I feel a bit bad exploiting Amy’s trusting nature, but a few leading questions and she’s shown me Denise “Dizzy” Reitman’s social media accounts. As predicted, she goes by Dizzygirl on one and Dizzybabe00 on the other, and I have to hold in a cruel chuckle. I’m not going to target her straight away, mainly because I don’t want to run the slightest risk of her connecting me (and, by proxy, Amy) to the carnage that is about to rain down on her profiles, but that’s fine. Half the fun’s in the anticipation. Plus, this means I can key Tori in and we can plot. Dizzy will never talk to Amy like she’s a piece of shit again.
After grabbing a baguette (tuna mayo and cucumber—well, it’s kind of healthy, especially compared to Amy’s cheese and bacon monstrosity), Amy and I head to the library to do some studying. And, dare I say it, it’s kind of fun. We don’t do a lot of work. Amy can literally turn any topic into a conversation, and I find myself lurching from Bake Off to Stranger Things by way of the Neon Seven’s new album. Her sense of fun is infectious, and so we end up giggling a lot. I even sketch out a quick series of stickmen on the edge of her notebook and flip the pages, making the little stickman dance. Amy claps gleefully, which earns us a disapproving look from the librarian. We exchange guilty looks and then burst out into snorting laughter. It’s stupid, it’s childish, but it’s also glorious, and a little remote part of me watches everything with wary eyes, wondering if this is what it’s like to have a proper friend and predicting when it’s all going to come crashing down around my ears. But I squash that miserable bitch down and try, for once, to just live in the moment.
At four, it’s starting to get dark, and so I wander over to grab my bus, but not before Amy throws her arms around my neck and says, “See you later! Remember, eight at Sanford’s, okay?” and I can’t help but be struck by the note of desperation in her voice. For a moment, I let my arms hang by my sides—I’ve never been one for hugging, mainly because I was never initiated into the Circle of Friendship that involved hugging—before I eventually cave in and do this weird half-pat, half-rub on her back that might be a hug but might also be a plea to let me go. When she does, she grins at me and jiggles on the spot.
She’s actually excited. I can see it twinkling like a little star above all the other fake twinkly stuff she projects.
Oh fuck.
***
I spend most of the bus journey home hoping the thing will crash and get me out of this evening. No such luck. Could I step out in front of a car? That certainly would sort the issue out.
But before I know it, I’m sticking my key in the front door, completely unscathed.
The house actually smells of cooking. Mum only cooks on her good days. Maybe I should take that as a sign. The club might be called Disaster Zone, but the omens aren’t all that bad. If I find Brat sitting at the table doing his homework, I’m going to start wondering if I’ve fallen through a dimensional hole and am in a completely new reality.
In the kitchen, Mum’s sitting at the table, reading a magazine. In the oven, what looks like a sausage casserole is cooking. Okay, so it came out of a packet, but it’s definitely better than nothing. It looks like the cupboards actually have food in them, meaning the Tesco delivery’s finally come. For a moment, I can almost kid myself that everything’s back to the way it was. Maybe Dad’s on his way home from work. Maybe the Cosmic Overlords have decided to load an earlier saved game, and everything’s going to be okay from now on. I have to admit, I like the sound of that. Sure, things weren’t perfect then; I was still a struggling chubster, but at least home was stable.
Brat storms downstairs, barges past me, and starts yelling about internet connections lagging and how Mum is fucking trying to fucking ruin his fucking life, and her eyes well up, and we’re back in reality.
Mum’s all but cowering in front of Brat, and I’m paralyzed. I want to go over and stop him, to break his teeth, to tell him that’s not okay you little shitbag, but none of it happens. Finally, Brat storms back off. The house shakes with his every footstep. I stare helplessly at Mum, who is still weeping. The smell of the casserole, once so promising and wholesome, now seems cloying and rank.
I want to go to her. I want to comfort her. But I don’t know how. I’ve just stood to one side and watched her other child abuse her, and I did nothing. Something hot bubbles up within me, something horribly familiar: shame.
“Mum . . . ,” I manage.
She shakes her head. “No. No!” She raises one hand at me as I take a step toward her, but she doesn’t look at me. “Check on the casserole. I don’t want it to burn.”
So that’s what I do. That’s all I do. And I hate myself for it, every step of the way.