Fugly

by Claire Waller

  Nothing. Not even the bloody check mark tattles on her. She’s probably doing what all sensible people are doing right now and sleeping, which is what I should be doing but can’t because I’m too wired, too scared, feeling too goddamn sick to even contemplate lying down, even though I know it’s ridiculous and that I should at least try to get some shut-eye, oh God, what have I done?

  ***

  I finally hear back from Tori at 8:48 a.m.

  Oh. You were out? Why didn’t you just tell me? I was worried.

  And that’s it.

  I feel even worse now, if that’s possible. I ping back a load more apologies, explaining how I didn’t really want to go out, but I couldn’t say no when everyone else was going, all the while completely aware that the photos Amy has so stupidly shared show just the two of us—I mean, come on, you don’t have to document every fucking moment of your life on social media! No one’s interested, and all it does is make you look like either a desperate, needy twat or a complete narcissist. What makes it even worse if the people you drag along with you have no say in being part of your online freakshow, which, by the way, is totally selfish . . .

  . . . though not exactly the most heinous crime imaginable either.

  I glance over to Amy, who is still asleep. She has one hand curled under her cheek, and if I squint, I think I can see the child she once was. She looks so peaceful. I wish I had her life. Okay, not the whole brother/parent thing (although at least they’re basically normal, rather than being a nonfunctioning depressive and a fucking delinquent), but that ability to switch off; to do stupid, selfish things like post pictures all over the internet when you know damn well the other person doesn’t like having themselves plastered in public spaces, and still be able to sleep like a baby . . .

  I press the palms of my hands into my eyes. My stomach growls.

  Crap. We gave away the last of the leftover pizza last night.

  I know. I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation,

  I know I would have had far more fun with you.

  I feel bad. Can you forgive me?

  A few moments later and ping!

  Of course I can, babe. You’re my special girl. I didn’t mean to go off on you, but I saw the photos and thought you’d ditched me—which, let’s face it, you kind of did—but hey, you had fun, so I should be happy if you’re happy.

  I can’t help but frown at that. On one hand, it sounds like she’s forgiven me and is apologizing for going over the top, but on the other . . . passive-aggressive much? Is this normal? I don’t know—it’s not as if I have much to compare it to. Maybe she’s trying to be cool with it all but is struggling a bit because I hurt her feelings? That would make sense, I suppose. Oh, why didn’t I just tell her?!

  Again, I’m so sorry, Tori babe.

  It was totally one of those off-the-cuff things.

  Next time, you’ll be the first person I tell, k?

  Another pause, then:

  K. Are you free? I got us a whole new playground . . . ;)

  My stomach twists again.

  No. Will be soon, tho. Look forward to seeing what you have for me! ? xxx

  Although that is a lie. I’m in no mood to fuck someone’s day up for shits and giggles. Last time I did that, someone almost died.

  . . . You’re not at home?

  Where are you then?

  Oh GOD! Just drop it, Tori!

  I crashed at Amy’s. Closer to town than my house.

  Oh. I see.

  I sigh heavily, as if that might relieve the pressure building up in my head and chest.

  Babe, it’s not like that.

  It’s not like anything.

  I just needed somewhere to crash.

  You know I love you. B&T forever, remember?

  Yeah. I remember. Are you leaving now?

  Soon. Just need to find my stuff.

  And say goodbye to Amy, maybe help her tidy up, you know, the basic ways you demonstrate that you’re not a total jerk. But I don’t think I’m going to have time for that; I get the impression Tori wants me home five minutes ago.

  K. Message me as soon as you get in.

  No kisses, no “babe.” Not a good sign.

  Will do. Could be an hour or so, tho—

  need to get the bus

  and you know what they’re like. xxxx

  I know she’s read it as the check mark has given her away, but she doesn’t reply. And given she knows how to bypass the check mark, she obviously wants me to know she’s choosing not to reply.

  I stuff my phone into my pocket.

  “Amy,” I hiss. “Amy!”

  No reply. Not even a grunt. She’s still totally dead to the world. I lean over and give her a little shake. She swats my hand away with a small groan.

  “Amy, I’ve got to go.”

  “Uhh!” She pulls a pillow over her face. I clench my jaw. I don’t have time for this.

  “Amy, I mean it. I need to go. I’d stay and help you clear up, but I—I’ve just got to get home. Sorry.”

  “No. Stay here and feed me coffee . . .” Amy whines plaintively.

  “I can’t. I have to go.”

  “Why?” She pulls the pillow off her face. Her mascara has smudged, but she still looks way too good for someone with a raging hangover. “I thought we could have coffee and then get bacon sandwiches from the greasy spoon down the road. And anyway, why are you so awake? Why aren’t you hungover? You’re inhuman!”

  That pulls me up. My excuse—that my mum needs me—dies on my lips. She means it as a joke (or at least I hope she does), but she’s right. That I was even thinking of using Mum as an excuse to get away from her so I could talk to Tori . . . that’s a bit of a red line, isn’t it?

  “Okay, look, I’ll fix us some coffee and help you clear up, but then I have to meet someone.”

  Amy hauls herself upright. “Ooo, you do? Who?”

  “Just . . . someone,” I say, refusing to look at her.

  She peers at me, and a slow grin spreads across her face. “Someone important?”

  I shrug, giving her one of those noncommittal grimaces that some people mistake for smiles. “You could say that.”

  Amy claps her hands in glee. “Oh, how adorable! When did you meet them?”

  “A little while ago,” I say, way too quickly. “Online.”

  “Oooo, an online romance.” Her grin broadens.

  I feel a blush creep up the sides of my neck. “Yeah, well, I said I’d be online in an hour and, you know, I need to get home, so . . .”

  “Aw, why didn’t you say so? I can clear up. I don’t want to get in the way of some serious Romeo and Julieting. Although . . .” Her grin dissolves, replaced by a small, concerned frown. “Be careful, yeah? I know online dating isn’t a new thing and everything, but even so—there’s loads of dicks out there who like to take advantage of people.”

  She doesn’t say it, but the like you after the people drops neatly into place.

  “It’s okay. I know all about the creeps online. I’m not about to give anyone my life savings. We just met on a forum and like the same stuff, that’s all.”

  “Oh, okay. I wasn’t trying to lecture you or anything. Like I said, loads of people meet online now. I just don’t want you getting hurt. After Dizzy and everything, I don’t think I could cope with another friend being messed about.”

  I snort. “I’m not going to pull a Dizzy.” Amy’s face falls. Okay, so that was a bit harsh. “What I mean is, I’m careful. I’ll be okay.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Amy smiles, but it holds none of her usual sparkle.

  48: #hometruths

  I stay long enough to help Amy clear away the worst of the mess. I even take the greasy pizza boxes with me to the communal dumpster on my way out. I can tell Amy would like me to stay, but she’s being gallant about it, trying to be encouraging, asking where my “special someone” lives and whether I’m going to meet them.

  When I tell her I’m not sure exactly where Tori liv
es, she seems a bit shocked but doesn’t say anything, and suddenly it does strike me as a little bit odd. Maybe I should have asked by now.

  When I leave, Amy gives me a big hug and tells me, yet again, to take care. This time I don’t hesitate in hugging her back; it feels nice, and quite frankly, I wish I could stay here, warm and secure in the arms of another human. But I can’t, so when I leave, I give Amy a proper smile—not a smirk or one of those carefully-constructed half-smiles designed to minimize chinnage, but a proper, unguarded grin. I want Amy to be someone I can grin at, chins and all.

  She grins back at me, all wrinkle-nosed and crinkly-eyed, and I feel a rush of affection for her, because she’s my friend. There, I’ve said it. The F word. The really important one.

  I actually feel pretty good when I get on the bus. It’s on time, and it’s one of those cold-but-clear days that make late autumn my favorite time of year. I get home just after 10:30, which is excellent; on a usual Saturday I’d try to sleep in till now, so in reality, I haven’t really lost any time with Tori at all.

  There isn’t any sign of anyone when I get in, so I fix myself a cuppa, and lo and behold, there’s food in the fridge, so I make myself some cheese on toast, too.

  I text Amy as the cheese is melting under the grill, just to let her know I’ve gotten home safe. She pings back a Thnx for lettin me no! xx ♥ xx, and I find myself smiling at the terrible spelling rather than being irritated by it.

  Upstairs, I change out of last night’s clothing and into my lovely, comfy pajamas, fling open the curtains to let the weak winter sun in, and log on to my computer. A Metachat login is waiting for me.

  It doesn’t take Tori long to show up.

  You’re home now?

  Yeah. Just got in.

  had to help do a bit of tidying up,

  but got back asap. are you still mad at me?

  Tori doesn’t reply immediately, and my mood drops a notch.

  I wasn’t mad. Just concerned. You had me worried.

  Yeah, I know. You’ve already told me, like, a thousand times already. Jesus.

  I know. I’m sorry.

  A wild idea strikes me.

  Wanna skype?

  Again, a horrible pause stretches out, further and further, chaining seconds into minutes. A fluttery feeling starts up in my chest. Have I pushed this too far?

  Sorry—I don’t do skype.

  You might as well hand the feds your life on a silver platter.

  It’s my turn to pause.

  Oh, ok. Just an idea.

  I can’t deny it—I’m disappointed. I’d hoped we’d get beyond worrying about security issues and the nebulous “them” that patrol the internet. Plus, whether I like it or not, Amy’s words keep playing back in my head, and a small but irritatingly insistent voice keeps saying, Is this normal? Really? This doesn’t feel normal. Is it normal?

  It’s okay. I don’t skype anyone.

  Not worth the hassle.

  That’s how people get caught.

  Anyway, we have fun here, right?

  While you were out with that dozy bitch yesterday,

  I found some new victims.

  You’ll love them. Come on, let’s play!

  And it strikes me: I don’t want to play. Is this all we’ve got? Being horrible to other people on the internet? That’s it? No skyping, no arranging to meet, no trying to organize a future together—just bile and spite and a constant stream of insults. Like calling Amy a dozy bitch. I don’t want Amy called a dozy bitch. She’s neither dozy nor a bitch. She’s my friend, one who will eat pizza with me and watch movies with me and go out drinking with me . . .

  I massage my temples with my fingertips to try and ease the headache that’s building there.

  Nah. Not in the mood. Would rather just chat.

  What?? Come on, Beth,

  you bailed on me last night,

  don’t bail on me now, babe!

  I lean back from the screen. What is her problem? Why is she so keen for us to go trolling? There’s more to us than that. There has to be. I try a different tack.

  There’s a new Banshee strip. You seen it?

  Yeah, course. Not as good as the earlier ones.

  Getting too commercial. Left a review. ;)

  A link appears. I copy and paste it into a new tab (no hyperlinks on Metachat, for obvious reasons), and there’s Tori’s “review”:

  What is this? I used to love this strip, but it’s fallen into a well of shit recently. Seriously, do yourself a favor and step in front of a very fast train. I can’t believe you’d even think this was good enough. We deserve better, you hack. This is fucking crap. Sort it out, or give it the fuck up.

  . . . Wow. Okay, so maybe the strip isn’t quite as fresh as it was a couple of years ago, but it’s one thing to say you don’t like it and quite another to advise the creators to kill themselves.

  How do I respond to this? She’s obviously fishing for approval, but I don’t approve. At all.

  Bit harsh. I thought Midnight Jim

  devouring the chili-obsessed guy

  was quite funny. Sure, it’s a bit lame,

  but Banshee’s face when

  Jim thinks he’s going to melt . . .

  Are you fucking serious? It was SHITE.

  I can’t believe you’d even say that.

  Wow. What did you have for breakfast, basicmoronOs?

  Uh, okay, what the fuck is her problem? I’m used to people being aggressive to me when I’m stirring up shit, but this—this is new, and I don’t like it. It’s like she wants to pick a fight with me.

  Uh, are you ok, hun?

  Very tentatively.

  Yeah. Of course. Just feeling twitchy.

  I’ve got some bitches that need a good spanking

  and you’re giving me major blue balls.

  Seriously? This is all my fault? She’s pissed off because I don’t want to troll. Or is it more that she’s pissed off because I won’t do what she wants me to do?

  That is not a comforting thought.

  I take in a deep breath. Time to take the bull by the horns.

  Tori, look, I’m sorry. I know you want to go and play, but I need to take a break. Not from you—I want to be with you, of course I do—but I want to take a step back from the trolling. Had some trouble recently that really affected me and I need to get my head together. So can’t we just have a nice chat? I love chatting to you. You get me and that’s what I need right now. You. Not the Troll You, but the Real You—the one who likes to send me photos and cat memes and new AE fanfics, the adorable you that you hide from everyone else. xxxx

  Another agonizing pause.

  You had trouble?

  That’s it? Three words? There’s no way it would have taken her that long to type three measly words. No acknowledgment that I’ve basically just poured my heart out to her. No comment whatsoever on how I’m feeling, on my mental state. Just the bit that might affect what she wants to do, the bit that might put a damper on her trolling plans. The rest of it obviously doesn’t count.

  Yeah.

  It’s hard to type, my hands are shaking so much—but not out of nervousness. Out of something I never thought I’d feel toward Tori—pure, simple anger.

  You know that girl Dizzy? The one we took down the other night?

  Yeah, I remember. The one you wanted taking down a peg cos she was giving you a hard time, if I remember right . . .

  I may be many things, but I’m not an idiot. I can see someone setting up blame deflection from a mile off.

  Yep, that one. Well, it turns out she’s not as bad as I thought. I’m not too proud to lay it out as it is—I was wrong. I’m sorry, cos I dragged you into it and I take full responsibility. But it’s made me think about things a bit, and how there’s always more to these things than we think.

  Wait . . . what. The. Fuck? Are you telling me you feel bad about what we did? You saw her profile! So what if she’s okay in real life—she’s one of Them! Are you going
soft or something?

  Soft. Just because I have a shred of humanity left.

  No. Just had a dose of reality. Tori . . . she hurt herself. Badly. As a direct result of what we did. I was there when the ambulance turned up. It was fucking brutal. Never seen anything like it, and tbh, I don’t want to see it again. Ever. That’s why I was out last night—we all wanted to try and forget it for a bit. As it turns out, Indigo is actually ok too. I mean, yeah, she’s still an insufferable Instagram whore, but she’s not a bad person. And neither was Dizzy. Turns out she wasn’t deliberately being nasty, she was just shy and so came across as a bit abrupt, cos she was bullied a lot before uni. The others said she came here hoping to make a new start, to get away from it all, and we just brought it all back. She probably thought her old bullies had found her and there really is no escape . . . and I guess that’s something I can relate to. Anyway, it made me think. Sure, having a pop at the beautiful people seems ok cos they seem bulletproof—but what if they’re not? After seeing Dizzy on that stretcher . . . I don’t want to do that to anyone else.

  Once I start typing, it all floods out. I can’t help it. The guilt is literally eating me alive. Once, Dizzy was just like the others—a caricature, a cartoon character. Like all the others, she wasn’t real—until, of course, she was, in unmistakable ways. There’s nothing realer than blood, after all.

  Still no reply from Tori, but I know she’s typing. There’s no way she’d just leave it at that. If we were on Messenger, I’m sure I’d be seeing that little dot dot dot, incoming message flag. I gnaw on my thumbnail. I know I’m right, but that doesn’t stop me from letting out a little involuntary squeak when the wall of text arrives. As I read, my eyes widen, and a yawning pit opens in my belly.

  Are you fucking serious? Actually, genuinely serious? That whore was a total bitch to you, and she couldn’t handle it when you dished it back at her. That’s it. That’s all that’s going on here. Fucking hell! Don’t you get it? THIS IS WHAT THEY DO! Treat people like shit and then can’t handle any kind of criticism back! Oh, it’s perfectly ok for them to bitch and exclude and act like they own the place, giving you filthy looks and making sure everyone else knows you’re some kind of untouchable pleb, but the minute one of us fights back? Oh no, can’t cope, they’re so mean, must cut myself because that’s what all the cool kids are doing right now, to show that I’m a real human being rather than a vacuous twat with nothing to offer the world but pictures of my perfect hot-dog legs, oh waa waa, pity me pity me, I’m so fucking authentic. Fuck them! Fuck them all! I bet you a million quid that dozy bitch will be back online within a week, posting her sob story, capitalizing on all of this, telling the sheeple who follow her that she’s ok now and oh, don’t punish those who hurt her cos she’s so fucking magnanimous, and there will be loads of pictures of her looking a bit sad with some bandages round her arms and the sheeple will fawn over her, telling her she’s so brave, so forgiving, so fucking wonderful just because she’s pretty. What if it was us, huh? What if we’d decided to cut ourselves up because some knob shouted something at us in the street? Would we have hordes of people telling us how brave we are, and how wonderful and strong we are being? Fuck off! We wouldn’t get any of it cos we. don’t. matter. We don’t give people a boner when we put on a bikini, we can’t pull off the fucking scorpion pose, and we don’t look angelic whilst nibbling on vegan power balls that we simply whipped up that morning cos we’re oh-so-fucking-perfect. So don’t you feel bad about it. Don’t you even DARE. That bitch deserved everything she got.