No Big Deal

by Bethany Rutter

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Like a Virgin’ – Madonna

  ‘What’s taking you so long?’ Abi calls from outside the changing-room door.

  I’d bet all the coins in my pocket that Abi’s never got stuck in a dress at Topshop. Or maybe this is a thing that happens to really thin people too. I wouldn’t know.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was just texting my dad, and I’m only just trying the dress on now.’ I do my best to keep the laughter out of my voice, hoping someday soon I’ll be able to wriggle out of this lilac polyester number. No matter how hard I pull, no matter how much I try to flatten my boobs, this dress is going nowhere.

  ‘OK, bud – I’ll go and look at shoes till you’re done. The skirt was too big for me anyway,’ she says.

  Insult to injury.

  I hear her clatter out of the changing room, and I’m alone, dripping with sweat, feeling ridiculous, trying to figure out how I got the dress over my shoulders and boobs in the first place. Surely science dictates that what goes on must come off again? Whatever the science, in this scenario, there’s only one thing for it. I must take decisive and dramatic action.

  Carefully, slowly, imperceptibly I push the door open and peek outside. The changing room is still unattended, and in an empty changing room, no one can hear you pull a dress so hard over your head that you rip the seams.

  So I do it.

  The dress deserves it. The dress is now my arch-nemesis and needs to be punished. Jesus, what a close call. My arms are shaking from being stuck upright in the air for several minutes. I need a lie down. No more trying on clothes that will clearly never fit me.

  I step back into my decidedly plus-size jeans (black, tight and artfully ripped), button up my leopard-print shirt, and slip on my sandals, before fleeing my minor crime scene and going to rejoin Abi and the others. Abi is eyeing up the highest heels on the shelf, picking them up and turning them over to check the price. Ella is trying on some holographic trainers, and Sophia, Ella’s girlfriend, is holding her bag while closely examining the skin around her nails, apparently looking for the next finger to nibble on.

  ‘No joy?’ Abi asks.

  ‘No – it was a bit too short,’ I lie.

  Abi shrugs as if to say, It happens to us all.

  If Camila were here, I would probably confess my crime to her in exchange for some sympathy, but she’s still visiting her grandparents in Sweden. She’d understand, not just because she’s the only other fat girl in my year at school, but also because she’s my best friend. She gets me. She’ll be home on Sunday, ready to start the new term, and I cannot wait to see her.

  ‘Someone tell me I do not need holographic platform trainers,’ says Ella, ‘or I’ll end up buying these, and Sophia will have to go without a birthday present.’

  ‘No chance,’ Sophia says, handing Ella’s bag back, snaking an arm around her waist and kissing her.

  They’re completely obsessed with each other, and it’s kind of perfect. Their relationship feels like looking into another world to me – a landscape I’ve never even set foot in. I am a seventeen-year-old romance-free zone. It just hasn’t happened for me yet, and it’s starting to worry me.

  ‘Can we get out of here?’ I’m still a little light-headed from overheating inside that too-tight dress and need to breathe the sweet Croydon air.

  ‘Where to?’ asks Abi.

  ‘I’m in the mood for a milkshake,’ says Sophia.

  It’s a foregone conclusion: we’re already walking in that direction.

  The four of us head up the escalator to Milkbar, Ella and Sophia blocking the way by refusing to let go of each other, Abi furiously messaging, and me just trying to cool the hell down. When we arrive, we realize we are in luck: Priyanka is at work today. And Priyanka working at Milkbar means upgraded milkshakes.

  ‘Priyanka, my sweet princess, love of my life, angel of my dreams!’ says Abi, blowing kisses over the counter.

  ‘Yes, you can have some free shit,’ says Priyanka, clearly overjoyed to see us after a day of frazzled summer-holiday parents and their over-sugared children. She gets started on our usual orders.

  Priyanka should not be left unattended; she’s probably skimmed hundreds of pounds’ worth of Jaffa Cakes, Maltesers, Oreos and chocolate flakes off the top of Milkbar’s stock over the summer she’s worked here – and that’s just for us.

  It’s late August, all our summer obligations are over, and we’ve really run out of things to do: traipsing around the Whitgift Centre, trying on clothes we can’t afford (or in my case, fit into), drinking milkshakes, lying on the grass in front of the civic centre. Croydon has limited options in terms of how to spend your summer holiday. And this is the last one that will end with a return to school. The last one with comfort and familiarity on the horizon. After this year, we’ll all be going off to university, off to . . . well, who knows what?

  ‘Voila,’ says Priyanka, handing us our orders and ringing up a nominal amount on the till. ‘Guess who was in here earlier?’

  ‘We could be here a while,’ I reply. ‘Just tell us.’

  ‘Ben,’ she says, smiling and adjusting her uniform baseball cap.

  ‘Was he alone or are the lads out and about?’ Abi asks, twisting her braids into a bun on top of her head, trying to act like she doesn’t care what the answer is.

  ‘Yeah, a few of them were out, including Oliver – I know that’s what you’re actually asking – but I didn’t really chat much to them. Ben was looking A plus plus, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘You have to step it up,’ says Abi. ‘You literally have one year left to convert this crush into a reality before we all disappear for uni, and he is gone forever! Step on it!’

  Abi is always passionately encouraging people to get it on. It’s one of her talents.

  ‘But I would literally cringe myself to death if I put myself out there, and he wasn’t into me.’ Priyanka is clearly in need of a pep talk.

  ‘You already know, pretty much for definite, that he’s into you,’ I say. ‘I think if any of us thought there was a chance he wasn’t interested, we wouldn’t be telling you to go for it.’

  ‘You’re right. You’re always right. Less making milkshakes – more making out.’ Priyanka nods sagely. Her face suddenly breaks into a big grin, and she twirls on the spot, too full of enthusiasm over the promise of Ben to stay still.

  For someone with little (read zero) experience in matters of the heart (and the bedroom), it’s surprising how often I’m called upon to bring a sense of rationality to a situation. But I really can’t imagine being certain that someone was definitely into me. Bless Camila for being as useless as I am. We’re sisters in arms in the barren land of No Romance. I miss her a lot. Two months is a long time to be apart from your best friend, and to make matters worse, she’s in an internet-free zone. Turns out old Swedish people who live on tiny islands aren’t that bothered about Wi-Fi.

  Abi’s right though: one year left until we’re spat out into the real world, jumbled up with a new mix of people who don’
t know us. Do I really want to leave for uni without ever having so much as kissed anyone? Maybe I need to step on it too? Maybe now actually is the time?

  ‘Guys . . . I know it’s an integral part of my personal brand, but I’m bored of nothing ever happening for me,’ I say.

  ‘Happening like how?’ asks Abi.

  ‘Happening, like, with guys, I guess,’ I reply, casting my eyes downwards into the chocolatey mess of my milkshake. I’m suddenly embarrassed, like this isn’t me – this isn’t my stuff.

  ‘Mate, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it – you have loads of time! Life is long, isn’t it? You don’t have to do everything right now,’ Ella offers encouragingly.

  ‘It’s not about everything; it’s about anything. I feel so far behind. And why would it ever change? If it hasn’t happened by now, maybe it’ll never happen.’ I know I sound sulky, but it’s a source of ever-increasing frustration to me. It doesn’t make sense – I’m objectively a catch. I’m cute and fun and funny, I wear good clothes, and I feel like I’ve got pretty damn good at make-up after watching a thousand YouTube tutorials. What’s going wrong?

  ‘Honestly, you just have to go for it. You never put yourself out there. You never act like you’re interested in anyone. Make it happen,’ says Abi.

  ‘Easy for you to say – guys literally trip over themselves trying to get with you,’ I say. And I’m happy for her, but we are fundamentally different beasts. Abi is tall and slim, with long limbs always moisturized to perfection, long braids in an ever-rotating array of colours, and enormous brown eyes. She’s a babe.

  ‘I have to make an effort too,’ Abi says, looking at me earnestly. ‘I have to show I’m interested – give them a bit of encouragement, right? It doesn’t just happen out of nowhere; it needs a bit of give and take. Just pick someone at Ben’s party tomorrow night, make him your target, and see where you get. You’re cute. No, you’re really cute, you’re fun, you’re super clever, you’re nice, and anyone would be lucky to get with you.’

  ‘Word! I’d date you,’ Ella says with a wink.

  ‘You’re all far too kind, but I’m going to choose to believe you on this occasion,’ I say. I like me, my friends like me, how hard can it possibly be to get guys to like me?

  We slurp in silence for a few moments. Relative silence. Milkbar’s stereo is blasting the sound of the summer, the song we’ve heard in every shop and every cafe and coming out of every car radio at every set of traffic lights since at least May.

  ‘Maybe it would help if you came to my dance class with me?’ Ella ventures, out of nowhere.

  I keep slurping. It’s only when no one replies that I look up to see who she was talking to.

  Everyone’s looking at me.

  ‘Oh, me? What? Why?’ I look shiftily around the group, and then I realize why. ‘Oh . . . you mean like a . . . like a weight-loss thing?’

  Ella goes red and immediately starts babbling. ‘No, no – I didn’t mean . . . I just thought . . . maybe that was what you wanted? Like maybe that’s what you were saying?’

  ‘Ah, Jesus,’ I say, shaking my head and grimacing. ‘Let’s never speak of this again.’ I am not getting into a whole weight loss discussion thing today. And besides, that’s not the problem . . . is it?

  ‘No, no – you’re right. It’s cool. Sorry. I have every faith in your current project,’ Ella says, reaching out a small, perfectly tanned hand and resting the back of it against my cheek for a second. It’s a gentle act, and I feel it.

  We chat as we finish our milkshakes, but I kind of zone out. I don’t think I’m a lost cause; I just haven’t tried hard enough. The more I think about it, the better I feel. Now is my time to shine, to take control of my own destiny. But as I sip my Malteser milkshake through the candy-striped straw, I struggle to think of a deserving target. I mentally go through a list of the boys I know: Abi is hooking up with Oliver; Priyanka has her eye on Ben; I think Fred is pretty cute, but mostly just really nice; Cameron likes football too much; Kenji is way too good-looking for me (or, it seems, anyone); and Tommy is permanently stoned, which is really not my scene.

  It’s not like they’re the only guys in our year at Alexander Hall, or the only guys in Croydon, or the only guys in the world, but realistically, they’re the ones we see the most. Maybe I need to broaden my horizons and actually talk to some people I don’t know at Ben’s party tomorrow night. Surely that’s the very best possible place to start this mission . . .

  I feel energized! Fizzing with possibilities. Furiously jubilant! I’m already excited for my future self, whenever she decides to make an appearance.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Don’t Make Me Over’ – Julia Holter

  At home that night, I set my mind to the important task of figuring out what to wear to Ben’s party.

  My bedroom isn’t the ideal place for me to figure out anything, really. I like having stuff. I find it comforting never getting rid of things, finding more and more nooks and crannies to push any new stuff into, which means my bedroom is always a bit of a bomb site. I have nothing else to spend my babysitting money on but clothes, so clothes are what I spend it on.

  I pick my way across the floor, better known as the floordrobe, stripping down to my underwear in readiness to start trying on everything in my search for the ideal look. I toss my clothes on my bed and pick up the framed photo of Camila and me that lives on my bedside table. Two cute, smiling girls look back at me: one pale and freckly (that’s me); the other sleek and tanned (that’s her); both fat.

  Camila’s always been very open about wanting a boyfriend, wanting romance, wanting that kind of love. She’s kind of a romantic – or at least, she’s less of a cynic than I am. Come to think of it, we don’t have that much in common. I’m loud; she’s quiet. I’m abrasive; she’s mild. I’m always leaving things to the last minute; she’s a diligent planner. I’m into fashion; she doesn’t care what she wears as long as it doesn’t draw attention to her. We’ve been friends for a really long time, but lately I’ve been wondering if the main thing that bonds us is our bodies. It’s hardly surprising though: that’s a pretty powerful bond when you’re the only fat girls in your year. Who cares if you’re different in pretty much every other way.

  Before I muster the strength to pore through my piles of clothes, I check myself out. I do this on a semi-regular basis: stand in front of my full-length mirror and survey my body. Not looking for faults or flaws or things to get hung up on – just to look. I stand in a series of natural and unnatural poses, looking at my body from every angle so I can see it as other people see it. Standing in my perfectly high-waisted Marks and Spencer black knickers and my T-shirt bra, I see cute freckles over my face, light brown hair dangling to my chest that’s gorgeous and thick (so I can tolerate the frizziness), pale blue eyes that don’t even need accentuating with brown eyeshadow (like they tell you to do on YouTube – but that doesn’t stop me anyway!), slightly overlapping front teeth . . . and fat.

  There’s a lot of fat.

  Soft, pale thighs, squidgy tummy, deliciously squishy upper arms, round bum . . . not so much in the way of boobs . . . OK – enough posing. This outfit isn’t going to choose itself.

  I try on and discard various options: a sequinned top (too heavy for summer); my favourite casual-pretty sundress (needs wash). My denim cut-off shorts (seem like a good option if I’m going to engage in some light flirting but are maybe too short for a garden in Croydon rather than a summer holiday destination). I like the idea of a skirt and bare legs. I start rummaging in one of my ‘to hang’ piles for the skirt I had in mind when I hear the front door open and close (must be my mum, back from work), accompanied by the frenzied yelping of Ted the Yorkshire terrier, oily furball and rubbish guard dog extraordinaire. I quickly wriggle into my potential definite outfit when Mum appears at my bedroom door.

  ‘What are you up to, sweet pea?’ Mum asks, bangles jangling around her wrists as she pushes my door wide open. She hasn’t knocked, as u
sual. Her belief that I’m not interesting enough to have anything to hide means she is pretty laissez-faire about personal space. At this point, I’m used to it.

  ‘Nothing – just trying to decide what I’m going to wear to my friend’s party tomorrow night,’ I reply, as I finish pulling the skirt up to my waist.

  Mum’s eyes perceptibly widen in horror. ‘You’re thinking of wearing that? Don’t you think it’s a bit too clingy? Around your middle?’

  ‘No! If I thought it looked bad, I wouldn’t be wearing it, would I?’

  ‘All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t wear it.’

  ‘Well you’re not wearing it, are you?’

  ‘I just want you to look nice! You have lots of outfits you look nice in, and this isn’t one of them. This doesn’t have to be a huge deal, Emily!’

  ‘And all I want is to feel comfortable in what I’m wearing, and you seem to make it your sole purpose to make me feel uncomfortable about everything I like!’ I snap.

  ‘I just don’t want people saying things about you – you know?’

  ‘The only person who ever says anything bad is you!’

  ‘Fine! I won’t say a word about your clothes in future.’

  She’s lying.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ I mutter as she pads off to the kitchen.

  My mum is totally beautiful, end of story. My sister and I pretty uniformly inherited our dad’s less dramatic looks. Mum, though, is statuesque, with a pixie cut, big eyes and full lips. She’s exactly the kind of person you would find yourself staring at if you saw them on the train or on the street or in the supermarket. There’s something so magnetic about her, so enthralling. But none of this matters to her: if anyone does look at her, she thinks it’s because she’s fat. This fear governs her life and drives her to try anything to control it. If a diet exists, my mum will have tried it, guaranteed: grapefruit, Weight Watchers, cabbage soup, Slim Fast, master cleanse, South Beach, 5:2, paleo, blood type, Atkins, raw vegan, Slimming World, macrobiotic. She’ll buy every exercise DVD going, and none makes it out of the cellophane. All her diets begin well; all end badly.