Monday 15 August

It’s nine pm. I’ve been deep into doona-land. It’s the only place for me. As well as being Fat Clam I have a shitty headcold and the world can go fuck itself. I have to meet with Gaffney tomorrow. I don’t know what to tell them. I’ve got ‘issues’. I’m self-sabotaging. I didn’t want to swim the stupid loop so I didn’t. I am no longer a team player. Why? Why is the sky blue? Why do birds sing? The thing is that by the end of Sunday – cold aside – I was almost feeling okay about things. Not swimming, cutting out, it felt like a statement. Then Jinx came in and told me about the photos. She said I shouldn’t look at them – but how could I not? FAT CLAM’S WALK OF SHAME. The photos were bad, but the comments were brutal – people calling me Orca, saying I was so fat I should kill myself, so ugly I should be raped (WTF?).

Iris turned up after dinner with a mug of soup and a bread roll. She just sat on my bed and stared at the carpet

‘Stop looking like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you feel sorry for me.’

‘But I do feel sorry for you.’

‘Well, I don’t want you to.’

‘What happened with Gaffney?’

‘Nothing yet.’

‘What about swimming?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But I want to help you.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘Why do you want to help me? Newsflash, Iris: we don’t get on.’

‘I know, but –’

‘I think you’re happy,’ I said.

‘Why would I be happy?’

‘Because you like to see me taken down.’

‘I left a comment defending you.’

I dunked my bread in the soup and ate it without tasting it. It was a nice thing for Iris to do, a small gesture, a warming thing, but I didn’t feel grateful. I felt mean. She was looking at the photos around my mirror: the family snap from happier times; the one of me and Bronte Campbell, who won gold at Brazil; the one she defaced, Thing One and Thing Two.

‘I’m sorry I did that,’ she said.

‘I don’t care. Nothing happened because of it. It’s not like you can put white-out on my face and I’m going to disappear or anything.’

Jinx’s bed was empty and Iris kept looking across at it. Then she said, ‘Are you going to stay with Jinx on the long weekend? I’m staying at Kate’s.’

‘You don’t have to organise me, Iris.’

For a second she looked like she might cry. ‘What did I ever do to you?’ I couldn’t answer. I don’t know what the answer is. Iris is like a pebble in my shoe, and I can’t ever quite lose her. I walk a few steps and there she is, grinding again, making me feel stuff when I don’t want to feel anything at all.

Today, when Ady visited, at first I was suspicious. I pictured her reporting back to Tash, telling tales of Fat Clam, marooned in her dorm room. But no – she’d brought me the Wellness sheet – on the idea of perfection – and a gift: some art postcards, beautiful women, fatties all. I shuffled the cards in my hands and I could feel my eyes getting hot. I didn’t want to cry in front of Ady – Ady of all people – but the tears leaked out. And Ady put her arm around me, like we were friends.

Jinx walked in. Ady left.

‘What’s that all about?’ Jinx asked.

‘Wellness homework.’

Jinx nodded but I don’t think she bought it.

‘Do you want to talk?’

I shook my head. Jinx smiled sadly and put her headphones on. She lay back on her bed.

I looked around our room, tried to see it through Ady’s eyes. It was so jock: trophies, ribbons, posters of the greats, energy bar wrappers and sweaty socks scattered around. My eyes went to my mirror, the photos in the frame. I took Bronte Campbell down and put Ady’s fat ladies up.