“I think you’re being a bit rude to sewer rats, aren’t you?” I say. “What have they ever done to you?”
The bell goes and propels us off and out to our various lessons, and I take a deep breath. I can just drift through this day.
At home time, I lean against a tree full of blossoms, waiting for Hannah to walk home with. She’s deep in conversation about satire in early nineteenth-century novels, so I could be here awhile. My phone buzzes and it’s Imogen’s name that lights up the screen. She wants to go shopping with me! Now that is something to think about. I start to plan my witty response.
Then Zara is here, all hair and smiles, surrounded by her posse. There’s a screech of tires and the revving of an engine. A dark red Mini squeals to a halt next to them and a door swings open.
I’ve been in that Mini. I’ve sat with my hand so close to its driver’s I nearly passed out.
Maybe I should hate Zara even more now. But I don’t, I realize. I don’t hate Matt either.
If someone chooses her over me, then there’s something wrong with them, not me.
I know that. I just don’t always feel it.
I can’t choose my feelings but I can focus on the positive. After all, I was — or I am — the girl who eats life.
So, that’s what I’m going to do.
Devour life up.
I start to text Imogen. Maybe new clothes will be a fresh start.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Observation #101:
What if you’re a girl and you’d rather read a book than shop — do you get expelled from Girl Club?
I survive the week and I’m off with my new best friend, Imogen. Okay, this does feel a bit weird. She’s older than me and I only really know her from her blog. Yet here I am, getting ready to meet her. It’s like the “before” of a bad Internet safety campaign message. I can almost hear the teacher now. So, boys and girls, can we see where this poor unfortunate girl went wrong? Yes, sir, she met someone from the Internet and now she’s dead. But that’s not my greatest fear. No. I seem to have learned nothing recently, as my greatest fear is what to wear. I mean, she’s a fashion blogger. But I refuse to be beaten. They are just clothes. Inanimate objects. I am a conscious, sentient human who is clearly in control.
I look at the pile of clothes on my bed and whimper.
My phone pings. It’s Alex. My heart lurches a bit. Another awkward thing. He’s texted before but I just ignored it. I don’t know what to say. When I look at the message, I have no idea what he’s up to.
There are four photos. And each one is of weirdly arranged food.
Well, not all of it. There’s a close-up of a Polo mint. Then what looks like the letter K made from breadsticks. A close-up of the R from the wrapper of a Rolo packet. And a U made from peas. Yes, peas. K, R, U and … oh, the Polo is an O.
R U O K
Are you okay? I can’t help but smile. I mean, he’s the first person to ask me for a while. I send a GIF back of a smiley face and a thumbs-up. It’s not personal but it’s sort of true. And then I realize that I am smiling in real life. I check in the mirror. Yep, there it is — the smile is now creeping across my face. Right, clothes, this is ridiculous, I think. I can take you on.
After a few goes, I’ve chosen something I feel happy in. I check my reflection in the mirror and you know what? It looks okay. Not amazing but okay. No ridiculous makeup, no high-maintenance hair. Just me.
A few hours later, I’m not just smiling, I’m actually laughing. Imogen and I are sitting in my favorite café where hipster dudes with man buns and multiple piercings are serving us the best coffee ever brewed. I have a few bags of shopping next to me, full of clothes handpicked by Imogen. We’re competing to see who’s done the most stupid thing trying to lose weight.
“One day, I just drank green tea. By the end of it, I was hallucinating and my tongue tasted like a sewage farm.”
“I tried some meal replacement and was so hungry I almost ate the packet that the powder came in. In the end, I ate a muffin and felt much better.”
All of a sudden, Imogen leans forward. “It’s entirely up to you, and I get that the whole ‘Fat Girl vs. Mean Girl’ thing upset you. But I think you should write a post for my blog. It would be good to get a different voice out there.”
Old uncertainties surface. “But I’d feel a fraud being on your blog. I mean, I’ve spent a few miserable weeks trying to reduce. I don’t know what I’ve got to say. And even if I did have something to say, why would anyone want to listen to me?”
“Because you’re cool, Jesobel. And you’ve had the experience of going viral. And you’re Steve Jones’s daughter. All those things. But most of all because I think all girls, in fact all women, probably feel like you a lot of the time. I know I do.”
I stir the last bit of my coffee. “But you’re weird like me. And I mean it as a compliment.”
She clinks mugs with me. “My life goal is weird. Cheers to weird.”
Then my phone goes again. “I just want to read this, sorry,” I say. It’s from Alex again.
How do you avoid a soggy bottom?
I smile. I text back before I have a chance to think about it.
What are you making?
Imogen says, “Jess, sorry, but I think I have to go now.”
I look up. “Okay, well, I really enjoyed this. Thank you for your help with the clothes. Who knew that there were shops that I could go in and not feel embarrassed about needing bigger sizes?”
“Think about what I said. My blog needs you.”
I laugh it off as we hug and then she’s gone. But I’m not alone, as my phone pings again. I walk back to the tram stop to get back home, and as I go, I’m accompanied by regular updates from Alex. Is he really baking? Ping.
A chicken pie. Something manly. I’m making it for you.
You need to bake it blind.
WTF???
Oh dear. You have much to learn.
Any chance of a tutorial?
And then he sends a picture. Well, I can’t help but LOL. Which is slightly embarrassing as I’m now standing, waiting for the tram. At least three complete strangers turn around to look at me. In the photo is the worst excuse for a pie I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s gray, with gravy seeping out from several gaping cracks on the top, and it’s broken down the side.
But he made it for me.
Presentation seems to be an issue.
But taste is everything, isn’t it?
I can’t taste it in a photo.
True. You may never get to experience this one. Such a shame.
My face is splitting from side to side.
By the time the tram hums back to my stop, I’m glowing. I practically skip back home. My soul skips, anyway. My feet just walk in a more acceptably cool fashion. I like to be different, but there has to be a limit.
Within a few minutes, I’m very glad that I kept my skipping under control. There’s a tall figure standing opposite my house. Definitely male, on the rather skinny side. He straightens up when he sees me. If I had skipped up the road, I don’t think he would have actually minded.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey back,” he says.
In his hands is a small plastic box. In the box is a small, gray pie. Alex regards it sadly.
“I won’t ask you to try it,” he says. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It might taste all right.”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
I take the box from him. His fingers and mine graze past each other. I’m too nervous to look up directly at him.
Instead, I poke the pie. I break a bit off and taste. I chew thoughtfully.
“It’s very … manly,” I say.
And then I start to choke, laughing.
“Seriously,” I say when I can speak, “this is the most masculine pie I have ever tasted. I am almost overwhelmed by the maleness of this pie.”
He makes a face. “The words masculine and pie just don’t go together, do they?”
I eat another piece. “It’s not bad. But you need to keep your hands cold when you’re making the pastry. And don’t mix it for so long next time.” I chew and then nod. “Actually, it tastes okay. Is that cloves in the sauce?”
“Little smelly bits of wood?” he replies.
“That’s the ones,” I say. “I love cloves.” For a second, I think what a stupid thing that is to say. Who in the history of the world has ever said, “I love cloves.” But Alex doesn’t laugh at my food obsession. I really think that he likes me. Not thinner, or smarter, or older, or more fashionable me. Just me.
“What’s up?” Alex says. “You look like someone’s eaten your last truffle.”
“That would be the end of days,” I say. “No, I’m fine.”
A silence fills the space between us, not awkward, just there. Like there’s too much to be said. Alex knows I liked Matt. Shame burns up inside me. Now that I can see a bit more clearly and I’m not driven mad by hormones, it is obvious that Alex is so much nicer than Matt. But silly, superficial me just saw the hair, the cheekbones and that smile.
Alex stands in front of me, pie in hand.
“Fancy some cake?” I say.
“Best offer I’ve had all day,” Alex says and he follows me into the house.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Invisible Rule #55:
Adverts for periods must only show women wearing white shorts. Nothing red must ever appear. But we all know the truth …
Inside, a small shadow launches itself at me. “Jess, you’ve got to save me. Alice is very, very cross and she won’t talk to me.” Lauren has attached herself to my leg and I haul her along the hall as I walk.
“Don’t worry, squirt, she’ll soon come around.”
Her face is squashed with concern so that she resembles a raisin. “But she won’t let me watch my show and I’m going to miss it.” She suddenly realizes that I’m not alone. Looking up at Alex, she announces, “You are very tall and very ginger. Are you half giant?”
Embarrassment fires through me. “Lauren, you can’t talk to people like that.”
“You mean I’m not supposed to tell the truth? You always tell me to tell the truth though.”
“It’s okay.” Alex bends down to Lauren. “Can you keep a secret?”
Lauren stares up at him, her eyes enormous with interest.
“I’m only a quarter giant. Which is handy sometimes. Do you want me to have a word with this Alice?”
To my amazement, Lauren takes him by the hand. She nods and points toward the living room. “She’s hiding behind the sofa.”
Alex looks quizzically at me and I make my best Please Humor My Little Sister expression.
“Alice?” he says.
Silence.
“Lauren wants to watch her program and you must let her.”
Lauren jumps up and down with glee. “Ha! I have a quarter giant on my side so you just need to do what you’re told.” With that, she grabs the remote off the table and keeps it close to her chest. “I don’t care if you don’t like it, I’m watching Sherlock.”
Alex and I share a smile as I suddenly feel nervous. Why am I feeling nervous in my own house?
“I think I’ve earned that cake now. I’m practically turning into a skeleton in front of you. For an evening of studying, I need sustenance from the girl who eats life.”
“I haven’t felt much like the girl who eats life lately,” I confess, “but I do have cake, which I am always happy to share.”
As I cut through the cake (yes, I’m baking again), my hand begins to tremble a bit. I stare at it in confusion. What is going on with me?
“What’s bothering you?”
“Oh,” I say breezily, “nothing much.” Diverting attention from my wobbly hand, I say, “I met this girl called Imogen today. Well, more like a grown-up. She’s a fashion student and she blogs about that and, well” — I don’t want to refer to my size but then Alex has eyes and he knows what I look like — “being a larger girl and finding clothes. She’s asked me to write a blog post but I don’t know what to do.”
He stares at me intently. “What do you want to do?”
“I’m not sure. Part of me wants to. But after that whole YouTube thing, I’ve had enough of myself plastered all over the Internet. And then …”
“Then?”
“I’m not sure what I’d say,” I end lamely.
Alex laughs so that crumbs fly out of his mouth. “Great cake by the way.” He picks up the debris. “Since when do you not have something to say?”
Since I stopped eating. Since I thought I was in love with Matt.
I push some bits of cake around on my plate. “I’ve not been myself recently. And anyway, I promised the headmaster I wouldn’t do anything else to embarrass the school. He practically made me swear to behave myself on social media.”
“He can’t stop you. The Jess I know would call that censorship.”
He’s right. I do think that.
I sigh. “I just don’t want to get into any more trouble, I suppose.”
Alex shakes his head. “It’s one little blog. The only reason not to do it is because you don’t want to. Otherwise, you’re just being scared. You’re Jesobel Jones, the girl who eats life.”
“Maybe,” I say, “but don’t talk to ME about being scared.” I think of something. “I’ll write the blog when you sing in public.”
The smile suddenly goes from his face.
“Gotcha,” I say smugly. “It’s not so easy, is it?”
“Okay,” Alex says, “let’s do a deal. If I sing in public, then you have to write an honest, personal account of what it’s like to be you.”
“Honest?”
“Completely.”
“Personal?”
“Totally.”
Okay, I’m scared. Seeing my fat legs going viral was one thing. To reveal my thoughts to the world, even if they don’t read them, is a new level of scary.
“Maybe,” I say. “Have some more cake while I think about it.”
Alex shakes his head. “I’m full but thanks.” He nods toward the living room. “Quite a sister you’ve got there.”
“I know, what with her and Gran, I sometimes think I’m the only normal person here.”
“So, I know that your gran lives here but I don’t know the rest of the story,” Alex says.
“What do you mean?” I say, turning the kettle on. It really is time for tea.
“I mean, why does she not go out?”
I pause. That is a very good question and I don’t know the answer. “She used to. I remember we’d go all over when I was little.” To protests, museums, the best cafés.
“So, when did it change?”
I try to think. “A while back. Maybe a few years ago.” Things begin to click into place. “A few of her friends died around the same time. It was about then, I think.”
“Do you ever try to get her out and about?”
“I did. We all did, apart from Mum. But Gran always turned us down, so after a while, we stopped trying, I guess.”
Now Alex is looking at me in a way that suggests I am not perfect.
“You think we should have tried more.” I try to hide my irritation.
He shrugs. “It’s not for me to say. But I don’t think it sounds like the best arrangement.”
Anger gets the best of me. “We can’t make her. And what do you know? Yes, you want to be a doctor, but I don’t think you’re qualified just yet.”
Alex puts his hands up in submission. “You’re r
ight. But can I come with you when you take the tea up? I’d like to meet your legendary grandmother.”
This is highly unusual. Hannah and Izzie sometimes go up and chat but that’s about it. But his words bother me, because they hit a sore point.
“Okay,” I say, “you can get the doors.” So, together we climb up the creaking stairs to the warm fug of Gran’s room. I knock on the door and call, “It’s me, Gran. I’ve got a friend with me who wants to meet you. It’s Alex, Hannah’s brother.” I push the door open and enter with Alex bending down behind me to avoid hitting his head on the sloping eaves of the room.
“Good afternoon, young man.” Gran’s crisp syllables cut through the smoke. “I see you share your sister’s coloring. Always thought she was a very handsome girl. You’re not as pretty but you have a kind face.” Yes, he does.
Alex sits down where Gran points. “What amazing artwork,” he says. “Yours, I take it?”
Gran waves his words away. “I had some talent once. Now I just do a few daubs to keep myself entertained.” And they chat on as if they’re old friends.
I try to see Gran as Alex must, how her clothes are too big for her, how her rings spin on her twig-like fingers. In the corner, there are empty bottles of diverse spirits. I love my gran and I think she is the coolest person, the freest person, I know, but now it all seems a bit squalid. Have we let her down?
After a while, she looks tired. I touch her on the hand. “I’ll see Alex out now. Do you want anything else?” Her tea is cold.
“No, my darling, I’ll just have a little sleep. Goodbye, young man. You may visit again if you like. It is pleasant to see a new face from time to time.”
As we get downstairs, I turn to Alex, who is silent behind me. “Okay, you’re right. I need to do something. But I don’t know what.”
“Talk to your parents.”
I give him a stare. “You’ve met them. If something needs doing, then it’s down to me.”
It is.
In the hall, all sorts of feelings are whirling around inside me. We’re standing as close as we did the other night. But he doesn’t lean down to kiss me.
“I’ve got practice,” he says, but this time he doesn’t ask me to go.
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