Big Bones

by Laura Dockrill

  MILLIONAIRE’S SHORTBREAD

  It wasn’t my choice, or deliberate, but I slept. Deeply. I think it was exhaustion that did it.

  I’m gonna do my shift today. Is that OK? I text Alicia and await the annoying flurry of emojis that’s gonna whack me in the face with her reply. She loves the little cartoon face with one eye closed, one open, with the tongue out.

  I am actually looking forward to going back. I never thought I’d say that but it’s true. Planet Coffee, where it only matters that the milk is frothed and the forks are clean. That customers get the right change and you go along with the rules that people expect in a coffee shop, the warm embrace of comfort and simplicity.

  Max does a double take when he sees me. Green eyes blooming like a blossoming flower on a nature programme sped up. He’s surprised.

  Alicia follows me backstage. ‘Hey, honeybunch, it’s good to see you. How you doing?’

  ‘I’m OK, thanks.’

  ‘Did the flowers arrive OK?’ Yeah, lilies: they represent death, you IDIOT. BB, be nice.

  ‘Oh yeah, they’re lovely thanks. They’re still alive.’

  ‘Aw, that’s good. And the choccies?’ Yes. The ‘choccies’ too.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She nods. Hands on hips, she breathes out. It’s like she feels safe to just ‘let it all hang out’ in front of me. Cos who am I to judge? Her belly is bursting, swelling over her jeans, the button straining at the seam. She’s doing that whole I’m denying I’m pregnant but I’m definitely pregnant. I knew she didn’t have food poisoning. It takes a lot to take down a cockroach like Alicia.

  ‘You been eating?’ she asks. It’s nice to give a fat person permission to eat. I glare at her and say nothing. Alicia scratches her wrist. She then attempts a hug. ‘You look so thin.’ Erm. OK. My body tenses, rock hard.

  ‘So how’s she doing?’

  ‘Dove’s doing great. She’s dealing with it much better than I am!’ I chirp awkwardly.

  ‘You look tired.’ She smiles.

  ‘Yeah … well … I am.’ I AM. ‘I just can’t bear the idea of her not … being able to do stuff.’

  ‘You can go home any time if you decide it’s too soon. We’ve got it covered here, chuck.’

  ‘No, no, I want to be here. I was going a bit crazy at home. There’s not that much use me being there.’

  ‘Oh, bubba, you must be going through hell.’

  The conversation’s shifted from my weight to my baby sister’s accident. She wants to hear the story replayed like one of those Emergency 999 reconstruction documentaries. But I’m VERY protective. Defensive, almost. It doesn’t feel the same as when she comments on my weight, because my fat is mine. Because I understand it. I put food in; it comes along for the ride. This is something completely different. Something that can’t be fixed by writing down some thoughts in a diary. SO GO ON THEN, ALICIA, SAY WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY. ASK WHAT YOU WANT TO ASK.

  ‘So … like … do you think … she’ll be, like … able to walk again?’

  ‘Yes. She will be able to do everything. It’s just two broken legs.’ I wrap my apron around my waist and tie it into a bow.

  Did you sign the letter yet though? Obviously not. Whatever. Don’t even care any more anyway.

  I gaze at the tubs of brown squares in their Tupperware boxes, like jewellery under glass. I smile. ‘I see we’ve got millionaire’s shortbread now. That’s cool.’

  ‘Yeah, it was Max’s idea. He said they were a must. I took his advice; thought we’d trial-run them for a bit seeing as he was so SET on having the damn things.’ She shrugs. ‘I’m not such a caramel girl myself. But I think I know someone who is.’

  Me.

  Max.

  If I was thirteen and you weren’t reading this, I’d draw a hundred love hearts around his name right now.

  The idea of salt and sweet. Of the sandy base and squidgy caramel. I feel my mouth water in the wrong way. I feel sick. I don’t want it. I’ve lost my love for food.

  I’ve lost my love.

  SEASONING

  At Planet Coffee, I watch girls and girls watch me. I find girls much more interesting than boys because there are so many diversions and versions of us. Boys get excited if their jacket has a hood or their coat has a patterned lining. Boys think they are wacky if they wear a pink shirt or sport a flash of red sock peeping out of their shoes, if their trainers have a blue air bubble.

  We think we need things that make us recognisable and that we should be known for our things – our perfume, our hair colour, our style, our taste. So that other people know who we are. So other people can describe us to somebody new who hasn’t met us yet.

  Do I have the right trainers? No. The right hair? Definitely not. The right ringtone – no way. The right underwear or clothes or bag or nails or ideas … Do you have to decide who you think you are right now and then stick to that choice for ever? Do you have to be pigeon-holed? Which umbrella do you have to stand under? I just want to be a girl. Flavoured with my own seasoning that makes me me.

  In the toilet at work I lift my top up and look at my belly. I prod it. Suck it in. Push it out. My ribs are there. And a line wants to be, down the centre. Women are like wardrobes, aren’t they? We split down the middle; the doorknobs are our boobs … and then think about all the brilliant, beautiful stuff that you can shove inside your wardrobe of a personality. Colours, fabrics, textures ready to butterfly out and show you off in your many versions … each telling a different story, a little history, a little shade of you.

  The mirror in the toilets at work is two mirrors shoved together and if you stand at the right angle you can only see half of your body. Then I can almost, sort of, see myself as a thin person.

  CINNAMON

  ‘Yeah, but how is she?’

  ‘She’s fine, go back to work.’

  ‘I am. I am at work. I’m still working; I just want to know if she’s all right.’

  ‘She’s fine, B. She’s had tuna pasta, haven’t you, Dove? Tuna pasta and cheese-and-onion crisps and now we’re … Yes, BB. Do you want to say hello?’ Mum coos at Dove softly; I feel like she’s about to pass the phone over to a grandma or a toddler. ‘Hold on, BB, Dove wants to say hello. Hold on, let me just pass her over.’

  ‘It’s OK, I just wanted to know she was OK. I’ve got to go now. Sorry, Mum. I’ve got to go –’

  And I end the call just as I hear Dove’s high-pitched, happy HELLO. My heart is banging out of my chest. I throw my phone on the top of my bag like a hot potato. I didn’t have to go at all … why am I avoiding her?

  I scrub my dirty hands down my apron. I close my eyes and breathe deep. I shake my arms out. I think about calling back. I could say sorry. I could say sorry to Dove and listen to her properly, about her day of watching cartoons and not getting a moment to herself. Just sitting. Eating all the annoying gross fibrous foods that she doesn’t like that the hospital has her on just so she can go to the toilet. Fibrous foods that make her so thirsty but she can’t even drink as much as she’d like in case her bladder swells and hurts her insides, which then hurts her ribs. Ask her properly and listen properly too, instead of going through the motions, not really being there.

  But I don’t. I can’t. I should ask her how the hospital visit went. How she is. How she feels. I should just talk to her like I’d normally do. Tell her about the millionaire’s shortbread. Tell her about normal stuff. But I can’t because everything feels so minimal and birdseed-tiny in importance. I should call, right now, and say: ‘Dove, you’re my sister. I care about everything you’re going through; everything you’re going through I want to go through too. I want to take your suffering away. You’re my baby sister, I love you so much.’ But I don’t. I can’t watch Mum lift you out of the chair to shower you. To not get your casts wet. I can’t watch Mum getting you changed and Dad lifting you back onto the sofa and in and out of the car. I chew my tongue and then I step out front again. I want to taste blood.

  Back on the planet my mind
can be distracted. I stop thinking about how every bone in my body feels, bothered by my big bones getting in the way. Did you know roughly fifteen per cent of the body’s mass is made up of bones? Split that in two, top half and bottom half, that’s like seven and a half per cent for each. A bit more for the top because I think the head is well heavy. Mine is, anyway; it’s like a bowling ball. So … let’s say eight per cent is the top half of the body and seven per cent is the bottom half … That’s a LOT of body weight that Dove can’t use. A lot of dormant bone to carry around, dragging her down like a ball and chain.

  My legs feel light and full of water. Like jelly.

  I hope for a busy day and lots of customers.

  I go and stand next to Max. Hoping his conversation, just his company, will ground me somehow, give me a sense of purpose.

  He is making chai latte. ‘Cinnamon?’ he asks the customer and she shakes her head and replies, ‘No, thank you.’

  WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?

  ‘You know, you can really start to think people are generally decent and then they go and do crap like that. Like when people don’t have chocolate sprinkles on their cappuccinos … Surely that’s the only real reason to get a cappuccino,’ he grumbles to me as he watches her leave.

  I say nothing. I can’t even think of what to reply with. I can’t make eye contact with him. I’m nervous he’ll bring up the date that we didn’t have.

  Max continues to serve and nods his head towards the counter in time to Alicia’s terrible music. I look down and he’s made me a hot chocolate with a ‘latte art’ heart on the top. And next to it, a slice of millionaire’s shortbread. And he doesn’t ask any questions at all.

  SALT

  I hear Mum crying in the bathroom. I want to knock on the door and comfort her but I don’t know how. I feel like I’ve stolen something from her. I feel guilty. I feel like I’ve let her down. I think about us like we’re characters in a doll’s house, moving around, and Dove is just frozen on the sofa bed downstairs. It’s not just the legs. It’s the way she looks, swollen and bruised, her pretty face: swollen lips and puffy eyes, her skin tattooed in a greenish camouflage of hits. It’s worrying how quiet she is, how eerily silent the house is without her pounding around and flipping off the walls. Her bedroom is empty.

  We used to have bread in our doll’s house. It was the size of my little finger, a little loaf, salt-baked. And painted. We used to take turns to lick it. I don’t even know where the doll’s house is any more.

  I wonder if Mum would feel as sad if it was me?

  Sorry, I know that’s an ugly thing to say. And an even uglier thing to read. I’m just being honest.

  HAWAIIAN PIZZA

  Normally, I’ll eat any pizza. I’m really not fussy. Of course my favourite is from a proper wood-fired oven. Pizza made from fresh dough and a real tomato-red sauce. I like it when the whole thing is covered in white rounds of mozzarella that go all brown and bubbled and the crust chars and black charcoal-mottled black spots pop. But Dove likes that terrible pizza from the takeaway that comes in huge boxes and the cheese is orangey and the crust is so heavy it’s like a wrecking ball has knocked you in the gut. She likes Hawaiian best. So the whole pizza is covered in little plastic curls of dehydrated porky ham and triangles of tinned, luminous pineapple. The pineapple bit I get but I don’t see what ham has to do with Hawaii.

  This is why I’m happy to see those boxes now. All stacked up on the kitchen table, and twelve beaten-up trainers and all these scratched, stickered skateboards lined up by the front door. Because it means that Dove has asked for the terrible pizza. Her free-running parkour mates are here. Eating slices, drinking cans of fizzy drink and laughing. Trying to make light of the situation. A pack of grubby, spotty, greasy boys with dirty, bitten nails and smashed phone screens. Snorting and being insecure, with bent, bony postures and not knowing where to put their arms if they’re not eating or drinking.

  They take Dove out into the garden and take turns whizzing around on her lap on the patio. 2B and Not 2B are jumping around barking and trying to lick the grease off the boys’ hands. They write all over Dove’s casts with their funny tags. One of the boys, Florian, has called himself ‘Ghetto Gangster’ and he is literally the poshest kid I know – I’ve seen his house, and his jumper costs more than my whole wardrobe put together. Maybe it’s ironic.

  ‘Don’t you want any pizza, BB?’ Mum asks.

  I shake my head. No. I don’t feel like anything. It’s actually the first time I feel like eating anything – I think it might be that the shortbread has ignited something, but I know what those boys are like and they’ll happily keep eating all the pizza in the world until the supply dries up. And I don’t want them to look at me like I’m eating something that’s theirs. That’s something I don’t need. It’s as though people look at bigger people and assume we shouldn’t feel the need to ever get hungry because we have enough fat stored up to last us until our dying day. As if we can nibble off our sides like we’re made out of peach.

  We watch Dove laughing outside, listen to her voice screeching. The boys crowd round her like she’s a queen.

  ‘They feel so responsible,’ Mum says. ‘They feel like it’s their fault.’

  ‘It’s not their fault,’ I grumble, knowing how stubborn and determined Dove is. She would only have jumped if she wanted to.

  ‘No, I know it’s not; they all do it. Hopefully it will make them think twice when they’re out there doing that parkour business … It’s been quite a wake-up call for them all. It’s just a shame it’s my little girl that’s had to be the scare.’ Mum rubs her eyes. ‘I was certain they were just hoping off bloody brick walls and climbing trees … you know? I thought it was so much better for her to be in the outdoors, running free with the boys than, you know … on the bloody internet getting involved in all that gossipy vain rubbish or being groomed by some murderer online. I thought the worst thing that would happen would be a few scabby knees … I never …’ She shakes her head again, holds her chest. ‘I wouldn’t have let her do it if I thought it was dangerous, if she was doing anything that kids haven’t been doing for years.’

  She strokes my hair. ‘She’s lucky to have a big sister like you. She looks up to you so much, you know that, don’t you?’

  I know. I want to say, ‘IT WAS MY FAULT. I TOLD HER TO BE BRAVE.’

  But I’m not even brave enough to say that.

  How dare I tell Dove to be brave? I’m not even brave enough to go to the gym.

  ‘Anyway …’ Mum breaks my thoughts. ‘Don’t you get your GCSE results this week?’

  And that’s it. I text Cam: Hey … you busy?

  POPCORN

  I meet Cam at the Odeon.

  ‘Salt or sweet? Salt or sweet, now THAT’S the question.’

  ‘You sound like my dad,’ I reply spikily.

  ‘I know, isn’t that the point? What’s up with you? We always say that.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Salted or sweet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Popcorn, you fruitcake.’

  ‘I don’t like fruitcake.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Sorry. Whatever. I’ll have whatever you’re having.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t had dinner because SOMEBODY gave me five seconds to get ready, so I’m starving; I’m literally blowing all my money here. I’m getting a large one and Maltesers and Minstrels and whatever that blue drink is saying for itself. Have you ever had these nacho things? The sauce looks a bit orange.’ Cam looks up at the menu. The whole cinema smells of popcorn. Of warm lights and apprehension. We come to cinemas to go somewhere else. To sit in the chair and rocket off to somewhere new.

  You know, the reason you have popcorn in the cinema is because it’s a quiet snack to eat. Crisps and stuff are too loud and crunchy so that’s why we have popcorn.

  ‘Exam results Thursday,’ Cam says.

  ‘I’m not gonna get mine.’

  ‘What?’
/>
  ‘I’m not going to get them.’

  ‘Don’t be weird.’

  ‘It’s not weird; loads of people don’t collect their results. Think of all the kids that go skiing in France or whatever and aren’t there.’

  ‘Yeah, but those kids probably know they’ve done all right; they probably have extra tuition and all that crap.’

  ‘A girl in my class, Ruby, it’s her birthday on exam results day – think she’s going to go into school to collect her GCSE results? Errr. No. She’s not.’

  ‘Well, she might want to if she’s done well,’ Cam says bluntly.

  Rude. I know that comment was a bullet aimed for me.

  ‘Yeah, maybe. Just don’t see why anybody would want to go into school on their birthday.’

  ‘They’ll post the results to your house. You can’t just avoid them.’

  ‘Let them post them then.’ I know I’m being nasty and difficult. I don’t know why I can’t shake this mood off.

  Cam studies the menu again. ‘I’m starving,’ she moans. ‘I had a chewing gum on the way here and it’s tricked my belly into thinking a steak and chips is about to land in there.’ I say nothing. ‘I didn’t have time to put on mascara either; I look like a blind mole.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ I offer, trying to be normal and nice.

  ‘I do, bloody hay fever, can’t even wear my contact lenses. I have to wear my glasses in the cinema like a total geek.’

  It was a bad idea coming out. I am obviously finding it hard to be social. Wish I’d never called her. All of this pretending- nothing-has-happened-to-Dove business in fake old cinema land. But what am I expected to do? Bring it up with everyone ALL the time? I hate sci-fi films anyway. Idiot actors running around in metal chutes and pipes talking to one another in too-fast sentences of invented spaceish jargon that means absolutely nothing. I find it really hard to forget they’re on a set. When we see a shot of space I just know they’re filming this whole scene on some tin-foiled corridor in a studio in Swindon. Why am I so miserable today?