It’s still strange to see my thinner face in the mirror. I used to have fat cheeks with massive packets of pudge slapped on my chin and eyelids. My neck had rolls. Even my earlobes were fat. I went to fat camp every summer but that never worked because I’d hide in the incinerator to escape sports time – a risky but ultimately effective tactic. I preferred becoming bacon to embarrassing myself by showing off my bouncing fat rolls and wheezy lack of stamina. I took up an entire bus seat by myself. I have to remind myself constantly I don’t take up that much room, anymore.

If I was rich like my old best friend Gina, I would’ve gotten lipo for my sixteenth birthday along with a BMW or something. You could’ve probably powered a BMW for a few months with oil made from the fat I lost, but alas. I wore layers of clothes and watched my calories carefully and ran every morning and every night, so there was just gradual muscle and no surgically-removed bags of fat to convert to something useful. I remember hating every second of my diet and exercise, but now it’s a foggy, painful memory, the opposite of the clear, sharp memory that kicked my butt into gear in the first place.

“I don’t go out with ugly girls.”

Ugly.

I touch my face, my reflection moving with me in the damp mirror.

Ugly.

Ugly ugly ugly ugly. Purple streaks didn’t make me prettier. Losing weight didn’t make me prettier. My face is the same as ever – a little thinner, yeah, but still the same. My nose is flat and my chin is too wide. The usual bit of eyeliner I wear every day is half washed off, making me look pale and exhausted. Nameless’ voice haunts me even as I dry my hair and pull on the boxer shorts and comfy t-shirt that serve as my pajamas.

My stretch marks - ugly.

My zits - ugly.

The way my thighs jiggle - ugly.

I’m an ugly girl. And I’ve come to terms with that. It’s who I am. Right now I’m New Girl at East Summit High, but soon the glamor will fade and they’ll give me another nickname, and it’ll be Ugly Girl. It should be, anyway. That would be the most logical, accurate thing to call me. Nameless was cruel for saying it, but he was right. He pointed the truth out to me, and for that I’m sardonically grateful, the same way an artist is grateful someone pointed out his left hand is a little shakier, a little less masterful. It helped me know my weaknesses better, and therefore my strengths.

Love isn’t one of my strengths. Dating definitely isn’t one of them, either. I like to think being genuinely nice is one of my strengths though, you know, minus punching guys who deserve it. So I’ll be nice. I’ll keep myself away from everybody else. No one wants ugly. Even if they did, it wouldn’t be good for them. I’m loud and angry and sarcastic. No one wants that. Nameless taught me that, too. He taught me to spare everybody from myself. That’s true kindness.

I sigh and flop into bed. Ms. Muffin, my faded but somehow still sinfully soft panda bear plushie, waits for me. I hug her and bury my face in her Made-in-China chest.

“Ms. Muffin, I f**ked up.”

Her beady black eyes seem to say ‘Yes, I know, sweetie. It’s what you do. But I don’t love you any less for it’.

I manage to get four hours of sleep or so before the lights in my room snap on all at once. I sit up quickly, rubbing my eyes to clear them. It’s still dark outside. Mom stands in the doorway, shaking like a leaf beneath her robe. I throw off my blankets and stride over to her.

“Again?” I ask. She nods, eyes glassy and locked onto some faraway point. I put my arm around her shoulder and lead her back into her bedroom.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she crawls into bed. I pull the covers over her and smile.

“It’s fine. I’ll go get the air mattress and sleep in here with you.”

When I come back from the attic with the mattress, she’s gone.

“Mom? Mom!”

The window is open. I launch myself over to it and peer over the edge. Please, no. Please, don’t let her be –

“I’m here.”

Her voice is tiny and distant-sounding. I follow it to the space beneath her bed, where she’s laying, her knees pulled up to her chest.

“Mom, what are you –”

“It’s safer here,” she says. “Can you come under?”

“You’d be more comfortable on the bed –”

“No!” She shrieks, pressing her hands over her ears. “No, no, I can’t! You can’t make me!”

“Okay, okay,” I soothe her, and press myself flat. I inch over the dusty carpet, the box spring pressing into my ribs, and grab her hand. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll stay under here with you.”

Her panic fades, and she slowly nods off, clutching my fingers with her own trembling, ice cold ones. Sometimes she’ll whimper in her sleep words I can’t understand or don’t want to and all I can think about is how I would’ve probably murdered the guy if I’d been there. I should’ve been there. I should’ve been with her instead of at Dad’s. I should’ve protected her, should’ve seen the signs when I visited for Christmas, should’ve –

“I’m sorry,” she whispers in her sleep, childlike and small. I wrap my arms around her and pull her into my chest, and drift uneasily into sleep with the smell of lavender and sadness in my nose.

***

School on a Monday after a party is really awkward. A lot of people know something embarrassing happened but no one can remember what exactly. Somebody used too much teeth while kissing somebody’s girlfriend and maybe someone forgot to tell someone they’d broken up and maybe someone put a Mentos in their ex-boyfriend’s coke and rum. Or maybe some guy and girl hooked up, and his dick was too small. Somebody’s dick is always too small.

“That’s what I’ll do!” I exclaim halfway through a heinously practical tuna sandwich. “I’ll spread a rumor his dick is small. That’s the only thing guys care about – their dicks. I’ll hit him where it hurts most, metaphorically and also non-metaphorically.”

Kayla raises an eyebrow and nibbles her baby carrots. “Do you really hate him that much?”

I pulled into the parking lot today and she was waiting for me, all tentative and smiley. And now she’s eating lunch with me! It’s a miracle worthy of the Book of Revelations. It’s the very first entry in my Book of Fuck-Ups-With-A-Semi-Happy-Ending, anyway. She’s as tender as a rabbit and loyal as a dog and very, very into a certain icy pig, but that can be corrected. Hopefully without firearms.

“Isis!” A totally random girl I’ve never seen before runs up to me. “Is it true? Did you and Jack make out at Avery’s party and then you punched him?”

“Uh, there was no Me and Jack, Jack macked on me,” I correct. “And drooled everywhere. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a disaster. It was so bad, I had to punch him. It was so bad my hand formed an unconscious fist and my biceps twitched forward in a defense mechanism against his suckitude. All girls everywhere need to beware of his dismal skills. Pass it along.”

The girl nods eagerly and darts off to a circle of her friends. Kayla folds her arms and ‘harrumphs’ at me.

“What?” I try to look innocent.

“Why are you spreading that rumor, anyway?”