My phone’s alarm rings, and I almost roll off the bed, then half-comatose, I silence it. Damn this loud alarm sound! I should change it, but I know I’d hate it no matter what sound it makes.
I curl up under the blanket in agony, gathering strength to get up. Why isn’t it summer vacation already? I wish I could skip these last two weeks!
But unfortunately being tired is no excuse; I have to go to school. The math test is today!
And I didn’t study at all.
I’d like to dig myself deeper into bed. I should say that I am sick. What a pity, my parents saw through my attempts to do so in my whole life! And I’d rather do a hundred math test than willingly draw the aim of their wrath.
I put on my glasses, then crawl out of bed, my limbs trembling with exhaustion. From the bottom of my closet I pull out David’s black sweater with the word Nirvana on its back, as if it might protect me from certain death. Once dressed, I stagger into the bathroom, yawning profusely. I look into the mirror and startle back. The circles under my eyes could rival those of a night shift worker, and my hair is even greasier than yesterday. It is also completely tangled, having taken the shape of the lumps in my pillow. I quickly grab an elastic band to hold it together. However, as I lift my untidy mane, I notice a red handprint on my neck and part of my face. The nightmare of last night suddenly comes back to life. From the force of the blow, I was sure that by today my whole face would be swollen, covered in purple bruises. But no. However, this small redness can still lead to unwanted questions from my classmates, so I tiptoe down the corridor, up to the second floor, to my mothers’ bathroom. I take out the crate-sized make-up kit. I loathe to put any of it on myself, triggering more pimples, but they can’t see it. So even though my first lesson is PE and I will sweat the whole thing off, I still need to do my best.
I open the box. Oh my God, which one is the foundation? Maybe these are on the right. What a shame that they all match my mum’s tanned skin and not my pale skin! I choose the lightest one and apply it thickly from my forehead to the neck of my sweater, without any tools or expertise. At times like this I envy my mother a little for hiding the dark side of her life behind such perfect masks. But God forbid I ask for her help! She might think I’m seriously interested. Because she is. She’s a real mall girl. And I never, ever want to be like her…
Done. Itching with the urge to wash it off immediately, allowing my clogged pores to breathe freely, but I resist the temptation and walk out. One level down, I pack my notebooks and some erotic fantasies to take back to the library, then head downstairs with the bag on my shoulder.
At the turn of the stairs, the sound of movement hits my ears. Startled, I pause, breathless, waiting to hear anything threatening, but it was only the sound of Mum’s slippers. What is she doing here? Ah, of course! It’s Wednesday, and she has to be at work by nine. Shit… I’d rather climb out of the window than run into them. But there’s no window and my bus leaves in fifteen minutes.
I step out from the cover of the stairs. My eyes immediately settle on my mother as she puts her plate in the sink. Her light beige shirt highlights her skin tone, and tight dark jeans show off her long, treadmill-trained legs. Her dyed black hair is in a loose bun, her make-up completely hiding the bruises from yesterday. The perfect woman. Beautiful and pretty, no one could tell she gave birth three times and is closer to sixty than fifty. As her black eyes meet mine, she sighs.
“Oh, dear, are you wearing David’s worn-out rags again?” She pouts at me condescendingly, full of pity. Or is it disgust?
“That’s one thing, but if she spent a whole hour wasting the water yesterday, she couldn’t even wash her hair?” Dad says from the table. He addresses his words to Mum, as if I’m not worthy to be spoken to.
And instead of coming to my defence, my mother, in deep silence, agrees with him. Him, who smells like a homeless man with week-old stubble on his face waiting to be mowed. But, of course, without ever setting foot outside these four walls, he’s not likely to sully the name “Morawa”. And we are a perfect, prosperous, elitist family. The upper class.
I’m sick of all this. I rush to the door.
“Come and eat with us!” my mother calls after me, but she sounds annoyed that I’m missing breakfast, rather than kind.
“I have to catch my bus. I’ll grab something at school.”
“I can give you a ride.”
And then listen to her about how I should look, live, behave and cover up my problems with perpetual hypocrisy? I choose the bus.
I step outside, slamming the door behind me, but the words I heard continue to haunt me in the form of memories that never happened. I see myself getting out of her black Tesla in front of the whole school, much to my mother’s delight. Unkempt, accompanied by envious eyes.
Do you understand how much shame you bring upon us?
But I am just such a shameful being. I bet if the ultrasound before I was born had shown them what I would become as a teenager, I would have been aborted. What they do at night is forgivable. Because no one can see it. But what I do is intolerable.
The agony brings a smile to my face. How long can they lie to avoid losing prestige?
At the bus stop, a woman in a blue T-shirt is looking at me. It’s not cold, yet I pull David’s sweater tighter over me. It’s as if the whole world is waiting to see when the mask of perfection will fall off so that it can sink its scandal-hungry claws into me. But seriously… does she see something on my face? Is my foundation thick enough? I start to reach for my face, but stop myself; I might end up smearing it.
The bus turns the corner, and the brakes let out a sharp breath as it comes to a stop.
I show my pass when I board. Making my way inside, I am surprised at how few passengers there are. Then I realise that this is not the 07:15 bus.
” … no, unfortunately. I’ve been studying.”
“Don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything; he still didn’t say whether he would be at the Championship. Instead, he’s dropped a few things about his private life… GameGuru has already published an article about him.”
I recognize that voice. Oh my God, it’s Bill! How could I forget?! I quickly adjust my scraggly ponytail, though the situation is beyond remedy. Now I regret that I did not wash my hair. As I pass them, my gaze connects for a moment with the boy’s green eyes. Blood rushes to my cheeks, I tear my attention away from his fashionably shaggy black hair and plop down on the seat behind him by the window. Behind Bill.
“For real?” asks his friend sitting next to him.
“Yeah, look.” he pushes his phone over. “Metamorph, The Lone Warrior wasn’t always a loner; one of the most popular streamers of our time is bisexual and polygamous”. The video is also here.
What?! – My heart is pounding, not just from the news, but from hearing my idol’s name from Bill’s mouth. I feel a terrible guilt that I missed his video yesterday. The hatred for my parents’ brawl flares up again. I’d like to get my phone out, but my Mum and Dad have paid for a package with limited mobile internet. I’d like to ask Bill to show me, but I’d only embarrass myself. Nobody wants to talk to a girl who is so lame. Even if I’m as much of a Metamorph fan as they are. So I merely stretch out my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the blue-haired superstar in the space between the two seats in front of me. Unfortunately, I can’t see it. I can’t even see the reflection from the window. All that remains is the sound, now that the rumble of the bus has quieted down so I can hear the not too deep, yet eerily sexy male voice.
“… what is my ideal woman? Well, I actually attach less importance to gender, it’s more important for me that the person understands me. To accept that gaming is an integral part of my life, but at the same time to know what it feels like to be alone in a crowd. The pressure when people love you, expect great things from you and you dread being unable to live up… Am I speaking as if I’m talking about a specific person? Well, my love life is rather… complicated… Oh, what do I think of polygamy? Long ago, before I started streaming, I had affairs with countless individuals. But now I’m more monogamous. Except for you.”
Oh my God! Metamorph could have been with men?! I try to imagine this nice, straightforward guy kissing a boy. Automatically, Bill’s face pops into my head. No, no, that can’t be…
Bill, in the meantime, paused the video.
“See what they’re writing to him in the chat? Now that’s when I envy streamers. Women are falling for them.
“You should stream too.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, you are pretty good in arena.”
And you’ re good-looking. Smart too. But when I think of the thousands of girls writing fan messages and love notes to Bill, it makes my blood boil. And he would start making videos for that very reason… I had no idea he is so lonely. I’d date him!
As they ponder the idea of setting up their own channel in a light-hearted, joking way, it’s getting more and more painful to listen to them. So remote and inaccessible. Why do I torture myself? I take out my phone, plug in the earpiece, turn on some music. I stare outwards, outside the trees of the suburbs are replaced by concrete blocks of the city, but in my mind’s eye I keep seeing Bill. As he sits next to me, calls out to me, talks to me. I hear his voice, his laugh. Imagining us playing together, but of course he’s so much more skilful than me and so keen to tutor me. He puts his palm on my hand on the mouse, and I try to listen to his instructions, but all I can feel is his skin on mine. The scent of his pine-scented shower gel as he leans behind me. His breath on the back of my neck. I want to turn towards him, to poke his black hair, to kiss him. My heart beats faster and faster. His long fingers intertwine with my hands, as if he knows exactly what’s on my mind, pulls me closer to him, then down onto the bed and…
We’re almost at the school. The boys squirm in front of me, stand up and signal. When I get off, I breathe a sigh of relief to be away from the stuffy air of the bus, watching silently as Bill and his buddy walk through the gate, and then slowly I drag myself to the place of my execution.
Someone pulls the speaker out of my ear.
“Hello, loser!”
The last thing I missed was Mandy… With her V-neckline, wasp-waist, long legs, perfectly pressed hair.
“Hi,” I moaned powerlessly.
“We’re in a mood today! ” She grabs my shoulder and turns me towards her. “Shit, what’s this? You’re wearing make-up!”
Her hazel eyes, lined with black ink, quickly scan the students in the courtyard, and when she spots Bill, she gives him a perverse smile.
“Oh, I understand everything now! So he’s the reason you won’t let me pick you up.”
“I thought you liked to spend your mornings driving with Gregory…”
“I used to. We broke up last night.”
“Why? For two weeks, the two of you never left each other’s lips. “
“Being a good kisser isn’t everything. The spark is gone. You know how it is; guys are like clothes; you have to replace them time to time. ” she shrugs nonchalantly, as if she’s just talking about the weather.
It’s nice to have a man for every fingernail and to be able to switch them every week! My blood is rushing to my head, a vein is throbbing so intensely in my temple that I think it’s about to burst. I hate her at times like this. She’s pretty, cool, well dressed, and she knows it well. I’d like to punch her in the face. I’d like to punch her so hard her teeth would fall out… then she’d suck better.
But then who’d talk to me? Who would I spend my breaks with? Who would sit with me in class? So I swallow my jealousy and try to keep a friendly face.
“Look, that’s Matthew!” he nods towards a guy with piercings and shaved hair on the side. Bill’s classmate. Too bad he’s always talking about some metaphysics and I can’t understand a word he’s saying.”
“Mandy, everyone knows Metamorph. At least every nerd does.” Finally, something I can do!
“Maybe you could give me a lecture sometime,” she says, staring at me with her round cat eyes.
“Friday, my place? ” It’s the usual girly Friday, with a little nerdology thrown in. Finally, we won’t be spending hours in the mall trying on dresses and I can shine too!
If I had her body and her confidence, I could be with anyone.
An icy grip clamps my throat. Maybe that’s why she’s making friends with me. I’m the trump card she uses to pick up the IT guys. Without me, she can’t say two words to them. Not that she needs it, but this way… I may be cutting off the branch I’m sitting on, but somewhere deep down, it feels good to know that the most popular girl in school is secretly dependent on me.
Mandy, meanwhile, is going on and on about Matt. I don’t really listen to her and stay in my own head, but I’m brought back to reality when I’m hit by the sultry smell of sweat and deodorant in the locker room.
I start to undress. It’s a challenge since I injured my shoulder and back yesterday. I let my hair out, as if to straighten it, in case my greasy tassels cover it and Mandy doesn’t…
“What’s that?”
“Um… I fell down the stairs.”
She raises her arched eyebrows.
“I took my heart medicine on an empty stomach and I got dizzy.”
“Oh dear… I…”
Her face, twisted with pity, makes me want to run out of the world. Oh, how I hate this! But I’d hate it more if she found out that it was because my psycho father had smeared me on the kitchen counter.
The school bell rings and we march into the gym, which smells of sneakers and rubber floors. We start with running, like always. Lots of running. Eventually my heart will start pounding so hard that I have to get out of the way of the others. The question is when.
My stomach tightens with nervousness as I put one foot in front of the other. Faster and faster.
One lap.
I’m a weak, fat piece of shit who’s being outpaced by the others.
Two laps.
I hate this feeling. Always being last, in everything.
I’m getting faster.
Three laps.
Soon I will suffocate. But I don’t care. A weak piece of shit like me deserves no mercy.
Four laps.
Waiting for my chest to start stinging, my lungs to constrict, almost feeling the thunder of my heart echoing through my ribs, my carotid artery, my ears…
Five laps.
But I can’t feel it.
Ten laps.
I sweat. Some people are panting now. Me too, but nothing hurts.
Fifteenth lap.
What’s happening to me? Usually by this time, I’m already on the bench in shame.
I’ve lost count of the laps. I only listen to the teacher’s instructions and the effort of my muscles. Sweating blood, panting, moaning, but I’m on my feet. Even during end-of-class gymnastics.
When the teacher releases us ten minutes before the bell, I rush to the changing room, intoxicated by my own performance. Mandy catches up with me in the corridor.
“What was that?” She pats me on the back in a friendly way. You have a heart condition? You’re a little faker! – She teases, but her smile is genuine. Maybe she’s thrilled that I’m not going to die so soon and that I’ll be teaching her nerdology for years to come.
Between two gasps, I laugh. Mandy laughs with me. I can’t believe I made it through! For the first time in my life! I wipe my sweat-soaked forehead.
I’ve got foundation on my palms.
My cheerfulness vanishes in the blink of an eye, I rush to the toilet as if I had diarrhoea. I’ll tell Mandy the same thing if she asks. And what am I going to do about my face? I didn’t have the brains to bring the foundation from home… Everyone will see…!
I look in the mirror.
Where is it? It was here this morning! I take my glasses on and off, wash my face, rub off the whole mass. But there’s nothing. As if I had washed it off with my make-up… But how…? What is happening to me?
Something abnormal.
The thought creeps into my mind, unpleasant, full of horror. Like a parasite slowly devouring all that I am. As if I were no longer in my own body, my skin covered like a foreign shroud. I want to be free of this feeling, yet it pulls me in and paralyses me.
The bell rings.
A new fear rips through me; my next class is math and I haven’t studied at all.
Time to rent a plot in the cemetery.