I fall asleep halfway through a message. How fucked up is that? Luckily, I’ve programmed everything to auto–log out if I don’t type for a length of time. Others might find that annoying, but for me it means I don’t get my accounts mixed up, because that would quite literally be the end of the world for me.
I’ve slept through my alarm, so I don’t have time to check in and see what havoc Tori has wrought in my illustrious name. Instead, I shower and get dressed as quickly as I can. Not only because it’s cold, but because that way, I don’t run the risk of seeing myself naked in the mirror. That’s not a good way to start the day. I’m really hoping that one day soon, someone will invent a bot that can help you put your makeup on. Then I might not need to look in the mirror at all.
I grab a fiver from the pot Mum keeps for petty cash and buy some breakfast from the corner shop on my way to the bus stop. I scarf down the sausage roll and stuff the crisps and chocolate deep into my bag. I’ll eat those later, probably in the loo, where no one can see me.
The bus is crowded with people avoiding each other’s eyes, scared that someone might engage them in conversation, try to make some kind of human connection. Most of them pull out their phones and focus on those. Others stare mindlessly out the window. I choose my phone. Because my proxies are banished from my phone, I don’t have much in the way of messages. Two notifications from that stupid self-help forum I joined in a moment of weakness. Some inevitable spam. Nothing else.
I delete all the messages, and my inbox is once again empty. Clean. Pure. Next I scroll through some trashy celebrity gossip site. I love it; these people are just as vicious as me, except they get paid to do it. I wonder if I should switch my course to gutter journalism. I’d be ace at it. I wouldn’t need to stand in front of a camera—I’d be just another faceless jumble of letters and numbers on a screen, a professional troll saying whatever I liked and earning cold hard cash while doing so.
And people wonder why the internet has taken over the world.
Twenty to nine. Come on, hurry up. We’ve been caught up in roadworks, and now I am running dangerously close to late. I can’t do late. Late means entering the lecture hall when everyone else has already sat down. Late means a sarcastic quip from the professor running the session. Late means everyone turns and stares.
Can’t be too early, either. Got to be just right on time, that sweet spot when everyone is moving, worrying about themselves—can I get that seat I like, have I got my notebook, oh shit my favorite pen is running out, just three more hours and then I can drown my sorrows at the student union bar . . . No one has time to notice me. Even with my dumpiness, I am invisible, and it is wondrous.
At ten to nine, the bus slides into the stop. Luckily, the building my lecture is held in isn’t too far away. I hike my bag higher up onto my shoulder, keep my head down, and power on. By the time I reach the end of the road, my heart is hammering and my face feels like it’s going to explode. An uncomfortable trickle of sweat tracks its way down my back. I hate the winter. You have to wear a coat because it’s cold, and there’s the ever-present threat of rain, but when you’re fugly, moving means you get hot real quick. Maybe I should get one of those blanket things to wrap myself up in. Or a poncho. They sell them in Primark, so they’re quite socially acceptable now. Only problem, I fear I may look even more like a Weeble in one of those. Ahh, the cardinal sin of Making Yourself Look Bigger Than You Already Are. Believe me, it’s easy to do, and as soon as the universe notices, it’ll never let you forget that.
A bell chimes in the distance. Nine now, and I’m still a street away. Buggerbollocksballs, fuck, fuck, fuck. I need to pick up the pace, but I’m in danger of The Wheeze now, and my back feels like eels are crawling all over it. Stupid roadworks! Ten minutes to get through them. Ten minutes!
No. Mustn’t dwell. It’s happened. Get to lectures. Just keep going. At last, the corner—and there, the stairs leading up to the building. Usually when people think of university buildings, they think of great Baroque things, all crenulations and limestone slabs, with massive sets of sweeping stairs. The stairs here are three steps that lead to a nondescript pair of double doors. I could be entering a job center. Still, I’m grateful. Three steps are far more manageable than a sweeping staircase, especially when you’ve been made to run for two whole blocks.
Still quite a few people milling around. Good. Good. If I can just tag myself on to the edge of the group—
“Oh my God! Beth? Hi! Remember me? I met you in the library yesterday!”
The sweat on my back turns cold. I turn around, slowly. Amy’s standing there with a huge grin on her face, dressed like she fell into a Japanese comic book store display stand. The only thing she’s missing is a flaming katana.
“Oh. Yeah. Amy, isn’t it? Hi,” I say weakly.
“I wondered if I might see you again. Normally I go in with the others, but today I thought I’d wait. And here you are. Yay!”
Yay? Seriously? What is she? Twelve? Still, I can’t pretend I’m not flattered. Twice in two days, people have actually seemed genuinely pleased to see me; Amy, then Tori . . . maybe my luck is changing. Maybe things will be different now.
Someone shoves past me, tutting, giving me that particular filthy look reserved only for those of us who err on the side of Socially Unacceptable. No, nothing’s changed. Tori wants to be my friend because she doesn’t know the real me, and Amy is being nice because she’s obviously suffered from some kind of brain injury, which leaves her permanently happy and with the temperament of an excited puppy.
“Come on! We’ll be late!” she trills and skips up the steps. I galumph after her.