Big Bones

by Laura Dockrill

  And she begins. Shouting at us over some hideous, as suspected, scribble of dance music, a white noise of frantic chaos that’s clearly been designed by somebody who hates ears. Some kind of demonic dance-floor hell of programmed sound that deafens me senseless. The lyrics, aimless throwaways of ‘let go’ and ‘hold on’ and ‘lift me up’. Not to mention the spinning. It’s HARD. Tireless, unbearable turns of a wheel that doesn’t want to turn no matter how hard you turn it. And we are sinners repenting for our midnight snacks and bus rides and drive-thru stop-offs. I want to unscrew my ankles and get new ones.

  And then we’re meant to lift up and then sit back down and up again. HOW? HOW ARE PEOPLE DOING THIS? HOW ARE THEY SMILING? Why do my arms ache and my abs howl when my legs are the ones doing all the turning? And I am dripping in my salty sweat that is running into my eyeballs and stinging them like murdering a slug with salt and I can feel the veins throbbing out of me and my bones feel twisted like they might pop out of the skin like in a gory horror film where a bone just busts out of a limb like a hot dog in a bun. I feel as though my feet might bulge out of my trainers. And MORE sweat is POURING from places I didn’t even know owned sweat glands. Panting. Coughing. Round and round. Struggling. Lifting bulk. My bum. My ill-fitting knickers, wedged up my bum crack. The seat: DRENCHED. Is everybody dead or just me? My fleshy thighs are burning in purple swells. I’ve drunk nearly all my water and my feet are strapped into these stupid stirrup buckle things, locked into the torture. Cramping up.

  And the terrible, terrible music just goes on and on. RE-LENT-LESS.

  ‘Right,’ the instructor says, ‘that’s the warm-up done.’

  CUCUMBER

  ‘I can’t believe you faked an asthma attack.’ Dove bites her lips, loving that I was so naughty.

  ‘Dove, it was hell. I had to get out of there.’

  ‘Weren’t you embarrassed?’

  ‘No, that was the last thing on my mind.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do that, B. It’s bad karma.’

  ‘I think I’ve had enough real asthma attacks in my lifetime to warrant pulling a trump card.’

  ‘You’re still bad though.’ Dove bites a snag nail. ‘I actually bum-shuffled up these stairs today.’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  Dove and I lie on my trifle with our feet stacked up on cushions and cucumber circles over our eyes. Dad made Dove this makeshift bamboo stick thing with a fork stuffed in the end for her to scratch her legs with.

  ‘Do you have to scratch so vigorously?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes.’

  We are clumsily feeding ourselves Greek salad, chewing salty black olives and blocks of feta cheese.

  ‘Don’t tell Mum.’

  ‘Tell Mum what?’ Mum demands out of nowhere. Where’d she even come from? Damn these stupid cucumber sunglasses for blinding me. I had no choice … I had to … I lie again …

  ‘That I had an asthma attack in spin class.’ I peel the watery circles off my eyes. I say the sentence really emotionless so she can’t hear a crack of falseness in my voice. Dove flashes me an eye-piercing snarl of disapproval. I look away.

  ‘Oh no! BB! Why didn’t you call me?’ The guilt slathers on thick like cream cheese.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘BB! That’s not good, you have to be careful not to exert yourself.’ She rubs my feet, sitting on the corner of the bed, her forehead frowning with concern.

  ‘I know. I’m stupid.’

  ‘Was it bad?’

  ‘It wasn’t great,’ I lie again in a croaky voice, feeling the burn of my little sister’s eyes scorching holes in me. I avoid eye contact in case I burst out laughing.

  ‘Oh, sweetie, were you scared? Were the people at the gym good about it?’

  ‘Yes, they were good. It’s a shame because I had to leave spin class early.’

  ‘Oh, love, you were so looking forward to that too. How was your new sports bra?’

  ‘Hmmm … sporty. Digs in a bit.’

  ‘Yes, they are very supportive, aren’t they?’ Mum coos in empathy. ‘Poor you.’

  Dove rolls her eyes; she can’t help herself. ‘Luckily I was at home to help her, Mum. I’ve taken care of her all evening.’ Dove pokes her tongue out at me. Mum falls for it.

  ‘Good girl. It’s scary when she has an attack, isn’t it? You’re a very good sister. I love my girls, always taking care of each other.’ I could punch that little bird of ours right off her perch.

  ‘That’s us!’ Dove sings.

  ‘I’ve heard spin’s awful anyway!’ Mum mutters. ‘Meant to be the hardest of all the classes.’

  ‘My legs feel like they are going to drop off,’ I moan. Dove digs her nail into my calf.

  ‘Your dad’s got some of that salve somewhere. It’s what the Thai boxers use, apparently; meant to ease the muscle pain. Do you want me to get you some?’

  ‘Yes. Well. Seeing as though I am an athlete, it probably wouldn’t hurt.’ And she leaves the room to go get the magic balm.

  Dove elbows me. ‘Athlete. Shut up. You did the warm-up of ONE exercise class. Hardly ready for the Olympics.’

  ‘Excuse me, Dove, I’ve done swimming AND spinning in one day. I’m basically a tri-athalist … or whatever they’re called. And stop pretending you’ve been taking care of me!’

  Mum comes back in. ‘OK, roll your leggings up.’

  ‘She’s not been at war,’ Dove sniggers.

  ‘I’d like to see you do it,’ I bark back.

  ‘HA! SPIN CLASS! EASY!’ Dove nods towards her chair.

  ‘She does have a point.’ Mum raises her brows.

  ‘Listen, mate, this is my room and I can bum-shuffle you out of here whenever I want.’

  ‘You couldn’t, cos you can’t even WALK after riding a motionless bike for five minutes!’ Dove shoots back.

  ‘Girls.’ Mum wrinkles my leggings up. It pinches the skin.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘OK, now this will sting a bit to begin with.’

  ‘What do you mean “sting”?’

  ‘It burns a little, when you first apply it.’

  ‘It can’t be worse than what I endured today.’

  ‘Lie back and I’ll rub it in.’

  It smells like mint but not natural, more clinical and aniseedy. A bit like root beer. It hits the back of my throat with a thwack. The sensation of it going on my legs is like Vaseline. It’s a thick balm and quite bittersweet with having the tension rubbed out of my legs but also wincing at every touch.

  ‘How’s that?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, my head in a frown.

  ‘It’s not burning?’

  ‘Nope. It’s …’ and then it hits me. It’s like hot coals poured onto my body. Like the worst sunburn. Like … OUUUUUUUUU‌UUUUUUCCCCCCCCHHHHH. ‘GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!’ I throw the cucumbers off my eyes, snapping up to sitting. Honestly, what kind of hellish day of torture is this?

  ‘Calm down, calm down!’ Mum taps me on the knee.

  ‘Mum it IS BURNING!’ Dove is rolling around laughing at me. ‘You can shut up!’

  ‘You’re such a baby.’

  ‘If you think you’re so good why don’t you try it?’

  ‘Dove’s used it lots before, after her free-jumping.’

  I HATE Dove right now. She looks at me all smug.

  ‘It will go away in a minute, just hold on.’

  The pain eventually fades and I can start to breathe again even though I feel like an absolutely disgusting hot sweaty failure pig in a blanket with rogue dog hairs sticking to the salve.

  I lie back down and let Mum continue to rub and it’s nice now that my nerves have got used to the tingling burn of pure actual fire. I replace the buttons of cucumber over my eyelids.

  ‘I think you might be right.’ Mum cuts the warmth of the balm with her voice. ‘The gym might just be a stretch too far for you, BB, with your asthma and everything. Maybe just stick to swimming for no
w, eh?’

  I nod, feeling so sorry for myself. I grab a circle of cucumber, snatch it off my eye and drop it into my mouth, crunching, like some rich lady of some posh house being massaged and eating grapes. Happy, in the safety of knowing that I’m never going back to the gym again.

  CAPERS

  Gross minuscule hunchback pond toadettes. What even are they?

  PESTO

  You can make a pesto out of anything. I don’t know what ‘pesto’ exactly means in Italian but I bet it’s something like ‘anything and everything sauce’. I do mine just the regular way, lots of basil, good olive oil, toasted pine nuts, salt, pepper, a squeeze of lemon juice and grated parmesan, and the great thing is, because the sauce goes in the blender you don’t have to bother with that tiny mousey grater to grate the parmesan!

  ‘It’s FINE that the gym is not for me. It’s just not. Like how I’m not that into dolphins. I don’t JUDGE people that are into dolphins and go all round the world to swim with them, the same way I don’t judge people that like the gym. The gym is just not my thing. And that’s OK. It’s probably not really for loads of people. Anyway, I bet I walk about five thousand steps when I’m working a shift at Planet Coffee so that should improve my fitness in no time flat. I’d rather swim to the middle of an ocean or climb up a rock like some wonderful strong Amazonian woman than be tasking it to the drill of some ugly dance song like some robot worker bee in the air-conditioned gym room. NO THANKS.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re a member now, you have to go,’ Dove presses.

  ‘Dove, my bum is dead, do you understand? DEAD.’ Dove giggles at me. ‘AND I went YESTERDAY, Dove. Nobody goes to the gym this much in a whole lifetime.’

  I go on, making sure I’m not being insensitive but my misfortune only seems to make her howl harder, so I continue. ‘That class has absolutely ripped my muscles to pieces.’ I de-wedge my shorts out of my bum crack. ‘It’s dead. R.I.P. bum. The seat proper rubs your thighs too. I want to see the damage but I’m too scared to look.’ OUCH. OUCH. OUCH. I wrangle my way to the fridge, hobbling like I have a hula hoop attached to my hips that I mustn’t drop. ‘I feel the need to sue them.’ Dove cracks up.

  ‘Sue them for your dead bum.’ Dove pinches her nose and whines, ‘I’m Bluebelle and I can’t do anything because my bum has died,’ mimicking me. ‘I cannot unload the dishwasher because of my dead bum, I can’t feed the dogs because of my dead bum, and I can’t even enjoy any of this delicious pesto because of my dead bum.’

  ‘The last bit isn’t true though, ’K?’

  ‘Someone’s got their appetite back then. Maybe the gym wasn’t so bad after all?’

  Maybe.

  Yeah, my body is heavy and sore but I suddenly feel a lightness tremor through me that almost gives me butterflies.

  I think about Max.

  I wonder if he’s thinking about me?

  SOUP

  After MY ONE ALLOWED DAY OF REST I know the expectation of the gym is going to start rat-a-tat-tatting on my door again, so when Dad suggests some soup for lunch I am well up for the distraction …

  I always hate the idea of soup but never usually mind it when I’m eating it. I always find that I’m pleasantly surprised.

  ‘What soup is it though?’ Dove asks before she fully commits to eating it.

  ‘Leaf.’

  ‘Leaf? Leaf soup?’ I ask. ‘What do you mean, “leaf”?’

  ‘Are you following a recipe, Dad?’

  ‘Course I’m not following a bloody recipe!’ He rubs his hands together like he’s conjuring up a master plan. ‘You girls, this time we live in, nobody does anything from their imaginations. Why do you have to follow a recipe? It’s just soup. Soup! Just boil up some vegetables, add stock and season with a few magic bits and bobs. Yes, it’s leaf. Leaf-flavour soup. What’s the big deal?’

  ‘Maybe that leaf doesn’t actually really have much flavour. I’ve never heard of leaf soup,’ Dove says.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ve never heard of turtle soup either but it’s a thing,’ Dad smugly assures us, clapping down the lid of a saucepan to make his point.

  So, leaf soup, it turns out, is all the bags of salad leaves and spinach from the fridge, boiled up, blitzed and turned into sludge.

  ‘It’s not done yet, there’s more, I have to add my magic now …’ And I realise the same moment Dove does. Dad’s larder is completely rinsed. Everything thrown in the bin. He just hasn’t seen it yet.

  ‘We can have it like that, Dad, don’t worry,’ I say but it’s too late. I can hear Dad’s heart shattering to pieces.

  ‘Your mum did this, didn’t she? I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!’

  There follow lots of swear words and Dove and I pour ourselves a bowl of leaf soup and blow bubbles on our spoons, laughing hard. With some salt, pepper, a scrape of nutmeg and a blob of cream it’s actually all right.

  SWEET AND SOUR

  After ‘lunch’ Dove’s friends knock for her. They are going to the skate park. Mum gets all jumpy and panics and makes Dove a peanut butter sandwich in a rush, which Dove, being Dove, leaves on the side and forgets about. I’m so baffled by people who can forget about food.

  And I am left with Mum and Dad, witnessing their sweetness turning sour …

  NO! The arguing is too much. Mum at Dad. Dad at Mum. Mum calls Dad a ‘loser’. She says he takes it out on her that his career is ‘down the pan’. He laughs and says ‘that’s rich’ coming from her and calls her a ‘parasite’. She throws a book at his head. The dogs do stress yawning and clap their teeth. Dad calls Mum a ‘soppy teenager with emotional issues’. He tells her she has ‘too many regrets’ and ‘needs to let go and stop harbouring’. Mum cackles in Dad’s face and says that he’s the ‘teenager’. She calls him a ‘freeloader’, a ‘failure’ and a ‘joke’.

  Then Mum cries.

  The house is on the boil like the soup.

  And I have to get out. I have to feel something. Go somewhere I can take out all this BLEUGHHHHH‌HHHHHHHHHHHHH and maybe that place could possibly be the gym?

  Who knows, maybe I’ll try it again?

  You’d like that, wouldn’t you, doc?

  Whatever, nobody is still going to be reading this, surely?

  And I charge upstairs and pack my bag ready for the gym. But I can just hear them, rowing, rowing, rowing, and my room is a state and everything is everywhere and it’s too hot and my thighs rub and my bones ache and my mind is all rattling and numb.

  And then it comes … tight. My chest. I’ve got no air. Wheezing and coughing. Tightness. Sharpness. And I can’t catch my breath. I sit down. Try to keep calm. Where’s my inhaler …? I can’t find it. I tipped my bag upside-down looking for my stupid gym bag. Where’s my night one? My stronger one? NO! I grip the bedsheets, scramble around the bedding … Where’s my … My chest is sore. Stubborn. Refusing to lift. I can’t speak or even open my mouth. The panicking is making it harder to inhale. I don’t want to make a fuss. This is my fault. Just calmly breathe in and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and …

  You’re fine.

  You’re fine.

  You’re all right.

  I’m all right.

  DRIED MANGO

  There is NO way in hell this stuff is completely natural. It is the most sugariest invention of all time. If it really is just mango, like it says it is, why does it have to be so expensive? Why is dried fruit more expensive than fruit, when fruit grows on trees? I HATE it when people try to charge for nature, like, you know when you go to book a hotel and they charge more for a ‘sea view’ – it really annoys me because how can you charge more to look at the sea? The sea is NOT yours.

  This mango is addictive. Are you allowed to eat the whole pack? Of course you are. You HAVE to eat the whole pack. I like it when you can see the imprint of the gauze that they’ve baked the mango on printed on the dried flesh. I like the chewy bits that are a bit burnt and golden on the edges.

  I am chewing, st
ill, as I go up to the reception at the gym. Just so I don’t change my mind. Just so I stick to my guns and see this through. They look surprised to see me. They thought I was just another one biting the dust, whatever that means. It’s impossible to bite dust.

  ‘Welcome back,’ says Ibiza, glaring at me like some vile evil fairy-tale stepmother who thought she’d got rid of me (by means of a spin class) until I resurrect myself from the dead.

  ‘One for spin class, please,’ I say proudly. The girls do a delayed … OOOO-KAY … as they hand me my pass.

  ‘It’s not me taking it today, I’m afraid,’ Ibiza says, as if that fact should change my mind.

  ‘Too bad,’ I say. Which I don’t know why I say as it’s not one of my typical sayings but sometimes we say things, don’t we?

  I don’t hang around long enough to discuss asthma. And why should I have to? They obviously weren’t that concerned with my well-being.

  Spin. Right. OK. Fine. Not. A. Problem.

  I bounce up to the changing rooms. Skinny, muscly girls clanking in lockers, hairdryers purring and the smell of perfume and coconut and moisturiser. It’s all more threatening and serious up here than the communal spirit of the changing rooms for the pool.

  I dump my stuff into a locker and see my phone is ringing. Max.

  I don’t answer it. I don’t need a man getting in my way right now. It’s time to spin and sweat and, dare I say it, I’m almost looking forward to it …

  BLOOD

  I am first in the cycle studio and take my time to organise my bike. Even though I have absolutely ZERO idea what I’m doing, seeing as I never made it past the warm-up before. The room smells of old sweat. Dehydrated glands squeezing out old beer and curry from people who probably call nuts a ‘treat’. Damp towels. The floor has an extra layer of sticky sweat laminated over it. I catch myself in the mirror. The bike is a skeleton next to me. Hard. Cruel. Wheels smile at me with a flash. Like the ones I see at home.

  I wonder if my boobs joggle around all the time, or just at the gym?