Fugly Page 7

  “So, this is my home at the moment,” she says. “I mean, it’s small, I know, but it’s homey, isn’t it?”

  I glance around myself, trying not to be blinded by all the sparkling. Is she . . . seeking my approval?

  “Uh, yeah. It’s really nice. Really . . . glittery.”

  “Yeah, I like glitter. It’s really important to make your living space yours, otherwise I don’t think you could ever really relax there. Mum didn’t like me having the lights up, said they were a fire hazard, and she thought that sparkly things made the room look cheap, but fuck it, she’s not here, is she?”

  The sudden viciousness in her voice shocks me.

  “Anyway, I decided I was going to craft my dream room when I was at uni.” And just like that, the viciousness is gone. “So I did! I love it. It’s my haven. My sanctuary. Shall we go and get something to eat?”

  And she’s up again, bouncing to the door. If this is such a sanctuary, then why does she seem so keen to get out of it? But then again, that’s not really my business, is it? I eat family meal deals’ worth of pizza to escape my issues. We all have our quirks.

  The kitchen is the only shared space, but there’s no one else in at the moment, so I don’t feel too uncomfortable. Amy puts the kettle on and goes to the fridge, where she rummages for a bit and then surfaces, empty-handed.

  “Those jokers,” she says. “No milk. Again. We’re supposed to get all our own stuff, but they keep borrowing mine.” She rolls her eyes in a dramatic way, as if it’s all just a big joke, but I can see it bothers her. “Good thing I’ve got some Coffee-Mate. Are you okay with coffee?”

  “I’m fine with coffee,” I say.

  “Sugar?”

  Three.

  “No, thanks. I’m trying to avoid added sugar as much as possible at the moment.”

  “Oh, you’re so good! Not like me, I’m hopelessly addicted.” She adds two teaspoons of the white stuff into a mug.

  Look, I know. I know, okay? You don’t need to say anything. I have to pretend I’m avoiding. It makes it look like I’m trying, and I’ve learned that people are more willing to give the overweight the benefit of the doubt if we piously restrict ourselves in public. It’s an unwritten law: never add sugar, always stick to the salad option even if the lasagna looks reeeally good, and never, never, NEVER order a dessert, no matter what. People will then tell you you’re so good, oh, it’s so unfair for you, you try so hard, and for a fleeting moment, you are allowed to believe them and it’s okay to feel, if not good about yourself, then maybe a smidgen less self-loathing.

  Anyway, you can always stop off at Tesco on the way home, buy a family-sized chocolate trifle for a fraction of the price of the tiny slice of cake you’ve just refused to eat, and trough the lot, preferably while lying on your bed in your underwear. It’s a win-win situation. Well worth suffering a cup of bitter coffee.

  “Oh, I don’t know where I’d be without coffee,” Amy says. “Half asleep, propped up in the library somewhere, I expect. I reckon the whole university industry is probably run on coffee. I must go through a good jar of it a week.” She lowers her voice a bit. “Then again, I do think some of the jokers here might help themselves sometimes, I mean, I know I’m a coffee addict, but I don’t think my habit is that bad.”

  “Maybe you should just keep it in your room?” I say. “Lock it up so nobody else could get it. You could get a mini-fridge, too, stop people from nicking your milk.”

  “Uh, wow, yeah. That’s such a good idea.” She beams at me, but I can hear the doubt in her voice, and I wonder why she doesn’t want to protect her stuff.

  “How many people live on this floor, anyway?” I ask, hoping to change the subject just subtly enough so she doesn’t realize that’s what I’m doing. I don’t know what it is about her, but she stokes my maternal instinct; she has this wobbly-legged-fawn-born-next-to-a-motorway quality to her, and I can’t help but want to protect her, even if it’s just from herself.

  “There’s five, including me. Indigo, Dizzy, Patrick, and Richard. They’re great. Really great. I really like all of them. Really.”

  Really?

  “That’s good,” I say, and take a sip of my coffee. It’s not a bad brand, not like the cheap shit we get at home, but it still takes everything I’ve got to not pucker my mouth and reach for the sugar bowl. “I can’t imagine how bad it would be if you didn’t get along.”

  For a second, Amy stares out the window, sipping on her coffee. “Yeah. I know. Some people are having a really tough time, you know, homesick, not really getting on with anyone, just struggling in general. I’m so lucky.” She gives me a brittle smile.

  Okay, so this isn’t one of the most awkward conversations I’ve ever had . . .

  “Where are you from?” I ask, hoping it’s innocent enough and isn’t the thing that finally breaks her.

  “Buckinghamshire. I know, ooh arr, I sound like a farmer. Mum and Dad wanted me to go to Oxford, like my brother Rob, but I wasn’t having that. So much pressure, you know? So I, like, decided I was going to a real university. Experience real, proper life, not the weird stuff Rob does. He’s a member of a really bizarre society, and quite frankly, I didn’t want anything to do with that, so I said ‘Fuck no, I’m going to forge my own destiny,’ you know what I mean? And so I’m here now, and it’s sooo much better than I expected, it’s sooo real, so nice to be with authentic people, not the fakes I had to put up with at home, because I think it’s far more important to be authentic, don’t you? So many people are just, like, so fake nowadays, it’s all ‘what car do you drive’ and ‘who does your dad work for,’ but there’s more to life than that, isn’t there?”

  “Uh, yeah. Of course there is,” I say, wondering what the name of her childhood pony was and how much longer her membership to the local tennis club has before it runs out. Then I feel a bit bad, because that’s MidnightBanshee kind of thinking. So Amy’s trying to reinvent herself. I can’t judge her for that. I’m doing exactly the same thing. Let her do whatever she has to do to make herself feel better. Live and let live, and all that jazz.

  The main door bangs, and Amy flinches. I frown into my mug. Heavy footfalls echo up the corridor. A handsome, if heavyset, young man strides into the room, and I instinctively lean back, as if I might be able to press myself into the wall and disappear. He grins at both of us.

  “All right, chicks? Hey, Tinks, mind if I steal some coffee? I’m mucho parched, and I’ve run out.” Before she can answer, he turns to me. “Heyyy, Big Bird! I’m Patrick, but everyone calls me Bear. You know, because of Paddington and everything. It’s a rugger thing. Can’t help it, everyone has to have a nickname. You okay, Tinks? You look a bit tired. Okay with the coffee, yeah?” He doesn’t wait for her to answer, just helps himself to a cup. “Anyway, you seen Diz? She was supposed to meet me for lunch but never showed. Stupid thing, no wonder everyone calls her Dizzy. If you see her, tell her I stayed for a bit, but I’m not hanging around.”

  He takes a huge gulp from his mug. “Right then, I’m going to have a shit, a shower, and a shave, smoke a boom batty, and then I’m off. Catch you later, Tinks. You too, Big Bird. Have fun.”

  And he leaves.

  I don’t quite know what to say.

  “That was Patrick,” Amy says. “He’s funny.”

  “Yeah, he comes across that way,” I say dryly. “Why does he call you Tinks?”

  “Tinkerbell.” She almost whispers it. “He says it’s because I’m away with the fairies. You shouldn’t be offended by his silly nicknames. He plays rugby, went to a posh school.”

  Like that makes it somehow okay to be a prick to everyone.

  “What’s his surname?” I ask.

  “Uh, Dalgleish, I think. Why?”

  “No reason,” I say.

  17: #secretsandlies

  After coffee, Amy offers me a mug of soup with some pasta in it. It’s like she’s read a how-to-be-a-student handbook and needs to prove that she knows all the tricks
. I accept the pitiful rations she offers me and try to eat slowly. My usual portion would have covered hers as well, but I don’t want her to know that. Halfway through the soup the room shakes as Patrick turns his music on—no headphones for the Bear, and even Amy can’t help but roll her eyes. A few minutes later, I hear a bang on his door and Patrick booming, “Dickie! What? Turn it down? Why? This track’s banging!” I can’t help but sympathize with the poor sod who wants the Bear to shut the fuck up.

  By the time we head to our lecture, Amy’s a bit subdued, and I don’t really like that. On the plus side, though, she’s quite happy to sit at the back with me, so I don’t have to suffer another public meltdown trying to find a seat. This lecture is a two hour-er, and about forty minutes in I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. The Powerpoints blur, and my mind starts wandering. Judging by the way Amy is surreptitiously fiddling with her phone under the bench in front of her, I’m not the only one struggling to pay attention.

  I start to doodle, nothing specific at first, but then the lines come together to form one of my favorite computer game characters, and before I know it, I’m bent over my page, hatching, shading, sweeping lines in blue ink—

  “What’s that?” Amy whispers, gesturing to my page.

  I hastily try to cover up the doodle with one hand. “N-nothing.”

  “It’s good. I didn’t know you could draw.”

  “I can’t. Not really. Just a silly hobby. I don’t take it seriously.”

  “You should. You’re good! He’s gorgeous. Who is it?”

  “Just a game character I like,” I mutter.

  “A game? I like games. Maybe you could show me it sometime?”

  “Um, yeah, if you like.”

  Amy says something in reply, but I’m not really listening because I’m too busy thinking Not on your fucking life. These are mine and mine alone—unless I’m posting them up anonymously, and even then . . . yeah. It’s complicated. I’m constantly caught between wanting to share and the fear of making myself that vulnerable. Needless to say, I haven’t posted anything since I started trolling. All it takes is someone to realize the person tearing them apart also fancies herself as a bit of an artist, and my carefully constructed house of cards comes crashing down.

  But, at the same time, I can’t quite bring myself to delete my page . . .

  “Oh, Fisher’s looking twitchy. Better shut up.”

  I glance up, and indeed, Dr. Fisher is glaring in our direction.

  Good old Dr. Fisher. I think I like him.

  ***

  At the end of the lecture, Amy wants me to go back to halls with her, but I make my excuses and head home. Tonight is Wednesday night, and I babysit the kids down the road on Wednesdays so their mum, Mrs. Olgive, can go to her night class. This is one of the up-sides of being fugly: whereas people your own age generally shun and belittle you, older people, especially mothers, tend to trust you over your skinnier peers. Maybe they think you’re less likely to organize an orgy while they’re out. It’s not much, but it means I get a bit of money each week to myself. Enough to maintain my stash of secret chocolate, anyway.

  And speaking of secret chocolate, it’s time to go and replenish the stash. Luckily there are three mini-marts, a Tesco Local, and a small Sainsbury’s all within a ten minute walk, so I can buy a couple of £1.00 four-packs in each without the cashier giving me funny looks. Yes, I know this is the behavior of someone with a problem, but fuck it. If I’ve got to put Natalie and Jordan to bed tonight, I’m going to need something to keep my strength up.

  As it happens, Natalie and Jordan are pretty much the cutest kids ever. And I feel for them. I know what it’s like, to have your dad decide you’re not good enough. At least they’re young enough that they might not remember what it was like to even have a dad, unlike me.

  Half an hour after Mrs. Olgive leaves for her class, they’re scampering up to bed. I read them Hoot Owl, and after one request for a drink of water and one subsequent bathroom visit, they’re both fast asleep, so I retrieve my four-pack of Bounties from my backpack (a quid for four chocolate bars! What a time to be alive), get my laptop out, and log into Mrs. Olgive’s Wi-Fi.

  The flutter’s there when I sort my proxies out, and boy, there’s a real smorgasbord of treats on the menu tonight. Freedomchick04’s roasting has taken on a life of its own, and I can’t help but wonder just how many other people like me are out there—people who are completely alienated by these so-called perfect specimens and just want a good excuse to take them down a notch.

  Metachat pops up, asking me if I want to accept a password. Is it really Tori? If so, she’s quick. I’ve only just had a chance to check on a couple of profiles. She probably realized I was online when the infamous SharkKrawler9 logged in to check on Freedomchick. Still, I’m not sure if I should be flattered that she’s waiting for me, or weirded out that she’s monitoring me.

  Hey!

  she says as soon as I accept her chat request.

  All right?

  No. Shit day. Fucking numbskulls everywhere.

  Yeah—know what you mean. You ok?

  Will be once we’ve destroyed the fucker.

  Absolute dickhead. Name’s John Corlen. Wanna join in?

  Well, how is a girl supposed to turn down such a lovely invitation?

  Who is he?

  Sub-level boss. Such a cockmuncher.

  Wish I could push him under a train, but I can do the next best thing.

  Mrs. Corlen, say hello to Alexandra, John’s “mistress.”

  Wow—you found that out?

  What? No, fuck off. Alexandra doesn’t exist.

  But Mrs. Corlen doesn’t know that.

  Getting into his account should be a piece of piss—just need to lay the breadcrumbs, expose him, et voila!

  She’s my dream. She’s my nightmare.

  Turns out, the kind of plot Tori’s cooked up is as much fun as straightforward trolling. I realize now that I’m really just an amateur with a gift for acidic comments. I can whip up a crowd and make them dance to my tune, but I’ve never had the guts to actually hack accounts to orchestrate the outcome I want. That’s a whole new level for me, a whole new learning curve. And it’s steep. Yeah, I know how to craft an online persona, but most of mine are as 2D as possible, so no one can trace me. When you’re hacking to set someone up, you need to be able to wear your victim’s skin so no one will realize it isn’t them. Any doubts, and the whole thing comes crashing down.

  This time, Tori wants me involved. She’s going to be Corlen, and I’m Alexandra. We’ve nabbed some pictures off some dodgy Russian dating website—she’s gorgeous, whoever she is, with long dark hair and big blue eyes—but not so gorgeous people won’t believe. I soon discover it’s fun being someone else. Tori-as-Corlen flirts with “Alexandra” over chat. We exchange photos. Nowadays it seems like everyone has a dick pic somewhere, and as predicted, Creepy Corlen has one buried in his cloud account. Alexandra gets that and obliges with a couple of fingers rammed up her fanny. I am laughing so much at this point that I worry I’m going to wake up the kids, but it’s okay. They’re dead to the world when I go and check up on them, oblivious to the utter devastation that is being wreaked.

  I’ve had so much fun, I’ve only eaten one of the Bounties and I haven’t touched the penguin bar and can of Coke she left out for me. Hey, maybe this is the secret—do something fun and you forget to eat. No wonder skinny people always look so damn happy.

  I’ve decided Alexandra is going to stick around. I quite like her. She’s a sexy, confident woman who knows what she wants and goes for it, even if it’s a balding man in his late-forties with a mid-level job in a boring insurance firm, a wife, and two kids.

  I do feel a bit of a pang when I find out about the wife and kids. Of course I knew he was married, but when the wife starts virtual sobbing over “Alexandra,” and the real John Corlen starts trying to deny it all and save his relationship, and she declares she’s taking the kids to her moth
er’s and she doesn’t know when she’ll be back, I do feel bad.

  I wonder what he did to piss Tori off so much. It must have been serious for her to want to ruin his life.

  Still, I stand by my assertion that Alexandra is fun. I do wonder if that makes me a bad person.

  At ten thirty Mrs. Olgive gets home and pays me, telling me she doesn’t know what she’d do without me, so good, hope the kids weren’t too much hassle. I smile that weird, fake smile you give to parents when you tell them they were fine, to hide the fact that the minute they were in bed, all thoughts of their precious moppets flew out of your mind. Honestly, those kids could’ve been planning a riot up there, and I wouldn’t know.

  I feel a bit of a pang for her, though. I know she struggles. Women tend to. I wonder why we’re so horrible to each other, then? You’d think we’d stick together a bit more, what with this being “a man’s world” and all, but we don’t. We’d rather gossip and fat shame and sneer and steal each other’s men. I wonder if life’s easier if you’re a lesbian. Do they have Alexandras to contend with? I suppose so. It’s all human nature, isn’t it? Life is so complicated sometimes, I do wonder why we bother at all.

  I nip back home—Mum’s slumped in front of the TV watching generic US crime drama No. 6734. I think Brat’s in, judging by the heavy atmosphere. When I check in on Mum she nods at me and calls me a “good girl.” Heh. If only she knew.

  Back upstairs, I secrete my three remaining Bounties away and feel oddly up on the deal. Then I plug my laptop in and go back to Tori, who is gleefully crowing about her takedown of the now infamous John Corlen.

  Didn’t take long, did it?

  Long for what?

  For his wife to find out?

  Oh, she’s had her suspicions for a while.

  I needed you to play the other side so it looked authentic.

  You were a star. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else quite like you, you know.

  An odd feeling stirs in my belly. I feel full, yet hungry. Butterflies flutter in my chest, a weird trembling sensation that makes it hard to type. I have felt this before, but it led to a place of hate and shame, and I promised myself I’d never go there again. I can’t help it though. This is completely involuntary. I haven’t even seen a picture of Tori, but I don’t need to. Attraction is more than just physical looks. Go ask anyone.