No Big Deal

by Bethany Rutter

  ‘I guess so. Thanks for your help.’ I try to sound as Super Chilled Out as possible. I notice that the book lying face down on the counter is The Brooklyn Follies by Paul Auster. I make a mental note of it. ‘You’re clearly a skilled salesman.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so . . .’ He gestures around the shop. ‘This isn’t really my natural habitat, but I didn’t know what else to do with my time, so I’m just going to hang out here with my chair and my book until I can figure out what I’m actually planning on doing.’

  I’m learning things about Joe! I’m talking to Joe! In real life! What a thrill!

  ‘Yeah, it seems like a pretty sweet deal. Except, you know, all that having to deal with the general public . . .’ I say.

  ‘You’re not so bad mostly,’ he murmurs with a wry smile as he transfers my record into a plastic carrier.

  Now the record is in my grubby paws, I have no excuse to be here any longer. Time to make a run for it.

  ‘Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you, Joe,’ I say. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay near him. I want an excuse to just stay here forever. Or at least until the shop closes. But it doesn’t come. He doesn’t offer it.

  ‘Yes, I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think,’ he says.

  How? How am I supposed to tell him if I love it – or that I hate it so much, I’m using it as a dinnerplate? Again, he doesn’t offer a suggestion.

  ‘I will do. Bye, then . . .’ I say as I back out of the shop.

  Instantly I feel dejected. So I saw Joe. I talked to Joe. So what? What do I have to show for it? A record I didn’t even want? A record I possibly can’t even play because who even knows where the record player is. All I want is to see him again, but I only just saw him. Surely I can’t keep contriving reasons to go in there. It feels like I wasted an opportunity somehow, but what did I think was going to happen? He was going to declare his undying love for me over the Punk A–F section? Nope.

  As I walk to the bus stop, it occurs to me that I don’t even know his last name. At least there’s something I can do about that – some light internet research, if you will. It’s not that weird. All I have to do is search for ‘Beats Per Minute Croydon owners’, then I can find out his parents’ names, which means I can find out his last name. I pull out my phone.

  A hop, skip and a jump on the old internet later, I discover that the object of my affection is called Joe Marshall. Wow, what a rare and beautiful name. Even I can’t pretend it’s exciting, and it’s going to make my next task all the more difficult. I open Facebook and type in J-O-E M-A-R-S-HA-L-L. Against all odds, he appears first. A couple of the guys from Alexander Hall are mutual friends, bless them. I scroll up and down the page, looking for . . . well, I don’t know what exactly. But his page is pretty private. His profile photo is cute though. Of course it is; it’s a photo of him. Cute Joe looking cute playing a guitar. I’m about to enlarge it when—

  ‘Oi, look where you’re going!’ splutters some obnoxious middle-aged man in a suit who had the gall to bump into me, a person who he could surely see was not looking where they were going, and is now harassing me about it.

  ‘Oh my GOD, chill out?’ I shout back.

  ‘Fat bitch,’ he spits.

  Of course he does. It’s the default insult. The insult to rule all insults. I can’t argue back, because it’s true – I am fat. Suit loser wins this round. Way to harsh my buzz, suit loser. Even though the insult doesn’t come as a surprise, it still hurts. It still makes people stare at me, pity me, internally agree with him, decide yes, I must have done something wrong, even if that something is just the crime of being fat.

  I stomp the rest of the way to the bus stop, humiliated.

  Safely installed on the bus, I put my earphones in and decide to do something good for myself. I begin to read one of my books for my English class, even though I really, really cannot be bothered with Tess of the d’Urbervilles right now (or ever). Not least because it reminds me of the fact that I need to start thinking about what I’m going to do next year, which universities I’m going to apply for, if I’m going to study English or not. I try to focus – I can think about all that another time. But try as I might, I still have to read the first page three times – all I can think about is Joe. His soft-looking, brown-sugar hair. His tortoiseshell glasses. His mild voice . . .

  As I’m nearing my stop, I check Facebook again. A notification pops up. ‘You and Joe Marshall are now friends.’ At first, my heart leaps just seeing his name . . . but . . . how have we become Facebook friends? A wave of horror freezes me in my place. Oh no. Oh no, oh no. In my surprise at being shouted at by the man on the street, I must have . . . Oh God – I must have accidentally clicked ‘Add Friend’ on Joe’s profile. I want the bus seat to swallow me up. I must have added him literally minutes after I left the shop! How keen can a person look? Somehow this feels more humiliating than getting called a fat bitch by a stranger on the street. All I can do is take this as a lesson from the cosmos: Do. Not. Internet. Stalk.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Weekend in the Dust’ –

  David Byrne and St. Vincent

  More than two weeks have gone by since I went to Beats Per Minute, and I haven’t seen or spoken to Joe once. I can’t help wondering if my technological mishap has contributed to this. Any hope I had of the accidental Facebook add sparking some kind of communication from him was in vain: radio silence. It’s agony. Absence is making my heart grow extremely fond. I know I said no internet stalking, but it would be a big fat lie if I said I didn’t check his Facebook every day. For what? For clues of course. That’s all you’re ever looking for when you go a-creeping on someone’s page. Clues about what they’re doing and, more importantly, who they’re doing it with. Just hints, you know. Evidence about his life, his world. I want to know all about him. I want to know what kind of person he is . . .

  I discover he’s mostly been at work. His sister (at least, I assume it’s his sister – it would be too weird if his girlfriend had the same last name as him, right?) tagged him in a status at the cinema on 20 September. He posted a link to a Robert Palmer video on 26 September, saying that he died on this day some years ago and that he was ‘underrated’. Note to self: get extremely into Robert Palmer.

  Against this backdrop of zero communication, I’ve at least had the record. I made my dad go up into the loft and dig out the record player I correctly suspected was lurking up there. I listen to the record again and again, fuelling my crush. I lie on my bed, listening, listening, listening. This record has filled the gap, letting me follow Joe in my imagination. My favourite song on the album, ‘Maple Leaves’, starts, and I can see his face. I can smell his warm, soft scent from the record shop. I wonder how he feels when he hears it. It’s big and beautiful and expansive and sounds old and new at the same time. It sounds like autumn. It sounds like nostalgia and possibilities and looking back and looking forward and not knowing what you’re doing. I lose myself in the song. Track two of the only record I own: Joe Marshall-approved Oh You’re So Silent Jens. Two weeks is a long time when all you have is one record and the odd status update to nourish your crush. I gnaw the icing off the sides of a pink fondant fancy and think about my next move.

  It’s Saturday morning, and I’m meeting Camila at the cinema to see some romcom around lunchtime . . . Maybe . . . just maybe . . . No, kill that thought. But . . . I could . . . I could pop into the shop . . . just to see if he was around. It wouldn’t be far out of my way. It wouldn’t be the weirdest place for me to turn up . . . I shouldn’t. But I could. Now the idea has occurred to me, I can’t make it un-occur. Oh, Emily. You big weirdo.

  I dress carefully, settling on a denim pinafore dress over a chunky navy sweater with tights and flat cherry-red Dr Martens shoes. As I deliberate over black or brown eyeliner, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I set both the eyeliner pencils down. Who are you kidding? As if this guy – this cute, interesting, intelligent guy – is go
ing to notice whether you’re wearing black or brown eyeliner. Nope! These kinds of thoughts will not do. This is not what I need right now. I need verve and pep and positive mental attitude, not to behave like a whiny baby because Ryan bruised my ego.

  I choose black.

  An hour later, I’m pushing open the door to Beats Per Minute. No going back now. As soon as the door swings open and the bell chimes, I see not Joe, but a middle-aged man behind the counter. Of course Joe isn’t here. The man smiles at me, but it still feels like my heart has dropped out of my chest. I hadn’t actually thought through as far as the possibility of Joe simply not being here. He does do other stuff, you know, Emily. He does have a life. He does have other places to be. I just hadn’t thought about it.

  I feign interest in the new-arrivals section for precisely thirty seconds (I count them, deciding that would pass a reasonable amount of time in the shop) before turning on my heel and heading for the door.

  ‘Emily?’

  I spin round, my heart immediately filling up with excitement.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ I say. Unlike last time, I’m genuinely surprised to see him. No time to overthink my tone of voice or my body language.

  ‘What brings you here this fine Saturday?’ Joe says, wiping his dusty hands down his black jeans. His hands look soft. Clean nails.

  I decide honesty is the best policy. Not least because I’ve been caught off-guard and don’t have time to think of a lie. ‘I was actually looking for you,’ I say, as casually as you can say something like that.

  ‘Oh really?’ He furrows his brow. His expression is unreadable.

  ‘Yeah, it’s nothing much – I just wanted to say I really love the Jens Lekman record. I’ve been listening to it a lot.’

  ‘You liked it, huh?’ he says, grinning. He looks genuinely happy, like he knows he’s done a good job.

  ‘Yeah, I really, really did,’ I reply, trying not to faint at the sheer perfection of his smile. ‘It’s kind of like Arthur Russell but more like . . . straight-up pop, right? Like all the sixties girl-group stuff . . .’

  ‘Uh, yeah, I guess you’re right,’ he says, as if he’s never thought about it before.

  There’s a pause I don’t know how to fill.

  ‘So . . . you just came here to tell me that?’ he asks matter-of-factly.

  As we stand there in the aisle by the doorway, it’s one of those moments where I’m acutely aware of how much space I’m taking up. I shift on the spot, trying to find a position where I look smaller somehow. More petite, more ladylike. There isn’t one.

  ‘Yeah. I did,’ I say defiantly. Just because it is a weird thing to do, doesn’t mean I’m going to let him know I think it’s weird too.

  ‘Well, if you—’ he begins to say, but he’s cut off.

  ‘Joseph! Enough chatting – you’ve got work to do, haven’t you?’ calls the man behind the counter, sounding good-natured but firm.

  Joe blushes. ‘Yes, Dad. I’ve got work to do,’ he says with a huff. Turns out even seriously cute guys get told what to do by their parents sometimes. He turns back to me. ‘I guess I should get back on it . . .’ he says, looking around as if to offer an explanation.

  ‘Course. I was on my way to meet my friend anyway,’ I say.

  I want to tell him about ‘Maple Leaves’. I want to know if my favourite is his favourite too, or if I’ll have to wrap myself up in another song altogether. But we don’t have time for an in-depth chat right now.

  ‘Wait. Before you go – I know you added me on Facebook, but I don’t use it much,’ he says, as he fishes in his jeans pocket and pulls out his phone.

  I just stand there as he types something into it, which seems kind of rude as we were in the middle of a conversation.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘I’ve messaged you my number.’

  His number. Wow. I have his number. My crush’s actual telephone number.

  He laughs warmly. ‘You can never have too many friends who love music, I guess!’

  ‘Great!’ I smile stiffly, turn around and head out of the door. Ugh. It feels like he’s twisting a knife in my chest. Friends. Of course. Why does that word, which means something so amazing and positive and life-affirming, feel so weak and hollow when it comes from someone you’re attracted to? It’s funny how much of a difference that word makes. It’s not like I don’t want someone to talk about music with. I just don’t want it to be Joe.

  Suddenly noticing the time, I dash to the cinema so I’m not late for the film.

  The ‘new and improved’ Camila is waiting for me, cinema tickets in hand. She’s wearing a cute sweater and a little denim mini skirt that I’ve never seen her wear before.

  ‘OK, something just happened, and I need to tell you about it,’ I say, slowly. I wish I could just relax into this crush on Joe, accept it for what it is, but I can’t.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I just went to creep on Joe again—’

  ‘Oh, so this is becoming a regular thing now? After you protested against it so much the first time!’

  ‘No. That’s the thing. I don’t need to stalk him in person any more because he gave me his number.’

  ‘This is good. This is very good,’ Camila says, her eyes lighting up.

  ‘No, it’s not like that. It doesn’t really mean anything, right?’

  ‘If you say so,’ she says.

  It’s only then I notice she’s been messaging pretty much non-stop during our conversation.

  ‘Who are you messaging?’ I ask suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, no one,’ she says, but she’s still typing while looking at me, her thumbs skittering over the keyboard like she can’t tear herself away even for a moment.

  Red flag. This definitely means ‘boy’.

  ‘Come on! I’ve given you some solid, tangible gossip today: I got a boy’s whole phone number. At least have the good manners to tell me who’s making you smile,’ I say, trying to sound chilled but really freaking out inside. Camila’s never had a boy to message before. Something’s changed.

  She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it instantly, breathes in deeply, and holds her breath for a few seconds. ‘Ryan. It’s Ryan. You know him?’ she says, finally, smiling coyly and sighing like a lovesick cliché.

  I can feel the colour drain from my face like in a cartoon.

  ‘Ryan Russell?’ I ask. There is no other Ryan. I feel sick. I was too fat for him, but newly transformed Camila’s just right.

  ‘Yes! Isn’t he great,’ she says, but she doesn’t wait for me to confirm or deny either way. She just smiles at me with that earnest, sincere smile of hers. ‘I just don’t want to jinx it, you know? I like him a lot! We met at reading group, and we’ve been messaging.’

  Yes, I can see you’ve been messaging, I think to myself. Right in front of me.

  ‘I know it’s early days and all that. Please don’t tell anyone yet.’

  ‘Um, sure – I won’t tell.’ Spreading the fact that I’m now the very last remaining girl in the world with no boyfriend and no one interested in me? No thanks. ‘He seems really nice. Good for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says and squeezes my arm. ‘I just feel so much better these days. Like I’m ready to date, you know?’

  Inside the auditorium, we settle into our seats, and I watch as Camila messages throughout the adverts, intermittently giggling and making a half-arsed attempt to engage me in conversation so she doesn’t seem rude. I’ve zoned out of the cinema and zoned into feeling rubbish. Obviously this isn’t all bad: I should be happy for her. But ‘I feel so much better these days’ is barely coded ‘I feel so much thinner these days.’ No wonder she’s ready to date: she finally has a body that makes her the kind of girl guys want on their arm. And not just any guy! Specifically a guy that literally one hundred per cent rejected me because my fat body was repulsive to him. Thank God she doesn’t know that. He had better not tell her. I’ll kick him in the balls if he does. Camila has every right to be happy. She does. I just
wish that her version of happy didn’t feel so bad to me.

  When the film finishes, I’m about to suggest we go for ice cream, but turns out Camila’s got places to be.

  ‘I’m . . . well . . . I’m going to Ryan’s,’ she says.

  She looks overjoyed, and I hate myself for having any pangs of jealousy at all.

  ‘Oh. So, are you two, like, a proper thing then?’ I ask.

  ‘I hope so,’ she says, nibbling the skin on her lip. ‘I mean, you never can really tell where you’re at with guys, but we’ve been making out a lot . . . I would definitely, you know . . . if he wanted to.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I guess just make sure you’re ready. It seems pretty quick.’ Who am I to be giving sex advice? I guess it’s not so much advice as a self-preserving delay tactic. I feel guilty knowing this is my angle on the whole situation, but honestly, I can’t be the last virgin standing.

  ‘I guess . . . but when you know, you know,’ she says decisively.

  I say goodbye to Camila outside the cinema, where she stays to wait for Ryan. I desperately do not want to cross paths with him, especially not with Camila in her new loved-up state. I wonder if I’ll ever really know what that feels like.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘We Share Our Mothers’ Health’ – The Knife

  Ryan and Camila have lasted three weeks so far. And to be honest, they do make a pretty nice couple. I have to admit, they make more sense together than me and Ryan would. Camila is happy, and I’m feeling less embarrassed about being brutally rejected by her now boyfriend. September has bled into October, and he still hangs about outside the school gates at the end of most days, waiting all excited for her to run into his arms.

  Me? Less film-script romance, more the romantic wasteland of a maudlin indie song. And I’m finding myself thinking about my body more. Worrying about it more, I guess. Not because I care, really, but because I worry about how it’s judged by people around me. Because that’s something I can’t change.