Rebel with a Cupcake Page 16

  “Okay,” I say, “I’ll see you sometime?” I say it like a question as I want him to offer to meet up. A coffee? Anything.

  “Sure,” he says and then he’s gone.

  I don’t want him to go, but it’s too late now. I had my moment at the party and I missed it because I was too obsessed with Matt.

  Of all the stupid things I’ve done lately, this is the worst.

  There was a boy right before me, a lovely, funny, smart, talented boy who really liked me for just being me.

  And I’ve let him just walk away.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Observation #21:

  Sometimes food is not the answer. But not very often.

  In my room, I walk around and around. It’s not a big room so this feels pretty stupid. Then I throw myself on the bed. Then I hate myself even more. I’m a walking cliché. I’ll be punching a pillow yet or eating my own body weight in luxury ice cream before you know it.

  But my mind’s in a loop. I always have something to say in general. I am known for Having an Opinion. But just then, it wasn’t that words failed me. No, they shriveled and died on my tongue. Turned to ashes. There must have been something that I could have said. Let’s go for a coffee. I’m making some great tapas — why don’t you try them? I like you; you like me. Let’s cut the crap and kiss. I could have just held his hand and looked into his eyes.

  But I just let him walk away.

  I’m boiling in my own frustration. What do I normally do to calm down? Cook? That just doesn’t seem right for once. My trainers are gleaming next to my bed and suddenly I find myself putting them on. It appears that I’m going for a run. Something’s going to explode soon so I take myself out and start to pound the pavement.

  The first good thing I notice is how much fitter I am than I was. Once, my lungs would have been on fire, but now I can keep going without too much trouble. The second good thing is that my leg muscles don’t seem to complain as much as they used to do. And third, I’m out in the daylight on my own and feeling okay at being in public doing exercise.

  That’s when the bad thing happens.

  I’m starting to get a bit sweaty now as I decide to take on a smallish hill. A car beeps at me and then slows down. “Oy, fatty, watch out or you’ll break the pavement.” Then the two guys in the car roar with laughter and disappear in a squeal of tires.

  Fatty? Pavement breaker?

  Charming.

  It’s not that I’m bothered about being perfect but that’s just rude. I find my legs going even faster to try to match the pace of my heart. I can’t help checking over my shoulder in case they come back. I hate myself for it but they’ve achieved what they wanted. I don’t feel at home out here. I just want to be safe behind my own doors.

  It takes a long hot shower to sort me out. And then making some cookies. During this time, I decide what to do. Okay, I’m probably never going to get through to idiots like that but I can still do something. Back in my room, I throw on my oldest, comfiest clothes and pin up my wet hair. I sit down at my laptop and the words just start to flow. I check and double-check my words until it’s somewhere close to what I want to say.

  And then I find Imogen’s email address and hit send.

  This is what I write.

  The F-Word — Thoughts of the Rebel with a Cupcake

  My name is Jesobel Jones and I am fat.

  Not curvy or plump. Fat.

  I’m not supposed to describe myself that way because being fat is the worst thing you can say about a person. But I don’t think that. Apparently I think something that’s a bit radical. Something that is unthinkable. Unsayable. I don’t really care what a person looks like. What matters to me most is this — are they kind, clever, talented, great at maths, help old grannies cross the road? But it seems all that is irrelevant. All that matters, especially for a girl, is how thin she is and does she look hot in a bikini.

  I’m supposed to think that the smaller I am, the less there is of me, the better. There’s supposed to be a journey for fat people. You see it on TV commercials for weight loss products. In them, fat people live in black-and-white BEFORE. And then, they magically lose weight and their lives become all full of color. They smile, they fall in love, they marry. And the best bit of all, they can wear a bikini. Because you can only win at life if you can wear a bikini with pride.

  That’s just one stereotype about fat people but there are loads more. I know that some of you are thinking, “I bet she eats loads of fast food.” Nope. Maybe once or twice a year. Probably less than you.

  Or maybe you’re thinking, “She’s so lazy. I bet she never works out.” Just came back from a 5K run. I might be fat but my lungs work fine, thank you very much.

  Another thing you might wonder is, “How can she look at herself and feel okay? I mean, she’s disgusting.” Well, I did go through a phase when I thought like that. And sometimes I look in the mirror and I don’t like what looks back, and sometimes I do. Just like everyone else. Because this is something I’ve realized recently. You can lose weight. You can exercise until you throw up or pass out. You can fit into a smaller dress size. It might make you happier. But then again, it might not.

  I look around at the people I know, and I hate to break it to you, but thin people are miserable, too, sometimes. Thin people can have low self-esteem. Being thin isn’t some magic fix to all life’s troubles. You still might not like your Instagram pictures. The environment is still going to hell in a handcart. It’s not going to boost your scores in tests. It just means you’re a bit smaller. End of.

  As I mentioned before, I go running. Yes, fat people can run. They don’t cause earthquakes the moment they start to move. But today, as I ran down the street, someone yelled at me from a car, “Oy, fatty, watch out or you’ll break the pavement.”

  Great.

  Cos if you want someone to lose weight, the best thing to do is insult them. But funnily enough, that didn’t work. I didn’t stop and think, “Oh, some random person who I don’t know and don’t care much for has told me I’m fat. I must do something about that now.”

  Because this might come as news to you, Random Person, but I already know I’m fat.

  You know what else? I went home and baked a batch of ginger and sultana cookies and ate them all. Because when I’m sad, I eat. I also eat when I’m happy.

  Because food is wonderful. Food brings people together and puts smiles on their faces. Think of a birthday party without food or a cake. Think of Christmas without a turkey. What would be the point?

  Food is not the enemy.

  People are.

  If you don’t like how someone looks, maybe keep it to yourself. There’s an idea. How someone else looks is nothing to do with you at all.

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  My name is Jesobel Jones but you can call me the Rebel with a Cupcake. Yes, I’m fat. And that’s okay with me.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  Invisible Rule #99:

  Some boys love cheesy pop but they have to pretend that it’s all about the grungy rock.

  You know that you’ve gone viral for a second time when you have to turn your notifications off at three in the morning because otherwise you’re not going to get any sleep. After that awful, yawning silence, the first “like” came. A while later the retweets started. Then the messages started coming through, and on the whole, people were going, Yes, Rebel with a Cupcake, you go girl. It’s hard to describe my sense of relief. I said something. And people listened.

  When some of the haters came online, I turned my phone off, but I snatched it up at dawn. Was that it? Had my post stopped spreading?

  No. Thousands of retweets and likes. The Rebel with a Cupcake was going strong, striding out across the world, spreading a touch of light and joy as she went.

  Strange
to be eating breakfast and no one there knowing that my words were racing all around the globe.

  “Why are you smiling?” Lauren asked. “Or do you have gas?”

  “It’s called being happy,” I say. “You should ditch Alice and try it.”

  Her face crumples again. “You are mean to Alice. Alice doesn’t like you.”

  “I don’t think she likes you, for that matter,” I fire back.

  “You sound like Gran and I don’t like Gran,” Lauren announces as she dips her banana in the chocolate spread jar.

  Mum sighs. “Oh, Jess, can you take her breakfast up? I’ve got a detoxing cleanse booked and I’m in a rush.”

  “You do know that detoxing has no medical benefits? You could just eat lots of bran.”

  Mum shudders at the thought. “Jess, I know your thoughts on detoxing but my nutritionist …” She’s off again. I know I’m on a losing battle but there you go. As I get Gran’s breakfast ready, my mood dips a bit. Mum can’t be bothered to go and see Gran; Lauren dislikes her. There’s something quite bad at the heart of this family. If I didn’t go up, would anyone else even bother? It bothers me as I stomp upstairs.

  “Don’t stomp, Jesobel,” Mum yells, “you are not a wildebeest.”

  I just stomp even more.

  “Hey, Gran.” I push open the door and am met with the usual fug of smoke and stale air. As I get no response, I try again. “Gran?” She mutters in her chair because, yet again, she’s not slept in her bed. There’s an empty, used glass beside her and also a beautiful but unfinished sketch of a woman’s face. I put the toast and tea next to her. Should I stay? Should I wake her? I look around the room. It seems such a small place for such a big soul to spend a life in. I’m running late for school but I’m torn. I could just sit with her until she wakes up, but then, I need to keep school on my side.

  I’m not sure if the post breaches the agreement I made. I’ve not mentioned the school or anyone at the school, so I really don’t see what they could be upset by. But they’re teachers, so therefore they can be upset by the most minute things. Like being one second late. Or a hair bobble that’s not in school colors. Or the wearing of nail varnish, which obviously saps our intelligence, making us unable to think.

  Gran continues to mumble. I take her hand. I can feel the soft, fast pulse of her blood under her papery skin. Same as normal. I’m beginning to feel that I need to challenge what goes on as normal in this house. With that thought, I head off to school.

  The highlight of the day is seeing Zara’s face as I walk into the dining hall at lunchtime and a spontaneous round of applause breaks out. “Loved the post, Jess” and other nice comments are made. I get hugs from lots of my favorite people and nasty stares from others. But hey, I can take the hate. Zara looks like she’s swallowed a lemon at the same time as a rubbish truck has dumped loads of rotting fish next to her. “Who does she think she is?” she hisses. “Like anyone cares what she says.” Lara, Tara, Tilly and Tiff vigorously nod in agreement. I just smile the biggest smile I can. Being happy really winds up people who hate you. It’s the best revenge.

  The rest of the day is uneventful, really, if you call Destiny Snow punching Aisha Chaudhry in the face for copying her homework “uneventful.” But in this place, copying work is a bit like drowning a kitten. You just don’t do it. As I walk home, I begin to think about life beyond school. All being well, I’ll get the grades to go to sixth form college. A new start, new people. Perhaps the teachers will be a bit less crazy there. Perhaps respect and free speech will be encouraged. I might as well believe in a magical land being hidden at the back of a wardrobe.

  Back at home, I wander round the house in a state of discontent. Yes, my post has gone well, but strangely, the joy wears off quite quickly. I head into the wilderness reserve that passes for a garden at the back of our house. There’s a lawn hiding somewhere out there and even, so the legends say, a summerhouse. But even though it’s a mess, it’s a late spring glorious mess, with trees gently swaying in the breeze as rays of sun dance, dappled, across the long grass of the lawn. It’s lovely. I stare up at Gran’s window and think of her staring out.

  Enough is enough. Time to make things happen around here. I enlist the reluctant help of Lauren and Alice. “Take whatever you want from the house but make it beautiful.”

  “Anything?” Lauren quizzes me. “I can bring the fridge out?”

  “If the cord reaches, yes, but I was thinking more of all the cushions and throws. Let’s just make it very pretty.”

  At this point, Cat drifts by. “Have you gone mad?” Admittedly, I’m currently draping Christmas lights on trees in June, so that is a reasonable question. I explain.

  She sniffs. “I suppose I’d better help. You two have no sense of style anyway.”

  “Three,” Lauren corrects her. “Don’t forget about Alice.” That just gets a mega eye roll from Cat but she starts draping soft fabrics as if she was on a fashion shoot.

  Inside, I choose all the prettiest plates we have and whip up a selection of fabulous little canapés. All teeny mouthfuls, packed with flavor. It’s all improvised so the range is limited, but as I look at my work, I feel a sense of satisfaction that’s been missing for a while. I am making great food for my family again. All my family. And that feels good.

  By now Mum has arrived back. “What’s all this?”

  “You can eat lots today,” I point out helpfully. “I mean, you have had your detox after all.”

  Dad shambles in, looking worried. “Whose birthday have I forgotten this time?”

  “No one’s,” I say. “This is spontaneous fun.”

  Mum’s face suggests she’s struggling with the fun aspect. “But my best throws. Outside.” She starts to gather them up. “No, this is too far. You can have the old picnic blankets instead.” But she’s not reckoned with Lauren, who just puts her foot down both literally and metaphorically.

  “No,” Lauren says, “Jess said we could get whatever we wanted and Cat and Alice and me have worked very hard. So just no.”

  Mum looks like she’s about to start when Dad puts a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s just roll with it, shall we, love?” Again, her face suggests that rolling with it is not her preferred social activity, but she just shrugs and sits herself down on the old patio furniture that has been massively improved by being draped with expensive throws. She takes a bite of one of my nibbles and for the first time her face relaxes.

  “Okay, Mum? Have another one.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Steve, get me a white wine. Seems a waste not to. Now will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  I leave at that point.

  Upstairs, my heart is starting to pound as I stand outside Gran’s door. I knock and go in.

  “Darling!” she cries. “So glad to see you. It’s been rather dull up here today.”

  I sit down by her. “I know. It must be. I’ve arranged something for you.”

  A shadow crosses her face. “Exactly what have you been planning, Jesobel?”

  “You can see for yourself. Come on.” I stand by the window and motion her over.

  “I’m not sure I like this,” she complains. She starts to push herself up from the chair, and I can see the effort in her face, but she strikes at my hand when I try to help her. “I’m not dead yet, child. I can manage.” Once on her feet, she makes the few steps across to the window.

  Below, in the late spring sun, the garden twinkles. White Christmas lights are wound round every tree. Dad’s found loads of old Ikea lanterns and he and Mum are giggling as they attach them to the branches so that they sway in the breeze. Cat and Lauren are dressing up in the throws and pretending to walk on the catwalk.

  “And what is this?” Gran demands.

  “Just a little family party. But it’s not complete unless you come.”

  She looks as lost as a child.
“I’m not sure,” she mumbles. “Is it cold out?”

  “We’ve got it all ready. It’s warm, it’s pretty. There’s a double gin and tonic with lime and ice just waiting for you.”

  “I can have that up here.”

  “No,” I say, “I stole all your gin this morning. If you want a drink, you’ll have to come with me. And I’ve made lots of nice things.”

  I’m not sure if it’s the gin or my cooking that does the trick, but she reluctantly makes a move for the door. It’s painful to see how slowly she moves. But she does. And as she goes on, while she still has to hold on to the walls, her tread seems to get stronger.

  She takes my arm as we walk through the kitchen, but then she pauses just as we are about to go into the garden. “It’s okay, Gran, it’s just us,” I say to reassure her. She takes a deep breath and then steps outside.

  “Oh,” she says.

  “Hiya, Mum.” Dad comes to hug her, then Cat and even Mum come over. Lauren loiters behind a bush, scowling.

  Gran seems dazed, her eyes bright in the red brilliance of the spring sunset. “Come and sit down,” I say and wrap her up in the softest, warmest blankets I can find.

  She’s still not said anything.

  I put her gin in her hand. “Is everything all right, Gran?”

  She holds my hand with her ancient gnarled hand and squeezes. She takes a deep breath in, holds it, and then out again. “Everything is just perfect. It’s tickety-boo.”

  And then the evening begins.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  Observation #83:

  Sometimes happiness comes very unexpectedly.

  It is perfect in every way. When it turns cold, Dad lights a fire in the fire pit. We all snuggle together in rugs and even a few tiny stars make an appearance. At one point, we all get worried as Gran starts to choke on an olive. But then we realize that the chokes were really laughter and she’s had us all fooled.

  “Gran,” I scold her, “don’t do that. It’s naughty.”