CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Observation #101:
What if you’re a girl and you’d rather read a book than shop — do you get expelled from Girl Club?
I survive the week and I’m off with my new best friend, Imogen. Okay, this does feel a bit weird. She’s older than me and I only really know her from her blog. Yet here I am, getting ready to meet her. It’s like the “before” of a bad Internet safety campaign message. I can almost hear the teacher now. So, boys and girls, can we see where this poor unfortunate girl went wrong? Yes, sir, she met someone from the Internet and now she’s dead. But that’s not my greatest fear. No. I seem to have learned nothing recently, as my greatest fear is what to wear. I mean, she’s a fashion blogger. But I refuse to be beaten. They are just clothes. Inanimate objects. I am a conscious, sentient human who is clearly in control.
I look at the pile of clothes on my bed and whimper.
My phone pings. It’s Alex. My heart lurches a bit. Another awkward thing. He’s texted before but I just ignored it. I don’t know what to say. When I look at the message, I have no idea what he’s up to.
There are four photos. And each one is of weirdly arranged food.
Well, not all of it. There’s a close-up of a Polo mint. Then what looks like the letter K made from breadsticks. A close-up of the R from the wrapper of a Rolo packet. And a U made from peas. Yes, peas. K, R, U and … oh, the Polo is an O.
R U O K
I can’t help but smile. I mean, he’s the first person to ask me for a while. I send a GIF back of a smiley face and a thumbs-up. It’s not personal but it’s sort of true. And then I realize that I am smiling in real life. I check in the mirror. Yep, there it is — the smile is now creeping across my face. Right, clothes, this is ridiculous, I think. I can take you on.
After a few goes, I’ve chosen something I feel happy in. I check my reflection in the mirror and you know what? It looks okay. Not amazing but okay. No ridiculous makeup, no high-maintenance hair. Just me.
A few hours later, I’m not just smiling, I’m actually laughing. Imogen and I are sitting in my favorite café where hipster dudes with man buns and multiple piercings are serving us the best coffee ever brewed. I have a few bags of shopping next to me, full of clothes handpicked by Imogen. We’re competing to see who’s done the most stupid thing trying to lose weight.
“One day, I just drank green tea. By the end of it, I was hallucinating and my tongue tasted like a sewage farm.”
“I tried some meal replacement and was so hungry I almost ate the packet that the powder came in. In the end, I ate a muffin and felt much better.”
All of a sudden, Imogen leans forward. “It’s entirely up to you, and I get that the whole ‘Fat Girl vs. Mean Girl’ thing upset you. But I think you should write a post for my blog. It would be good to get a different voice out there.”
Old uncertainties surface. “But I’d feel a fraud being on your blog. I mean, I’ve spent a few miserable weeks trying to reduce. I don’t know what I’ve got to say. And even if I did have something to say, why would anyone want to listen to me?”
“Because you’re cool, Jesobel. And you’ve had the experience of going viral. And you’re Steve Jones’s daughter. All those things. But most of all because I think all girls, in fact all women, probably feel like you a lot of the time. I know I do.”
I stir the last bit of my coffee. “But you’re weird like me. And I mean it as a compliment.”
She clinks mugs with me. “My life goal is weird. Cheers to weird.”
Then my phone goes again. “I just want to read this, sorry,” I say. It’s from Alex again.
I smile. I text back before I have a chance to think about it.
Imogen says, “Jess, sorry, but I think I have to go now.”
I look up. “Okay, well, I really enjoyed this. Thank you for your help with the clothes. Who knew that there were shops that I could go in and not feel embarrassed about needing bigger sizes?”
“Think about what I said. My blog needs you.”
I laugh it off as we hug and then she’s gone. But I’m not alone, as my phone pings again. I walk back to the tram stop to get back home, and as I go, I’m accompanied by regular updates from Alex. Is he really baking? Ping.
And then he sends a picture. Well, I can’t help but LOL. Which is slightly embarrassing as I’m now standing, waiting for the tram. At least three complete strangers turn around to look at me. In the photo is the worst excuse for a pie I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s gray, with gravy seeping out from several gaping cracks on the top, and it’s broken down the side.
But he made it for me.
My face is splitting from side to side.
By the time the tram hums back to my stop, I’m glowing. I practically skip back home. My soul skips, anyway. My feet just walk in a more acceptably cool fashion. I like to be different, but there has to be a limit.
Within a few minutes, I’m very glad that I kept my skipping under control. There’s a tall figure standing opposite my house. Definitely male, on the rather skinny side. He straightens up when he sees me. If I had skipped up the road, I don’t think he would have actually minded.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey back,” he says.
In his hands is a small plastic box. In the box is a small, gray pie. Alex regards it sadly.
“I won’t ask you to try it,” he says. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It might taste all right.”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
I take the box from him. His fingers and mine graze past each other. I’m too nervous to look up directly at him.
Instead, I poke the pie. I break a bit off and taste. I chew thoughtfully.
“It’s very … manly,” I say.
And then I start to choke, laughing.
“Seriously,” I say when I can speak, “this is the most masculine pie I have ever tasted. I am almost overwhelmed by the maleness of this pie.”
He makes a face. “The words masculine and pie just don’t go together, do they?”
I eat another piece. “It’s not bad. But you need to keep your hands cold when you’re making the pastry. And don’t mix it for so long next time.” I chew and then nod. “Actually, it tastes okay. Is that cloves in the sauce?”
“Little smelly bits of wood?” he replies.
“That’s the ones,” I say. “I love cloves.” For a second, I think what a stupid thing that is to say. Who in the history of the world has ever said, “I love cloves.” But Alex doesn’t laugh at my food obsession. I really think that he likes me. Not thinner, or smarter, or older, or more fashionable me. Just me.
“What’s up?” Alex says. “You look like someone’s eaten your last truffle.”
“That would be the end of days,” I say. “No, I’m fine.”
A silence fills the space between us, not awkward, just there. Like there’s too much to be said. Alex knows I liked Matt. Shame burns up inside me. Now that I can see a bit more clearly and I’m not driven mad by hormones, it is obvious that Alex is so much nicer than Matt. But silly, superficial me just saw the hair, the cheekbones and that smile.
Alex stands in front of me, pie in hand.
“Fancy some cake?” I say.
“Best offer I’ve had all day,” Alex says and he follows me into the house.