Fugly Read online

  “I’m not hungry. Just tired.”

  She smiles, and her face takes on a cadaverous twist. She looks hungry. She looks like a skeleton. When was the last time I saw her eat a proper meal? Last night’s pasta bake? She only picked at that. How long has it been since she really enjoyed food? Enjoyed eating? Enjoyed life? Too long.

  I take in a breath and hold it.

  Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you.

  12: #heaven

  I enjoy food.

  Actually, that’s a bit simplistic. Food is everything. It’s comfort. It’s always there for you. It doesn’t judge.

  It is also the ultimate enemy. Tell a heroin addict they need to get clean, and all they need to do is wean themselves off the drug and never use it again. (Yeah, I know it’s a bit more complicated than that, but that’s the basic principle.) Doesn’t work with food. Can’t wean yourself off that. You wean yourself off food for too long and you’re dead.

  Why can’t kale taste like chocolate? Life would be so much easier then. Everyone would be healthy. Sort it out, evolution.

  I tried to give up carbs once, but Mum told me to stop being silly. This was before Dad decided he wanted a new and improved family, before Mum fell ill. She was far more no-nonsense in those days, but in many ways far, far easier to deal with. Anyway, I remember the time I left my mashed potatoes, declaring they were “bad for me.” Everyone laughed, and Mum told me to clear my plate or I wouldn’t get any dessert. Talk about not getting the point. Allegedly, there are plenty of starving children in the world who would love my mashed potatoes, so don’t be so ungrateful and eat it up. It took all I had not to tell her to send the lot to that nebulous mass of starving children and instead shovel it into my mouth like a Good Girl. Because that’s important. Being a Good Girl. Be home on time, clean your room, and ALWAYS finish your plate. I think Not Finishing Your Plate was one of Mum’s cardinal sins before she stopped caring.

  I kind of miss those days. At least dinner was always on time then.

  After that, I tried to reduce my portion sizes. Mum was more on board with that. A few less chips, one less fish finger, maybe an extra bit of broccoli, because broccoli is good for you. It was a good plan.

  Only issue is, eating less means I get hungry later.

  I stare at the pizza menu. Old friend. Even older enemy. I tell myself I don’t want anything on it, but my stomach growls as if to say who do you think you’re kidding?

  I could ignore it. The Hunger. Sometimes, I like it. I like to imagine that it’s a monster living in my stomach, and each time it growls, it’s actually eating away at my flab from the inside, and that one morning I’ll wake up and emerge, like a butterfly from a cocoon, as a socially acceptable human being.

  Other times, though, I just sneak downstairs and feed it biscuits.

  Or, in this case, pizza.

  Lovely pizza. How I loathe you.

  Okay, I’m going to do it. I keep my promise to Mum and text Brat. I try to sound reasonable.

  Mum wants you to come home. Where are you?

  My phone buzzes.

  Fuck of

  I don’t even bother correcting his spelling.

  Oh well, more pizza for me.

  I get up and heave myself upstairs to grab my laptop. I don’t usually like taking it out of my sanctuary, but there’s a distinct lack of prying eyes downstairs, so I’m willing to risk it. I also grab my favorite blanket and a pillow, so I can make myself super-comfy. Might even watch a movie. It will be like a date night, only without a date. Well, they say you should spoil yourself.

  What can I get for twenty quid?

  Not what do I fancy? but what will give me the maximum amount of food? This isn’t about quality, dear friend—this is all about quantity. You’re talking to an expert, remember.

  I can get a meal deal. £19.99 gives me two medium pizzas, potato wedges, garlic bread, and a Coke.

  Pah. Amateur hour.

  Okay—£24.99 will give me two large pizzas, potato wedges, garlic bread, and a Coke.

  Now we’re talking.

  Getting another fiver shouldn’t be an issue as there has to be at least thirty quid in loose change in the jar. Although it does feel a bit sleazy to be paying the pizza man with coppers, my need for comfort food far outweighs this, so I tip the jar out. Oo, there’s a few 10 pence pieces in there, and a couple of 20ps, too. That’ll help. I easily scrape together the £4.99 I need, ignoring the horrible scratchy feeling that I could put that money to much better use, like filling the fridge, or contributing toward the electricity bill. Not that I am 100 percent sure how the electricity bill works—Dad used to sort that out, which is why we’ve always had to watch our consumption. He used to get so twitchy, he’d yell at us, and then he’d yell even louder at Mum.

  Nope—I need this. Today has been the day from hell. I deserve it. And everyone’s allowed a cheat day, right?

  I confirm the order and choose the “pay in cash” option. It tells me it’ll take half an hour to arrive. This is the bit I hate. Oh, the waiting doesn’t bother me (well, not much), it’s more the fact that someone can knock on the door at any time, and I will have to answer it (in PJs, no less), and he will judge the hell out of me for the food mountain I’ve purchased. I mean, yes, technically he will be right—fat girl buys too much pizza—but I still hate that feeling. Thin girls buy pizza, too, and no one judges them. For all he knows, I’m hosting a slumber party. A really, really quiet one, where all the guests are hiding.

  The clock ticks by. Still got twenty minutes. For a brief moment, I wonder where Brat is. It’s now coming up on eight o’clock. Maybe I should text him again? Not for my benefit of course, but for Mum’s.

  Late now. Mum’s worrying.

  And a couple of minutes later.

  I sed fuck of.

  So good to see he’s using his education wisely. Screw him.

  Fifteen minutes.

  I settle myself down and log in. Normal accounts are as sparse as usual—only when I log in with my proxies do I get my fix.

  The doorbell rings, and that familiar twang of panic twists my guts. I grab the cash in two hands and make sure my dressing gown is properly closed.

  “Hello! Pizza delivery!”

  He’s far too chirpy for a man on minimum wage. He starts piling boxes into my open arms, like a mother welcoming her newborn, and I dump the twenty quid note and the handfuls of change into his outstretched palm.

  He looks at me properly. It isn’t hard to read his thoughts. Yes, I am that desperate.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It is all there.”

  “Yeah,” he says. I hope to God he doesn’t insist on counting it all out. It’s bloody freezing.

  He makes a half-hearted attempt with the coins but then sighs heavily and stuffs the coins into his pockets whilst pizza grease soaks through the bottom of the box, warming my hands.

  I close the door, trying not to feel bad.

  I un-pause the film and spread the pizza boxes on the floor around me.

  There’s nothing quite like that first bite. I slowly push the piece of pizza into my mouth, savoring the salt of the pepperoni, the zing of the jalapeno, the sweetness of the red peppers, the creaminess of the cheese. I let out a long sigh as I chew, and slowly release the stress of the day, even if it’s only while I’m eating. I imagine this is what meditation feels like, if you know how to do it properly, and don’t secretly think the woman telling you to “imagine your negativity flowing away from you like a river with each breath” sounds like she’s lost the new age plot.

  Before I know it, half the pepperoni’s gone, and I’m on the garlic bread and potato wedges. (Don’t forget the sour cream and chives dip. Gotta be sour cream and chives. Anything else is just sacrilege.) Then I go back to the pizza, like a woman choosing from her many gorgeous lovers, and pick up a slice of the filthy, filthy Hawaiian. I know. Pineapple on pizza. I’m such a dirty girl.

  I’m feeling pretty full now, but to my mind, that’s just a ch
allenge. How much can I stuff into my face before my brain catches up with my stomach? Screw the consequences. Screw the bellyache that I know will come; screw the indigestion; screw the inevitable squits I will suffer tomorrow morning. Right here, right now—that’s what’s important. That’s what’s always important.

  I wipe my mouth. Grease coats my chin. I lean back against the sofa and cradle my stomach. Food baby. I have been impregnated with pizza. Maybe I should get pregnant for realsies. Then I can be fat and eat what I like, and no one would dare judge. Except then I’d be left with a screaming brat to look after. Plus, there’s the obvious problem of finding a willing sperm donor. Nah. Right now, I have pizza love, and that’s good enough for me. Oh, and Black Widow’s leather-clad ass. Hello.

  I watch for a bit, then slide my laptop closer. More messages of both hate and love have poured in. Brilliant. See? Here I’m not a loser. Here, I reign supreme. It doesn’t matter what side of the fence you fall down on: lover, hater, you’re still focused on me, talking about me, making me the topic of conversation. It’s true what they say. You really shouldn’t feed the trolls, because they fucking love it.

  A little box pings up in the corner of my screen. Metachat.

  LP479281X. Chat?

  I smile. It can only be one person.

  I click the OK button, and the box expands to reveal the chat panel.

  Hey. It’s Tori.

  Yeah. I know. Hi.

  Hi. What are you doing?

  Watching a movie, eating pizza.

  Oh, so, so much pizza.

  Sounds good. Wish I was there.

  Yeah. Me too.

  You should send me a pic. ;)

  Uhhh . . . no I shouldn’t. Me eating pizza in my PJs is something no one wants to see.

  Luckily, she replies before I can think of a suitable brush off.

  You gave good hassle today on Reddit. #impressed

  Hashtags, even though they don’t work here? How very postmodern.

  Was fun. Bit easy, tho.

  Fish and barrels spring to mind.

  I know what you mean. I tag-teamed you on Instagram. Did you see?

  Yeah. That was epic. Stupid bitch. She tried to block me. Like that was going to work.

  She’s gone private now.

  Wanna see if I can hack her?

  . . . Okay. Trolling = good clean fun. I know the roaming IPs and proxies aren’t exactly playing fair, but I’ve never stooped as low as hacking accounts.

  You hack too?

  Yeah. Hijacking accounts, posting sick shit—total chaos. Love it. Go on. You’ll see. It’s fun.

  It’s fun. Hmm. I’ve had little fun of late. Been groped by a vile pervert and thought my Mum might be dead, but not had much fun.

  Okay. Why not?

  I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?

  13: #mischief

  Turns out, there’s a whole ’nother level to internet mischief that has blithely passed me by. Controlling someone else’s account is like holding their life in the palms of your hands, and then clapping. Loudly.

  It doesn’t take Tori long to take control of Freedomchick04’s account. Oh, don’t be so sniffy. She likes to pose in tiny shorts and cropped tops, holding large guns. She’s basically asking for it.

  Once she’s in, Tori spends a gleeful half an hour posting all of her private pictures, including a veritable treasure trove of nude shots. Unsurprisingly, she’s incredibly flexible. By the time Tori’s finished with her, I’m laughing so much I’m kind of regretting my pizza binge, and all thoughts of perverts and dead mums have fled.

  We finish the evening by creating a new Twitter account and shoving the pictures on there, which causes an absolute shitstorm. Freedomchick is going to have a hell of a time clearing up that mess.

  That was fun!

  I know, naff, but I can’t help it.

  I thought you’d like it. :) It’s sooo much more fun when you’re calling all the shots. All we have to do now is wait. Freedomtwat is going to shit when she sees what we’ve been up to!

  Oh, she’s an imp, that’s for sure. I wonder what she looks like. I shake my head to stop those thoughts in their tracks. That’s not how this works. I might consider her a friend, but staying faceless is staying safe when it comes to the internet. Hell, why do you think I called myself Amy? Though that particular name is a curious choice. After all, I barely know her—

  The front door clicks as a key is turned in the lock, followed by a slam that reverberates through the house.

  I glance at my laptop. Nearly ten. Brat knows the score. He might think he’s a grown-up now, but staying out after nine is still a no-go. Eight o’clock was my latest curfew right up until I was sixteen, and I obeyed it. Okay, so I hardly had reason to challenge it, but that’s not the point. If I had to obey the rules, then so does he. I psych myself up, taking in a deep breath and retying my dressing gown cord. I loom in the living room doorway, waiting for him to pass by.

  “You’re late,” I say.

  He narrows his eyes at me.

  “Mum’s worried.”

  “No she isn’t. She’s fucking drugged up to the eyeballs most of the time. If she cared, she’d be here, not you.”

  He’s got a point.

  “All the more reason for you to do as you’re told,” I volley back. “The last thing she needs to worry about is where you are. Oi! I’m talking to you!”

  He saunters past me and up the stairs. “Fuck off. You’re not the boss of me.”

  Again, he has a point. I mean, some people might argue that as a (technically) responsible adult, I am the one in charge. But I’m not. And I don’t want to be.

  Brat smirks, and I curl my lip at him. He knows it. He knows it all. This is to hurt me as much as Mum; he just wants to burn the world to see what might happen next, and I want to punch him for it, because deep down that’s what I want to do, but I don’t have the guts, so instead I just burn myself with food and spite.

  “You’re a selfish little asshole, you know that?” I hiss.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He slinks into his bedroom. Seconds later, there’s an earth-shattering boom as he un-pauses his game. I close my eyes, my teeth grinding in unison with the rat-a-tat-tat of virtual guns.

  ***

  Everything ok?

  You all right?

  Amy? You there?

  I can’t help but feel touched by Tori’s concern when I get back to my laptop. Unfortunately, what I found hilariously daring a moment ago now seems a bit cheap and, dare I say it, mean.

  Yeah. Dickhead bro to deal with.

  Ah. Younger?

  You know it. Oh well.

  We all have our crosses, huh?

  Yeah . . . I know. You wanna talk?

  Nah. Can’t be bothered to waste time thinking about it, tbh. Life’s too short.

  You’re not wrong there, hun.

  Still, if you need a shoulder, you know where I am, right?

  Something involuntary catches in the back of my throat.

  Yeah. Thanks, hun.

  No problemo. That’s what friends are for, after all.

  Friends? I bite my bottom lip.

  You’re the best

  I try. ;)

  It’s weird, seeing this side of Tori. From her public personas, you’d never guess she had it in her to be nice. We chat for a bit longer, trading cat videos mainly, until she announces she has to get up early for work tomorrow and should probably hit the hay.

  I don’t bother tidying away the pizza boxes. Fuck it. Let the scene of devastation fester for a bit. Instead I wrap myself in my favorite blanket and try to drown myself in mindless reality TV.

  It’s kind of wonderful. These people talk weird, they stand weird, and their hair is always weirdly shiny and it’s great, like I’m David Attenborough studying a new species: Here we see the Essexius vacuousi’s mating ritual. Observe the male peacocking with many colorful tattoos, as his orange target preens to indicate her receptiveness. The in
tensity of the orange is directly proportional to the thickness of the eyebrows, and they relate to how easily the female will engage in the mating ritual. Mating grounds are often spontaneous and sometimes unsanitary, but the back of a car in a nightclub’s car park is considered optimal.

  I snicker to myself and snuggle back. Mum sleeps here so often there’s a really comfortable hollow, if you just shift this . . . and wiggle your butt cheek there . . . ahh. Life goals.

  I let the drowsiness infect me. So nice. So—yawn—cozy. My eyelids droop, and I allow all the do you know what I mean?s lull me to sleep.

  The next thing I know, there’s a stamping on the stairs, followed by a whoosh of cool air as the living room door is flung open. I jerk my head up. I haven’t a clue what’s on the telly now—some kind of shopping channel trying to sell me some crappy gym-thing—so it must be the early hours of the morning. My neck’s stiff, and I feel queasy. Ahh, the price you pay for Pizza Binge.

  “I’m hungry,” Bratley says and picks up a pizza box. “Just one slice? Did you fucking eat all of this?”

  I try not to cringe and instead close my eyes.

  “You fat bitch!” he snarls. “Two fucking pizzas? Fuck me.”

  “If you’d got home at a sensible time, then I would’ve shared—”

  “But instead I didn’t, so rather than sticking one in the fridge, you fucking ate it? Fuck. Hey fatty boom boom, no wonder no one fucking wants you.”

  “Will you stop swearing,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Fuck off. Will you get your fat ass off the fucking sofa for once?”

  He’s doing this to rile me up. I know it. And the sad thing is, it’s working. Shame reeks out of my every pore.

  He makes those piggy noises I hate so much, and the urge to punch him becomes unbearable.

  “Stop it,” I hiss.

  “Little Miss Rotunda. Biiiig Beth! Ten ton Bethy! Will do anything for a Mars bar.” He makes a wanking gesture at his crotch. “Nosh on that—”

  “Fuck off!” I scream.

  He laughs and waves his phone at me. On the screen is a picture of me, asleep, surrounded by pizza boxes. “You wait until I tell my mates about this.”

  I turn cold. Because some of his mates are the younger brothers of Tormentors of Schoolmas past. Will I ever escape? He gives me a vicious smile. He’s none too skinny himself, but no one questions him. He’s quite tall, and his flab makes him look intimidating rather than just plain fat. He can get away with it, because he’s a boy. I can’t, because I’m not.