Rebel with a Cupcake

by Anna Mainwaring

  I am totally giving Matt’s face a workout because now his jaw has dropped. “Not really?”

  “Really.” Is this becoming a thing? Like one of those cute things that couples do — one of us says, “Really?” and then the other repeats it. We’ll do this on our wedding day and everyone will laugh and say, “How cute!”

  “But she can’t survive like that.”

  I nod with grim satisfaction. “She was last seen eating a nut cutlet in 2012. She nearly choked and swore never to eat again as it was too dangerous. She swore only to consume gin from then on as she says it’s safer. You can’t choke on it.” This is almost true.

  He’s properly laughing now, and the most glorious warm glow fills me from top to bottom. Like when you eat warm bread fresh from the oven. I can make Matt laugh. It’s like we were meant to be together.

  “Okay, you do have a weird family. Maybe I should drop around and meet them sometime?” Is that like a date? He’s making intense eye contact with me. I think I might be having a heart attack. Why is he acting like this, like he might really like me? I’m so confused.

  But then his phone buzzes and drags his attention away. It’s like there was a spotlight on me that’s now switched off. I am silent while he scans his message.

  “Got to go, I’m afraid.” He flashes a quick, glorious smile at me. What can I say or do to make him stay?

  “Dad’s playing a gig next week,” I find myself saying. “It’s supposed to be a secret, but he’s going to be playing with the old lineup for one night only.”

  I feel the full heat of the spotlight back on me as puts his phone down and looks at me.

  “A secret reunion?” he asks.

  “Just a bunch of middle-aged guys rocking out,” I say modestly.

  “And you can get tickets?”

  Can I get tickets? I’ve never asked before. But I’m the daughter of the guitarist, so surely I can get tickets.

  “Absolutely. Do you want to come?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Gotta go. History essay calls. But give me your number.” He stabs it into his phone. “I’ll be in touch. Make sure you come to my party, Cat’s Little Sister.”

  “The name’s Jesobel,” I say.

  “The girl who eats life. I know.”

  And there you are. The best moment of my life so far. Just as I’m mulling over my clever retort, he leaps to his feet and slouches off into the distance without so much as a backward glance.

  So, I need to get tickets for the gig. Shouldn’t be that hard. But I do desperately need the answer to this question: Is it a date?

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Observation #23:

  Life is generally easier if you conform. But it is also duller.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there in a happy bubble. He talked to me. He liked me. He said he wanted to meet my family. But then other thoughts crowd in to spoil the party. I still look the way I do and he still looks the way he does. Maybe I can find out his favorite food and feed him up so we match.

  Why am I doing this to myself? Part of me knows I’m setting myself up for failure, but I can’t help the way I feel when he’s around. Plus, imagine Zara’s face if Matt went out with me. Imagine Mum’s face if Matt went out with me! That would be a way to show them I’m not such a waste of space.

  My phone buzzes to distract me and stops me melting like butter. Dinner is ready. Thank God Mum is too lazy to walk upstairs to tell me this, so I’ve got just enough time to run home. I think I’m grounded. The fact that no one has noticed I’m not even home tells you all you need to know about my family.

  I slip in the side door and look for my gingerbread school, just to make me feel better, but it’s gone. All that’s left are a few gingery crumbs. Was it all too mad for Mum? Did she throw the rest out? But even worse than that — guess who’s sitting in my kitchen, big sweating hands pawing over my sister? Yep, it’s Jack, Cat’s boyfriend. Problem is that IMHO he’s an A-plus asshat. Whatever I want from me and Matt, this is not it.

  Picture the scene. Cat slouches, unsmiling (i.e., in her default position), at the table. Jack has his arm around her, slowly stroking her shoulder with small possessive movements, but his eyes are welded on my mum’s bum as she bends over, getting something out of the oven. I stand in the doorway for a second, observing it all.

  Jack’s eyes flicker over to me. He knows that I’ve seen him staring at Mum’s bum but he clearly thinks it’s funny. Cat appears oblivious. Will she ever speak again? I suppose I don’t really want to know the answer to this, but what do each of them get out of this relationship? I suppose they look good together, like some kind of god-awful perfume advert.

  As Mum struggles with the weight of the tray she’s pulling from the oven, Jack leaps up.

  “Let me help,” he purrs as he takes it from her and puts it safely on the table. “Smells delicious, Mrs. Jones,” he says.

  “Call me Annabel, please, Jack. You make me feel so old, and after all, I’m not married,” Mum says. “Rock stars don’t get married.” Save me. That’s worthy of an eye roll, surely.

  But said eye roll means Mum sees me. For a moment, I think there’s going to be a rerun of this morning, but clearly she doesn’t want a row in front of Jack, so she fixes a blank smile on her face. “Oh, darling,” she says, “I was wondering where you were.” So she’s not seen the clip yet. “Well, I’ve done some chicken for tea. There’s salad on the table. Dad’s gone out so it’s just the four of us. Lauren’s gone to play at a friend’s house.”

  “I’ll be Daddy then, shall I?” Jack says. He winks at Mum, who blushes slightly.

  Is this just me or is it a bit weird? Cat is intent on her phone. She reads something and narrows her eyes for just a second. Jack reaches over, takes the phone from her hand and turns it off.

  Right. You don’t mess with someone’s phone. That’s just not on. I watch Cat to see if she’ll do anything. Cat looks at him. He smiles back. If it were me, I’d smack him.

  I look to Mum to see if she’s picking up on his passive-aggressive tendencies, but she just beams again. “Good idea, Jack. Nice to have you with us, Cat.”

  My beautiful sister is as silent and impassive as ever. But she reaches over Jack, snatches the phone, switches it on and puts it carefully back on the table next to her. Jack laughs, but there is no warmth in his eyes. Cat–1, Idiot Boyfriend–0. I think of Matt leaning back in the late afternoon sun, laughing at my family stories. He would never be like this, surely. No perving on Mum. No stealing of phones. I have to believe that it’s possible to find a boy who wants to go out with you and will treat you like a human being, not an accessory. Cat’s and my eyes meet just for a second before her eyes slide away, the smallest ghost of a smile on her lips. Is this a rare moment of solidarity?

  As Mum dishes out the chicken breasts, I look critically at her work. “They’re more tender if you cook them with the skin on,” I start.

  “Too many calories,” Mum says bluntly. “Have some salad.”

  I look around for the salad dressing but can’t see any, so I walk over to the larder to get the oil, vinegar and mustard. As I whip them up, I watch my mum and sister at work at the table.

  Mum piles a huge amount of green salad next to her chicken. Carefully, she goes through the leaves and puts every single olive back into the salad bowl. What’s the point of making a salad with olives if you’re going to take them all out again?

  Cat regards her chicken carefully. Cuts it in half. And then in half again. Puts three quarters of it back and then cuts the remainder into tiny baby-sized mouthfuls. Very deliberately, she chews each mouthful twenty times and drinks between each one. Yes, Cat eats like she’s a celebrity.

  I return to the table with my freshly made and particularly well-seasoned dressing. I’ve added a bit of fresh tarragon to bring out the flavor of the ch
icken and the tomato. After pouring it liberally over my meal, I offer the jug to Mum and Cat. Both wave it away, but I see Mum’s hand edge toward it when she thinks I’m not looking. I bite into the salad and savor the rich taste of the dressing. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Better go easy on that, Jess,” Jack says. He smiles at me like a shark.

  “Are you calling me fat?” I return, deciding to go for direct confrontation.

  Jack goes into super-smooth mode. “’Course not, Jess. Curves are all the rage, right?”

  C’mon, Jess, say something good. I need a moment to think this through and, while doing so, I enjoy my chicken. Never start a verbal assault with a full mouth of food. I remember what I posted earlier. If you don’t like something, eat it.

  “I was talking to Matt and Alex today, Jack,” I say.

  I choose my words carefully. I don’t want to upset my sister.

  “They said you hang out with them sometimes. They told me who else you hang out with, too.”

  My words hang in the air. Have I said too much or not enough?

  Jack glares, Cat stares. The two of them then exchange a glance. Cat’s eyes are full of anger. At him. At me. Whatever that moment was between us, I’ve managed to obliterate it.

  Cat stops, with most of her small portion left to go. “Thanks, Mum,” she says and pushes her food away. Jack pushes his plate toward me. “Want to finish off my seconds?” he says with a glint in his eyes.

  “Not my style,” I return. At least not in front of him.

  I’d like to think that that’s Jess–1, Asshat–0. But somehow I’m not that sure. I mean, first of all, I’ve been a bit mean. And then, as Cat and Jack leave, she puts her hand in his and then he smiles back as if she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He strokes away a stray hair from her face and kisses her on the forehead. They seem lost in their own little world. Like a happy couple.

  What would I give — what would I do — to get Matt to look at me like that?

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Observation #4:

  The Internet is great for cheating on your homework (sorry, for “independent research”), but it’s also just another way to fail at life.

  I head up to my room to sort out the mess of feelings that are swirling around inside me like a psychedelic kaleidoscope. Maybe I should try one of Gran’s “herbal” cigarettes. Or then again not.

  I try to recap the day:

  It felt cool to get one over on Zara.

  It felt great to walk away from Mrs. Brown. That was amazing and possibly my finest moment on this planet to date. For a few seconds, I was the person that I wanted to be — no compromise, no regrets.

  Even better and weirder — those cool moments are now on the Internet and people might be watching all over the world. (Downer that they’ll see my legs, but let’s just gloss over that for now.)

  And then the highest high — Matt Paige has found out who I am.

  He has looked straight in my eyes and not laughed or puked or made any joking reference to my size. Like he didn’t even notice.

  He has asked me to his party.

  He has asked for my number and agreed to go to a gig with me.

  This is all amazingly amazing. Even tickety-boo.

  But still, despite that connection I feel every time he looks at me, there’s something not quite right. Is it fear? Matt has been my secret fantasy crush for a year now. If I get to know him better, will he be a letdown? I’m in control of my daydreams, so fantasy Matt will never let me down. But real Matt could end up like Jack, for all I know — be a bit of an idiot. But apart from that fear, there’s certainly a dash of hope. More than a healthy feeling of excitement. And there we go again, there’s a bit more fear. Fear of making a fool of myself. Matt might let me down gently, but if Zara ever heard about it, she would make my life a misery.

  As I pace round the room, I see a long parcel draped over the chair. The color of the wrapping makes me think it’s from one of the few shops that designs clothes I really like.

  Maybe it’s a peace offering from Mum. She did mention that she’d bought something for me earlier. And I have to admit that she does have great taste. I rip off the packaging and hold up the contents so that I can see it properly.

  It’s a dress, and it’s perfect.

  I put it up to my face — the color, soft blue, is exquisite. It’s low cut enough to suggest my boobs without being blatant, shaped for curves, still good over jeans or leggings — sexy but cool. I have to hand it to her. My mum does know something about fashion.

  Then a thought strikes me.

  I check the label.

  I feel like being sick.

  How could she?

  It’s one size too small.

  Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe she just subconsciously bought the dress size she’d rather I be. Or is this a gentle nudge to get me to shift some pounds? It doesn’t feel like a gentle nudge. It feels like a kick in the stomach.

  I’m clearly in the mood to torture myself so I strip down to bra and pants and put it on.

  The dress may be perfect but I am not.

  I look at myself in the mirror.

  In the mirror, a fat girl stands, her eyes holes of misery in her face. Her boobs stretch the fabric, her stomach looks enormous and the material shines over her bum. The zip is stuck halfway.

  I know what Mum would say. If you’d just put a bit of effort in, in a few weeks, you’d look a million dollars.

  I would like to look in a mirror and be happy. I was this morning.

  So if I don’t like what I see, then perhaps I should … eat less? I think about Hannah and Izzie this morning and I think about #thegirlwhoeatslife. How confident I was about it earlier today. How I teased them, so confident that I was right. And yet, here I am, agreeing with Mum and Zara, even Cat.

  I want to wear this to Matt’s party. Could I have the dress changed to make it larger? Or — and this is when the big thought crashes in — do I have to change to fit into the dress?

  I take it off and just hold its softness to my face.

  The dress says, Just try for a few days and see how it goes.

  The dress says, No pressure, no compromise.

  The dress says, Find nice food that is lower in calories. Look at the saturated fat content. Hell, would it kill you to do some exercise?

  The dress says, Just give it three weeks.

  How many corny movies have I seen where the geeky girl is transformed into some kind of goddess and then gets the guy? He looks at her in a new way, like boys look at Cat, like Matt looked at me … once. Hannah and Izzie told me that Matt was out of my league. But why? You don’t agree to go to see a gig with a girl if you can’t bear to be near her. You don’t invite a girl to a party unless you like her company. In my head, I replay my favorite daydreams with Matt. I cook him my favorite dishes and we taste the food together. We walk hand in hand through the park after he’s waited for me after school, so all the world can see that he’s my guy and we’re together.

  Deep breath time. How much do I want things to work between me and Matt? What would I be prepared to do to have a real shot with him?

  I look at the dress, so soft and feminine. I look at me in my bra and pants. I keep looking, trying to find something positive to say to myself. But all I can see is image after image of thin girls from Instagram, adverts and fashion shoots. None of them look like me.

  Right, I tell myself, stop feeling so sorry for yourself. You’re just going to make a few lifestyle adjustments. You can change your mind at any point.

  I imagine myself turning up to the party, looking stunning. Matt can’t take his eyes off me. Is it worth it? Is he worth it? I don’t know. But I know I want to try and find out.

  After pulling on my pajamas, I make my way down
to the kitchen with an empty feeling inside me. It’s dark and quiet downstairs. This feels all wrong. Normally, when I’m cooking, it’s all out in public for everyone to enjoy. This feels like I’m ashamed.

  The kitchen is in shadow, and when I open the fridge, butter-yellow light falls across the black tiles. I don’t really need to look inside cos I know every item in there.

  I take out the box of cupcakes left over from this morning.

  I start to eat one. It’s as glorious as ever, so sweet, light and fluffy. But halfway through, I stop.

  I smell its light sponge, give it a little kiss and then put it back. I’ve made my choice. I can’t be the girl who eats life. I can’t be the girl who eats at all. I want to be the girl who can look in a mirror and smile again. I want to be the girl with the boy on her arm.

  Goodbye, cupcake. Goodbye, Old Jess.

  For now.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Invisible Rule #8:

  Guys can’t wear pink. Or wear skirts. Or glitter. Which makes some of them sad, I think. Pink’s just a color, isn’t it?

  I didn’t sleep well last night.

  Here are just a few reasons:

  I appear to have become a viral meme. My phone is actually going to burst with notifications.

  I have a meeting with the Head and my parents this morning.

  Matt Paige looked at me.

  I need to think of a way to get my own back on Zara.

  I have the most important exams of my life in few weeks. College, jobs, future existence — all rest on getting those top grades. If only I could cook a lovely meal instead and get judged on that.

  I, Jesobel Jones, have decided to go on a new eating regime even though I have always laughed at those who do this. I have sold out.

  And now I’m awake and I don’t see much chance of going back to sleep, given the incredibly loud noise from outside.