by A. E. Murphy
“Hey, Trip.”
I come to a sudden stop and look at Dillan with wide eyes. He grins as though we’ve been friends for years.
“Hi,” I respond and look around him for his usual posse of bros and hoes. They’re vacant and he looks all sweaty and well exercised. He’s wearing a similar get up to what he wore on Saturday when he walked me home. Different colours this time though.
“How are you, after the other day?” I shrug. “Fine.”
He remains in my line of sight, still smiling, though unspeaking.
“You?” I couldn’t have thought of anything better, could I?
I’m a prick.
“Fine,” he chuckles. “Do those emo geezers give you shit often?”
“Not really, just when they see me.”
His smile fades. “You don’t have to put up with that.”
“Thanks,” I respond, because he doesn’t have a fucking clue
what he’s talking about. I can’t just say, “Hey, arse jockeys, leave me alone,” and expect them to listen.
“Well,” he runs his hands through his damp hair, “I should go and clean up. I’m soaking.”
“I can tell.” I try so hard not to peruse him like he’s meat and I’m a starving lioness, but I can’t help it. He’s so much more than a sex object, I know that, and I loathe myself for dissecting him with my mind in such an impure way but I genuinely can’t control it. He’s so pleasant on the eye and even the thought of his sweaty, toned body is killing me. Killing me. My libido is a frazzled mess of pointers, all of them aiming at his powerful body.
“I saw you jogging yesterday,” he admits, no judgment in his eyes. It’s an observation I think. “You gave up pretty quickly.” Still no judgement, but I feel the shame flood through me. “If you ever need somebody to give you a kick up the arse, just give me a shout.”
Does he honestly think a girl like me would willingly hit him up? I’d become an even bigger target than I am now! “Thank you, Dillan, that’s kind.”
“It’s hard getting into it and so easy to slip out.”
My groin just did a happy little flutter. I’m sure he means something entirely non-sexual but my mind went to the gutter and in the gutter it will bathe.
“Consider it. I really would be happy to help.” He smiles wider. “I’ll take your number and text you when I’m on it. How’s that?”
He’s so pushy. “I don’t give my number out.”
“A habit I’m about to break.” He pulls his phone from the inside pocket of his sports jacket.
I tell him my number, if only to get him to go away. He probably won’t call and if he does, I’ll just ignore it.
“Get some comfy trainers.” He winks at me and then his posse show up in the distance and his smile broadens. Does this guy stop smiling? What is wrong with him? He’s so happy. It’s weird.
Why the sudden interest in my lack of jogging? Why the sudden interest in me at all?
I go to class, A-Level English, and bow my head over my book. Dillan isn’t in this class, which gives me time to think of him without accidentally staring at him as I do.
“Did Dillan just ask you for your number?” I look at Chloe, who sits to my right. This is the first time she has spoken to me since the school year started five weeks ago.
I blink at her, trying to not to cringe when I see the pink lipstick smear on her top teeth.
I’m unsure of what to say. If I say yes and it gets back to him, he might think I was bragging. If I say no and it gets back to him, he’ll think I’m embarrassed.
So I don’t respond at all; I just look at my notebook and scribble the date and header on the top two lines, still thinking about the lipstick on her teeth.
“What the fuck?” She whispers, loudly enough that I hear her.
“He was probably giving her directions to cunt-ville,” BillyMarie, who sits behind Chloe and I, giggles quietly.
Chloe joins in her laughter. I don’t even respond. Their words don’t hurt and I guess I kind of deserved that one anyway. I was a bit rude, but I can’t help it that I’m socially awkward and have no idea how to handle my peers.
They’ve never treated me fairly. Chloe included. I owe them nothing.
But then I think of what the counsellor said about me not having made any friends this year. I do have friends, just not in this school or town.
Well, that’s not completely true. I have people here who I don’t completely despise; they just aren’t people I’d call when I need help.
Do I have a personality disorder?
Class ends, thankfully, and I carry my humongous folder full of coursework all the way home, grabbing a milkshake from the American style diner on the way. American diners seem to be all the rage now, what with their epic milkshakes and streaky, crispy bacon.
The pancakes and milkshakes are my favourites, though I try not to eat too much of them.
“Hey, Sweet.” My mum smiles at me and her eyes go to the milkshake in my hand. “That looks so good.”
“Want some?” I offer and she doesn’t hesitate to snatch it from my hand and inhale half of the plastic container. “Greedy bitch.”
My mum is cool, cooler than most anyway.
She winks at me and slides the drink along the counter top. I take it back and finish it faster than she finished the first half.
“I love milkshakes,” I sigh. “Too much.” And already I feel guilty. “I’m going on the bike.”
“Seriously?” She looks as sceptical as I feel inside. “Seriously.” I nod, determined to actually change my crappy habits.
“Good for you, Honey.” She beams, pinching my cheek. “Good for you!”
I throw away the empty plastic cup and race up to my room. My lungs burn when I reach the top of the stairs and I feel like crying. It’s not like I’m huge, but I feel it and I’m sick of feeling like it. I’m tall so the weight balances out to a curvy size fourteen, but I’m severely unhealthy. I tell myself daily that I’m going to eat good things and take vitamins but it never happens. Food just seems to fill a void in my life.
I change into leggings and a vest and stare at my body in the mirror. My lumpy bits make me look uneven and I remind myself how much I hate looking the way I do and how desperately I want to conform to today’s beauty standards, if only to please myself. Maybe such an awful thought towards myself will push me when I try to convince myself to give in on the exercise bike.
Mounting the metal and rubber beast in the conservatory, I put on the music channels, choosing a cliché playlist of workout music, and start pumping the pedals.
My legs go around and around as my eyes count the calories that slowly rise on the grey screen between the handles. I haven’t even burnt seven and I’ve been going for four minutes. This is depressing. It’s no wonder we’re all so fat if this is how slowly I’m going to lose weight.
The milkshake I just drank had over five hundred calories in it and it took me less time to drink.
I fucking hate myself.
Using this burst of anger, I pedal harder than ever before. My legs spin around and around and tears fall from my eyes, mixing with the beads of sweat that drip in trails down my unattractive face. My lungs constrict, my nausea rising. I push myself until my thighs burn so badly I want to scream from the pain and then, finally, I stop. I stagger to the glass doors, push one open and projectile vomit milkshake across the paving slabs. I can’t stop. It keeps coming, burst after burst of grossness.
Mum comes with a cold flannel and cleans my face as I finally stop dry heaving.
It isn’t until I collapse onto the ground by my own mess that I start sobbing, full on sobbing, arms around my legs and my mum’s arms around me.
“It’s okay,” she tells me soothingly and kisses my hair. “It’s okay, Tyler. We’ll get through this together. Okay?”
Will we? How many times has she promised me this already?
How many times have I promised myself?
I’ve not long
been sick and already I’m hungry. That’s how fucked up I am.
My phone rings and I expect it to be my dad; he always calls me at dinner time unless he’s busy, so I don’t think before answering.
That’s why, when I hear a voice say a soft, “Hey there, T. It’s Dillan,” I immediately hang up.
“Oh my god!” I whisper, my eyes wide and my mouth hanging open as I stare at the phone I just dropped on my bed. “He fucking called me, the weirdo. Why would he do that?”
My body remains frozen in place when he calls again. I don’t know how to answer. I’m not sure I should answer.
My hand tentatively retrieves my phone from the satin stripe across my white, Egyptian cotton bedding and I bring it to my ear, hoping it rings off before I answer.
It doesn’t.
“Umm… hey,” I say breathlessly. “Sorry about that, I dropped my phone.”
He chuckles, his voice so deep and attractive. “No problem, I figured that’s what happened.” The background noises around him dim when I hear a door close. “How are you?”
“I’m okay, you?”
“Me too. I missed you in Maths today.”
He missed me? “I’ve been a bit unwell but I’ll be back tomorrow.” I bite hard on my lip; this is so awkward. I don’t know what to say next. Neither does he, it seems, because we fall into an uncomfortable silence.
After letting out a heavy breath he asks, “I actually called for a reason.”
“No? Really?” I respond sarcastically before I can stop myself. “And here’s me thinking you just wanted to hear me breathe down the phone.”
He laughs loudly this time. “Some guys are into that, you know?”
“Are you one of them?”
“I’m not sure… Can you demonstrate your breathing abilities and I’ll let you know if it heats up the third leg.”
Third leg! Ha!
“You’re so weird.” I shake my head as my smile stretches my cheeks to aching point. “What is it you need from me?”
“Besides your breathing? Your body actually…” What?
“That didn’t sound as funny when I said it aloud.” Yet he’s laughing even harder than before. When he finally calms down he explains, “I actually… I mean… are you free right now? I think this is a conversation better had face to face.”
“Why?”
“It’s…” He sighs. “I don’t want to offend you and I’m scared if you can’t see my face you might hang up on me.”
Oh shit. “Now I’m worried.”
“See? I’m crap with words.” Pause. “Can you meet me or maybe I can come to you?”
“Again… why?”
“I already told you why.”
I don’t feel comfortable with this. “Then, why now? We’ve been going to school together for years and you’ve never so much as looked at me, let alone wanted to meet.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry for that.”
Is he? Or is he just sorry now that he needs something from me?
“So, I’ll be at yours in about fifteen if the traffic is kind to me.”
“You can’t; I’m busy.”
“You have time to spare, I’m sure,” he argues. “I’ll be there in fifteen. You don’t even have to invite me inside.”
“But…”
He hangs up before I can further press the issue and I race to the window faster than if the hounds of hell are snapping at my cankles. The street is clear. I half expected him to be outside already.
Is he really coming here?
I race even faster to my mirror and stare at myself. I had a shower two hours ago but I have no war paint on and I’m still in my dressing gown.
Shit.
I have never gotten dressed so fast in my life. I opt for a pair of dark blue skinny jeans that feel a little looser than usual on my midriff, paired with a white vest top with a black fishnet top that falls to my hips, hiding my lumpy bits from view.
I twist my thick, damp, black hair up into a braided bun and apply mascara and eyeliner, grateful that my skin is clear for the first time all month.
I don’t look hot but I look presentable and that will do. “Mum? Dad?” I yell, though I know already they aren’t home so it’s not like I can get one of them to open the door and send him away.
My palms are so clammy. This is terrifying.
It feels as though it has only been a few seconds when I hear a car pull into my driveway. I press my face to my bedroom window to try and see if it’s him. The driveway is just around the side but I can see his rear lights and the car definitely doesn’t belong to my parents.
“Okay.” I take a few deep breaths and make my way downstairs, slipping down the last one onto my bum with a thud when he knocks on the door. I see his tall, blurry silhouette through the door. His hands rise to his hair and push it back from his face.
Gulp.
Is he making himself look pretty before I answer? There’s a funny thought.
Opening the door, I peek through the crack before slowly opening it to full width.
“Hey.” He smiles sheepishly and scans me up and down before looking over my shoulder for signs of other bodies. “Sorry to just drop in.”
“Are you?” I raise a brow and I swear his cheeks pink slightly. Finally, feeling like I should be a good host, I step back and motion for him to enter. “Welcome to my humble abode. May I take your coat and offer you a refreshment?”
“You may.”
I hang his jacket on the end of the banister to the stairs, doing my best not to bury my face in it and inhale.
“Drink?”
“Water, please. Filtered, if you have it.”
“Follow me.” I walk down the dimly lit hall and open the kitchen door. “Make yourself comfortable.” I can’t look at him. I daren’t. I busy myself pouring him a drink as he stands in my peripheral vision and looks around.
“This kitchen is great. My mum would love it.”
“Bring her with you next time.”
I finally catch his eye just as his lips twitch with amusement. “You’re funny.”
“Thanks.”
He takes the glass from me and waits for me to pull myself up onto the counter. I feel the cold before my memory kicks in that I just poured his drink here and spilled a little on the side.
I’m going to have a wet patch on my chunky arse. Great. “You okay? You look annoyed all of a sudden?” He asks as I wriggle, trying to get air to the wet spot.
“I’m fine.” He’s so observant. “What is it you need?”
“Well… and well…”
“You said well twice.”
He smiles at the floor. “You’re a savage.”
“Thanks. Now… your point?”
“I want to be your personal trainer,” he finally blurts and my lips part. “For completely free. It’s to help me get into college.”
“You’re joking?” I breathe, feeling no small amount of hurt and anger.
“I saw… I saw you struggling and I just thought we could help each other out.”
Blink. “Why not ask one of your posse?”
“Because they’re all already…” He cuts himself off before he says the word that would hurt me even more. “They already train and stuff.”
Nice save. “So you thought you’d ask the fat girl?”
“You’re not fat, Triple T.” He frowns.
“You can’t say I’m not fat in the same sentence that you call me Triple fucking T.” I laugh humourlessly. “Next joke.”
“You’re mad.”
“Hell yeah, I’m mad.” And hurt, knowing that he isn’t here to get to know me. “I’m a project. I don’t want to be some boy’s project.”
“You’re not a project!”
“No? Then remind me again why you’re here.”
A muscle clicks in his jaw. “I saw you struggling and I’d like to help.”
“For your college project.”
“That’s just an added bonus.”
“Y
ou should go,” I say, sliding off the side, giving no fucks about the wet patch on my arse.
“Triple…”
“Stop fucking calling me that. My name is Tyler, you absolute tool.” Oh shit. I’m going to cry. He can see it too. He has to go. Right now.
“Tyler, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“Look, this has been humiliating enough,” I sigh, turning away from him and wiping under my eyes on my sleeve. “Please, just leave.”
“I really didn’t mean to upset you.”
“But you knew you would. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Instead of texting me?”
He blanches, as if suddenly realising where I’m coming from.
“Just go, Dillan.”
The room becomes cold and lonely when he steps out of it. The house becomes colder and lonelier when the door closes behind him. I almost wish he hadn’t taken his jacket with him so I could at least hold something that smells so fresh like he does.
A fat girl can dream.
What a wanker. I prefer the made-up version of him that I keep in the dark gutters of my mind.
I need a drink. A strong one.
It’s been a while since I took my parent’s alcohol and topped it up with water. I’m sure they won’t notice if I hit their stash of cheap wine this time.
I pour half a bottle into a chrome flask so if they happen to come home early they won’t know that I’m drinking flat piss.
Although to be fair, it’s fruity so it doesn’t taste too bad.
I head up to my room, close the door, close the curtains, light a few candles, turn on some music and drink myself into oblivion while singing ‘Adele’ at the top of my lungs.
I feel Beautiful…
I caption my new filtered selfie on my Instagram and wait for the love to come. It surely does, from people I don’t know and people I do, telling me, “you go girl.”
I am beautiful, I think. I have nice eyebrows. My nose isn’t hideous and my lips are quite plump. I hope when I finally lose weight I won’t lose the chunk in my lips and my boobs. I do have nice boobs.
“You’re late!” My mum yells up the stairs.
“My head hurts,” I yell back, wishing I didn’t have to go to school today. My hangover hurts so badly I couldn’t sleep. I woke up at six feeling drunk and have spent the past three hours making myself look human. I’ve shaved, waxed, exfoliated, moisturised, tweezed, primped and pruned my entire body and face. My hair is down for the first time in forever, in thick waves to just past my shoulders.