Fugly Read online

  “Ta-ta, Fatty!” He wiggles his fingers at me in the parody of a wave and saunters back out of the room, knowing full well he’s won.

  14: #sohotrightnow

  I can’t sleep. My guts are churning after all that dairy, but all I can think about is food. I do know this is ridiculous. I do know I’m going to be sick. But I can’t help it. I cannot fight this demon. I don’t know how.

  There are no more Mars bars left in my secret stash now. I’ve eaten them all. Wrappers litter my bed. And I’m lying back, burping and farting, trying to psych myself up to do the inevitable.

  ***

  Let’s just get this out there. I don’t like being sick. I don’t think anyone does. I’m not full-on bulimic—those girls are hardcore, ’cause that means throwing up every single day, and I simply couldn’t face that—but it’s another string to my bow when things get too much. Eating is a pleasure. Digesting? Not so much.

  Maybe I’m lactose intolerant. They say you crave the things you shouldn’t have. It would explain why I always want chocolate and cheese. Well, okay, that and they taste absolutely amazing, but I always feel terrible after eating them. All bloated and gassy. Maybe I should give them up. Okay, so the carb thing was a no-go, but now that Mum doesn’t give a fuck about anything any of us do, maybe it would be easier.

  Maybe.

  I slump over the toilet. Urgh. My throat feels sore, and pizza and chocolate do not taste as nice coming back up as they do doing down. My face feels hot and puffy, and my eyes sting. I blow my nose. A chunk of pepper flies out.

  This is pretty low.

  I’ve got to do something. Sort myself out. Sort everything out. Stop worrying about other people’s opinions. Make a change. Fuck the haters. They can kiss my fat ass, for all I care.

  Ha. Watch it, you’re beginning to sound like those Instagrammers you loathe so much. Next thing you know, you’ll be setting up an “inspiration” account, posting how far you’ve run and taking pictures of your boringly healthy meals, complete with hashtags like #soblessed and #lovinglife. And then some poor sap will come along and troll you until you snap and trough down a whole family-sized candy bar so fast, the Guinness Book of Records will come knocking.

  Nah. I’m not that desperate. Not yet.

  Not ever.

  15: #anotherday

  Today is a full uni day. I’m not sure I’m up to it, but hell, it beats sitting around here, with the pizza boxes of shame lurking in the bin. I check on Mum, who is still asleep, and ignore Brat completely. Fuck it. I don’t care. Not anymore. If he doesn’t want to go to school, then let him deal with the consequences. In a way, that makes me much stronger than him, because I had a far harder time but I didn’t bunk off. Well, not that much.

  I take some time to check up on the havoc Tori and I wreaked last night, and I am not disappointed. Freedomchick04 has pulled her Instagram account, but the Twitter one is still going strong. People are still talking about it, and the secret pictures of her are still circulating. This lifts my mood immeasurably.

  I decide to listen to something a little more upbeat this morning, so I can hold on to the lovely, bubbly feeling that destroying Freedomchick04 has sparked within me. I’m not a monster. I’m a loveable rogue. I should wear a black cat suit and have a mask. There she goes! The Anarchist. She doesn’t care; she thrives on chaos.

  The bus is on time. I flash my pass, and in a fit of daring, take the back seat. I was never allowed to do this at school. The back seat was for the cool kids. Now look at me. Bus Queen. At the back, no one can grab me; Bus Pervert will have to get his kicks off someone else.

  “Hey! Hi!”

  A squeak breaks through my musing. The bus has stopped to let in the next batch of wage slaves and coffin dodgers. Amongst them is Amy. Shit. I forgot she got this bus.

  Without waiting to be asked, she plonks herself next to me. Today, her hair is up in pigtails, and she’s wearing pink hotpants over green and black stripy tights.

  “Why didn’t you friend me?” she asks, her kohl-rimmed eyes huge.

  “Uh, sorry. I was busy last night. Like I said, my mum wasn’t well, and—”

  “Oh, God, yeah, I’m sorry. I feel bad now. I should have remembered. Is she okay? Must be a massive strain on you. But you have to look after yourself, too. You can’t neglect yourself. I know, why don’t we do it now?” She pulls her phone out, and since refusing her would be like kicking a puppy squarely in the face, I fish mine out too and tap the Facebook app.

  “Yay!” she says, in a way that would make even the most hardened Manic Pixie Dream Girl cringe. “Now, this is me—isn’t my avatar cute? And yeah, hang on, hang on—ooh! Beth Soames! There you are. And . . . friendship request accepted! Now we can stay in touch! Isn’t that great? We can arrange to meet outside of lectures and everything now!”

  She speaks as if this is the most exciting, revolutionary development ever, leaving me to wonder just how pathetic the rest of her life is. Before I can say anything, my phone buzzes and a bunch of nonsensical emojis flood my screen. Amy laughs. Of course they’re from her.

  “Online party! Let’s celebrate. Come on!” She wiggle-dances in her seat next to me.

  Good lord.

  I spend the rest of the bus journey listening to Amy chatter on while my phone almost vibrates itself to pieces. Even though she’s here, talking to me, she’s still sending me stuff online, mainly cute pictures of cute animals being cute. There’s no edge to Amy at all; she’s like a ball of candyfloss caught in the mind of a five-year-old, wrapped up in the body of a supermodel, and I find myself both liking her because she’s so obviously harmless but also hating her because she’s so, well, fluffy.

  Tori would have a field day with her online.

  So would I, if I’m honest.

  “Oh my GOD! Look at this one!” she moans, and yep, that’s my phone again. I bring up the video—a sphynx cat trying to warm up on a larger, fluffier cat. It is undoubtedly cute.

  “Aww. He’s cold,” I say. I mean, what else is there to say?

  “I would huggle him so much if he was mine,” she says in a voice people usually reserve for toddlers.

  “I do quite like those sphynx cats,” I say. “They always look kind of angry. And how can you not love something that deliberately ugly?”

  “I know!” Amy nods enthusiastically and pantomimes stroking her phone. “With their grumpy little faces . . . ooooh! Look at this one!”

  I have a feeling I am going to get a lot of these videos now.

  The next stop is ours, and when we get off, Amy waves at the bus driver, who has the good grace to scowl back at her.

  “So, did you finish your assignment?” she continues. “I did. It was soooo hard, though. I had to spend over an hour looking up half the stuff online, and even then I don’t think I really got it, not properly, anyway. I bet you did okay, though. Did you do okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s probably crap, but it’s done.”

  She beams at me, but I can’t help but notice there’s a fragility to it. In fact, everything about her has a brittle quality. That whole manic pixie girl thing she has going on, the talking a mile a minute, the deliberate cuteness, the pigtails—it’s all too much, a bit too contrived, and I am left wondering if it’s all an act. If this is her armor against the world. If instead of black and chocolate and online trolling, she’s chosen to become the living embodiment of an anime character.

  She clutches her folder tightly to her chest as we walk. She giggles a lot. I don’t have to say much, which is kind of perfect. Maybe this might work? Maybe we could be—no, I can’t bring myself to say it. Because saying it would jinx it, and as much as I would never admit it, I don’t want to jinx it. Not yet, anyway.

  She waves and says hi to everyone. Only about half do the same back. That’s probably the me factor.

  By the time we get to our lecture hall and Amy starts leading me toward the middle rows, my post-trolling euphoria has completely worn off,
and my stomach is hurting. There are too many people in here today. Usually I can cope with it because I’m at the back, but now that I’m in the thick of it, my heart is racing and my palms are sweaty. I turn around and bump into someone. They glare at me and I mutter “sorry,” carefully avoiding their angry eyes.

  I turn again and someone brushes past me. The sensation extends farther than the actual touch, down my back, toward my buttocks, and I am there again, on the bus, with that guy feeling me up. My head swells as my pulse builds. This is what happens when you bury stuff in food and cruelty. It gets hidden, sure, but it doesn’t get dealt with, which means it runs the risk of popping up again in all manner of inappropriate places.

  Amy’s shuffled into a row and is beckoning at me to join her, but the gap now looks tiny, like you’d have to be a pixie to get through it, and that’s fine for Amy because we’ve already established that she is a pixie, but I’m a troll, a massive, galumphing troll, and I am never, ever going to be able to squeeze in there, especially with all the people around, God it’s hot in here, but I can’t take my coat off because then I will have to carry it and that makes me bigger and I’m going to end up knocking someone out and then they’ll all turn and laugh and laugh and laugh . . .

  My head’s spinning now; my tongue is dry, like a big, fat slug, no, not a slug, slugs aren’t dry, they’re wet, so what is it like? Too big, too dry, too big too big too big—

  “Beth!” Amy trills. “Sit down, honey!”

  She’s staring up at me, her eyes huge. She reaches out and gives my arm a little tug, and I collapse onto the chair next to her.

  “Oh my God, you’re, like, shaking—are you okay?”

  I give her a jerky nod as the chair tightens around me, cutting into me, until I feel like it’s going to crush me. She gives me a concerned look and rummages in her bag.

  “Do you want a bonbon?”

  What the fuck? I’m suffocating here. I glance to one side; people are talking amongst themselves, but I know they’re talking about me, whispering as usual, look at the state of it, thinks it’s normal, thinks it has a right to be here with the Beautiful People, out in the open, lock it in a box, never let it out, shouldn’t have to suffer its presence—

  Amy jiggles the bag at me. “Go on. The sugar will make you feel better.”

  I feel the laugh build within me, but I know I can’t let it out, because if I do, that’s it: game over, man, game over. She really doesn’t have a clue, does she? Of course sugar will make me feel better. It’s my best friend. We just have a bit of a toxic relationship. I love it, it hates me. If people see me taking a bonbon, then they’ll know that I’m a cheater, I’m one of the lazy ones, eat less, move more, eat paleo, no grains, no carbs, definitely no sugar, no sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sweet, sweet, sugar . . .

  I give her a jerky nod and take one. It’s dusty with icing sugar. I haven’t had one of these since I was a kid. I wonder where she found them. Probably in some elitist hipster shop in a trendy part of town I don’t know of, despite living here all my life.

  She grins at me and pops one in her mouth.

  “Strawberry. My favorite.” Her voice sounds full—well, of course it’s full, she has a bonbon in her mouth, you fucking idiot—

  I shove the bonbon in my mouth and hope the sugar will shut the voice up. And it works. Sort of.

  Bonbons are hard to chew at first, so I concentrate on sucking. My mouth is flooded with a chemical-sweet synthetic strawberry flavor. Then the outside begins to soften and I probe it with my tongue. Hmm. Time to chew soon. But not yet. Chewing makes them go away and I want to savor this. I roll it around my mouth. Hmm. Sweet. Sweeeet.

  Slowly, my hands stop trembling, and I find I am able to move. I’m actually right at the end of the row, so I can take my coat off without running the risk of punching someone in the face. My bag nestles comfortably beside me. All because of sugar. Lovely, lovely sugar.

  “There. Better now?”

  Amy’s voice has taken on a soothing edge. I like that. It’s nice. Amy is nice. Maybe we could be—cross fingers to ward off the jinx—friends? Or is that just the sugar talking?

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”

  She leans over to me, giving me a conspiratorial look. “I know what it’s like. Crowded places? Ugh. Hate them.” She does a little mock shudder to prove her point.

  I look at her perfect legs, and her flat stomach, her high cheekbones and her small, perky breasts.

  Yeah, of course you know what it’s like, sweetheart, of course you do.

  16: #assholestudents

  I’m still feeling a bit jumpy. Someone’s phone goes off halfway through the lecture, and the professor goes apeshit, yelling at them to get the hell out of his lecture hall. At one point, I wonder if he’s going to storm out, or grab the phone and throw it away, or both. I kind of like how these professors operate. Unlike school—which was all please and thank you and don’t damage their fragile little egos even if they are bullying little shitheads who give other kids nightmares—university is much more brutal. You step out of line? You get bawled out, simple as that. Forget safe spaces. You’re here to learn.

  Amy gives me a fake worried look, and I dare to smile before the professor carries on. Today’s lecture is about Jung—not one of my favorites, but interesting nonetheless. Some people might complain about lectures, but I like them. I like the focus. Concentrate on this. No need to interact with the rest of the world. It’s good.

  Afterward, I wait until nearly everyone has filed out before I scuttle toward the door, my head down, my arms full of folders. I’m still not used to being this visible, and I wonder if I ever will be. Maybe I should speak to Amy about it—ask her if we can sit at the back, where I feel safer? Or would she totally, like, laugh at that?

  Whatever she’d do, she has followed me out and is looking at me expectantly. I have no idea what to say to her.

  “Uh, good lecture?”

  “Oh, yeah!” she replies. “Listen, do you want to come back to mine for some lunch? We could look at those references together. Are you in digs or halls? Oh, no, you live at home, right? I remember, your mum’s sick. Is she okay? Do you need to get home, or can you come round? I mean, if your mum needs you, then of course, go do that, but if not, you could come back to mine. I know there’s another lecture at one, and I’m not that far away, I mean, we could go to the library, of course, but then we can’t eat, and if I don’t eat I go all weird and wobbly, like properly hangry, so, uh, yeah?”

  Oh God. This is good, right? This is what I wanted? Uni was a new start, a new opportunity, and here I am being offered that opportunity—the opportunity to make a real friend and not one that is just strings of zeros and ones, one made of flesh, not of data. I was just planning to hang around the library, but okay, this is something else, something new, something . . . good?

  “Uh, okay,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t crack. “Whatever you want. Are you in halls?”

  “Yeah, I am. The nice ones, not like, you know, Bateson. Do you know they still have shared rooms there? It’s like the fucking stone age! Luckily I got into Watson. It’s a bit more expensive, but I get my own room and bathroom. Nothing worse than having to pull someone else’s hair out of the plughole, right? It’s just disgusting. So when I applied, Mum and Dad said that they’d help me pay for the nicer halls as long as I kept my grades up, God, you’d think that was all that mattered, fucking grades, don’t they realize the experience of uni is the important thing?”

  She seems to expect a response so I say, “Uh, yeah, absolutely. Get out there, in the real world. Try to figure out who you are.” Not that I have a clue.

  “I know, right? I tried to tell them, but they think everything has to be tied to what job you can get, how much you can earn, like money is everything . . .”

  I try not to gawp as she carries on talking. It’s a gift. Or a curse. She can witter on about anything. No need to worry about uncomfortable silences with Amy around. It�
��s kind of adorable. And annoying.

  “Oh, look! Squirrels!” she squeals as we walk past the park. “Oh, I love the way they scamper about, holding things in their little paws. They are so cute!”

  I don’t have the heart to tell her I saw three of them mug a couple of old ladies of their sandwiches not that long ago.

  We grab the bus, and from there it doesn’t take us long to reach her residence halls, but I’m still breathing pretty hard when we get there. I’m trying to disguise it, which is only making matters worse, but I can’t let on that a simple stroll has knackered me quite this much.

  She lives on the third floor, and I suffer a moment of panic when I think I might have to climb three flights of stairs, but it’s okay—there’s a lift. Thank the Lord for small mercies, I suppose.

  Her halls aren’t quite like I’d imagined university accommodations to be. In my head, it’s all very much filthy bathrooms and greasy kitchens, cigarette butts, and pyramids of beer cans all over the place. This looks more like a Travelodge. Okay, so there’s washing-up piled in the sink and about a million takeaway menus covering the table, but on the whole, it’s pretty civilized. Nicer than home, anyway. At least someone vacuums here. They probably have a cleaner who comes in, or something.

  Amy bounces off and opens one of the doors.

  “This is my room!” she says, and wow, yes it is. It looks like there was an explosion in a glitter factory. Fairy lights twinkle around the mirror, and there are posters for various anime movies on the wall. And, Jesus, is that tinsel? It’s not Christmas! But it does sparkle, and Amy’s obviously a magpie, so why not?

  I sit on the edge of her bed and she throws herself down next to me.