Rebel with a Cupcake

by Anna Mainwaring

  Bloody birds. It’s early spring and all they can do at five a.m. is tweet. Don’t they have phones for that? Mother Nature needs to catch up PDQ and get them on the real Twitter, and Western Europe will sleep a lot better. (Am I making any sense? Clearly, the idea of eating less has tipped me over the edge.)

  So, I think, this is the first day of a new me. So far, so good. I’ve been awake for ten minutes and I’ve not eaten anything. Way to go, me.

  I think over my general understanding of losing weight.

  I need to burn more calories than I eat.

  So less is good. The less I eat, the more I’ll lose. (Some disagree on this, but I don’t see how you can eat lots of food and still lose weight. There are, however, lots of things in the world that I don’t understand: the Higgs boson particle, patterned leggings, why anyone watches sports …) Celebrities seem to go on weird diets where they eat nothing but cabbage or maple syrup. The last one seems to make more sense but the first one sounds like a disaster. Okay, you might be skinny but your farts would kill off any living organisms standing next to you. Skinny but lonely would be the end result and what’s the use of that?

  Fruit and veg are best, I think, but beyond that, it gets all confusing. Good carbs, bad carbs, good fats, bad fats … weird diets with even weirder names. I could spend a lifetime on Google researching this but I think I’ll just stick with number 1.

  So here I am, on zero calories. If I do some exercise, then I’ll be in minus calories, and then I can eat something (salady) later in the day. This seems like a plan. I’m too wired to sleep and the streets should be quite quiet at this hour of the morning. Mum won’t be too stoked to find me running around the neighborhood on my own, but then surely all would be forgiven when she finds out why. And after all, I’ve got my phone — my adult-to-child tracker device — so what can possibly go wrong?

  What to wear? Never my strong point. Obvs, the main idea is sweats and trainers — even I can work that out. But it’s the underwear that’s troubling me. I swim, I go to the gym sometimes, but I’ve never actually run any distance. And the main reason for that is my boobs.

  Apparently, constructing a bra is one of the most difficult engineering tasks known to humankind. You have to make a structure that’s comfortable to wear and can accommodate two unsupported blobs of jelly that can move up, down, sideways and any variation in between. I rummage through my drawers to see what I can do about this. Oh, yes, and it should be vaguely attractive — i.e., not something Gran would wear. Actually, Gran doesn’t bother with a bra anymore. Which is a bit scary.

  Fortunately, whatever failings my mum has, she is very fussy about my bras, and so, as I pull out one elastic garment after the other, I find that I am the proud owner of three sports bras. Well, I think, three should do the trick.

  So without any further mucking about, I put them on. All of them. I jump up and down gently just to test them out. Solid as a rock. Two large boobs, firmly strapped in place. After pulling on an old hoodie and trackies, I look at myself in the mirror. Something peculiar has happened to my boobs. They appear to have been relocated just beneath each armpit.

  I squeak down the stairs. There are snuffles from various bedrooms, but no one leaps out at me and asks what I’m doing. Within seconds, I’ve unlocked the front door, carefully pushed it back, waited for a few seconds so Mum can come rushing down to demand what I’m up to.

  Nothing. I’ve made it outside.

  I’m vaguely disappointed.

  Now what?

  Apart from the birds, there’s not much going on. No one on the streets, very few lights on in dark houses, a solitary car slowly going past. Over the dark roofs, the pale blue sky is streaked with wisps of pink gold. Look at me — no breakfast is making me all poetic. I’ll be writing sonnets and turning into an emo before you know what’s happening. Shaking off such ideas, I take a deep breath, open the front gate and then put one foot in front of the other. That’s running, isn’t it? I repeat the process, only more quickly this time, and off I go.

  I’m doing okay — I’ve reached the end of the road and I’ve not died. The air feels harsh in my lungs and I’m getting hotter, but apart from that, I’m okay, honestly. Boobs are staying where they should be, feet don’t hurt. Lungs are working and I do a bit of Biology review, picturing in my head a multicolor dissection of my lungs with blue and red lines to show oxygenated blood going out and deoxygenated blood coming in. Sorted — the A-plus will be mine! By now, end of the next road, my breath is coming thick and fast and my chest is starting to hurt. I head toward the park — I can do a few laps there, and then think about heading for home. Half an hour, steady pace, no food until lunchtime — easy-peasy lemon-squeezy.

  In the distance, I see two figures running toward me on the opposite pavement. All of a sudden, I think about who they might be. There’s a strong possibility that they are SOWs, that they’ll know my mum and tell her all about my early morning running.

  I suppose it doesn’t matter if anyone sees me but I pull my hood over my face and continue. Truth is, would anyone recognize me anyway? Surely my face has now swollen up into some alien mask that bears little resemblance to me and more to something jumping out at you in the dark.

  The two skinny figures get closer, and the slightly smaller one, though running at pace, is still managing to talk at great length, volume and speed. It’s a voice that I recognize, with a peculiarly nasal quality and piercing tone. They’re only feet from me and they don’t seem to have noticed me, but I’ll bet you a brioche that it’s Zara Lovechild.

  For a second, heat blazes through my mind, confusing my thought processes. They run nearer me, I slowly come nearer to them. Any second now, Zara will see me. She will know that I have caved in.

  A space opens out on my left. There’s a low hedge that backs on to the bowling green. Panic takes over me.

  I jump over the hedge and fall flat on my back. I hold my breath. I hear Zara’s voice whinge on about how much studying she’s done. Her voice is over my head. She just needs to look down and there I’ll be: laid out at her tiny feet like some kind of a sacrifice at the plastic altar of meanness. Yesterday, I had my foot on her bum, but I get a feeling that she’s winning now.

  “Zara, darling, Chloe Simcock’s daughter got eleven A-pluses, so I don’t see why you can’t,” I hear the other person say. I wonder if this is the she-wolf mother I’ve heard about.

  “Mummy, I can’t — that’s just unfair.”

  “Eleven A-pluses and you can have the nose job. That’s the deal.”

  They’re over me, past me and then they run on.

  Nose job? In return for A-pluses? Even for round here, home of football players and their model wives, that’s a bit messed up. I can’t believe that I’m even thinking this, but here we go anyway.

  Poor Zara. I mean — yes, she’s a cow. But even my mother would never go that far.

  I can’t lie on the ground all day. I’m starting to worry I’ve leaped in some dog poo. I peer over the low hedge — no one near.

  It’s only when I’m standing up that I see that Zara and her plastic mother haven’t run on. Oh no — they’re doing some yoga stretches over on the grass.

  I stand, frozen. Don’t look this way. Just don’t.

  Then Zara looks. She takes in my messy hair, my sportswear, my three bras.

  She knows why I’m here. A smug smile creeps over her perfect face. I don’t feel sorry for her anymore.

  There’s no doubt about the score now.

  Skinny People–1, Jess–0.

  I limp home.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Invisible Rule #11:

  People can get a bit funny if you use the F-word. No, not that F-word. I mean feminist.

  My day does not actually improve.

  I mean, a meeting with the Head and your parents is bad enough,
but now add in Dad looking a bit stoned and refusing to take off his sunglasses and Mum wearing a low-cut top (she thought it might make Mr. Ambrose treat me more leniently). Even Mum’s boobs couldn’t save me. I had to write a letter of apology to Zara or I’d get kicked out of school. Also, I have to get the clip taken down. I’m actually not too bothered by the clip at all. But a letter? Normally, I would come up with a cunning plan to get out of this, but lack of breakfast stopped my brain from working. So who’s the rebel now? Letter written and handed over. That really, really hurt.

  By the time I get home, my head is spinning and my stomach is so empty it’s rumbling like a volcano. All I’ve had is an apple and Diet Coke all day and it’s starting to show. Not where I want it to, around my tummy, bum and legs, but in my temper, energy and eyes. And this is only Day One.

  I think about what to cook tonight. I could just waltz in and say, “I’m not cooking tonight,” but then we’d all starve. Dad’s too lazy; Gran, Mum and Cat seem to be in a competition to see who eats the least; and Lauren is too small to take care of herself. I love the joy of cooking and the joy of seeing people eat my food. But I’m not feeling any of that today. I’m beginning to realize why Cat is in such a foul mood pretty much all of the time. Because being hungry all the time absolutely sucks.

  So tonight, my heart’s not in it. I bake white fish with ratatouille. There’s some bread for those who want it. I add what flavor I can with garlic and fresh basil, plenty of salt. Salt may not be great for the heart but it’s got hardly any calories and it tastes great. How many things can you say that about?

  About six thirty they all start to troop in.

  The kitchen is full of rich tomato smells. Hey, I’ve gone a bit wild and thrown some white wine in with the fish. Only a few calories and it’s worth it for the flavor.

  “Family meal night,” Dad says like some made-for-TV version of himself. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week. After today, we deserve a little treat? I know it’s not Thai curry but it smells good.” Dad loves Thai food — I think he spent a long time in Thailand taking “recreational” substances. He is his mother’s son, after all.

  I serve it up. Five plates of fish in wine and lemon, and Mediterranean vegetables. No oil. No carbs. Just light protein and veggies.

  Dad looks down at his plate and I think I’m about to see a grown man cry.

  Lauren says, “That looks disgusting. Alice says it looks disgusting. She doesn’t like vegetables and I don’t like fish.” She pushes the dish away with disgust. “When’s pudding?”

  I say nothing and begin to eat. True, it’s blander than I would normally make. You can only do so much with tomatoes.

  Dad says quietly, “Is there any sauce?”

  I shake my head. He nods and begins to eat without any enthusiasm.

  Mum and Cat eat quietly without comment. I think that I just miss a flash of eye contact between them. I refuse to look at them.

  If I was on MasterChef, what would Nick and the fat one say? “The vegetables are soft, pleasant in texture and full of flavor. The fish is well seasoned and light. However, the whole thing lacks substance and creativity. It is not the worst meal that I have ever eaten in my life. But it’s far from the best.”

  But it is food. And I’m hungry, so it is gone far too quickly and I still want more at the end.

  I finish first. Lauren and Alice are arguing about which exactly is the most disgusting vegetable on their plate. Dad looks sad. Mum and Cat are eating in the same way that drives me mad — small bite, chew twenty times, swallow, drink water, repeat.

  Mum starts, “This is very pleasant …”

  “Thanks,” I reply.

  “It’s a bit different from your usual,” she says. “What’s the inspiration behind it?” I look to see if she’s laughing at me, cos if she is, I will take a kebab skewer and plant it right between her eyes.

  “Summer,” I lie. “The weather’s getting warmer and I thought a light meal would be nice.”

  Mum nods and says nothing.

  Cat doesn’t have such tact. “Are you trying to lose weight?” she asks.

  Part of me is reeling cos Cat has actually said something. Part of me is reeling cos Cat has hit on the truth.

  “You think I should be?” I reply.

  She shrugs. “I’m just asking.”

  “Do you like it?” I ask. “That should be the only reason to eat food.”

  She tuts at this and stops eating.

  “Are you full?” I say.

  “I’ve had enough,” she replies.

  “That’s not what I asked,” I push.

  She stands up and walks out of the room.

  Mum glances at me. She pauses. “Jess. Firstly, I’d like to thank you for cooking such a lovely meal. But you could be more sensitive. You know it’s a difficult subject for her.”

  It’s just food — where did it get so complicated?

  There is silence.

  Then Dad asks, “What’s for pudding?”

  I look him in the eye. “Fresh fruit and fresh air.” I listen hard; I think I hear his heart break. And probably mine, too.

  After dinner, I go to my room to do some homework. I mean, if I’m going to be allowed to sit my exams, then I suppose I should do some work. At least it keeps me occupied.

  My phone pings. I look at the screen. It’s MATT.

  Hey, got into any fights today?

  Heart pounding, I reply.

  Nope, not yet. But will start practicing mud wrestling later.

  LOL — sounds fun. Send me a photo if you do. ;-)

  But then I’m distracted as Lauren comes in, all sobbing, and gets into my bed.

  I wonder what Alice has done to her now.

  “What’s up, shrimp?” I ask her. “This is not a good time.”

  I quickly type out, Sure. Am in my Lycra suit already. A bit saucy but look at me flirt.

  “I don’t want to get married.” Lauren sobs into my pillow.

  “Why are you thinking about marriage?” I ask her. My phone is silent. He’s not responding. What did I say?

  “It’s the end of The Little Mermaid.” She shudders and sits up. “Ariel gets married and goes off and leaves her daddy behind. I don’t want to leave home, I don’t want to leave you, I want to stay here forever.”

  With that, she hiccups and cries big, snotty tears. I hug her and try to avoid the snot. I stroke her hair. “Lauren, you can stay here forever. No one has to get married unless they want to. You don’t have to get married.”

  I keep looking at my phone but the display remains dark. I stroke Lauren’s hair but my mind is on messages. And Matt. Maybe he’s just busy. And he was the first to text, after all.

  Lauren seems to calm down a bit at this. And then falls asleep in my bed. I look at her in wonder. I wish I could be four. No rampaging hormones that make you behave like a cave woman when you’re really aiming for a more sophisticated look. Four-year-olds don’t worry about what they look like or if boys like them. Or spend half an hour pondering every possible meaning that a text message could have. My phone is as responsive as a stone.

  I think about where I can go where there’s no food. Gran.

  So, I carry Lauren, snoring, back to her bed and I go up and see Gran. She’s watching The Maltese Falcon. Sam Spade is cool and the women are awesome, all attitude. I do like films like this. If I had a waist, I’d put on some super-slim jacket, paint my nails and lips red, start to smoke and get myself into some ungodly mess.

  “Ah, Jesobel, my love,” Gran murmurs when she sees me. I lean over and kiss her papery soft cheek. “Get your old granny a top-up. Only a half, mind.” And she winks.

  “Top half or bottom half?” I ask with a smile. This is Gran’s favorite joke when pouring a drink.

  “Always the top!” she says. I pour h
er a generous portion of whiskey and pop in three ice cubes from the freezer compartment of her little fridge. She nods approvingly. I look at her profile. She doesn’t seem that much like Dad. I’ve seen pictures of Granddad. He died before I was born and he didn’t look much like Dad either.

  I sit at Gran’s feet and lean against her. She strokes my hair. I feel like crying.

  I tell her about Lauren and The Little Mermaid.

  Gran snorts. “You should tell her the real story, the one where he marries someone else and it’s torture, every step she takes. Now that’s a story to cry about. Too highly strung, that child. Full of nonsense.” She takes a sip. “But then maybe she instinctively knows that marriage is a way to repress women. She might have a point after all.”

  “She’s only four,” I remind her.

  “When I was four, I got a hard smack on the bottom for silliness and, frankly, that child is silly at times. She lives in a fantasy world!” Gran knocks back the contents of her glass and asks for more.

  “What’s it like being married?” I ask to distract her.

  She looks at me with a steely glare. “Why, are you thinking of giving it a go?” she says. “Patriarchal nonsense. Why should a woman change her name and just become a piece of property to a man?” She pauses, still searching my face. “But why are you asking?”

  This makes me smile. Then something happens that makes me smile even more. My phone buzzes and it’s Matt’s beautiful name that shines. Did someone say Lycra?

  “No plans to get married,” I lie. I mean, a girl likes to daydream. “I’ve just been thinking.” What can I send back? My fingers tap away while Gran talks on. Sorry. You missed it. What a pity. Maybe you should dig out yours in the name of equal opportunities??

  “Both thinking and feeling are overrated in my book,” Gran says crisply, oblivious to what I’m up to. “Best to just get on and make the most of things.”

  “Is that comment related to marriage?” I continue.

  Gran pauses. “Perhaps.” She sighs. “I loved your granddad, but he was hard work. Marriage is tiresome. It just wears you out after a while. We only got married because I got pregnant, and it made our tax situation easier. So even I’ve conformed from time to time.”