Fugly Page 9
I only have to switch accounts a couple of times before a band of vultures swoops in. Good old vultures. They make my life so much more fun. I sit back and watch them tear into the carcass that was a stupidly self-congratulatory Instagram account. Bumgirl is trying to delete stuff now, but once you get a few snowballs rolling, they quickly turn into an avalanche, and it isn’t long before she is buried.
Oh, when will the Beautiful People learn? We fuglies outnumber you. We may not have your glitzy life, but we do have numbers on our side, along with the rage stoked by years of being sidelined and belittled.
Do not underestimate us, or we will destroy you.
21: #psychobitchex
It’s just before three when a Metachat key pops up in my inbox, and I smile properly for what feels like the first time in weeks. Tori! Tori’s here!
I copy the code down and key it in carefully, the unmistakable fizz of excitement bubbling away inside me. I’m not quite sure when I went from “suspicious conspiracy theorist” to “actively looking forward to communicating with this person,” but a switch has most definitely been flicked. My only problem now is I’ve got to hide it until I’ve figured out if Tori feels the same way. No one likes an overexcited fat chick, after all.
Hey. You’re home early. Or has work finished where you are?
I know. Shameless digging, but can you blame me? I can’t just ask her outright where she lives. That would be weird.
Left work early. Not having a good day. Feel like someone’s attached jumper cables to my spine. Freaked out.
Oh no! Is it the weather?
It’s shit here and that always makes me feel jumpy and weird.
No, not the weather.
Something happened this morning . . .
not sure if it’s what I think it is, but it’s freaked me out.
OK . . . you can tell me, if you want. No pressure. But I might be able to help?
The seconds tick by. Still no reply. Oh, crap, what if I’ve overstepped the mark, what if she thinks I’m taking liberties, but then why bring it up if she didn’t want me to ask about it? Gah, I hate this, it’s like when people do those horrible ambiguous “some people are shit” or “you are terrible—you know who you are” posts, except I don’t know and I automatically assume it’s me. It’s why I ended up abandoning my first attempts at social media and opening new accounts, to wipe the slate clean. Well, that and the insufferable bullying and the fact that I simply don’t give a shit about what anyone I went to school with is doing—
I dunno if I’m right, but I think I saw my psychobitch ex this morning. I was grabbing a coffee, and I saw her walk past the window. I nearly had to hide in the fucking loo so she wouldn’t see me. If it is her, it can’t be a coincidence, can it? I moved away to get away from that bitch! And now she’s here, in my town, strutting around like she owns it? I can’t deal with that. But I can’t move again, I’ve got a job here and everything now. I’m sorry to dump all of this on you, you don’t deserve it, but I need to tell someone or I’m going to explode . . . arrrrggghhhhh!!!!!!!!!! *rage*
Wow, that’s . . . dramatic. Might explain a bit about her, though. Looks like she’s trying to claw back as much control of her life as she can. And I can’t help the little smug smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth. She has a psychobitch ex—and she’s telling me about it. Not her work friends, not her followers, but me. Shame I don’t really have much experience (okay, none whatsoever) in the whole ex department.
Yikes
Dumb, I know, but I can’t just launch in with omg, I’m so chuffed you’re trusting me with this, and I want to help you in any way I can.
What was she doing?
I dunno. Just walking, I guess. It wasn’t so much what she was doing, more that she was even here. I live in a backwater shithole! Nothing ever happens here. Why would she even move here, if it’s not to find me and torture me again? Oh, Amy, what do I do?
Amy. That bursts my bubble. I’d forgotten I’d called myself that. Major regrets now. Why couldn’t I just be honest in the first place? Well done, Beth, way to go in the Making Life Difficult For Yourself stakes again. Big round of applause.
First off, I’m no expert . . . but maybe you could check her online? Stalk her for a bit? See if she’s changed her location anywhere or if she posts any photos with places you recognize . . . with any luck, this is just her doppelganger and you have nothing to worry about.
And my name isn’t Amy, but maybe we’ll tackle that after I’ve (hopefully) done something right for a change.
Omg that’s actually genius. Why didn’t I think of that? Fuck me . . . hang on . . . brb . . .
Why am I holding my breath?
You’re right!! No evidence of moving. Location as it was before. No photos of here. Unless she’s literally arrived today. And even then, she’d tell everyone cos she literally documents everything she ever does online. Omg, I think I might actually cry, I’m so relieved. All that worrying for nothing? I am such a fucking moron. Thank you so much, hun. You’re the best! Xxx
I’m the best. See, it’s up there in black and white. AND three kisses. Maybe today isn’t such a write-off after all. Now all I have to do is own up to not being an Amy.
That’s it. Just type Sorry, but my name is actually Beth. Easy-peasy.
. . . fuck.
As if on cue, my phone pings; it’s the real Amy, and she’s been busy. On Facebook she’s sharing dumb listicles with me, mainly ones about life at uni and cats. So far, so cliché. She’s also messaged me, asking for my email as she couldn’t find it in the uni database. I almost say that she was probably looking under Beth rather than Bethany, but instead I just give her my home email since that’s easier for me to use.
I’m trying to construct a confessional to Tori when a new email notification pops up. In it are all of today’s notes, neatly typed up.
Had nothing better to do this afternoon, she replies when I ask her about it. U better get better soon or I’ll turn into one of those weirdos who do nothing but study all the time!!
This kind of leaves me speechless. I keep trying to turn her around in my head, but no matter what I try, she just doesn’t fit. She’s pretty. She’s sparkly. She certainly isn’t fugly. So why on earth does she want to be my friend? She must have some kind of defect (apart from a terminal case of over-perkiness) that she’s hiding from me. That’s all I can come up with.
Tori’s back on track, sending me links to a new target. Okay, how am I going to do this? Quick and to the point, like ripping off a Band-Aid, or slow and gentle, like a breakup?
Yeah, I think I just answered my own question there.
Tori, can I tell you something?
Course. You can tell me anything :)
Oh, you say that now.
I just have something to admit. My name isn’t amy. I told you it was amy cos the internet and all that but I feel really bad about that now. Just wanted u to know. Pls don’t be too mad . . . :(
I wince, my fingers crossed on my left hand while my right goes off groping in my bedside cabinet for a candy bar. Tori’s reply comes through just as I manage to grasp one.
Lol! You’re so funny. I guessed it wasn’t your real name. I mean who gives their real name straight away? I could have been anyone! Don’t sweat it, chick. I get it.
I pause, mid unwrap, and set the chocolate down without taking a bite.
You sure? You’re really ok with that?
Yeah! It’s not like you’ve shot my dog or robbed me or anything. Fuck, half the people I’ve slept with don’t know my real name. Who needs that hassle, amirite? :P Seriously, though—don’t worry about it. I mean it.
I can’t believe she’s being so cool about this.
Really? I’ve been worrying about this for a while cos its plain you’re not a freakshow or anything. should have told you ages ago but the time was never right . . .
I know how it is. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to keep yourself safe. Like I
said, I get it. Although I’m not so sure about the freakshow thing . . . ;)
Oh really?!
Hey, why do you think I have a psychobitch ex?! Once you go Tori, nothing else compares! ^_^
She ain’t wrong.
Oh, but one thing . . .
Yeah?
What IS your name?! You still haven’t told me!
Oh god i’m such an idiot! It’s Beth.
Beth? I like that. Much better than Amy. Amy’s a bit basic bitch, you know what I mean? Beth, though—yeah, that’s much better. Like the chick on The Walking Dead.
Lol! Wish I was called Carol now, cos she’s hardcore.
Beth was a bit whiney. Cute ass, tho.
Lol, you know it! And she got to eat snakes with Daryl. That’s pretty hardcore . . .
And that’s that. I am seemingly forgiven. I scan each of her posts for any hint that she might be playing me a line, for anything that could be construed as a barb, but nope, she’s clean. It may be raining out there, but it’s beaming bloody sunshine in here.
22: #sugarrush
After that, Tori and I spend some time just chatting. Nothing big—no plans of attack, no discussion of future targets, no “where do we go from here”—just talking about what we do, who we are. As suspected, she does work in the tech industry (she describes herself as an “IT grunt on the frontline of customer stupidity”), working for a big company. I admit I’m a student and that I’ve never really had a job, apart from some babysitting on a Wednesday evening, which gives me just enough to keep me in the essentials.
Lol. Maybe, when you’re a rich psychologist with a string of letters after your name and we’re living in a massive mansion, we’ll look back at this time fondly, eh?
Haha with our millions of cats around us
Damn straight. I want an army of cats.
Imagine it—no one would be spared our wrath!
I can’t help but smile—a deep, secret smile that I don’t think I’ve ever shared with anyone before.
Man, we would lay waste to the world. Tremble before us, humanity, for we march with our cats and our devastating wit.
You know it!
By now I’ve munched through two Bounties and a Mars bar, but it isn’t the same as having a proper tea. I don’t really want to stop our momentum, but my stomach is growling in a most threatening way, so I tell her I’ll brb and grab some toast. The sugar from the chocolate buzzes through me, and before I go back up to my haven, I pop my head round the living room door.
“Hey, Mum. You want some toast? You know you should eat when you take your meds.”
She smiles slowly, like a stoner after a particularly potent bong hit. “Yeah. That would be nice. Some toast.”
I offer her a slice.
She takes a mechanical bite, her attention fixed back on the TV.
I hover for a second, but no, that’s all, folks. Good night, and God bless.
***
Back upstairs, Tori is waiting for me.
She’s gone back to picking out new victims for us to torment. At the bottom of the thread, there’s a link to a Facebook profile. We don’t usually bother with Facebook—there’s not much point in baiting a bunch of middle-aged Pinterest fanciers who think a meme is the height of mindfulness—so it’s a surprise that she’s sinking that low.
I munch on my toast and click the link, and then almost choke when I realize whose profile it is.
Tori Heidegger
It’s hers. It’s Tori’s.
She trusts me enough to share her Facebook profile with me.
I know it sounds silly—pathetic, even, but tears spring to my eyes.
This is literally the best thing ever.
She trusts me. Even though I lied to her about my name.
She trusts me.
***
I feast on photos. I literally gorge myself on them. There aren’t many of Tori herself—she’s a bit like me in stuffing her photo albums with things she likes and finds funny, rather than selfies, but from the few that I do find, she’s everything I expected. Everything I wanted.
I can’t click the “add friend” button quickly enough.
It doesn’t take long for me to get a response.
Messenger chimes, and it’s her, really her, in the flesh.
You found me then?
Yup! I love that pic of you with that cute cat.
Oh, that’s Kiki.
She’s my soulmate.
She might look cute, but she is a hellbeast in disguise. ;)
. . . Tori is typing . . .
. . . Tori is typing . . .
. . . Tori is typing . . .
Hard to talk here. MC?
Oh, fuck, yes.
I log back in to Metachat and send Tori my key—she’s there within milliseconds.
That’s better.
Feels so exposed otherwise.
Feds looking over our shoulders, you know?
I know what you mean. They record every conversation.
And they follow you around the web. All those targeted ads.
Ha—one word for you my friend: encryption!
Lol—you serious? You think I’ve got this far without some kickass encryption?
Ahh, touche. I’m just teasing you.
And off we go. We talk about encryption programs and alter egos and the latest edition of The Banshee and Midnight Jim (I mean, come on! I didn’t think I’d ever meet anyone else who liked The Banshee outside of the community! Whenever I mentioned it at school, I’d just get blank looks—BUT SHE KNOWS! She’s read it from the start!) and Aeon Valhalla and how cute Sable is (although she says she prefers Tirra, which I can totally see, as she’s a ninja babe) and TV and life and the universe and everything, like we’ve know each other for years.
Every now and again, I flip open her Facebook page and look at her picture. She has amazingly dark shiny hair and these gorgeous hazel eyes. She’s a little on the chubby side, but I like that, because to outsiders, she’s just like me. Obviously I don’t think she’s fugly, I think she’s the opposite, but some people just can’t get past the sight of an ample bottom or a wobbly upper arm.
But then again, it’s that kind of crap that has driven us together. Without that, would I have even met her? Doubtful.
I wonder if it would be weird to nick one of her photos and save it on my hard drive. Yeah, that would be weird, wouldn’t it? Without her knowing? No, mustn’t be weird. Is she thinking the same about me? Shit. What if she’s looking through my profile and she sees those awful pictures Auntie Sadie tagged me into when I was her bridesmaid three years ago? Fuck, I begged her to take those down, but she just laughed and told me they’re lovely, you look really cute. I don’t want to look cute, I want to look cool, which is why the only pictures of me that I have personally posted involved either a) only my eyes up or b) me hiding behind things that obscure most of me, and even then I bury them amongst stupid pictures of things that make me laugh. Which is also exactly what Tori does. Oh my God. We’re so compatible. Same sense of humor and everything. I have a funny feeling that if we met in real life, the world would probably explode due to our combined awesomeness.
I never believed in soulmates before.
I do now.
***
Omg! Have you seen this? It’s so cool! Who thought to draw fan art of Sable and the Banshee together? I think the internet is trying to break me! ♥♥
She sends me the picture, and I blush, because it’s one of mine. She’s found it. Talk about cosmic coincidences. Do I tell her? Or just leave it? But I can’t gush over my own work. And she must really like it, because she has no idea that I actually drew it. Fuck. I don’t think this has ever actually happened before.
Uh, me, actually.
I drew that, like, a year and a half ago.
Get the fuck out of town!
You’re TheBanshee99?
Fucking *seriously*??????
In the flesh. *sheepish grin*
I used to
do shit like that all the time.
Haven’t drawn much recently, tho.
Here, I’ll send you the initial sketch.
I colored it in photoshop.
I search through my all-but-forgotten art files and find the scan. To me it looks pretty amateurish, but if Tori likes it . . . I attach it to the message and send.
Whoa!
I mean, I believed you before, but now no one can deny it. That kicks ass! You’ve totally got Banshee down to a tee.
I’m really impressed!
I can’t help but smile. No one has ever complimented me this way, and it feels weird and awkward, but mainly good, so good I have to hold myself back from sending her the entire folder of vaguely embarrassing sketches.
We continue chatting until past midnight. In that time, we also identify some new targets and plan the virtual assassination of some older ones. By the time I log off, my whole body is thrumming.
Tori.
She’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. While I am talking to her, I’m not worrying about food, or Mum, or what Brat’s up to, or how I’m going to finish my next assignment. It’s just us, in our own little world. No one can touch us.
I don’t think I can sleep. My head’s all over the place, and it’s a real challenge not to log back in to Facebook and spend the rest of the night going through Tori’s page again. Does that sound a bit obsessive? Probably. I need to sleep. I need to sleep. I need . . .
I wake up with a start. My arms feel tingly and I’m a bit cold. Judging by the gray light filtering through my blinds, it’s still early. I check my phone. 6:12 a.m. Ugh. Five hours of sleep, if that. Today is going to be hell.
Or maybe not. I glance at my laptop and smile. Because after lectures, I can log in and get lost in my happy place. I grin to myself as I check my messages. Any from Tori? Of course not. She would have gone to bed too. She has work today, but she’ll be back by six, she said so—
Hey, Beth! Hope to see u tomoz. Got tix for u just in case. Hope thats ok! Axxxxx