Big Girls Don’t Cry

[fiction]

I would like to call myself a “big girl.” My mother calls me “cuddly.” My sister calls me “fat” when we row, which we do very often. My friends… Ah, well, I don’t really know ’cuz they never call me anything to my face. They surely must when I’m not around, especially when we go shopping and they try out sizes eight or ten and hunt out the sixteen for me. I hate shopping. Simply loathe it. That isn’t normal for a seventeen-year-old, is it? I don’t like looking at the super-skinny mannequins looking down on me, their clothes draped oh-so-perfectly over their taut plastic bodies. I like buying clothes from a catalogue, where I know no one is judging me. But I feel so fuddy-duddy doing that. My Nan shops from catalogues, ’cuz she’s a “big girl” too and she can’t be bothered weaving in and out of John Lewis in her mobility scooter.

I hate going to parties as well. If I’m ever invited, I tend to melt into the background, clutching my Diet Coke, a fake smile on my face, tears just threatening to spill out. I see my friends going wild on the dance floor. I feel jealous. Oh, I can move. I have rhythm in my bones. But I just don’t want anyone to stare at me. I just like dancing in my bedroom, with the curtains drawn tight.

I guess you could call me pleasant looking. “Sweet features.” Perky little nose, small pink lips. Blue eyes and big chubby cheeks. I try to cover my cheeks by getting my hair to fall over my face, hiding my dimples when I smile. So, it came as a surprise to me when my sister gave me a gift voucher to a trendy hair salon in town.

“Isolde,” she said. “Don’t hide behind that mop, sweetie. Charlie will transform you; I swear.”

And, oh, that was another sore point in my life. Isolde. Why do I have that name? Isolde, she of uncompromising beauty. She, whom legends are made of. Why couldn’t I be a Jenny? Or a Chloe? Well, anything cuddly and sweet, definitely not ethereal and nymph-like.

Well, so there I dragged myself to Charlie’s salon. He seemed delighted to have me. “I will change your look,” he beamed over me. “You will look dazzling, my love.” And he nearly did a pirouette in the excitement of having me on his chair. A few snips and highlights and styling later, I stared at myself in the mirror. I was not sure whether to scream in agony or in ecstasy. All of my hair gone, cheeks left wide open. Hair fluffed up nice and golden on the top of my head.

I could have yelled at him. Torn him from limb to limb and sucked out his blood. But of course, being me, I squeaked a small thank you, and slunk out of the salon, shoulders hunched, trying to disappear into myself.

I’m not always like this. I have my moments too. Like when we discuss art at the city gallery. The guide, Trudy, is a new friend of mine. She’s twenty-one, doing a major in Renaissance art. She’s so grown-up and knowledgeable. I love her company. We discuss Monet, Renoir, and Degas. She tells me about her gap year in Paris, where she painted on the banks of the Seine, set up a stall in Montmartre, drank cheap wine with some “real” artists. She’s just brilliant. But I don’t always get to be with her, because she’s mostly hanging out in vegan artist cafes, or working on her masterpieces.

*     *     *

It’s Marty’s birthday party tonight. I have to go, ‘cuz she is my best friend. Well, we hang out together on Thursdays when we go to the aerobics class at the local community hall. She’s a size fourteen, but she’s much more popular than I am. I’ll wear my black Lycra top and black jeans. Perhaps mum will lend me her sixties-style hooped earrings.

The crowd is the usual one. I know most of them from school. The music is pounding from inside the house. I can feel the vibrations on the driveway. But it’s Ariana Grande, so I’m not complaining. The boys are playing cool, while the girls are giggling, trying to get their attention. By the end of the evening, they’d all be paired up. For the night. Or a week, even. Maybe a month. Only Charlie and Jen have been together since Marty’s last birthday party, and that is a record. How I wish… But never mind, let’s get stuck in with the food. Marty’s mum offers the best birthday spread ever. She’s prepared all the food and then disappeared to her sister’s house in Totton, bless her.

I wedge myself into the darkest corner, afraid someone might ask me to dance. As it is, my big blonde mop is shining like a beacon. How I hate Charlie for doing this to me. I watch and I listen as the other girls gush about what they’d been shopping, which bloke had given them the look, who had been caught snogging whom. Bertha and Tommy? Golly, one would never have imagined! I didn’t join the gossip session. I drank my fifth glass of Diet Coke.