Rebel with a Cupcake Page 12

  Now what do I do? Telling Cat is the logical option. But the problem with bad news is that people tend to shoot the messenger. I’m the messenger and Cat would probably pin me to the floor with some weights, leaving me in the basement to starve until I was a skeleton. And even if I did tell her, what would I say? I’ve no proof. It was just a photo on Matt's phone.

  I could ask Matt about it. But something makes me hang back. We’re not proper friends, so asking about it might seem weird. Then I have a brainwave.

  I’ll ask Alex.

  He’s one of the good guys who would hate the idea of a guy cheating on a girl.

  He’ll tell me the truth.

  I get myself out of eating lunch by saying I need to make a call. Sana purses her lips in disapproval, but it’s only a few more days till I can get back to worshipping at the altar of food. I find a quiet spot somewhere and text Alex, quizzing him on what he knows.

  He gets back to me straight away. That’s one of the things I like about him — everything seems so easy with him. No waiting for hours for him to get back to you.

  Beyond that, he’s not much help at this point. Yes, Jack and his ex go to the same parties sometimes. But that doesn’t mean anything.

  I interrogate him via text. No kissing?

  None.

  Holding hands?

  Pause. Perhaps once or twice. But it is just holding hands.

  Wrong answer. Holding hands is for best friends or people you fancy.

  I stand corrected, great leader.

  Alex promises that he’ll tell me if he sees or hears anything definitive. I’m back where I was — full of suspicions but knowing nothing for sure. Is it just because I really don’t like Jack?

  Cat and I train for a bit after school. I try to make out what’s going on inside her head as she pushes herself harder and harder. If I was in a relationship, I would want to know everything that my boyfriend got up to. It feels awful to know something and not say it.

  But I stick to our family tradition and say nothing. Just like we don’t talk about what’s going on with Gran. I lose myself in the next few days, in studying, exercising and dreaming of the food that I will eat once that fateful party finally comes.

  And then, it’s here.

  Three and a half weeks since the invitation. Three and a half weeks of feeling rubbish. But finally, the day I’ve been waiting for dawns. My second and only chance I know of to get Matt to really notice and like me.

  I don’t know how much weight I’ve lost, if any, but I figure that today I can eat. Whatever has or hasn’t happened to my body, today won’t make any difference.

  I open our fridge. Dad pretends to be environmentally friendly but that didn’t stop him and Mum buying the biggest badass fridge known to humankind. Even Americans might find our fridge excessive. I keep opening it and expecting some penguins to come wandering out. Fortunately, all I find are the ingredients for scrambled eggs, smoked salmon and bagels. Yes, bagels. Pure white carbs. Food for fat people.

  I put on some coffee, blast some Beyoncé, split the bagels, crack out the slightly salted butter and begin to make the best scrambled eggs this side of the Pennines. A dash of cream, a shaving of cheese, these babies are gonna be fab!

  I pile it all high, first the bagel, with a slab of butter, then the salmon, as much as I can bear, then the hot, salty, slightly cheesy eggs. I breathe in deeply for a moment and then begin to eat.

  The heat, flavor and salt explode in my mouth. The butter starts to melt and the glorious burst of salt and fat makes my body sing. For a few minutes, my mouth is in ecstasy and my stomach slowly begins to sing hallelujahs as it starts to realize that normal service has been resumed. I’m not sure that I feel happy, but I am starting to feel full. I am the girl who eats life again. In fact, it’s like I’ve been lit up with light bulbs from the inside — every nerve seems on fire.

  Dad comes in and looks at my plate. “Looks good, kid,” he says.

  “It is,” I say, “I made it.”

  “Any left for your old dad?”

  “I can make some more,” I say. “But you’ll have to wait.”

  He goes to the iPod and searches through. His iPod is full of Oasis, Blur, all the guys who were doing the business when he was. His finger stops scanning. He finds his song. He looks at me; I smile.

  “I like it, Dad — it’s one of my faves. So, put it on and turn it up.”

  Dad blasts it out and smiles at me while I make him the best brunch I can manage.

  “You’re a better guitarist than Noel Gallagher,” I say.

  He smiles. “God hates a liar.” But he glows just like he did on stage. I keep finding him reading reviews of the gig and laughing to himself.

  My phone goes. I let Hannah and Izzie know what time to come over and confirm that, hell yes, I am ready to party. This is not true. Parties are generally considered fun events, and yet my stomach is currently deciding whether to enjoy the hearty and delicious breakfast that I have lovingly made or reject it and see it slide all over the granite worktops.

  I did have strange dreams about Matt all night (well, most nights). One was particularly bizarre, where we were about to be shipwrecked and then a large shark ate him. I could look on a dream website to find out what that was all about, or I could just trust my instinct. The shark did have a look of Zara about it. All teeth and dead eyes.

  I go upstairs. The day stretches out before me and I have no idea what to do. So, I cyberstalk Matt again. The photo of me and him framed in the camera flash comes up. If only I can make that beautiful moment happen again. I need a plan. Do I shower now? And then again later? This is not the night to be in any doubt about my level of cleanliness. You don’t want to be having an intimate moment and then it all goes horribly wrong cos the guy’s gagging over your sweat problem.

  Izzie’s arrived, complete with candles, incense and hair straighteners. Bless her little heart. We’re getting ready here rather than the basement cos there’s more room and easier access to a bathroom. As this process could take hours, we need space and comfort!

  Then Hannah arrives and we look at the mound of stuff on my bed.

  Checklist:

  Makeup tutorials online, showing us all we need to know about looking like a hot girl

  All the makeup that we either own or have secretly borrowed from our mums

  Clothes that will transform us from ordinary girls into goddesses that boys will want to snog and then our lives will be complete. Hmmm.

  Izzie says, “I’d like to do a ceremony before we start.”

  Hannah and I look at each other.

  “Now, before you two roll your eyes, I want you to remember that we are all friends and, as such, we should respect each other’s ideas. If you don’t like what I’m about to propose, then just think of it as either positive energy or, worst-case scenario, an opportunity to laugh at me. All I’ll say is — remember Rebecca Turner.”

  We do. We remember that Izzie thinks that she arranged that unlikely union. A union as unlikely as me and Matt Paige.

  “I’m in,” I say, my normal doubts pushed to one side.

  “Me, too,” Hannah follows. “What do we do?”

  Izzie should be a film director! She shuts the curtains, lights a ring of red candles and then Hannah and I sit at two points of a triangle. Izzie makes the final point and throws red petals in the middle as she hums some weird tune.

  “Take a candle,” she then commands.

  We do.

  “Repeat after me,” she says.

  We do.

  “Spirits wild and spirits free

  Look on us, a willing three.

  In our hearts lies secret love

  Grant our wishes from above.”

  I’m not sure if the spirits are poetry critics, but if they are, then I think they might find this a
bit rubbish.

  “In your third eye, see the face of the one you love. Visualize it as intensely as you can.”

  I think of Matt looking up at me that first night I saw him, how his long hair fell into his dark eyes, the smile that played round the corners of his lips and his eyes. How, for a second, I felt a complete connection with him and how I’ve replayed this moment over and over again. I hold on to this, as if wishing will somehow bring him into the room.

  On the count of three, we blow out our candles. We sit in the gloom for a minute. We wait. Izzie gets up and opens the curtains. “That should do it,” she says.

  I remind them, “We’ve got a party to go to and we’ve got to look great.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Invisible Rule #29:

  A girl can’t just turn up to a party.

  I’m sent for a shower while Izzie and Hannah scour the mags for ideas. Then comes the tricky business of getting rid of pretty much all your body hair. Cos while the hair on your head is supposed to be long and glossy, God help you if there’s any other hair ANYWHERE else! Any dark hairs on limbs or under limbs or in unmentionable places must be removed. Two options: a) close encounter with a razor (danger — stubble alert!) or b) wax. Waxing is made to look so easy in adverts but last time I tried, I stuck myself to the duvet.

  So, in these circumstances, a girl’s best friend is Veet. It’s pink, it smells funny and it dissolves your hair. Not particularly natural, but then neither are hair-free legs. I’m wearing skinny jeans, so I’m not quite sure why I think my legs should be hair free, but you don’t suddenly want to find yourself in a position where hair-free legs might be a good idea and then shout out, “Hang on a minute, keep that thought, I’m just going to the bathroom, and excuse the industrial smell when I get back.”

  I’m doing it now. Just in case.

  I smear thick pink gloop over my legs up to and including my bikini line. Then I smear it all over my armpits. Not much going on there, but I may as well do a proper job. Now I have to wait five minutes. Only I’ve forgotten to put the timer on and now I’ve got to set it with slippy pink fingers. I wonder if the gloop will dissolve my phone, so I wipe the stuff off my fingers onto the towel (Mum will love me) and then try to wipe it off my phone without canceling the timer. This is not a good start.

  I’m sitting naked in my bathroom, perched on the edge of the loo, covered in pink gloop, waiting for the timer ring.

  I hope this is not a symbol of my life to come.

  There is little dignity in this moment but it’s the end result that I’m hoping for.

  I play a few songs on my phone and check out the buzz on the party tonight.

  I jump when the harp rings out to tell me that it’s time. I take my little scrapey bit of plastic and scrape as if my life depends on it. A few rebellious hairs refuse to go. I’ll get them on Phase Two with the razor.

  I shower at length. My skin feels great, thanks to the super-strength conditioner they put into the gloop. No hair on legs or under arms. I clearly went a bit mad on the bikini line, as now I seem to have nearly given myself a homemade Hollywood. I’ve turned myself into a porn star! I can hardly stick it back on, so I’m left with a small triangle of hair.

  Okay, all bad hair gone. Now, the good hair! This gets washed three times, followed by two conditioning treatments.

  I think I’m done. I put on my PJs and dressing gown. Hair first, then makeup.

  “Right,” I say, “this time I want to look like this.” I show a picture of the makeup I want. “No rock chick this time. I want to look more vintage glamour.”

  Hannah peers at it. I wait for her disapproval but she just says, “That would work for you.” I glow. I can do this — look great but look like me. Izzie does a nice job with my hair. My once wavy locks are poker straight and shiny. In another twenty minutes, Hannah’s hair is a set of stunning red curls. Izzie even manages to transform her fake black hair into glossy dark curls that any Hollywood star would be proud of.

  We look in the mirror together. Result — three girls who look like girls in a magazine. Hannah and Izzie giggle. I gasp.

  At first, I think it’s a mistake. It doesn’t look like me in the mirror. My eyes are normally a bit small and pudgy. Now they look huge, and they blaze brightly. My whole face looks different. Big eyes, big lips, big hair.

  I peer closely and then back away. The reflection does exactly what I do. This girl in the mirror clearly is me, but it’s a better version. An airbrushed, perfect, plastic me. Better than the rock chick look, for sure. I wish I could look like this all the time. Can you add a filter to your appearance so you can always walk about looking your best?

  Hannah, Izzie and I look at each other and we smile. We all look great — no one needs to boost anyone’s ego and no one looks better than the others. We are all as hot as we’ll ever be.

  Our makeover has delivered its first goal. We are a step further away from being ourselves. But does that bring us anywhere nearer to what we want?

  The final part — getting dressed. At this point, I feel sick to my stomach. Yes, I look pretty. But then no one has ever really said that I’m ugly. So, that’s not the issue. The issue has always been the F-word. Maybe the bagel was a bad idea after all.

  I stare at the wardrobe. I can almost hear the dress laughing at me, teasing me for dreaming that I could wear it and not look ridiculous. I’ve not dared try it on yet and I don’t want to put it on in front of them. If all my fat is still hanging out, it’ll be too much to bear, even in front of my best friends.

  As if Hannah senses my anxiety, she says, “I just want to call Suzie about a few things. I’ll be back in a minute.” Then Izzie decides to go to the toilet. It’s just me and the dress.

  Who cares about winning some kind of competition with an inanimate object? Apparently, I do. Mum has thoughtfully bought me a pair of Spanx. I believe Adele swears by them. So, that’s okay. Why go on a diet when you can just damage your internal organs by encasing them in gut-busting elastic?

  I open the wardrobe. The dress glows in the dark, its blue softness alluring. It’s not quite what I’d normally wear and the danger is that it’s not quite the same as what everyone else will wear, but over black skinny jeans, it looks like something out of Vogue. I don’t have a backup, there’s no Plan B. If it doesn’t fit, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  I take a deep breath. I put on my jeans and zip them up. Then I pull the dress over my head. It slips down. For a moment, I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror.

  And then I do.

  I feel like crying.

  It fits. It looks good.

  I’m not thin but I’m thinner. I almost look like what Mum would think is normal. I look more like Mum; I could look like Cat. I might not be top of anyone’s snog list but I wouldn’t be an embarrassment. I stare at myself in disbelief.

  There’s a knock at the door. I let Izzie in.

  She gasps. “Oh, Jess, you look lovely! You’ve lost so much weight — but are you okay?”

  Hannah comes through the door, looking flushed. She stops for a moment. “Wow,” is all she says.

  It’s enough.

  “Are we just about ready?” I say.

  We nod, but it’s too early. No one will get there until later and we don’t want to look too keen. Time for dancing! We turn up the speakers and start to practice our moves to Rihanna.

  We don’t notice the knock at the door. We don’t notice anything until the flash dazzles us. We turn and see Mum in the doorway, phone in hand.

  “You all look beautiful,” she says quietly.

  She looks at me with a kind of intensity that’s embarrassing. But it’s nice. For once.

  But enough of the soppy stuff — who wants a moment with your mum when you could be out with your friends, getting drunk and snogging a hot boy?

>   “Come on!” I yell.

  We go to Hannah’s basement. Too many parents in my house. We dance and drink and text and post endless selfies on Instagram.

  There’s a rap at the door and there’s Dom and Fred. They bunch together on the recliner and our pre-party goes from strength to strength. First, they’re boys; second, they like us; and third, it’s always better to go to a party as part of a crowd. Makes you look like the whole world is your friend.

  By now we are buzzing and the boys are staring at us greedily. Any other night and I might be tempted. Either would do. But tonight, I don’t want to settle for okay. Tonight, I want the strange, complicated fantasy in my head to become reality.

  It’s time to go. Outside, the lights begin to blur and dance as we spin down the street. Suddenly, jumping over dog poo is funny. Spinning round lampposts even funnier. I feel that Dom is close to me — never going far, breathing down my neck. Fred is tailing Hannah in the same way and Izzie is just dancing along, clearly amused.

  We twist and turn along the familiar streets of our childhood. Beyond the large terraced houses, the spring air glows with the last burn of golden light and the pale blue sky arches over us. I think of the song Dad played for us at summer barbecues when I was a kid and he was still playing gigs. It always makes me think of evenings like this, of perfect summer skies and endless possibilities.

  We all get the giggles as we suddenly realize that we’re not sure of the number of Matt’s house, but before we get around to texting anyone, we just listen out for the noise, and then we hear the bass and then we see the people ringing the doorbell, and we know that we’ve found the right place.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  Observation #5:

  Rules are there to be broken.

  There’s even a bloody fountain outside! Dom wants to jump in it, but I pull him away as Izzie rings the doorbell, and then we burst through and get our first glimpse of Matt’s house. It’s huge — much bigger than ours. I can’t believe his parents have let him have a party. Each piece of furniture looks like it’s just come from an antique shop.