My Ideal Boyfriend Is a Croissant

by Laura Dockrill

  “Oh, of course they weren’t. Bony old things. They don’t even have any flesh on them; they’re not meant to be eaten. You feel like some wretched giant Viking when you eat them….” He coughs. “Course, we all had so much wine we couldn’t even really taste it,” Dad adds. “Some of the people there couldn’t even be bothered to mess around with all the bones.”

  “And I bet the people there weren’t even grateful. Or impressed. This was just another fancy meal on another day that would end up squished up in their tummies and swirl down the bowl of a toilet.”

  * * *

  —

  The eggs of a quail, apparently, are as small as thumbprints, like those delicious chocolate eggs you get at Easter. You can’t dip a soldier into an egg that size—you’d need to boil twelve of them before you’d even get a yolk flow going and imagine peeling the stupid things: Who’s got the time for that?

  “Why are we so barbaric?” I ask Dad. “Why do we think we can just take from this planet, pluck at creatures like they belong to us—bake four and twenty blackbirds, kill a squid just to make black pasta, force-feed a duck so we can get a bit of pâté? Why can’t we be resourceful and if we take a creature, respect it, use it, all of it?”

  “We are so greedy. And picky,” Dad says. His voice is sad, defeated. “We are so picky.”

  I feel sick.

  Food makes me feel so sick.

  “On second thoughts…,” Dad says softly. “I think I’ll just get a sarnie.”

  BAD FATS

  Max, again: Please just let me know you’re OK. That’s all. X

  I go to reply but I don’t know what to say. My thumbs hover over the letters…Maybe just an X? No. Always annoys me when I just get an X back. Oddly aloof. Maybe I’ll reply later.

  I always used to think in films and stuff when a fat actor playing a “fat” character gets called “fat” in the film or whatever—does it not hurt their feelings? But it’s a fact. They know they went up for an audition to play a big person. It’s not a shock to them the same way it’s not a shock if somebody is old. Or tall.

  It’s not just because I have eyes that I know I’m fat. It’s not even the fact that people think that because you’re fat you’re also gross. As if being fat means you’d eat something off the floor or have BO or stinky feet or are really lazy. As if you might keep a line of crushed, damp Doritos under the flab of your breast rolls. Sleep with a baguette in the crease of your elbow, just in case. All of that annoys me but it’s not how I know I’m fat. It’s not even the fact that the sensors of my cat-whisker hips don’t work and my bum always ends up knocking ornaments off shelves in those weird little card shops or sends china salt and pepper pots flying in restaurants as I squeeze past a table. And we all know we’ve squeezed in that little bit too far at a table to overly let the fat girl past.

  It’s mostly because when I say I’m fat, people go, “No you’re not.”

  And that means I definitely am. It’s OK. I’ve learnt that people secretly like it a bit if other people don’t like themselves because it gives other people power. It shows weakness. And I’m not going to be one of those people. EVER. Because the only person I’m not liking by doing that is me.

  But right now I’m finding it hard to like myself. And it’s unusual for me. And it hurts.

  COCONUT

  I wake up to more missed calls from Cam and Max. Bleugh. No thank you, anyone. I let my phone run out of battery.

  Bye, world.

  Mum is at the hospital with Dove. Again. Mum’s stopped asking me to go. Dad has been sleeping at the house on the sofa. He LOVES it; he can’t believe that he’s been allowed. He wears matching striped pyjamas and a dressing gown to show he’s here to stay, that he’s extra relaxed so there’s no need to move him, and everything Mum asks him to do, he replies with “Not a problem.”

  He dumps the newspapers on the side.

  “Here’s that coconut water thing you asked for. It’s crazy expensive. Coconut milk is so much cheaper—why don’t you just drink that instead?”

  “It’s not the same; it doesn’t hydrate you the same.”

  “For that price it should hydrate you all the way to a tropical island!”

  I roll my eyes and open the carton. The cool, creamy water is smooth and tangy on my fluffy tongue. “The coconut is a perfect example of you how hard nature wants us to work for our food. You have to crack through that hairy, heavy shell to be rewarded with the sweet flesh and water. Not just take, take, take off a supermarket shelf.”

  “I saw bananas wrapped in clingfilm once,” Dad says as he unpacks the breakfast shopping, trying to act like everything’s normal. I say “breakfast” but it’s closer to lunchtime. Dad thinks that us talking like this will distract us from everything—from Dove, but also maybe the fact he’s trying to move back in right under our noses. “Errr…HELLOO…that’s why nature gave them a skin,” he adds, pretending to be a girl my age.

  “Did you walk to the shops in your pyjamas?” I ask him.

  “No, course not,” he says as if I’m crazy. “I rode my bicycle.”

  * * *

  —

  I wonder if Dad too has become really conscious of his legs and what they do. How they work and how they feel. Does he feel like he’s walking in space, like me? Then other times like he’s underwater, wearing one of those oversized old-school metal diving suits, like me? Drowning? Short of breath in either scenario.

  I reach for my inhaler.

  He makes a cafetiere of coffee. I still have no appetite.

  “Come on, then, Super Girl, what you eating?”

  “I don’t feel like anything.”

  “Come on, look, I got avocado—you love avocado. Bloody things cost me a fortune,” he jokes. “Expensive rascals, aren’t you?” he mutters to the fruit. “So trendy, aren’t they? Bet these things are cheap as chips wherever they’re grown. They say ripen in the bowl but half of them look like meteorites and the other half look like they’ve been involved in a pub brawl.”

  “I know Mum made you go to the shops so I’d eat.”

  “Come on, at least a bit of toast?”

  My brain finds an image of Dove’s dirty hands, her bruised knuckles, her fingernails jammed with gammy dried-up blood.

  “Why do we eat meat? We aren’t meant to eat meat.”

  “Cavemen ate meat.”

  “Yeah, but they had to work for it; there was nothing else. And I bet when they killed something, like a wild boar or whatever, they made it last. It probably fed a whole family for a week.”

  “True. We are a greedy country of consumers. Why are you so interested in the economics and politics of food at the moment?”

  I ignore him. But it’s because I feel like I’ve had too much of it. I’ve robbed the planet.

  “But why do we eat it?” I continue. “If we’re descended from monkeys, then surely we should eat what monkeys eat? They eat soft fruit and vegetables. Nuts.”

  “Some monkeys eat meat.” Dad plays devil’s advocate.

  “Some humans murder other humans.”

  “This is a bit of a deep conversation for this time of the morning but I have to say I’m rather enjoying it.”

  He’d love me to be vegetarian—that would be another thing he could sling across the plates at a dinner-table debate. “Well, MY daughter’s vegetarian, so…” And then I think about Dove. He’s got THAT to use now. I shake the ugly thought out of my head. Go away.

  “Monkeys have short nails like us and flat teeth, molars, like us. They climb; their hands and feet are for climbing. We can’t outrun an antelope like a lion or kill it with claws or sharp teeth. We aren’t that kind of animal.”

  “True.” Dad nods. He feeds Not 2B some raw bacon fat.

  “And we can’t even digest raw meat; in fact, it makes us sick.”


  “Steak tartare?”

  “Oh yeah, cos I eat THAT every day.” I’m being difficult.

  “We can’t actually really digest cooked meat that well.”

  “See?”

  “Although that is why man made fire. We made fire…We made traps to catch food, spears to catch fish. That’s what makes our kind top of the food chain. Put a man in a cage with any beast and the beast wins…but throw a rifle in the cage, the beast wouldn’t know what to do. It’s evolution, Bluebelle. We need meat to live.”

  * * *

  —

  I hear the key in the door, which means Mum’s back.

  “SURPRISE!” she squeals. “Guess who’s home?”

  And I hear metal clanking against the step. Dove.

  Dad leaps up excitedly. “Well, that is a surprise! We weren’t expecting you back yet, my darling!”

  And I don’t know why, but I feel scared. I run upstairs to my room—like I said, I don’t know why. I find all the Nutella jars and sling them out, even if they have knives and spoons in them. The sound of glass and metal. Clank. Clunk. Everything goes in the bin.

  MILLIONAIRE’S SHORTBREAD

  It wasn’t my choice, or deliberate, but I slept. Deeply. I think it was exhaustion that did it.

  I’m gonna do my shift today. Is that OK? I text Alicia and await the annoying flurry of emojis that’s gonna whack me in the face with her reply. She loves the little cartoon face with one eye closed, one open, with the tongue out.

  I am actually looking forward to going back. I never thought I’d say that but it’s true. Planet Coffee, where it only matters that the milk is frothed and the forks are clean. That customers get the right change and you go along with the rules that people expect in a coffee shop, the warm embrace of comfort and simplicity.

  Max does a double take when he sees me. Green eyes blooming like a blossoming flower on a nature programme sped up. He’s surprised.

  Alicia follows me backstage. “Hey, honeybunch, it’s good to see you. How you doing?”

  “I’m OK, thanks.”

  “Did the flowers arrive OK?” Yeah, lilies: they represent death, you IDIOT. BB, be nice.

  “Oh yeah, they’re lovely thanks. They’re still alive.”

  “Aw, that’s good. And the choccies?” Yes. The “choccies” too.

  “Uh-huh.” She nods. Hands on hips, she breathes out. It’s like she feels safe to just “let it all hang out” in front of me. Cos who am I to judge? Her belly is bursting, swelling over her jeans, the button straining at the seam. She’s doing that whole I’m denying I’m pregnant but I’m definitely pregnant. I knew she didn’t have food poisoning. It takes a lot to take down a cockroach like Alicia.

  “You been eating?” she asks. It’s nice to give a fat person permission to eat. I glare at her and say nothing. Alicia scratches her wrist. She then attempts a hug. “You look so thin.” Erm. OK. My body tenses, rock hard.

  “So how’s she doing?”

  “Dove’s doing great. She’s dealing with it much better than I am!” I chirp awkwardly.

  “You look tired.” She smiles.

  “Yeah…well…I am.” I AM. “I just can’t bear the idea of her not…being able to do stuff.”

  “You can go home any time if you decide it’s too soon. We’ve got it covered here, chuck.”

  “No, no, I want to be here. I was going a bit crazy at home. There’s not that much use me being there.”

  “Oh, bubba, you must be going through hell.”

  The conversation’s shifted from my weight to my baby sister’s accident. She wants to hear the story replayed like one of those Emergency 999 reconstruction documentaries. But I’m VERY protective. Defensive, almost. It doesn’t feel the same as when she comments on my weight, because my fat is mine. Because I understand it. I put food in; it comes along for the ride. This is something completely different. Something that can’t be fixed by writing down some thoughts in a diary. SO GO ON, THEN, ALICIA. SAY WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY. ASK WHAT YOU WANT TO ASK.

  “So…like…do you think…she’ll be, like…able to walk again?”

  “Yes. She will be able to do everything. It’s just two broken legs.” I wrap my apron around my waist and tie it into a bow.

  Did you sign the letter yet, though? Obviously not. Whatever. Don’t even care anymore anyway.

  I gaze at the tubs of brown squares in their Tupperware boxes, like jewellery under glass. I smile. “I see we’ve got millionaire’s shortbread now. That’s cool.”

  “Yeah, it was Max’s idea. He said they were a must. I took his advice; thought we’d trial-run them for a bit, seeing as he was so SET on having the damn things.” She shrugs. “I’m not such a caramel girl myself. But I think I know someone who is.”

  Me.

  Max.

  If I was thirteen and you weren’t reading this, I’d draw a hundred love hearts around his name right now.

  The idea of salt and sweet. Of the sandy base and squidgy caramel. I feel my mouth water in the wrong way. I feel sick. I don’t want it. I’ve lost my love for food.

  I’ve lost my love.

  SEASONING

  At Planet Coffee, I watch girls and girls watch me. I find girls much more interesting than boys because there are so many diversions and versions of us. Boys get excited if their jacket has a hood or their coat has a patterned lining. Boys think they are wacky if they wear a pink shirt or sport a flash of red sock peeping out of their shoes, if their trainers have a blue air bubble.

  We think we need things that make us recognisable and that we should be known for our things—our perfume, our hair colour, our style, our taste. So that other people know who we are. So other people can describe us to somebody new who hasn’t met us yet.

  Do I have the right trainers? No. The right hair? Definitely not. The right ringtone—no way. The right underwear or clothes or bag or nails or ideas…Do you have to decide who you think you are right now and then stick to that choice forever? Do you have to be pigeonholed? Which umbrella do you have to stand under? I just want to be a girl. Flavoured with my own seasoning that makes me me.

  In the toilet at work I lift my top up and look at my belly. I prod it. Suck it in. Push it out. My ribs are there. And a line wants to be, down the centre. Women are like wardrobes, aren’t they? We split down the middle; the doorknobs are our boobs…and then think about all the brilliant, beautiful stuff that you can shove inside your wardrobe of a personality. Colours, fabrics, textures ready to butterfly out and show you off in your many versions…each telling a different story, a little history, a little shade of you.

  The mirror in the toilets at work is two mirrors shoved together and if you stand at the right angle you can only see half of your body. Then I can almost, sort of, see myself as a thin person.

  CINNAMON

  “Yeah, but how is she?”

  “She’s fine, go back to work.”

  “I am. I am at work. I’m still working; I just want to know if she’s all right.”

  “She’s fine, B. She’s had tuna pasta, haven’t you, Dove? Tuna pasta and cheese-and-onion crisps and now we’re…Yes, BB. Do you want to say hello?” Mum coos at Dove softly; I feel like she’s about to pass the phone over to a grandma or a toddler. “Hold on, BB, Dove wants to say hello. Hold on, let me just pass her over.”

  “It’s OK, I just wanted to know she was OK. I’ve got to go now. Sorry, Mum. I’ve got to go—”

  And I end the call just as I hear Dove’s high-pitched, happy HELLO. My heart is banging out of my chest. I throw my phone on the top of my bag like a hot potato. I didn’t have to go at all…Why am I avoiding her?

  I scrub my dirty hands down my apron. I close my eyes and breathe deep. I shake my arms out. I think about calling back. I could say sorry. I could say sorry to Dove and listen to her properly, about h
er day of watching cartoons and not getting a moment to herself. Just sitting. Eating all the annoying gross fibrous foods that she doesn’t like that the hospital has her on just so she can go to the toilet. Fibrous foods that make her so thirsty but she can’t even drink as much as she’d like in case her bladder swells and hurts her insides, which then hurts her ribs. Ask her properly and listen properly too, instead of going through the motions, not really being there.

  But I don’t. I can’t. I should ask her how the hospital visit went. How she is. How she feels. I should just talk to her like I’d normally do. Tell her about the millionaire’s shortbread. Tell her about normal stuff. But I can’t because everything feels so minimal and birdseed-tiny in importance. I should call, right now, and say: “Dove, you’re my sister. I care about everything you’re going through; everything you’re going through I want to go through too. I want to take your suffering away. You’re my baby sister, I love you so much.” But I don’t. “I can’t watch Mum lift you out of the chair to shower you. To not get your casts wet. I can’t watch Mum getting you changed and Dad lifting you back onto the sofa and in and out of the car.” I chew my tongue and then I step out front again. I want to taste blood.

  Back on the Planet my mind can be distracted. I stop thinking about how every bone in my body feels, bothered by my big bones getting in the way. Did you know roughly fifteen percent of the body’s mass is made up of bones? Split that in two, top half and bottom half, that’s like seven and a half percent for each. A bit more for the top because I think the head is well heavy. Mine is, anyway; it’s like a bowling ball. So…let’s say eight percent is the top half of the body and seven percent is the bottom half….That’s a LOT of body weight that Dove can’t use. A lot of dormant bone to carry around, dragging her down like a ball and chain.