To my surprise, she throws her arms around my neck, and all but nuzzles into me. My heart leaps and I have to force myself not to jump away from her; sudden physical contact, especially of the affectionate kind, is not something I am particularly used to.
“I am so glad we met,” Amy slurs. “You’re my best friend here, you know that?”
“Best” sounds like “besht,” and “you know that” comes out as one word; all of this is nonsense drunk-talk. But I don’t care. I smile at her to disguise the fact that my eyes have suddenly—and alarmingly—begun to well.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.”
A woman on the TV shrieks, signaling her impending doom. Talk about psychic dissonance.
“You still don’t say much, though. Not much of a talker, huh? Oh, Beth Beth Bethie Beth . . .”
“Yes, Amy Amy Amymie Amy?”
She sniggers. “Amymie? Wow, you stretched that one, huh?” She sits up and punches me playfully on the shoulder. “You know your problem? You let other people run your life. You let other people tell you how you think about yourself.” She looks a bit confused. “I think that makes sense. Anyway, you know what I mean.”
Yep, Amy, I do. And I don’t like it. The squishy, fuzzy feelings from before have fizzled away, leaving behind the greasy taint of junk food, the metallic tang of cheap alcohol, and the incessant, shrill screaming of a woman who really should have known better than to go into the basement.
“No, Amy. It’s not like that. I just don’t do drama.” The magnitude of the lie almost chokes me.
“Pshaw. Look at me!” She waves an imperious finger in front of my face. “You, Bethanany Soames, are a lovely person. You got that?”
“Great. Next you’re going to be telling me I’ve got nice eyes, or that my hair is lovely.” It’s out before I can’t stop myself, and it’s steeped in years of bile.
Amy doesn’t seem to notice, though. She grins at me and twiddles a lock of my hair between her fingers. “Your hair is lovely. All amethysty and shimmery.” She hiccups. “S’cuse me.”
“Why are you saying these things?” I ask, suddenly tired. “We were having such a nice night.”
“We still are having a nice night!” Amy looks a little offended. “I just wanted you to know that you’re my best friend and I love you, that’s all.”
I know this is drunk talk. The very definition of drunk talk. Said in that imperious way only the truly intoxicated can get away with. Doesn’t stop my heart from migrating up into my throat and contracting into a tight little ball that makes it hard to breathe, though. No one outside of my own family has ever said they loved me. Yeah, okay, so Tori said it over Metachat, but I now realize there’s a hell of a gulf between someone typing it on a screen and someone saying it to your face. Even if the one saying it to your face is completely off her tits on cheap booze.
“I love you too,” I manage to croak, just getting it in before my stunned pause turns decidedly awkward. Amy grins like a loon and wraps her arms around me again, nestling her head against my shoulder. It’s painfully intimate, and I have no idea how to react. Is this what friends do, or is this more than that? Is this just-friends-love or the first shoots of love-love? Just what is going on?
“My parents didn’t want me to come here,” Amy says, rubbing her head against my cheek. I try to ignore the way her hair tickles. “I know I’m a disappointment to them. My parents. Never did anything right. Rob was all straight As and piano playing and ‘Oh, Daddy, I’m going to study law, just like you.’ ” She makes a raspberry noise. “Fuck them. So fed up with being in his shadow. Everything is ‘well, when Rob was your age’ and ‘well, Rob did this.’ You know they actually threatened to cut me off if I came here? Yeah, they did. Thank fuck this place gave me my only offer. Couldn’t badger me to go to fucking Oxford if fucking Oxford won’t have me. Doesn’t stop them from trying to make me apply for a transfer, though.” She sits up and throws her head back. “They want me to go to a ‘proper’ university and study a ‘proper’ subject.” She air-quotes proper, exaggerated moves that speak of deep disdain and even deeper pain. “I mean, why can’t they just accept me for who I am? So I’m not that bright. Is that such a crime?” She gives me an expectant look.
“Of course not. And you are bright. Of course you are,” I say dutifully.
“Not compared to Rob, I’m not.” She rubs her face with one hand. “Sometimes I hate my brother, but then I feel bad, ’cos it’s not his fault.” She sighs heavily, lets me go, and flings herself backward across the cushions and pillows we have strewn across the floor. “Oh, fuck this. Fuck this! You know what we should do?”
“Um, no?”
“We should go traveling. Yeah. Around the world! We could go to Kathmandu and Hawaii and, and, and Magaluf—”
“Magaluf?” I grin. “In Spain? ‘One of these things is not like the others’ much?”
“Hey, it’s a party resort. I wanna go there. Better than fucking Portugal.”
Considering the farthest I’ve ever been on holiday is Wales, I’ll have to take her word for that.
“Just imagine it. Every week a different town, a different beach. No one would know us, so we could be exactly who we want to be, rather than being stuck doing the same stupid things over and over again.”
I have to admit, it’s tempting.
“Sounds nice, but I’d never be able to afford it. Unless the minimum wage for babysitting goes up to a couple of grand an hour, I’m kind of stuck where I am.”
“Oh, Beth, you’re so sensible. But you don’t have to be sensible all the time. We can dream. Lighten up!”
Oh, was that one of those moments when I was just supposed to go along with it all? I wish someone could have told me, because Amy’s now fiddling with her phone, and I have a horrible feeling that I’ve managed to break whatever moment we were having.
“Smile!” she calls out, and before I have a chance to at least attempt to rearrange myself into something that might be considered a flattering pose if you stretch the definition out as far as you can, the flash goes off, blinding me. I blink, trying to clear the little floating blobs in front of my eyes, wondering if I could get away with confiscating Amy’s phone.
“Ha ha! Look at you! You look evil. All red eyes and everything!” She waves her phone at me, and I am mortified at the sight of my own mountains of flesh, bared for all to see.
“Please don’t post that, Amy,” I say, trying not to sound too pathetic.
“Why not? It’s funny,” she says, fiddling with her phone.
“Please, just don’t. Don’t. I—I don’t think I can cope with that being on the internet. I don’t like people taking photos of me at the best of times, and you might have noticed I don’t post many of myself, so please . . .” I leave my plea hanging.
Amy cocks her head to one side, like a little bird. “Okay. I won’t. I promise.” She shuffles closer to me, her brows drawn. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just don’t like photos. I’m not exactly photogenic.”
Amy shrugs. “So? None of us are, not really. I take photos to remember things. Don’t you want to be able to look back years from now and see how things were?”
It’s my time to shrug, as if that’s enough to explain that no, I don’t want to look back and see just how fat and pathetic I really am. If anything, I want to forget it—no photographic evidence means it didn’t really happen, and once I figure out how to con a doctor into giving me a gastric bypass, I can pretend most of Beth: The Fat Years never happened.
But I can’t tell her that, because I can just tell she’d never get it. Not because she’s a bad person, but because she’s the exact opposite: she’s a good person, the best type of person, the type who desperately wants to see the best in people despite their flaws, which will inevitably lead to them getting hurt, or even worse, being completely disappointed by the people they want to believe are also good people, but we’re not, we’re not good people, we’
re bad people, and now I just want to leave, just go home, because I love Amy, I do, she’s the best friend I’ve always dreamed of and I don’t deserve her, because deep down I’m a terrible person, an awful person, a person who will probably just end up disappointing or, even worse, hurting her—
Outside, the door to the communal hallway bangs open, breaking my train of thought. Amy looks up from her phone, jumps up to her feet, or at least tries to; it takes her a couple of attempts, but eventually she hauls her bedroom door open.
“Tinkerbell!” Indigo’s slurry voice rings out. “Why didn’t you come out?”
“Oh, sorry, Indy—we stayed in. We had pizza. It was yum.”
“Piiiizzaaaa?” Indigo says the word in a drawling whine. “I love pizza. I’m not supposed to have pizza, but I love pizza. Is there any left?”
“Yeah!” Amy is nodding enthusiastically now. “Beth, get the pizza.”
I lurch across the floor, a willing little acolyte, and fetch up the remaining slices into one box, which I offer up to Indigo, who, despite being blasted out of her mind, still looks gorgeous. Behind her, a walking beard in skinny jeans and a stick-insect with bright red hair lounge.
“Pizza!” Indigo says again and groans as she takes a slice of pepperoni.
“It’s gone cold,” I say, and I hate the apology in my voice, like it’s my fault.
Indigo ignores me and keeps eating, making orgasmic grunts as she chews.
“Uh, Indy?” The Hipster Beard peels himself off the wall.
“Do you want some?” I ask, unsure of what else to say. If in doubt, offer food. It’s a good principle to live by, in my experience.
Hipster Beard eyes the pizza the way a ravenous lion eyes an injured impala. I can see he’s tempted, but he shakes his head. “Can’t. Vegan.” He gives Indigo a piously disgusted look; in return, she rolls her eyes and pulls a face.
“Oh, fuck off, Trent. What are you going to do, call the vegan police?”
The redhead next to Trent gives me a smile that is half mischievous, half apologetic, and reaches in for a slice.
“What the fuck?” Trent says, throwing his hands up into the air.
Indigo grins at that and winks at me. “So, you two had a good time?”
I let Amy field that one. She jabbers on while Indigo pinches the last slice, and I think I actually see a thin tendril of drool trickle from the corner of Hipster Trent’s puckered mouth. It’s kind of amusing to watch; I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed that level of desire crossed with that level of revulsion before. Beside him, the redhead nibbles on her slice like a mouse, her eyes darting between Indigo and Hipster Trent, as if weighing who she wants to please more.
It’s all absolutely fascinating. It never even entered my head that the Beautiful People might have a hierarchy like this, and that it can all come tumbling down via too much drink and the temptation of illicit pizza.
Amy’s now flicking through photos on her phone, and an icy dread punches me squarely in the chest—she’d better have deleted that photo.
“Oh, that’s so funny!” Indigo brays. “You two look like you’ve had so much fun.” She pouts. “Still, you should have come out with us.” She turns to her friends. “You know Tink, but this is Beth—she helped us with Dizzy!”
“Oh, awesome,” Hipster Trent says, nodding in what could have been mistaken as approval, if I wasn’t completely suspicious of where this was all actually going. “Fucking hell, though, huh? Poor Dizzy. Sad day when you can’t just go about your life without someone charging in and shitting all over it. Someone should arrest those fuckers. Seriously, five to ten, no parole. Attempted manslaughter. Boom.”
I try to swallow, but my mouth’s gone dry. The dread in my chest is like the beating of a nasty drum. All I can do is nod. If these people cotton on to the truth, then I’m toast, of the hold her down while I tear her a new one variety. Hipster Trent is quite a big guy, despite his veganism, and I have no desire to tussle with him, or anyone else, in real life.
Amy’s chattering again, and Indigo is replying, as animated as I’ve ever seen her. She’s actually quite intimidating; she holds herself with confidence and laughs loudly, waving her arms around as if it might reinforce her point. Hipster Trent interjects every now and again, and I can’t help but wonder if he fancies her. Well, why shouldn’t he? She’s gorgeous. I can now see how she managed to fend off Tori and me for so long—
Tori!
Oh shit. I completely forgot to tell her I was going out tonight! Everything happened so fast . . . I didn’t think it was possible, but my stomach sinks even lower, and the desire to throw up all over everyone steals over me. My face feels hot, my clothes tight, and no matter how much I try to fight it, the desire to run from this situation is gaining on me. I mean, what the hell am I thinking? I don’t belong here. This is a ridiculously Instagrammable moment: four Beautiful People (just ignore the fugly one in the corner) having a very photogenic conversation in their hip uni halls well after midnight. I wonder if I could just back away. No one’s paying attention. Okay, I know, I’m not exactly small enough to just slip away undetected, but I could slope off with the pizza box under the pretense of throwing it away—
“I like your hair.”
I snap back to the real world.
“Pardon?”
“I like your hair,” the redhead says, a nervous smile playing around the edges of her lips. “I had it that color once, and I loved it. It really suits you.”
I self-consciously touch my hair. “It does?”
“Yeah. Brings out your eyes. I’m Becky, by the way.” She gives me another one of those half-mischievous, half-apologetic grins, and leans over to me. “I wish you had come out,” she whispers. “It would have been nice to have other people to talk to.”
I stare at her. After a second I shrug, the universal sign for I have no idea what to say to you, but I have to be polite, so . . .
Becky nods at this, and I can see it in her eyes. She gets it.
I don’t understand how, or why, but she gets it.
47: #99problems
Amy’s fast asleep, sprawled across her bed. To my surprise, she snores. It never once crossed my mind that someone so dainty and cutesy might do something as base as snoring, even in an inebriated state. She still looks like an angel, despite the snoring. This is an odd little privilege. If you think about it, it’s the ultimate expression of trust. For all she knows, I could be a serial killer. We haven’t known each other that long in the grand scheme of things. She’s told me more about her than I have about me, because she’s on the right side of normal when it comes to being a proper, authentic human being.
And the more I know about her, the more I hang out with her, the more I’m coming to the conclusion that my own problems might not just stem from my fugliness. Maybe that’s just the way I’ve rationalized it. Maybe there isn’t this big conspiracy against me and the other Fuglies, and we do hold our destinies in our own hands.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the one with the problem.
And maybe that’s always been the case.
I shake my head. I don’t want to think like this. Damn alcohol. Should be banned. But I can’t just blame the cocktails and the vodka, can I?
I’ve done bad things. I was once proud of them, which, in a way, makes it even worse. They weren’t mistakes. I deliberately went out of my way to crush Dizzy, just because she’s pretty. I told myself it’s just online, it doesn’t count, it isn’t really me . . .
. . . but it is.
I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Amy’s stuck little glow-in-the-dark stars on it, because of course she has.
I sit up and fumble in the dark for my phone. It’s 4:16 a.m.—not quite morning, but definitely not night. A weird time of day, really, one that no one but cats and people working night shifts knows very well.
I have some messages. Lots of them. All from Tori.
My breath hitches as a nasty, crawly feeling infects my
chest and belly.
Due to the way Messenger works, I get the last one first.
Where the fuck are you?
Who the fuck is this?
Isn’t she that little slut Amy?
Wtf are you up to?
Are you fucking her or something?
A photo of a drunk me pouting at the camera with Amy is attached.
The dread intensifies. I scroll back.
The messages start off okay. Where are you, are you there, what are you doing, etc. etc. Then they step up a bit: are you ignoring me, what have I done, wtf is going on. That then escalates to a full-on why are you ignoring me, I know you’re there, that bitch is posting photos of you on her page, why the fuck would she be doing that, where the fuck are you . . .
I should have told her I was going out. Just a quick message and that would have been that. Why do I do this to myself? Just one simple thing would have saved me all this shit. I cower in front of the screen, my thumbs clumsily mashing the keys on my phone until autocorrect manages to decipher the core of my message:
Sorry. Was invited out by my uni friends.
I meant to msg you, but signal was shit
Interesting lie, but hey, whatever calms her down, right?
Sorry again. Wasn’t ignoring you.
We literally just ate pizza
and watched shitty horror movies.
Nothing else, I promise.
I’ll be home soon,
then I can explain in more detail xxxxxx
It does cross my mind that Tori’s lost it a bit—she doesn’t own me and I am allowed out once in a while, but I’m so worried that I’ve upset her, I squash that down. I did say I’d be online tonight. Oh, why didn’t I just message her? Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I clutch at my phone, willing her to be there, aware that it doesn’t look great that I’m replying at four in the morning. Her last message was just after 1:00 a.m. and they started at 8:30 p.m. Oh, God, I feel even more terrible now. She sat in, waiting for me for nearly five hours . . . It’s about the closest I’ve ever come to legitimately standing someone up, and it’s a horrible feeling.
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