy.

  “Come on! We’ll be late!” she trills and skips up the steps. I galumph after her.

  7: #lifeinthebackrow

  This is where life gets difficult. You see, I’m a back row sitter. Not because I’m a rebel, but because I’m a hider. I can squirrel myself away, out of sight amongst the snoozers and the doodlers and the latecomers, safe in the shadows.

  Amy, on the other hand, is a mingler. She’s not in the front row as that’s reserved for nerds and suckups, but somewhere in the middle, where the wannabes reside. Not the cool kids—no, they inhabit that elite section that isn’t quite the middle, but also isn’t quite the back, so they can participate in the lecture if they want to, or doss off if the mood takes them—but those who like to hover around the cool kids’ edges in the hopes that they might be mistaken for one of them.

  “Sit here! Sit here!”

  Jesus Christ, she’s like something out of a children’s TV program; all bounce, bright colors, and cute voices. A couple of her friends look up and give her a slightly incredulous look. Yeah, I know. You and me both . . .

  Clutching my bag strap, I shuffle nervously down the steps toward the middle. The rows look horribly tight down here. I’m going to have to ask some people to move so I can squeeze past. My irrational fear of breaking wind in someone’s face floats to the surface of my mind. I mean, it’s never happened, but what if it did? I can see the clickbait now. Fat girl farted in my face when trying to squeeze past me! What happened next will shock you!

  “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Can I just . . . ? Oh, sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry.” I only have to move past two people, but I can’t stop apologizing. Finally, I sit down next to Amy, who picks up a pen with a fluffy bauble on the end, because what else would she write with. In turn, I try to drag my notebook out of my bag without elbowing someone and fail miserably.

  “Sorry,” I whisper again. They shoot me another filthy look and snort.

  What’s that phrase? Oh, yeah. Liberate tutemet ex inferis. Save yourself from hell. Or something like that, anyway.

  8: #bigbutts

  Another one of my irrational fears is that, with my ass being so big, I’m going to get stuck in a chair. It’s why I never go on rides at theme parks. (“Madam, sorry, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the ride as our safety belts do not go up to ‘elephant.’ ”)

  Right now, that fear is running gleefully through me. It sprints down my spine to give my paranoia a good kicking and then off it goes again, trying to make my leg jiggle nervously. Dr. Grindle is droning on about the Seven Founding Principles, and whilst I am taking notes so I don’t stand out, I already know all this due to the fact that I have done what I thought university students should do and actually read the recommended reading list over the summer.

  Next to me, Amy’s head is bent, her tongue poking out of her mouth as she scribbles down illegible notes. Her handwriting is exactly as I’d expect—all big loops and little hearts instead of dots above her i’s and j’s—and I realize there is something heartbreakingly adorable about her. She’s a study all in herself, and I can’t help but wonder why she’s acknowledging my existence, let alone speaking to me. Before university, back at school, she would have been one of the airheads, all pink bubbles and pinup boy bands. Or maybe one of the anime kids, with her Hello Kitty earrings and her Totoro T-shirt. But here, she’s sitting with me, and not only is she sitting with me, she chose to do so. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the universe calling. Maybe she’s the proof that life is now changing. Maybe I am a curvy diva rather than just another fat chick. Maybe—

  My thoughts stop dead in their tracks as a horribly familiar sensation prickles over me. I glance past Amy and catch one of her pop diva friends looking at me, her top lip curled back into a sneer.

  And that’s when I realize that no, things aren’t different. There might be the odd individual who could see past the flab, and even then that might be pushing it. For all I know, Amy is one of those girls who specializes in pity cases. The chances of her actually liking me for me are astronomically small, if you think about it. She doesn’t even know me yet; how is she supposed to like me? Maybe I am nothing more than a project. Or is that just the paranoia talking? Well, whatever it is, I think it’s on to something.

  When the lecture finishes, I desperately want to dart off, but I can’t because I’m trapped. My fear
of getting stuck in a seat hasn’t literally come to pass, but the two people I had to push past to sit down have to be the sloooowest people in the world when it comes to packing up, and so I’m stuck here, clutching my bag like a shield, hunkering down and hoping no one notices me. Amy, on the other hand, is sitting right up, gaily chucking stuff in her (can you guess?) pink backpack, chatting merrily with her other friends. Finally, the two slow coaches between me and sweet, sweet freedom leave, and I get into the aisle as quickly as I can, hoping Amy won’t notice and I can sidle off.

  No such luck.

  “Hey, Beth?” Amy says. “We’re going up to the union to grab an early lunch. You wanna come? They do fab chips there.”

  Right now, I’m not sure if she’s being serious or taking the piss. Yes, I’m fat and therefore I must love fried potato strips. I get it. Ha ha. Judging by the way her two friends smirk, they get it too. I feel my cheeks heat up.

  “Nah, it’s okay. I have things to do,” I mumble.

  Yeah, like eat, the faces of her friends retort.

  “Aww. That’s a shame.” Amy looks crestfallen and for a split second, I feel wretched, like I’ve kicked a puppy. “Are you sure you won’t come? Nicki and Carla won’t mind.” She turns to Nicki and Carla. “You two don’t mind, do you?”

  Nicki and Carla share a look that says yes, they would mind, but it’s obvious Amy doesn’t see it. Instead, she looks hopefully at me.

  “I’m sorry. I’d love to, but my mum’s ill and I said I’d come home straight after lectures.” Only a partial lie. “Sorry.”

  “Oh no! Your mum’s ill? That sucks! Hope it’s not too serious. My mum was ill recently, and that was no fun at all. She was in the hospital and everything—” She catches herself and grins nervously. “Look, give me your number.” She whips out her phone before I have a chance to say anything.

  I’m trapped. There’s no excuse that doesn’t make me look like a total snotty bitch, so I fumble my phone out of my bag and duly punch her number into my contacts while she does the same to mine. Her grin brightens, and we all say our goodbyes: Amy’s enthusiastic, Nicki and Carla’s relieved, mine suitably muted.

  Before I reach the door, Amy yells out, “Beth? Friend me!” and my phone buzzes.

  Amy Hardcastle. Find me online! ☺ <3 xxxx

  Fucking hell.

  9: #familycircle

  “Oi! Ever heard of Slimfast?”

  As insults go, it’s pretty tame. I still cringe, though. It’s ingrained in me, and I wonder yet again why I bother venturing outside. Outside belongs to the Beautiful People. Any TV show will tell you that. It’s a universal truth. Except I can’t spend all my life in my house. I know how that turns out. People start asking awkward questions and make assumptions about your mental state. I wonder if it’ll get easier once I get my driving license. Maybe that’s like taking a little bit of lovely, safe Inside with you, like armor against the world. But having a driving license involves driving lessons, and the thought of those just makes me want to pull my duvet over my head and refuse to come out, which kind of defeats the whole damn object.

  I wonder if Amy is enjoying herself with her friends, with their sour, scrunched-up faces, eating soggy student union chips. Yeah, I dodged a bullet there. Much better to go home and do some internet bashing. That’s much nicer than dealing with real flesh-and-blood people.

  Mum’s in the living room again, huddled in her blanket, staring at the TV. Upstairs I hear the staccato of virtual guns—sounds like Brat is eschewing his education in favor of blasting his enemies to bits again.

  “Hey, Mum,” I say. Slowly, she looks up at me. Her eyes look red.

  “Hello darling,” she says. “Good lecture?”

  “Yeah.” I’ll leave it at that. She doesn’t need to know about Amy. It’ll only get her hopes up. “Is Brad still at home?”

  “Yes. He said he didn’t feel well.”

  “Mum—”

  “I know, I know. I just couldn’t stand the arguments.” Her voice thickens. “Don’t start anything with him.”

  It takes everything I’ve got not to stomp upstairs and drag the little prick out of his festering hole and into school myself.

  Ever since Dad left, it’s been difficult. The last thing Mum needs is Brat playing the nightmare teenager card. I mean, I wasn’t perfect, but he’s taking the absolute piss. Sometimes I’d like to grab him by his badly shaved and spotty teenaged neck and just . . . squeeze. Squeeze all the bullshit out of him, all the spite, all the self-important crap until there’s nothing left.

  “You want a cup of tea?” I ask Mum.

  “That would be nice, love.” And she goes back to staring at the TV. I’m pretty sure she’s seen this episode before. I know I have. Oh well. Whatever makes her happy.

  As per usual, the kitchen is a mess. The least Brat could have done was wash up his breakfast bowl, but even that’s too much of a chore for him. I squash down the urge to pick up the bowl so I can smash his face into it. Yeah, I know, I really should watch these violent thoughts, but I can’t help it. Everything Brat does pushes those buttons right now.

  Once the tea’s made, I amble back to Mum. She’s half dozing now. I’m sure it’s the medication she takes, and not that she’s simply lost the will to do anything since Dad left. I don’t say anything to her as I set the mug down. Best leave her. Leave it. Leave everything. It’s the key to a happy life.

  Back in my room, I close the curtains, making it all cozy and womb-like. I feel safe in here. Some of my best drawings adorn the wall, and on my shelf there are a couple of old My Little Ponies that I can’t bear to part with for some reason. There’s also a pile of dirty laundry in the corner, but I’ll sort that out later.

  I log into my various socks, and there are all the lovely messages of hatred and spite, lined up for me to shoot down at my leisure. My heart’s going like the clappers, pumping lovely adrenaline around my body, lighting up my pleasure centers like a fireworks display. These people think they’re punishing me, but they’re wrong. They don’t know me. They don’t know that I tried the nice route, that I used to fawn over the Beautiful People—and that my only reward was to be ignored. It didn’t take me long to realize the only real difference between these girls and me was their looks. In fact, most of them are as dumb as a bag of rocks, but who cares when you’ve got abs and boob implants? So much for your personality being the thing that counts.

  Anyway, one day, I lost it. Called them all fake, dumb bitches—and I arrived. There it was: all the attention I’ve ever wanted. Sure, a lot of it was negative, and at first I felt awful, but it didn’t take long for me to get over that and see that all the comments, both good and bad, were reactionary, and therefore I could control them. I could play my pipes and make the internet dance to any tune I wished. So I did. And it was awesome. Okay, I’m pretty sure this is how most supervillains start off, but I’m down with that. I’d rather be laughing with the Joker than righteous with Batman any day of the week.

  There’s another DM from Tori. Much to my surprise, my heart gives one big thump when I notice it and my hands go a bit shaky as I open it. Gosh, this is new. This feels different from the hate mail. This is . . . something else. Something unexpected.

  Was I actually looking forward to her message?

  Hey—been following your trail of destruction . . . you are the Mistress of Chaos! Anyway, I thought you might appreciate this. Cheered me up after the shit day I’ve had.

  Interesting. Judging by that, she’s in my time zone. That means she could be in the UK. I squirrel that bit of info away, more out of habit than anything else. You never know when you might need some ammo, and every little thing counts.

  She’s attached a short YouTube clip of various cats sitting on various Roombas. I’ve seen it before, but it’s still cute. I wonder why she sent it to me.

  Lol, flattery will get you everywhere.

  Thanks for the vid. It’s cute.

  Soz to hear you’ve had a bad d
ay.

  I know it sounds naff, but I have no idea what else to say.

  Flattery will get me everywhere, huh??

  I might hold you to that one day!

  Are you on Metachat? We could talk there.

  Metachat is supposed to be this super-encrypted place, where people can talk about all manner of things without being kicked off. Heard really dodgy things about it. Not quite Dark Web, but getting there. I’ve never joined; I’ve never really had anyone to communicate with via it before.

  But now I do. And I am very tempted.

  Maybe I should just make an account and have a little wander around first? See how it works. Tori hasn’t supplied a link and it won’t turn up on any browser search, but I’m pretty confident I can find it. I’m not a hacker—Jesus Christ, no, those guys are way geekier than me—but I’ve flirted on the outskirts of the more forbidden parts of the net before. Just was ultimately too chicken to take the plunge.

  Well, now I’m a few months older and a whole lot wiser than when I started trolling. Oh yeah. Rock ’n’ roll. I can do this.

  It takes me about half an hour to locate the Metachat server. You might think that “Metachat” is a bit of a naff name, but what else are they going to call it? Doillegalstuffhereyoudon’twantpeopletofindoutabout.com? The whole point is that it’s nondescript. A little part of me is grumbling about how I’ve spent valuable trolling time doing this and how I don’t really know anything about this Tori person; they could be a fifty-year-old trucker called Trevor for all I know, but in a way, that just makes all of this more exciting. I’m taking a risk. My hands are shaking and I’m sweating like a pig, but I feel wonderful. I haven’t felt this keyed up since I started my trolling campaigns. What a time to be alive, eh?

  Well, I’m in, and the interface is disappointingly boring. No bells, no whistles, no emojis, just a panel to type into, a basic search bar, and a small discreet icon that will allow you to upload images. For the first time, I feel a bit uneasy when I think about the kinds of people who might use that image upload button. Is Tori that kind of person?