There’s that scene in thriller movies, you know the one, where everyone gets into one room and they all realize that one of their number is the killer/betrayer/alien/whatever, and they all go nuts with paranoia because they can’t work out who it is.
I kind of feel like I’m in one of those scenes, except I’m the betrayer, the alien, or whatever.
And I know it.
We’ve been moved from halls to let the cleaners sort out Dizzy’s bathroom. The university’s offered counseling, but right now, we’re sitting in the student union, each nursing a stiff drink, even though it’s still technically the morning.
Dizzy’s friend Baby Colors isn’t with us. She and Indigo left with Dizzy. My last glimpse of them in the back of the ambulance showed them wrapped around each other, their shared grief almost a parody of some sort of illicit affair.
Amy’s phone buzzes, and we all jump. She fumbles at it, cursing when it doesn’t recognize her fingerprint the first time.
“It’s from Indigo,” she whispers. “Okay, she says Dizzy is okay, they’re treating her now, but there are no signs of overdose.” She closes her eyes, one hand on her heart. “Thank God for that. Okay, then it says that they’re probably going to keep Dizzy in, as her head is a mess. They’ve called her mum and dad, so hopefully she’ll be fine.”
Everyone stares at their drinks for a second before saying anything.
“I don’t get it,” Paddy says, his usually unctuous voice now thin and rough. “Why do people do it?”
Oh, I don’t know. Why do you call me Big Bird? Knobhead.
“Because they’ve got nothing better to do with their lives,” Amy whispers.
Even I have to nod in agreement with that.
“Why didn’t she just ignore them, though?” I say. “It’s just words.”
The moment it leaves my mouth, I know I’ve said the wrong thing. From the way the others are looking at me, with a mixture of surprise and disgust, they have come to the same conclusion.
“What?” says Richard, his face screwed up in disbelief.
“No—I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I didn’t. I know better than anyone how much damage words can do. But—Dizzy? She doesn’t come across as the type that would let something get to her so much. I mean, she’s pretty and successful and popular . . .” I trail off under the weight of their collective stares.
“Dizzy has some pretty serious anxiety issues,” Amy says. For the first time, her voice has lost its bounce, replaced with an icy brittleness I really don’t like. “She was bullied really badly at school. She ended up being homeschooled because of it. She told me that uni was a way of starting afresh. You know, that whole ‘be whoever you want to be’ thing. Looks like she couldn’t escape it, though. Fucking bullies still found her.”
“Seriously, though,” Patrick says, “they should be strung up by their balls, or whatever chicks have instead of balls. Their tits, I suppose. Totally out of order.”
His lack of self-awareness is almost hilarious. I really want to shout that it’s the likes of him, the ignorant ones who carelessly name-call and thoughtlessly make hurtful comments, who are the main problem.
But I don’t. Because although I know I’m right, that would make me the biggest hypocrite in the room. Sure, Patrick’s mindless nickname for me is horrible and derogatory and reductive—but it doesn’t come from a place of malice, unlike my trolling. I troll because I want the beautiful people to hurt the way I’m hurting.
Only, I’ve never had to face any actual consequences of this before. I’ve read the online meltdowns, gloated over the closed accounts, laughed as they tried to block my accounts like someone trying to stamp out an anthill. But I’ve never actually seen it before, up close and uncomfortably personal.
How many of those girls I’ve tormented have ended up like Dizzy? How many of them hurt themselves? Once I’ve destroyed someone’s account, I rarely revisit it (unless they come back cockier than ever, of course). How many of those girls I’ve tormented have ended up like Dizzy? How many of them hurt themselves? How many of those accounts were deleted, not to escape me and my ilk, but because their owners aren’t around anymore to maintain them?
My stomach boils. I feel sick again. The old phrase is true, I suppose: It’s all just a bit of fun until someone gets hurt.
“We should get her a card or something,” Amy says. “Make one. Make it personal. Let her know we’re thinking of her, and that she is special.”
Special? Really? The sickness is now replaced with the bitter tang of anger. I glance at the solemn faces around me, and I feel a switch flip within me. Fucking Dizzy. Sure, she was bullied—but for what? Being too pretty? Too bright? Too goddamn perfect? Fucking snowflake. Try being fugly. Try having insults thrown at you every single day to the point where you’re scared to walk down the road. No one wants to send me a fucking card telling me I’m special. Oh no, that’s only reserved for the Beautiful People. Because they’re the only real humans. Not us. Not the Fuglies. We can quite literally go to hell for all anyone cares.
***
After we finish our drinks, Amy wants to go out and do some window shopping to take our minds off Dizzy. I’m not really feeling up to it, but don’t have much of an excuse. I can’t very well say I’d prefer to go to lectures, can I?
So I spend the next couple of hours being dragged in and out of shops containing clothes that will never fit me, trying to ignore the narrow-eyed glares of the stick-insect shop assistants who know damn well I shouldn’t be in there. I halfheartedly nod at each thing Amy shows me, occasionally daring to touch the shiny heels of shoes I would never be able to walk in without breaking them, or indeed, myself.
I genuinely don’t think Amy sees how uncomfortable I am in these places. I don’t want to upset her by making a big deal of it, but it does kind of hurt that she is so oblivious, especially after this morning’s events.
“What about this?” she asks, holding up yet another pair of skinny-fit jeans, with holes artfully torn into them.
“Uh, yeah. They’re nice.”
“They are, aren’t they? Shame my student loan won’t cover that price tag.” She sighs heavily and hangs them back up. “Oh well. Maybe when I’m a big-shot psychologist to A-list stars, eh?” She flashes me an uncertain smile, as if her little quip might be too much given the circumstances.
“Yeah. Maybe we could be in practice together. I’ll do the Jolie-Pitt kids, you get the ex-Disney stars on drug benders.”
“Oh, I want the Jolie-Pitt kids. More money there!”
“Yeah? Why do you think I called dibs on them first?”
She giggles, and I feel a little bit of the weight crushing my heart lift, just a teensy bit.
“Why don’t you pick something?” she says, stroking a nearby top. “All this stuff is really nice, and it would so suit you.”
I try not to stare at her in utter disbelief, and fail miserably. There’s nothing over a large in here, and even those are thin on the ground, if you’ll excuse the pun. For a split second, I’m not sure if she’s trying to be nice or if she’s taking the piss, but then it strikes me. She’s being neither. She genuinely doesn’t see that there is a massive problem with her suggestion—massive being the operative word. I shrug and half-heartedly flick though one of the rails of T-shirts, hoping the large might stretch enough to keep her happy. Of course, there aren’t any in large, but there are plenty in extra-small, just in case you’d forgotten that was the size society thinks you should be, so I can’t even pretend to play along and am in the end forced to admit that nothing would fit.
“Really?” Amy’s face screws up in disbelief. “There’s loads of sizes here. You’re not that big!”
You’re not that big. I know she means well, but she may as well have slapped me. It’s like when people say you have nice hair, or pretty eyes, as if that makes everything okay. Newsflash: it doesn’t.
I shrug and automatically try to find solace in my phone. No messages about Dizzy’s state for me—I’m not important enough to have anyone’s number except Amy’s—but it means I don’t have to look at Amy, who is now awkwardly checking out a tiny strappy top that might just about cover my left tit if I’m lucky. She holds it up and goes to say something. I catch her eye before she can say it, because I know what is coming, and no it won’t do, and no I won’t fit into it despite what you think, and no I’m not selling myself short, I’m just being realistic, so please, just put it down, shut up, and let me get the hell out of here before I end up screaming.
She hangs up the top.
“Wanna grab a coffee?”
That sounds more like it.
I can put sugar in a coffee.