I tried to cover my yawn in class, but I was exhausted. After painting, I’d gotten home when the sun was almost up, and then collapsed into bed. I’d thought I could sleep late Sunday morning, but an alarm had gone off, reminding me that I needed to finish my self-portrait for Blackwell. I’d flown out of bed and spent all day painting. I’d stared at my half-completed self-portrait for hours first, not knowing what to do with it, or how to complete it. I didn’t have time to paint the rest of my body, nor did I want to. My perfectly painted face hovered in the middle of the white canvas like it was attached to an invisible body. It looked incomplete, but I was running out of time, so I’d done a quick patch job to make it look like the body was obscured by shadows. I’d stayed awake all night finishing it and had woken up early to post it.
The bell for recess finally rang after four periods of exhausted hell, and I dragged my feet to the cafeteria. Today I was too damn tired to care if anyone saw me eating—I needed sustenance right now. I needed a high-caffeine, high-sugar rush that would wake me up enough for the rest of the day. Heading to the cafeteria, I caught sight of Thembi out of the corner of my eye and ducked behind a pillar. I didn’t want to see her. I could imagine what she was saying to the others today.
You won’t believe it, but Lori came to the shop and tried on a dress that made her look like a fat whore.
Fat whore. Why do those words even go together? Someone had scribbled that on my locker once and I couldn’t understand it. Just because I’m fat, I’m automatically a whore?? How does me being fat make me a whore? How did fat become such an offensive thing to others when I’m the one carrying it, not you?
I kept my head low as I joined the cafeteria line. Thembi and the Ts were sitting all the way at the other end of the room, and at the table next to them, Jake and the water polo gang. Some of them still looked like they were nursing a hangover. But as I stood in the line I overheard a snippet of conversation that made my ears prick up.
“. . . right across the road from the Champagne Bar . . .”
“. . . saw it on Twitter . . .”
“. . . I don’t know, some flowers or something . . .”
I broke away from the line, pulled my phone out, and started searching. It didn’t take long to find it . . . my art. I found it on the class WhatsApp group—someone had posted it while driving past. Then I found it on a local Facebook group I’d joined when I’d arrived, Clifton Residents. Someone had posted it there and then others had shared it. I followed some of the shares and landed on Twitter, where it was being discussed. Some local, online news sites and a few blogs had even picked up on it. I turned around and power marched to the bathroom, where I closed myself in a cubicle so I could look through it all in peace. I clicked on the news article and started reading.
This morning residents of Clifton were greeted with an artwork that seems to have appeared overnight. The mystery artist took it upon themselves to use a pothole and crack in the pavement—which the residents have been complaining about for months—to paint an elaborate floral scene with the words “I am beautiful” written across the road, breathing life into the once considered unsightly blemish.
It hadn’t crossed my mind—not for a second—that my work would cause such a scene. I went to Twitter, and then to Instagram, to the hashtag #Iambeautiful and read through some of the comments.
It makes you see things from a different perspective, one person Tweeted.
I’ve been stepping over that hole for months, wishing it was fixed, but now I hope they never do, someone else posted.
Excitement filled me. My hair stood on end and something prickled at the base of my neck. But the excitement was short-lived, because when I stepped out of the toilet, Thembi was waiting for me.
“Thembi . . . uh . . . hi!” I stammered stupidly. She looked gorgeous, as usual. She was wearing a pristine white jumpsuit and white sneakers. The white looked even brighter against her dark skin. It seemed like an outfit that was so impossibly unattainable for a girl like me—I’m not sure jumpsuits were intended for people who weren’t svelte and slinky, and also, how do you keep something like that so clean? And yet, here it was, gleaming. As if it had been bleached. Her clothes were different from everyone else’s at school; they seemed high fashion, as if she was about to hit the catwalk.
“Hey, Lori!” she said quickly. It was the first time I’d heard her say my name; it was weird.
“What are you doing here?” I moved to the sink and washed my hands, even though I hadn’t gone to the toilet. But I wouldn’t want her thinking I was some kind of dirty nonwasher.
“I was waiting for you,” she declared matter of factly. She had a peculiar way about her. Her voice was somewhat monotone, and everything that came out of her mouth seemed to hold the same relevance, whether she was saying your name or telling you she’d seen Andy Warhols.
I turned the tap off and hung my head. “If this is about the dress, I’m sorry I didn’t hang it up, I was in a rush.”
“I gathered that,” she said. I forced myself to look at her in the mirror, desperately trying not to show any emotion, or, well, anything that would give away what I was feeling inside.
“Did you see that art on the street yesterday morning?” she asked. “It’s actually just across the road from the shop.” She walked over to the mirror and pulled a lipstick from her bag. She dragged the color across her mouth—a dark, matte mauve. She was so pretty.
“No,” I shook my head, lying.
“It’s cool.”
“Cool!” I repeated. There was an awkward lull in the conversation as she stared at my reflection in the mirror.
“I could make it, if you want?” she blurted out, turning to face me. “A dress. For your dad’s wedding.”
“Sorry?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Why would you let me make you a dress when you can clearly afford to shop at Simone Couture? But what you don’t know about me, is that I’m going to be a famous designer one day, so in a few years’ time you can say that before she was even famous, you owned an original Thembikile design.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of perfume.
“Sorry, what?”
“Look, honestly, you’d actually be doing me a favor.” She spritzed herself with the most divine-smelling scent. “I need something else for my portfolio. The Paris school, remember?”
“Why don’t you make a dress for Amber, or Tasandra, or one of your other friends?”
“I’ve already done that. And now I want to work on something for the fuller figure.” The words came out of her mouth unemotionally and I cringed.
“Plus-sized fashion is one of the fastest growing trends. I’d be stupid to ignore it like some of those other narrow-minded designers do.” She rattled the words off, and I listened for the judgment in her tone, but . . . there was none? I’d never had someone talk to me in such a direct manner about my size, without a hint of judgment or sarcasm in their voice. Or maybe that was just her strange, flat way of speaking?
“So, what do you say?” she asked again.
“Uh . . .” I looked up blankly and blinked. This was still not completely registering. Thembi leaned in expectantly, as if waiting for my answer. I formed my lips into what was meant to be an N shape. N for no, but instead, something totally different came out and I didn’t know why.
“Okay? I guess . . .”
“Excellent,” she replied and then flashed me a small smile.
Crap! What had I just done? Had I just agreed to let the most gorgeous girl at school take measurements of my body? I bet my upper arm measured the same as her waist.
“I’m going to make you look incredible. When I’m done, no one will be looking at the bride, trust me.” She spritzed the perfume into the air and then traipsed through the mist like she was in a perfume commercial shoot in Monte Carlo or something equally glamorous like that.
“Here’s my number.” She pulled a business card out of her bag and handed it to me. I looked down at the white card with glossy, embossed white writing on it, very chic.
Thembikile Designs
“Okay, I’ll call you,” I said as she walked out of the room, leaving a lingering floral scent behind her.