Big Bones

by Laura Dockrill

  ‘You could go into business with me!’

  ‘I’d LOVE to be your apprentice! What would I do?’

  ‘Make bikinis for girls that have massive boobs?’

  ‘Yeah! With great patterns on them like … I dunno …’

  ‘Toads or something.’

  ‘Yeah. Toads.’

  ‘I feel like a toad bikini could be my compass to decide if a girl could be my friend species or not.’

  ‘Oh totally, same for me with the shop, like if a customer walks in and doesn’t like the idea of wearing a bikini with toad prints on it then, GET OUT MY SHOP – you’re not my kind!’

  I laugh.

  ‘So I’m gonna work at Planet Coffee for a bit but … I need to persuade Alicia to offer me a barista apprenticeship scheme.’ I kick my shoes off; air licks my swollen toes. ‘Look at my trotters, bloody hell.’ I laugh. ‘These shoes are meant to be comfy.’ I squint my eyes at the sun. ‘But I couldn’t ask her today cos I think she’s pregnant.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Poor kid.’ Cam tuts. ‘Why can’t we just do stuff like work as mechanics like they do in films?’

  ‘You need a form for everything these days. You can’t just fall into a line of work because you one day get on really well with a plumber and they’re like, Hey, kid, why don’t you just be a plumber like me? I’ll teach you everything you need to know. All has to be forms and stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a bit much. How are you meant to know when you’re a kid what you want to do for the rest of your life? You choose your subjects for your exams when you’re SO young without realising that those exam results could shape the rest of your whole future. It’s bonkers.’

  ‘I know. And just think, I scribbled around my fruit bowl in art in black charcoal. Great.’ With my toes I claw at the grass. ‘How do you know where the right spot on the planet is for you? Like, how do I know I’m meant to be here, right now, doing this? How do I know I’ve landed in the right spot? My calling could be … I dunno … in New Zealand or St Lucia or Mexico or New York or Berlin –’

  ‘Or Dubai?’

  ‘And I wouldn’t even know it. And that makes me think life is too short. I don’t have the time to test all these places out and find out where I fit.’

  ‘You can’t spend your whole life hopping round to see if you fit in somewhere or you’ll never be able to settle and see if it suits you or not because you won’t stick around long enough to find out.’ Cam lies on her back and closes her eyes. ‘Anyway. You fit in here just fine; this is your home.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Just do.’ She picks up a daisy and twirls it in her fingers. ‘You belong with me.’

  A girl struts past in a pair of short jean shorts, cut off on the bum cheeks, wedges and a belly top. ‘Jeeeez, that girl is feeeeeeeeling herself!’ Cam nods at her. ‘You go, girl!’ she shouts.

  ‘Good for her.’ I smile at Cam. ‘But back to me.’

  ‘Heaven forbid the subject matter would detour from you for a millisecond. Sorry, yeah?’ We laugh.

  ‘And, like, I’m only sixteen but already there are some things that I’ll never be able to do.’

  ‘Huh? You’re doing that thing where you start a sentence with “and” and I’m meant to know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘OK, like, I’ll never be the best ballet dancer in the world. I’ll never be the best violinist …’

  ‘Not true.’

  ‘Yes, Cam, because some people started learning to do these things when they were literally two years old. You’ve seen those shows with the child geniuses. It’s too late. I have to get a wiggle on. I have zero life skills.’

  ‘Well, what do you want to do? What do you want to be the best at, BB?’

  ‘I need time to decide.’

  ‘Take your time then.’

  ‘I need to think at what I’m, you know … good at.’

  ‘OK … well, what are you good at?’

  ‘Eating.’

  We giggle. Bellies jolting up and down. Up and down.

  Cam pats the grass next to her. I lie, my head touching hers. Listening to the squealing sounds of summer. Kids in the paddling pool, dogs yelping, laughter, the nostalgic shrilling bell of an ice-cream van and the angry honks of hot agitated drivers from the road nearby.

  After a little while we dust the blades of grass off our bums and pick the wheaty fluff out from each other’s hair. The press of grass thatches our elbows.

  ‘I’ll call you when I finish.’

  ‘I’ll walk you back but not to the door. Don’t want to see Alicia today, not with the aftermath of the open-heart surgery pomegranate.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ We hug and say a love you.

  ‘Fudging hell,’ Cam grunts. ‘Everyone is so buff in the sun.’

  And I look behind me and that Max from work is wheeling the bin out onto the street.

  CHEESEBURGERS

  You are a normal person before you get on the bus, then the moment you pass the driver you become a part of the Bus Community. Bus Club. Knighted for your annoyance at the sight of a coin of bubblegum puckered to the side of a fuzzy armrest, waiting for an issue to allow you to eyeball-roll and tut with a stranger. It’s about survival, building relationships, I guess.

  The bus always smells of cheeseburgers … cheeseburgers or wee or sweat or cold cheese and onion pasties but actually I think all of those things could also smell like a cheeseburger. When it comes to burgers I like to keep it simple. It has to have cheese. The bun has to be brioche and just as sweet as a cake. The meat has to be good quality, juicy and seasoned really well, the outside a bit blackened and charred. I love mine with a gherkin. If you can’t get the best version of a cheeseburger that you possibly deserve, then you should just sack it off and have a cheese toastie instead.

  I can’t get a window seat and I’m looking over the heads of everyone to see where Dove is. Suddenly I see her blonde ribbons of hair pegging it towards the next stop. Dodging and skirting and ducking through the streams of people like a skilled security guard dressed as a Christmas Fairy running after a shoplifter. My heart clutches as I watch her get on safely; I hate anybody that doesn’t let her pass with ease – just move out the way. She’s red in the face and panting but quickly gets over it. I’d be on the floor, wheezing if it was me. Well, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t be running for a bus in the first place.

  ‘You could have just waited for the next one?’ My voice feels loud on the bus. Everybody is sweaty, even with the windows open the heat sticks to us.

  ‘I wanted to get the bus with you. You already waited for me.’

  We are literally going eight stops.

  ‘Do you always get this bus?’

  ‘Not really, mostly I run. Whatever the boys are doing. Sometimes they give me a backie.’

  ‘You run home?’

  ‘Err, yeah, walking’s so long.’

  It is cute that we both go out of our way today to get the bus home together. Dove’s nose is ruby-red with sunburn. The hairs on her arms and lashes have gone swan-feather white. I’m so jealous that she’s getting to enjoy the six-week break to its full potential, UNLIKE me, who got conned into working a job like a full grown-up adult beast and yet still, for some reason, has to keep a food diary like a baby child.

  ‘Think we can persuade Mum to get a takeaway tonight?’

  ‘Not sure, all she’s saying is how broke she is the whole time. Think she’s worried in case her and Dad never sort it out and then she has to be a single mum.’

  ‘Dad will still give her money, won’t he?’ Dove looks worried.

  ‘What money? Dad doesn’t have any money either. Plus, if they break up, he’ll probably use all of his money for some soul-searching trip to India.’ I grip her hand. ‘We’ll be all right,’ I say. Luckily it’s the same time the bus swings around a sharp corner so it masks the grip as for support rather than affection.

  ‘Do
you reckon Dad is Mum’s biggest regret?’

  No. I think I am. She could have got that part if it wasn’t for me.

  ‘Probably, yeah.’ I change the subject. ‘Do you ever think about the supplies you have in your bag and think, if this was the end of the world and these were the only people left, who would you share your supplies with? I have nothing on me, so I would have to be really sucking up to all these strangers.’ Dove takes the question in; she looks quite serious, chewing the inside of her mouth aggressively. I carry on, ‘Imagine the contents of everybody on this bus’s bags tipped out into a pile …’ We watch the people, stereotyping their bags by their mannerisms and clothes. ‘In her bag I bet there’s hand moisturiser … chewing gum and …’

  ‘Cigarettes …’ Dove adds.

  ‘Why cigarettes?’

  ‘My teacher always has gum and moisturiser in her handbag to mask the smell of the cigarettes.’

  ‘Ah, well spotted!’ I nod, smiling. ‘OK, so we’d have hand cream, gum and fags. What else?’

  ‘That man’s got a pram, so he’ll have loads of great stuff … wet wipes, rice cakes, apple juice, grapes … milk, maybe!’

  ‘Good call. I’m sticking with him. But look, she’s got bags of shopping full of stuff. Most of it’s frozen, but in this heat … Come on, those Smiley Faces will be defrosted in no time.’

  ‘You’d kind of need to go round, wouldn’t you, like a buffet, and take what you needed. Or exchange?’ Dove offers.

  ‘They all probably think I have loads of food in my bag. People always think I carry food with me.’

  ‘They’d be disappointed,’ Dove replies.

  ‘Nobody would share with me. They’d think I’m greedy, I bet. They wouldn’t dare share half their limp cheese sandwich with me just in case I snatched it and inhaled it. Like a giant, plopped it on my tongue to dissolve like an edible postage stamp!’

  Dove laughs, then does an impression of some dinosaur-like hungry beast, groaning ‘MORRRRRRREEEEE!’

  ‘Exactly, people think fat people can’t get full up. EVER. Like our stomachs are massive everlasting gobstopper laundry bags.’

  Dove frowns. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, they think that’s why fatness is connected to sadness, because we never feel full. Like, we eat to fill an empty void. This is what the stupid teachers at school say about me – that’s why I hate that place; they never talk to you about Mum and Dad breaking up, because you’re a thin person. The idea is so far-fetched, it’s annoying.’

  ‘You’re not sad at all. You never seem sad to me.’ Dove looks concerned. ‘Does that make you angry?’

  ‘No, it makes me laugh.’ Because it does. That people think that to be fat you also have to be sad. Like sadness is the reason you’re fat. It’s what all the girls and teachers from school think. ‘Oh, BB’s OBVIOUSLY fat because she’s sad and she’s OBVIOUSLY sad because her parents are breaking up, again.’

  My weight has NOTHING to do with my parents. What actually makes me feel sad, if anything, is others assuming that. Like I have no control over my emotions.

  The skinniness-equals-happiness myth is just a terrible sum created by the media and brands to make women believe that if they are thin they are leading a perfect carefree, successful life. That being slim means you are also automatically blissfully beautiful, intelligent, liberated, popular, cool, kind, disciplined, motivated, high-achieving, witty, spontaneous, adventurous, strong, courageous and ambitious whilst also being seriously deep in love with the person of your dreams and probably rich too, from being your own boss at your ideal job.

  How, also, does this make thin people feel? Like they aren’t allowed to be unhappy?

  They are making money out of our insecurities, knocking us down by shoving an unachievable airbrushed model in our faces eating low-fat yoghurt and making us believe that THAT is who we need to be in order to be all of the above, to make us buy their stuff, read their magazines.

  In other words, they are suggesting that being thin means you’re winning at life.

  And if you are otherwise, you are, well, losing.

  And all of that is an utter load of absolute bad stinking rubbish.

  ‘So this lot can go around thinking that I’m the greedy one, when in reality, if it turned to cannibalism, in desperate times, they would eat me. Everyone on the bus. Stand around me, sharpening their Oyster cards like makeshift cutlery, stomping some horrible bloodthirsty barbaric song and then try to roast me over the engine of the bus …’

  Dove is laughing so much little tears are building up in the corners of her eyes. ‘I’ve always wanted to eat the little fatty bits of flesh that hang over the top of your bra at the back, by your arms.’

  ‘Oooh, tender morsels there. Proper fillet. There would be a fight for those babies.’

  ‘Tossed in a bit of butter …’

  ‘You’d probably ruin it by slathering it in ketchup.’

  Dove nods, giggling at the same time. ‘You’d taste so good, plumped up with all that superfood goodness you eat.’

  Our laughs fizzle out to a comfortable silence. Sisters. Both boiling hot and clammy. Sticky and grubby with sweat. Do people think we look alike? No. Probably not. My whole skinny family look nothing like me. But I feel strong with Dove by my side. Her arm reaching across my chest to hold the rail.

  ‘Oi, quick, there’s two seats …’

  SQUASH

  People avoid sitting next to me on the bus so I usually avoid peak hours. Not because I’m embarrassed, I just CANNOT be bothered with the beef of people accusing me of treading on their toes or squashing their egg boxes with my calves. Quickly throwing their laptop bag on the chair next to them before I can sit down – ‘This seat’s taken by my boring black bag.’ I once had a woman snatch the end of her coat from underneath me as I went to sit just in case once I sat, that would be it, she’d never see her coat again. That my bum cheeks would STEAL it. Vacuum it up with one gust of air.

  I’m quiet, thinking about what the strangers have in their bags; are they wondering what I have in mine? But I bet they’re just thinking, ‘She would be really beautiful if she lost a bit of weight.’

  I’ve heard this before: ‘You’re tall, BB. If you lost a bit of weight, you could be a model.’

  I don’t want to be a model. Stop acting like it’s a golden ticket to get through life for free. I’m not cussing models. I once watched this reality TV show for models and realised that being a model is actually kind of long. Standing around pouting and slitting your eyes, thinking about all the other things you could be doing rather than this, thinking too hard and long about how you look. It must be exhausting. After a day at Planet Coffee my cheeks are paralysed from smiling at everybody. I could do with more neutral face hours.

  Imagine being a model though. I don’t want to wear clothes in magazines for companies to show girls how to wear something. To demonstrate how something should be worn. You should wear a piece of clothing how YOU want to wear it. It’s like serving suggestion pictures on food packaging … and nobody EVER listens to a serving suggestion. Ever.

  ‘You never asked me what I had in my bag!’ Dove yelps. ‘Because you’re in luck, you’re hanging out with the right passenger on this journey.’ Dove dips her hand inside her rucksack to reveal a shiny golden chocolate bar.

  CHEESE TOASTIES

  The kettle boils, the toastie maker light pings on green.

  ‘Do you think people won’t take me seriously in life cos I’m fat?’ I don’t know why I’m asking the opinion of a thirteen-year-old.

  ‘No, I do not think that. I think they won’t take you seriously because you’re sixteen. Sixteen. And dumb. Duh.’ Dove bites straight into the block of cheese. I pretend I don’t see her doing it, disgusted. She continues. ‘Why would you say that, anyway? This fat talk is getting so long. It’s all you talk about, fat, fat, fat. You talk about fatness quite a lot for somebody that doesn’t care about being fat.’

  ‘No, I just like
to point it out before somebody else points it out to me.’

  ‘’K. All I’m saying is, it’s kind of annoying, just get on with it.’ Dove licks her thumb. ‘Like, it’s not the only thing about you.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that, thanks, Dove.’ I snub her with sarcasm.

  ‘So act like it. Jeeeeeeeezzzz.’

  Not 2B headbutts me in the back of the knees. ‘I have to go on about it because of this apprenticeship thing, I really want to work and earn money or whatever so Mum gets off my back and I can do what I want to do, which is I don’t know what yet, which is fine too.’

  ‘It’s good to know what you want to do a bit too though … I know what I want to do.’ I watch Dove reach for the jam and smear it across a sliver of cheese. I then follow her hand as it lifts the concoction towards her mouth. Too much.

  ‘Gross.’

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Go on then, what are you going to do?’

  ‘Be a stuntwoman for action movies.’

  ‘Fine, OK, so you’ll be a stuntwoman for action movies, great, but you actually have a good shot at being that, Dove, because you basically already are a stuntwoman, but it’s different for me with wanting to be a boss or run a company or start a business or something.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, Dove, people don’t like putting a fat person in a position of power – the addiction is too obvious. Like, a gambler can hide gambling or a cheater can hide cheating. You can hide smoking or even a drug habit … you don’t have to wear it on your body, but as far as the world’s concerned I wear my addiction, my vulnerability. I’m decorated in my weakness … like some tin-foil padded sleeping bag that I can’t get out of.’

  ‘Hmm. I think it’s better to know what somebody’s weaknesses are from the start. Then there’s nothing to hide.’ She sucks her thumb.

  ‘Like battle scars.’

  ‘Kinda, yeah.’ She has worn blisters on the palms of her hands. They look like craters on the moon from grabbing and gripping all that brick. ‘They should get a palm reader in for job interviews.’