“It’s OK. You’re a much better patient than I am. See you tomorrow.”
“Wednesday,” I corrected. “Or Thursday.”
“Tomorrow,” Leigh insisted. “I’ll be here straight after uni.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I want to.”
They’d got me. “All this for a midnight snack.”
“Yeah, well, in our kitchen, we’ll have a dedicated snack cupboard full of stuff that doesn’t go off. Anyway, I’m going. Goodnight.”
“Night,” I said, and again to Noah and Matty. I heard the front door close and shut my eyes.
In our kitchen…
* * * * *
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I was up to pottering the next morning, sporadically. Ten minutes at the kitchen table was enough to set off the stomach cramps, but no vomiting or diarrhoea, which made me optimistic I was on the mend. I went back to bed with a couple of books and a piece of dry toast, and ate it at a rate of a bite every five minutes. It stayed down.
There was an email from Sarah in my inbox. I’d seen it first thing but hadn’t felt up to reading it. I clicked the link, anticipating further justification of her point of view. She could keep on till the cows came home; she wouldn’t change my mind.
Hi Jesse, Can we meet for coffee sometime? Sarah
Well, that was unexpected and to the point, but I guessed it wouldn’t do any harm. I typed quickly, trying to beat the onset of another wave of cramps—Yeah, sure. When’s best for you?—and gripped my phone until it creaked in my fist. I was never eating leftovers again.
The pain didn’t last as long this time, and my nausea seemed to have passed. I took another bite of the awful toast and chewed as I perused Facebook, pausing every so often to read a post or click a link. My eyelids drooped, my phone started to slip from my hand…I let it.
When I woke up, I felt OK-ish. I had a stiff neck and cold arms, but the general aches and pains had gone. I managed to get out of bed and shower before the cramps started up again and the exhaustion returned. Back to bed for me.
Another message, this time from Jazz.
Overheard at the SU photocopier…
Sarah Weasel-Willis: Jesse Thomas is sick.
Carlos Crapmeister Machado: So I’ve been told. Is he actually sick?
Sarah Weasel-Willis: Yeah. He looks like death warmed up, and he’s lost loads of weight.
Chuckling, I replied: Jazz Shit-stirring-Stephens, put down that wooden spoon!
The Pride office was, in actuality, the SU’s photocopy room—none of the other societies had office space at all—so whilst this was, once again, Sarah and Carlos gossiping about me in a semi-public place, it wasn’t awful. People shouldn’t talk about your weight, but they did. I was just glad Sarah hadn’t gone down the expected route of congratulating me on my weight loss, even if she was blaming it on the food poisoning rather than my impressively strong willpower. Ha-ha.
Incoming call, predictably.
“Hello,” I said, already smiling because I knew what was coming.
“I’m not stirring!”
“Yeah, you are.”
“Don’t you want to know what they’re saying about you?”
“Um…nope. Carlos thinks I’m pulling a sickie, then?”
“He’s crapping himself you’re gonna withdraw.”
“Well, you can tell him I’m not. How’s it all going?”
“Danny’s still in the lead.”
Agh. So frustrating. And completely avoidable. “Can we salvage this, Jazz?”
“We could go for the sympathy vote. I’ll snaffle a wheelchair from the hospital. Have you got one of those tartan blankets?”
“Ha! So not happening.” I knew she was joking, but she hadn’t answered my question, which told me everything I needed to know. “If I’m up to it, I’ll be back in tomorrow.”
“If you’re up to it…” Jazz admonished.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? I’m going to stick something on Facebook now, invite people to PM me their questions.”
“Good idea. I’ll let you go, Jess. Take it easy, yeah?”
“I will.” Like I had a choice. She ended the call before I could ask how she was doing, but she’d sounded OK.
I posted on my profile and on the Pride page and went to get more water. I needed food, but I wasn’t sure what I could safely eat. I took a chance on a rich tea biscuit. Plain, dry, like chewing paper, but it went down and stayed down. Maybe next time, I could be a bit more adventurous and try a plain digestive. Yay.
My biscuit woes lasted as long as it took me to get back into bed and unlock my phone. How many messages? I’d expected maybe one or two, and even then from Leigh and Matty. But seventeen? Hm, make that eight—no, nineteen. Twenty…
“Shit. OK.” I propped up my pillows and sat back, wondering if there was any point in trying to cajole my laptop into a few hours of service. Mum had reclaimed hers while we were away, and if I had to respond to all those messages—twenty-six and rising—autocorrect would either kill me or my phone, depending on which of us cracked first. I scooped my hair back, flinching when I caught my eyebrow bar. Good call there from Leigh, although I didn’t think they were capable of making a bad one.
I clicked my way through each of the messages, the realisation dawning that I’d just given myself a finite window in which to reply, because now they’d all be marked as read. ‘Good luck’ and ‘get well soon’…there were a few of those.
“Huh. I’ve got supporters.”
Of course, I’d known that from the polls, but this was different, and I was touched they’d gone to the effort of typing a personal message. Well, those were straightforward enough to reply to. I felt a bit of a cheat, switching between ‘aww, thanks, I’m on the mend’, ‘cheers for your support’ and ‘thank you :)’, but the messages were coming in faster than I could deal with them.
“At this rate, I’m gonna need a PA.”
“Your wish is my command.” Leigh’s bag hit the floor with a heavy thunk.
“Whoa, ow!” Butterflies into belly cramp. Way not to go! I pressed on my sides in a failed effort to thwart the pain. “How did you get in?”
Leigh held up a key.
“First she lets you into my room while I’m still in bed. Now she’s given you a key?”
“Loaned me a key. So I didn’t disturb you.” They came over and perched on the other end of my bed. I’d have preferred more distance, but it would have to do, and I couldn’t deny the foot rub through the duvet was wonderful. “Did you get my message?” Leigh asked.
“Um…possibly? I’m a bit snowed under, to be honest.”
“Can I help?”
For about one second, I considered saying ‘no, it’s OK’. “Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Leigh got up to collect their tablet from their bag and then sat down again, cross-legged. I gave them my Facebook login, laughing as their eyes widened at all the messages—another eleven had arrived since I’d ‘read’ the first batch.
“How do you want to do this? Should I answer if I know?”
“Works for me.”
“OK.” Leigh tapped the screen, frowning as they read. “That’s easy.” They started typing; I’d have loved to have been that fast on a touchscreen. They stopped typing. “One down…” Tap, tap, tap. They glanced up at me. “What’s the matter?”
I smiled. “Just watching you. That OK?”
They pointed at my phone. I huffed; they laughed. “Finish this, then you can look at me all you like.”
“Fine, fine…” I unlocked my phone screen and opened the next unread message. “How’s your day been?” I asked.
“Not too bad. Boring. Yours?”
“Same.” I read the message and typed my response ‘aloud’. “What…party?”
“Are we reading the same message?”
“Not sure. Mine says ‘Do you know about the party?’”
“No, then. This one’s ‘You misse
d the party.’”
“What party?” I asked again, but only of Leigh this time. They shrugged.
A response appeared on my phone. “Danny Goodman’s last Friday at The Atrium. What the hell?” Leigh looked as astounded as me. “That place is huge. He’s got to be buying votes.”
“Couldn’t he be disqualified?”
“Only if we could prove it.” However dozy he was, if his MP mother was backing him—and she had to be if he’d hired a venue like that—it would all appear above board. It might even have been above board. It probably wasn’t.
Another response popped up from the same person. Check his Twitter stream from the December before last.
I read the sender’s name. “David Bowie?” Or not, clearly, but how had I missed that? I went to have a look at their profile. Their avi was young Bowie with long blonde hair and pouty lips; the posts were all Bowie videos and photos. No ‘about’ or location info. However, if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that I had never moved in the same social circles as the late, great superstar. I said, “It’s Ben Fellowes.”
“Who? David Bowie?”
“Yep. It’s got to be.” Four friends in common, two of those from high school. And he’d sent me another message.
You don’t know who I am, do you?
His question made my scalp prickle. He was hiding behind an obvious pseudonym, so I doubted he thought he’d fooled me. But his phrasing implied he’d expected…something. I just wasn’t sure what.
I replied: Well, you’re not David Bowie, that’s for sure.
LOL. No.
“I don’t want to have this conversation,” I said, but still typed: Yes, I know who you are.
“Friend request from Ben Fellowes,” Leigh said.
I’d seen it, too, and I didn’t know what to do about it. For the time being, I ignored it and instead went to have a look at Danny’s Twitter. My word, he’d been busy. I scrolled down and down and down…and down… “Is there a way to search for tweets during a specific time period?”
“Not sure,” Leigh said. “What are you looking for?”
“Ben—well, David Bowie—told me to check Danny’s tweets—from two years ago. D’you reckon the search works the same as the journals archive at uni?”
Leigh laughed. “Why are you asking me? I’m a newbie, remember?”
“Ah, yeah.” I sometimes forgot they’d only been in uni for half a semester. It felt like forever. I gave my idea a try, anyway—Danny’s Twitter name plus the date range. It worked! Now to find what Ben was talking about.
It didn’t take long to catch the tail end of what had gone down. Whatever Danny had done, he’d riled a lot of people, and I found the source eventually—or a screen capture of it. I remembered the incident it related to: a student was deported back to Somalia with their family when their application for asylum failed. Danny’s tweet referred to them as an illegal immigrant, amongst other much less savoury things, and it looked like a few people agreed with him, but most didn’t. His original tweet was long gone—shocker!—so I downloaded the image and sent it to Leigh, except they were logged in as me so they saw it outgoing instead of incoming.
“Oh my god!”
“Yep.”
“We can’t let him win, Jesse!”
I had no intention of letting that happen. I was only delaying acting so I could weigh up the alternatives.
“Are you going to retweet it?” Leigh asked.
“No. I’m going to send it to Carlos.”
“You’ve got more faith in him than I have.”
“Yeah. I hope it’s not misplaced.” I didn’t think it was. Regardless of our differences, Carlos was good at his job, on top of which, he wanted Danny in office even less than I did. I sent the email—image plus enough to put him out of the race?—and went back to Facebook, where I replied thanks to ‘David Bowie’ and accepted Ben’s friend request. Immediately, he sent a message thanks for accepting. I responded with a thumbs up and left it at that. We were not, and likely never would be friends, but I could work with him if that was where we both found ourselves in two days’ time.
“You know Danny will claim the image has been tampered with, don’t you?” Leigh asked rhetorically.
“Is there any way we can authenticate it?”
“Hmm…not that I know of. I could ask Sol, but I think it’s only possible the other way around—if you wanted to prove it was fake—and even then it’s tricky.”
“Guess we’ll just have to hope for the element of surprise. Oh! Reply from Carlos.” I clicked on it and grinned.
“What’s it say?”
“He loves me.”
“Uh-huh? Who doesn’t?”
“Sarah Willis.”
Leigh laughed. “Yeah, OK. Does it say anything else?”
“He’s reporting it to the Union Council. He thinks it’s instant disqualification, which’ll get his supporters’ backs up.”
“Unless we leak the image,” Leigh suggested.
“No.” I didn’t want to play dirty. It would bring me down to Danny’s level, and in any case, the racist slur in his tweet was so bad that the words would have to be blanked out.
“If you don’t want to share it, you could always send it to Matty...”
That was no better, although the members did have a right to know. “OK. How about this? If Carlos doesn’t get anywhere with it, I’ll give Matty permission to tweet it.”
“Sounds fair.” Leigh went back to screen tapping. “I really want to kiss you.”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Not all food poisoning is contagious.”
“Is it worth the risk, though?”
Leigh stuck their lip out in a sulky scowl.
“Don’t tempt me,” I warned.
The scowl turned into a smile.
We made short work of the rest of the messages, or Leigh did. I spent more time backspacing.
Skies, doors, slides, aloha allies!
Unused, unusual, unisexual unixes… For God’s sake… Gender-neutral toilets!
“That’s the last one,” Leigh finally announced and put down their tablet.
I sagged in relief. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. What shall we do now? Would you like a drink? Something to eat?”
“So much,” I lamented. I just wasn’t sure it was wise.
“Mashed potato? That’s what my foster mum used to make for me when I was sick.”
My mouth was watering. “Yeah. That’d be good.”
“OK. Where do I find the potatoes?”
“Bottom of the vegetable rack, but there’s probably some frozen mash.”
“I’ll have a look.” Leigh got up and left my room.
I slid down the bed and closed my eyes. Tackling those questions had really taken it out of me, but as I listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen—doors opening and closing, Leigh singing, the clink of a bowl and the microwave’s beeps—I remembered their parting words the night before and perked right up again. I got out of bed and padded through to the kitchen.
“You know what you said yesterday?”
Leigh jumped and dropped a fork.
“Sorry.”
They got another fork out of the drawer. “About what?”
“In our kitchen…”
“Oh! Did I say that?” Their eyes shifted from side to side and then they grinned. “I did, didn’t I? Must’ve been thinking ahead. So…what about it?”
“How far ahead were you thinking?”
“Next weekend?” Leigh suggested. Their grin widened, and I raised my eyebrows—I knew because it hurt. “I’m kidding. Well, kind of kidding. I would totally move in with you next weekend.”
“Would you?”
“If we had somewhere to move into, yep. Wouldn’t you?”
“You know I would. Other than not having any money for rent. But don’t you think it’s too soon?”
“You said we’re meant to be together.”
“Yeah, and I believe that, but you know what people are like. I don’t mind fending off all that crap about us rushing into things, but I’d need to get a job, and I don’t want to mess up my degree. God, I sound like Noah.”
Leigh laughed and took a step towards me, then remembered I was diseased and stepped away again. “So…once you’ve graduated?”
“Yes.” My insides were having a rave. “I’ve got money from my dad. It should be enough for a deposit.”
“And I’ve got my disability payments.”
“I can do my Master’s part-time if I need to.”
The ping of the microwave called timeout on our discussion. Leigh brought the bowl of mashed potato over to the table.
“Thank you,” I said. “Again.”
“You’re welcome.” Leigh sat across the table. “Again.” They grinned.
I was so desperate to touch them—to share a hug and celebrate our decision. Another forty-eight hours…
***
The next morning’s cramp was a bit pathetic, really, like my stomach was giving a little ‘don’t you ever forget this’ jab. I got out of bed, showered and dressed. Jeans on; jeans off again. Old jeans on, which were also too big—for now. I’d like to say Fat Pride was winning out, and maybe it was, a little. Falling in love, uni, the election, the holiday, food poisoning—it all played its part in my epic weight loss, and it was a good feeling. A really good feeling…
But I was wise to it now. And OK, maybe I wouldn’t put all the weight back on; maybe I’d put on more; or lose more. I had no control over it. Well, I could commit to that lifelong regime of exercise and diet vigilance, but there were so many more things that needed my attention. Important things, like elections to win, and degrees to pass, and a shipmate to love…who loved me. And this was me.
Big Jesse.
Yeah.
* * * * *
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Election day. I felt weirdly chill.
It helped that I had to sit through a two-hour Discourse Analysis lecture before I could get into anything election related. Sometimes I wondered why I’d chosen this module—it was drier than Noah’s sense of humour, and I’d thought that when I’d read the outline in the module guide—but then I’d remember.
The Making of Us Page 29
