Fugly Page 4

  I shake my head. This is not the time to think like that.

  There’s no real way to create a proper profile—which is sensible given how people always give away waaaay too much info on their profiles in a desperate attempt at sounding interesting. Just a random number-and-letter generator. Each time you log in, you get a new anonymous identity. You then tell the person you want to contact to type that into the search bar, et voila—you’re connected.

  That’s good. And a bit scary. But mainly good.

  I click out of Metachat and reply to Tori, telling her I’ve installed it. It’s on one of my hidden partitions, so if anyone uses my laptop, they’d never find it.

  It only takes her a few minutes to reply.

  Yeah? Cool! Hang on . . .

  I wait.

  4x729vWF14

  I know exactly what that means.

  God, this is exciting. I kind of feel like a spy. This whole anonymity thing is a massive turn-on. I wonder if Tori gets the same thrill. In I go again to Metachat, and type the code in. A little cursor appears in the conversation panel, blinking and waiting.

  Hi

  I’m breathless.

  Hey. Tori?

  Yeah. It’s me. We can drop the act here. Feels good, huh?

  Oh, she is not wrong.

  I know you’re MidnightBanshee and SharkKrawler9 and FlounceyPouncey, but you never gave me your real name?

  Alarm bells. Can’t be Beth here. Who can I be? Chances are she isn’t Tori either. Need something that sounds plausible.

  Amy.

  Uh, okay. Not sure where that came from, but I’ll roll with it. Lots of Amys in the world. Cool. Amy. Good.

  So what you wanna chat about?

  Lol, things that would get us banned on the boards, dumbass!

  You know the admin can hack the DMs, right?

  Yeah, course.

  Why do you think I didn’t say too much?

  Cos you’re a professional ;) . . . like me.

  Oh, baby, where have you been all my life?

  You can say that again.

  We can use this to coordinate.

  I know socks are fun, but eventually they always get caught.

  You think I should stop using socks?

  Nah, but we can sort out targets here.

  Strategize. Cause as much havoc as possible.

  That sounds cool

  Yeah, I thought you’d like it.

  I’ve been watching your trail of chaos for a while now.

  You’re sick. So good at taking down those tramps.

  I’m not quite sure how to reply to this. I’m not good with compliments. I decide to ignore it.

  If they don’t want ppl commenting, then they shouldn’t preen over the web.

  Ikr? They just want people to worship them. Ain’t gonna happen, buttercup. And speaking of buttercups—have you seen Buttercup97 on Instagram? Was in the doldrums until she started posting those fucking stupid half-naked yoga pics and going on about fucking kimchi. Bitch needs to be taken down a peg. You in?

  She seriously needs to ask?

  10: #suckitupbuttercup

  I have so much fun tag-teaming with Tori and her various socks that I completely forget to have lunch. She is delightfully vicious and is so adept at switching personas, I wonder if we might have actually attracted a few outsiders, like sharks at a frenzy. When Buttercup97, with her perfect ass and perfect eyebrows and perfect life, logs on she’s in for a shock. Already, her fans are trying to fight through, telling us to leave Buttercup alone, stupid troll, why must u hate? Must be fat and ugly, fuck you, don’t bother feeding the troll, u skank u whore u leave Buttercup be she’s perfect we luv u Buttercup don’t listen. Yeah, yeah, heard it all before, you bunch of amateurs. When my alarm goes off at two, I’m actually feeling pretty bouncy and I don’t really want to leave the fun. Two of my socks have already been banned and I know three others have been reported and the chaos is just delicious, and Tori’s on Metachat in the corner of my screen, laughing her ass off judging by the amount of “lols” she’s typing to me.

  But I can’t stay and do this all day as I’ve got another lecture at three, so I say goodbye to Tori (who begs me to stay—boy, I’ve never felt so wanted! Maybe it’s worth blowing the lecture off today after all!), and spend a good ten minutes diligently logging out of everything, clearing all my caches, and generally ensuring none of this afternoon’s mayhem can be linked back to me and my IP address, before running out to grab the bus.

  I meet Brat on the stairs. He’s got a Coke in one hand and his phone in the other.

  “What were you laughing about?” he sneers.

  “Why aren’t you at school?” I shoot back.

  He glowers at me and pushes past. Ha. I win.

  ***

  I don’t often win. I think that’s one of the reasons why I’m interested in psychology. I spent most of my time at school deeply unhappy. Life isn’t very kind to emergent fugly girls. Fugly boys (yes, they exist too) have it a little easier in that the patriarchy protects them a little, so fugly girls really are at the bottom of the pack, and I suppose I wanted to know why. What is it that makes us humans so obsessed with our appearance? With looking attractive? Why are the Beautiful People considered Beautiful anyway? What exactly is wrong with me, other than some deeply unfair social stereotyping? At first I read a load of bollocks about mindfulness and shit like that, but I wasn’t looking to fix myself; I was looking to fix everyone else. So I turned to the scientific study of the mind.

  Alas, today’s lecture isn’t particularly enlightening. Amy’s sitting next to me again; like this morning, she’d waited for me and corralled me into The Middle, jabbering on about how it’s so inconvenient to have two lectures at opposite sides of the day, don’t they realize we have lives to live, I mean, come on . . .

  I let her words wash over me, nodding occasionally so she thinks I’m listening. My mind is on other things. Like Tori. I doodle question marks surrounded by flowers over my notes. What exactly is her angle? I do quite like her—she’s funny and cruel and clever, all the things I want to be, but that only makes me suspicious. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself while I’m figuring her out, though. For once, this is a win-win situation.

  The lecture’s only an hour long (maybe Amy has a point about it being a waste of time), so it’s not long before I’m back on the bus, and it’s busy. I hate rush hour. No seats means I have to stand, and I’m so aware of my stomach and bum that I don’t notice the guy standing behind me until I feel something brush my butt. I go to apologize for bumping into him and try to move, but between the girl with the enormous stroller and the old dears and their myriad walking aides, I’m stuck.

  And the man isn’t moving his hand.

  I glance over my shoulder. He’s not looking at me. He’s gazing out the window. He’s quite old, in his 40s, maybe 50s? I don’t know, but he has graying hair and horrible sagging jowls with an uneven smattering of stubble. His nose is a bit bulbous and is covered in a network of broken capillaries.

  I try to shift over, but I’m still stuck in a press of people, and now his hand has moved under my coat and he’s running his finger down my butt crack.

  I freeze.

  I always thought that if someone felt me up, I’d kick the pervert in the bollocks. But then again, I never really expected this to happen to me, because why the hell would someone choose to grope me when the world is full of far more beautiful girls, with far prettier, perkier backsides?

  So I stand there, my eyes wide, bile bubbling at the back of my throat. All around me, people are chattering, playing with their phones, getting on with their lives, not realizing that something so vile is taking place under their noses. I want to scream. I want to shout. But the fear that no one would believe me due to my fugliness—and the general ingrainedness of the old chestnut that nice girls don’t make a scene—stops me. Hell, maybe I deserve this. I chose to wear leggings. Maybe this is it, the only attention I’ll ever rec
eive. Maybe this is how it’s done? No—even I know this is fucked up, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m paralyzed. People, help me, please. Someone, notice . . .

  But they’re all staring at their phones, lost in their own little worlds, while I am right there, trapped in this one.

  His fingertips dig into my flesh and he clears his throat. I feel physically sick. Finally he leans over and presses the bell, and two seconds later, the bus slides into the bus stop and he murmurs “Excuse me” like nothing has happened, like he hasn’t just spent the last five minutes feeling up my backside, humiliating me, stirring that already pretty massive pot of self-hatred up into a frenzy, and I know if I say or do anything now, I’ll lose it and people will be questioning my sanity rather than his morals, so I let him slide past me and slink away to God knows where. I’m pretty sure he’s smirking when I catch sight of him through the bus window.

  There’s still nowhere to sit, so I’m still forced to keep standing. I take advantage of the changeover to pull the back of my coat down. One of the old ladies looks up at me and smiles. It takes all I’ve got to smile back and not dissolve into tears right here.

  No, that’ll happen later, when I’m alone.

  11: #metoo

  When I get home I jump straight in the shower. I want to burn my leggings, but I can’t afford a new pair, so instead I’ll throw them into the wash.

  The water is hot and good. It washes away all sin. I cry and cry and cry. Why am I so pathetic? I play the incident over and over in my head, each time my comebacks getting nastier and nastier until the sick fuck is cowering at my feet while I tower over him, my phone in hand, as he begs me not to post the video online, not to tell his wife, not to ruin his life. Doesn’t make me feel any better, though, no matter how many times I scrub. If he’d been online, I would have destroyed him. In real life? I can’t even tell a legit perv to fuck off.

  After ten minutes, I get out. Yes, even now, I am aware of how much a long shower costs. Dad drilled that into me from a young age. Shut the door, were you born in a barn? Why are all the lights on, you trying to light up the street? What were you doing in there, washing an elephant? (Why, yes, I was: me. It takes time to make sure every nook and cranny in this overinflated body is clean, thank you very much.)

  The heating’s not on yet—you never turn that on until six, on pain of death—so I wrap myself in a cold towel and run the gauntlet back to my room, praying that Mum or Brat don’t see me wobbling down the hallway.

  I’m in luck. Well, it’s about time. I close my door and draw the curtains before flinging myself on my bed. The shame won’t leave me. His hand is still there, and I think it will be for a long time yet. I dry myself off, telling myself sternly that crying never solved anything, and drag my pajamas on, even though it’s only half past five.

  Too late now. Best put it in a box and forget about it.

  The vitriol flung at me online today tastes very sweet indeed, but also leaves me feeling a little bit hollow. Do the people I troll online feel the same way about themselves as I do right now? Was that guy simply trolling me in real life? I bite at the skin around my thumbnail until I taste copper.

  No. It’s not the same. All I was doing was standing on the bus. There was no invitation. Hell, I’m no invitation. Even if I was standing there in a bikini, wearing a sign saying Get It Here, people wouldn’t see that as an invitation. I was a victim, pure and simple. Although—maybe I shouldn’t have worn leggings. Okay, so they were under a long jumper that almost reaches my knees, but maybe some baggy jeans would have been better? He might have chosen someone else if I’d been wearing baggy jeans. Those girls on the internet, they wouldn’t be seen dead in baggy jeans. Or leggings, really—just tight yoga pants. (What exactly are yoga pants, anyway? I’ve never really worked out how they differentiate from leggings, apart from you can pick up leggings for four pounds a pair at Primark, whereas you have to take out a fucking loan to buy a decent pair of yoga pants.) Or bikinis (SO many bikinis), or those stupidly tight dresses that’d show every lump and bump if they had lumps and bumps to show. Those girls are the ones asking for it.

  Still, I don’t reply to anyone. Not in the mood. I wrap my dressing gown around me and run a brush through my damp hair. Doesn’t smell like anyone’s bothered to cook, so I creep downstairs. I don’t really want to talk to anyone, but I’m hungry. I need to feed the beast.

  Mum’s not in the living room, so she must have gone to bed. Maybe I should make her something to eat. Not Brat, though. Brat can fuck off. Not that I know where he is, which is, admittedly, a bit weird. He usually beats even me in the dinnertime “I’m hungry” wailing. Maybe he’s gone out and got himself a Macky D’s. Hmm. I wish I’d thought of that. But that does rely on me entering a McDonalds and walking past all the people in it, with their horrible, judgy eyes. Sometimes the lure of the cheeseburger is too much and I brave it, but it never tastes as great as I want it to, because I bolt it down so quickly it doesn’t touch the sides, because I’m just so mortified of people watching me, and yes, I do realize that to other people it looks like I’m so desperate for fatty crap that I shove the whole thing in my big gob as quickly as possible, oh my God, there should be a law against it, eat less move more, it’s not hard . . .

  I shake my head. Shame spiraling will not help. I open the fridge. It is depressingly empty. Half a carton of milk, a slightly squishy pepper, a jar of pickles from Christmas about three years ago, a jar of furry gooseberry jam. I ask you. Gooseberry jam. Who the fuck eats that?

  I gallantly move the sad remnants of the fridge around, looking for some cheese (you never know, it might have been behind the pepper or in the drawer where vegetables go to die), but I come up empty. The tears well again.

  “Mum!” I call out. No response. I pad to the bottom of the stairs. “Mum?”

  Still nothing.

  I listen for a bit. The house creaks around me. It’s old and suddenly the weight of those years hits me. How many other people have lived here? How many have died? Are they still around, watching me in my dressing gown, shouting up the stairs, hoping I don’t have to make the climb up?

  “Mum!” There’s a note of panic in my voice now. Oh no. Not again. Please—not today. I don’t think I can cope with this today.

  The bannister is cold under my hand. One foot up, onto the first step. I can feel the panic rise, like a little scrabbly animal in my belly, trying to claw its way out of my throat. More steps. Dammit, everything is just so quiet. The house is never this quiet. The only other time was when—

  I take in a deep breath. Now is not the time to be thinking of things like that. Right now, I need to focus.

  Up a few more steps. Feels like a mountain. My heart is thundering like a jackhammer as I crest the top of the staircase.

  No lights on. Not even a bedroom one. I flick the switch, but the sudden harsh light is somehow worse. No place to hide now. Only stark truth to face.

  “Mum?” I say. It comes out more like a whimper. Her door is the second one on the left, opposite mine. I tap my fingers on the door, but no one answers.

  I enter her room.

  Even by my standards, it’s pretty rank in here. When Dad was around, this room always smelled of talcum powder and aftershave. Now it’s unwashed sheets and menthol. I don’t turn the light on, just let some spill in from the landing.

  “Mum?” I whisper.

  The lump on the bed doesn’t stir.

  I’ve made it this far, but I don’t know if I have it in me to take it any farther. All I need to do is check on her. She’s probably just asleep. She does that a lot now—between her various illnesses and her medication, she’s often exhausted. Give her a little shake, just to make sure.

  But I don’t know if I can. Because there’s always the reality that one day, she won’t just be tired. That’s inevitable.

  We all die.

  I just didn’t think it would be now.

  It can’t be now. No, Mum, no . . . please be
asleep. Please be asleep. Please . . .

  I stretch out a hand and hesitate. If she is dead, then I’ll be touching a corpse. A vicious shudder runs through me.

  Come on, Beth—get it together. I shake the lump.

  It doesn’t move.

  “Mum?”

  I pull back the cover, just enough so I can see her face. She looks older than 52—much older, her once cheerful, open face now lined and pasty, with big black bags under her eyes.

  She snorts, and I nearly hit the roof.

  “Fuck!” I gasp.

  Mum frowns. “I don’t like you using that language, Bethany.”

  Jesus, of all the things to say . . .

  “You okay, Mum?” I want to smooth her hair from her face, to hug her, for her to hug me, for her to tell me everything’s okay, like she used to do when I was a child, but instead she only gives me a weak, kind of confused smile.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. I was just tired. Is Bradley in?”

  “No, not right now.” Bradley. Always about Bradley.

  She sighs heavily and lies back, limp. “Can you text him and ask him to come home? It’s late now.”

  I squash down the urge to tell her to text her own damn son. But I know that would be cruel, given everything.

  “Yeah, course I can.”

  “You’re a good girl, Beth.”

  Yeah. The best. Go Beth.

  “Why are you in your pajamas?” Mum continues. “Aren’t you babysitting later?”

  “No. It’s Tuesday, Mum. Not Wednesday.”

  “It’s Tuesday?”

  “Yeah. I came up to see if there was anything to eat,”

  “Oh, bugger. I forgot to put in the grocery order.” She runs a trembling hand over her face. “I must’ve been asleep.”

  Oh, great.

  “There’s twenty in the mug,” she says. “Get yourself and Bradley a pizza.”

  “And you?”