It’s been just eight weeks – how could she possibly look so different? It’s like she’s been on a weird makeover show, or like she’s been on several different weird makeover shows at once, where they’ve tackled every element of what it means to be Camila. Or, I guess, what it means to look like Camila. Was she abducted and brainwashed in Sweden?
‘Well, you look . . . different,’ I say, deadpan. Even though I’m reeling, a more calculating part of my brain is already assessing the implications of this for me – namely that I’m now, officially, the only fat one in my year at school.
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ she says, sounding sort of obtuse.
I have no problem saying she looks really nice. Her make-up suits her; it brings out her eyes. It’s not like she couldn’t wear make-up before. It’s just that she never did. And she’s traded in her jeans and hoody for a folksy-patterned smock dress with ankle boots. Also good choices. I’m already wondering if she thought there was simply no point bothering while she was fatter.
‘So . . . how? What? Why?’
‘Um, to be honest, when I got to my grandma’s, I remembered how relentless my cousins are to me about my body, and something just snapped. I basically got bullied into changing the way I look,’ she says, shrugging.
Brainwashed in Sweden wasn’t far wrong.
‘I always hated your cousins,’ I say. I can’t help myself. It’s one thing if Camila wants to change the way she looks, but if her horrible rich cousins are going to be the ones to force her into it, then I’m not going to pretend that’s legit. But obviously it’s the wrong thing to say because she instantly goes on the defensive, despite the fact she’s said about a million times how awful they are. I guess she’s sort of transferred over to their side now.
‘Actually, they’re pretty cool. Anyway, they were only ever mean to me for my own good. I saw them a lot this summer, and I really think you’d like them if you got to know them,’ she says earnestly.
I doubt it. ‘OK, whatever. So, what did you do – work out for, like, ten hours every day?’
‘No. I swam a lot and did some walking. To be honest, it was the fact my grandparents were there that meant I finally caved. My gran was always in on the plot to get me to look more like the Swedish side of my family, so she leaped at the chance to starve her granddaughter for the summer. I basically couldn’t eat unless my grandparents fed me, and they knew I was already sort of . . . trying to eat less.’
‘What about the whole . . .’ I gesture vaguely with my hand in the direction of her head.
‘Oh, you mean the make-up and the hair stuff? My cousin Linnea took me into Stockholm shopping one Saturday, and we went to the salon she goes to. It looks better, right?’
‘I liked it black. It was cool. It was you. But this looks nice too,’ I say pathetically. Maybe I don’t like change in other people. I wonder if her Chilean grandparents, settled in another part of Sweden, had seen her, and what they thought of this dramatic transformation.
I thought the first thing I would do upon being reunited with Camila at school tomorrow would be to sit down together and catch up on her summer away, bond over some awfulness her cousins perpetrated, before briefing her on the fact that I’m one hundred per cent definitely in love with a guy I’ve only just met. But this unexpected meeting has really thrown me off.
Camila glances towards the car park. ‘My mum’s waiting – I’d better go. I’ll see you in the morning anyway, right?’
‘Right,’ I say.
We hug. I can already feel that it’s not the same.
Right on cue, my dad emerges from Tesco.
‘Who were you talking to?’ he asks, taking Ted’s lead from me as we start our walk home.
I don’t fancy explaining my woes to him right now.
‘Camila,’ I reply, as naturally as possible.
‘Camila? Like, your friend Camila? Camila Forsberg?’ He even has the skill and politeness to pronounce her name properly, something hardly anyone English does.
‘The one and only.’
I feel deflated. I hate that this has hit me so hard, but I really did love having a comrade. And right now, I need a comrade more than ever, given that I’m attempting to fling myself on to the wild battlefield of romance. Camila used to be slow and unbothered about boys too. It didn’t matter that no one ever fancied either of us. We could just hang out together at parties, not trying to seduce anyone. All of a sudden, I feel like she’s probably some kind of skilled foxy temptress.
‘It didn’t look like her . . .’ My dad looks back over his shoulder, trying to get another glimpse at Camila, but she’s long gone.
‘No, it didn’t, did it,’ I say.
Dad knows better than to push it. Instead he tells me the idea he’s had for a new play, but I’m not really listening, and I feel bad about that. But there’s just too much swirling around in my head. I play and replay the conversation with Camila. There was weird, prickly tension. I know I’m not just imagining it. But of course there would be; of course it would be awkward; of course we’d need some time to warm up. We haven’t seen each other for a couple of months. I couldn’t even Skype her on the Island of No Internet. And of course there’s the dramatic image overhaul. But I can’t pretend I shouldn’t have been kinder to her, however wounded I felt. Maybe I went a bit hard.
Can I even be sure of anything any more? Up is down! Black is white! Animals are walking on their heads! Being in love is actually terrible! I almost didn’t recognize my best friend!
I’m well aware it makes me a rubbish person, but sometimes you can’t help but see things through the lens of ‘But what does this mean for me?’ No, Emily – it’s not always about you. But sometimes it sure does feel like it. Only a couple of days ago, I was trundling along nicely, and now everything’s turned on its head – just in time for going back to school in the morning. I always felt like I had loads of time stretching out ahead of me and endless opportunities to do things over again and get them right, but this time is the last time. One more year of school and then that’s it: the real world.
Later, after an afternoon bath (a bath always feels like the right thing to do before a big day), I dig out last year’s pencil case and shove it in my school bag. True preparation! I sink into the sofa and am about settle down to watch the omnibus of a reality-TV show involving inept grooms choosing their brides’ wedding dresses when my phone vibrates with a message.
Do I? I mean, I would never normally think twice about it.
I’ll have to get used to New Camila sooner or later, so I agree to go over to hers after dinner for a bit. It’s easy as she lives so close, and I can walk it, so once I’ve eaten with my parents, I disappear off to Camila’s.
On the way there, I think about Joe, because it’s a nice place for my mind to wander when I don’t have to think about anything else. Maybe I need to ration myself – like only thinking about Joe three times a day. Maybe four. He’s just so cute, though – what else am I meant to think about?
When I press the doorbell at Camila’s house, she’s at the door within seconds and pulls me into a tight hug. She makes the soft cooing noise of a wood pigeon in my ear, and I make it back – a weird greeting ritual we started in our first year at secondary school when we had our lessons in a damp Portakabin with incredibly loud pigeons nesting in the roof. I guess some things never change.
Her parents yell hellos at me as we dash upstairs to her room where we can recline on huge beanbags in peace and play loud music. Camila doesn’t even like loud music; she just turns it up for my benefit when I come over.
Camila sighs. ‘I’m so bummed I missed Ben’s party last night. I didn’t get home till really late from the airport.’ She takes a sip of her orange juice through a bendy straw.
‘You didn’t miss much . . .’ I say, not sure if I want to let my crush out into the world. Or talk about the weird non-kiss with Ryan. Especially now Camila is looking so . . . un-Camila. It would make me feel exposed, going in
to all the bad feelings that got stirred up when he reacted to my body the way he did, and now doesn’t feel like the right time.
‘Really? Nothing to report?’
I twist my hair around my finger, going cross-eyed as I hunt for split ends, trying to make up my mind if I should tell Camila about Joe. ‘Well –’ my mouth can’t hold it in any longer – ‘there was one thing. I met this guy as I was leaving the party, and I’m, like, basically obsessed with him now.’
‘Oh my God! What? That’s not your usual style at all.’
She knows me too well, clearly.
‘Yeah, I know . . . It’s all very new and extremely horrible.’
‘Why horrible?’ Camila drains the last of the orange juice with a hoarse sucking noise as it travels up the straw.
‘I don’t know, man. It just feels so embarrassing. Having feelings. Exposing yourself to rejection and other terrible things.’
‘No! You’ve got to be optimistic! Then good things will happen. You’re just asking for trouble when you go into it with a neg attitude,’ she says emphatically.
This isn’t new, by the way – she’s always been a big believer in the innate goodness and romance of the world.
‘I’m just being realistic,’ I say with a huff.
‘Tell me about him though.’
‘I literally don’t know anything other than his name is Joe, and he’s nauseatingly cute. It was just a feeling, you know? Like a connection.’
‘I don’t know, but I’ll take your word for it.’
Camila and I have always been in the same boat: just a bit cut off from romance. I wonder if that’ll change now. I’m still finding it weird just looking at her. Taking in how different she looks, not just compared to herself at the end of last term, but compared to me too.
‘I feel like when I know, I’ll know,’ she adds.
‘That’s the thing – you’re actually waiting for . . . the One, or whatever you want to call it. Whereas I just haven’t been bothered until now. And I hate being bothered, as you know.’
Camila smiles. ‘A disruption to normal service.’
‘Yep. I just like things floating along nicely, the occasional bright spot on the horizon to look forward to, but otherwise I don’t want stuff interrupting my flow. And this is an interruption of epic proportions.’
She nudges me with a shoulder. ‘But you have no idea how this will play out. Maybe he’s going to be the love of your life.’
‘Or more likely I’ll spend a week thinking about him then never see him again and forget about him by half-term,’ I say, and I half hope it’s true. ‘There was this other thing . . .’ I begin, before I can help myself.
‘What other thing?’
I think for a moment and then decide I don’t want to share Ryan’s brush-off and my internal fat-shame flare-up with Camila. Dealing with uncomfortable emotions has never been my strong suit. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I say instead. ‘It’s too boring to tell.’
We waste the rest of the evening watching back-to-back episodes of Keeping Up with the Kardashians that Camila recorded on Series Link while she was away. Neither of us talks any more about her new body, but when I walk home that night, I feel a little cloud of loneliness settle around me: I’m the last one standing.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Close to Me’ – The Cure
The first thing I hear when I open the door to our form room is the one thing I could really do without hearing.
‘Oh my God, Camila – you look amazing!’ Holly squeals, stretching out all the vowels.
I thought maybe I could hide from weight chat at school, even if I can’t avoid it at home. But no – that’s obviously too much to ask for. Now, Holly. Horrible Holly. The word ‘frenemy’ was invented for Holly. She’s kind of cool, kind of evil. You wish she would just be your friend, but she insists on existing behind this fence of barbed wire where no one can get too close. Being nice to her just makes you feel pathetic because you know you’re only doing it as insurance against future meanness, but actually being mean to her doesn’t really come naturally to me. It’s easier to maintain a cordial distance. You wish she would just chill the hell out. Anyway, right now she’s praising my best friend for reappearing after the summer holidays several pounds lighter.
‘Emily, don’t you think Camila looks amazing?’
Not even a hello, and she knows she’s doing it. She has a wolfish glint in her eye.
‘Like, really amazing.’
‘Oh sure – Camila always looks amazing,’ I say, trying to keep the prickle out of my voice as I dump my bag on the desk.
‘Thanks, girl,’ Camila says, coming over to hug me, doing her best to deflect Holly’s stirring.
Holly is smiling to herself. It’s as if within seconds, she’s assessed the change in dynamic between Camila and me. We’re no longer the Fat Emily and Fat Camila duo – I’m now definitely the odd one out. I’m sure Holly loves it.
As I discover throughout the day, Camila’s change in shape is the hot topic of conversation. When we go out at lunchtime to get a sandwich, a boy on his break at the supermarket eyes her appreciatively. When we sit down in English class, Mrs Mackinnon does a double take. I grit my teeth through various versions of the same back and forth that played out with Holly earlier. Who knew other people’s weight could be so interesting to so many? It’s poking a little hole in me, scratching away at the place that says, ‘People are so obsessed with the way you look.’
Although she started the day glowing with pride, Camila seems bored of talking about it now, for the most part anyway. And I’m definitely bored of talking about it. But it’s not all bad being back at school: my timetable is sweet, and Camila, Abi, Ella, Sophia and I all have the same free period on a Monday afternoon. We can lounge about in the common room, and one hundred per cent definitely not spend it doing coursework. It could be a lot worse.
Today, we’re sprawled on an array of soft, low chairs by the window, taking it in turns to flick through a copy of a women’s magazine that Priyanka threw at us before dashing off to biology. It’s pretty rubbish, to put it plainly – just full of clothes for people who are extremely rich and extremely thin, celebrity interviews where they reveal nothing, and – oh look – some perilous-looking diet.
‘Ugh!’ I burst out, tossing the magazine to Abi. ‘And this agony aunt is a literal idiot – she’s given such bad advice, the person that wrote in should actually sue her.’
‘Why?’ Ella asks. ‘What did she say?’
Abi clears her throat, preparing to read. ‘OK, so the reader asked, “How do I communicate in bed without having a panic attack? I find it so hard to articulate what I’m feeling and what I want, and I find I can’t make the words come out without sending myself into this huge spiral of anxiety that’s kind of a downer on sex. I really need your help!”’
‘A fair question,’ says Camila.
‘Yeah, but the answer was just like . . . “You don’t have to communicate with words. Use your body language!” Which feels like kind of an irresponsible answer, right?’
‘What do you mean?’ Sophia raises a sceptical eyebrow.
‘OK, so first things first. I know I have, like, zero experience in this area,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘But, general principles apply! Obviously the big problem is that, like . . . people don’t want to talk about sex because they’re embarrassed or something, but also it feels like we’re bad at setting boundaries in general. Like, it’s not just a problem that starts with sex – it’s a problem that starts way, way back in other parts of our lives. We force ourselves to do things we don’t want to do in general, and then we’re expected to be able to give firm “yes” and “no” answers when it comes to sex! It’s wild. Anyway – telling someone to communicate about what they want or don’t want in bed using body language seems like a bad idea. Like, shouldn’t we be trying to get people to talk more rather than less?’
The group silently absorbs my rant for a second.
&nbs
p; ‘But what do you think the woman who asked the question should do instead?’ Camila says.
‘Uhhh . . .’ I think for a moment. ‘I don’t think I’d wait until I was naked in bed with someone, about to have sex with them, to say what I do or don’t want. Like, waiting until you’re about to have sex to talk about sex feels like a lot of pressure – like, it might sound personal . . . or come across as a criticism of your partner. Also, if you chat about it in a non-sexy scenario instead, it’s not like you’d have to put everything into practice straight away – it’s just like a helpful little FYI for next time. That would be my advice: keep your clothes on; keep the pressure off. Everyone wins.’
‘But how? Talking is so . . . awkward,’ Camila says.
‘Look, I don’t actually know, but I would bring it up casually, like something you want to talk about to make it better for both of you. Spin it as an opportunity for your partner to enjoy sex more because you’ll enjoy it more. I guess make it a fun conversation about what you’re into or what you’re curious about or what you’re really not into, if that’s the thing you need to bring up.’
We all sit in silence for a second.
‘Here endeth my thoughts.’
‘You’re so wise,’ Abi says, sighing. ‘Everything you say makes me feel better about everything. Less scared.’
‘Don’t you think that sounds kind of . . . stressful, though?’ asks Camila, chewing her lip.
‘What’s stressful?’ says Abi.
‘Saying stuff like, “This is what I want to do; this is what I don’t want to do” to someone you’re sleeping with.’
Abi shrugs. ‘Maybe the first time you say it, because being honest is hard, and talking about what you want is hard. But I would rather get what I want than hope they can just figure it out with no direction.’
No Big Deal Page 4