Someone’s posted a picture of me, which they must have snapped just after it happened, because there I am in the cafeteria, looking mad as a hatter, fist still clenched, Jack Masselin sprawled at my feet. You can’t see his face, but you can see mine (dangerously red, slightly sweaty). Caption: Don’t mess with Mad Lbs. “Lbs” as in pounds, of course. There are seventy-six comments, and only a few of them are nice. The rest say the usual: If I was that big, I’d want to kill myself. And: She’s pretty for a fat girl. And: Just looking at her makes me want to never eat again. And simply: LOSE WEIGHT, YOU FAT WHORE.
This is exactly why I don’t do social media. So many mean comments and snarky comments and bullying disguised as I’m only expressing my opinion, as the Constitution of our great country requires me to do. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Blah blah blah.
I have this overwhelming urge to throw Bailey’s phone away and my phone away, and then go up and down the street collecting phones so I can throw them away too.
Bailey says, “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.” She chews on a fingernail and squints up her eyes, and I can see the tears in them.
“I’m glad you did.” I mean I’m not happy, obviously, but I was going to find out somehow and being told by the world’s kindest person is probably the best way to do that.
I turn my phone off, and then I shut down the computer so I can’t read about myself anymore. I say to Bailey, “I am sick of reading about myself.” She nods in her eager-to-please Bailey way. I start pacing, which means I’m about to start talking. A lot. “For one thing, there’s only so much new material you can get from the fact that I’m overweight. We get it, people. Move on.”
Bailey nods like crazy. “We get it.”
“And this whole ‘pretty for a fat girl’ thing. I mean, what is that? Why can’t I just be pretty period? I wouldn’t say, ‘Oh, Bailey Bishop, she’s pretty for a skinny girl.’ I mean, you’re just Bailey. And you’re pretty.”
“Thank you. You’re pretty too.” And unlike Caroline and Kendra, I know she means it.
“And what is this whole ‘fat girl equals whore’ bullshit?” She flinches. “Sorry. ‘Fat girl equals whore’ garbage. What is that? Why am I automatically a whore? How does that even make sense?”
“It doesn’t.”
“If everyone who had something to say about me spent as much time on, I don’t know, practicing kindness or developing a personality or a soul, imagine how lovely the world would be.”
“So lovely.”
I go on and on, Bailey as my cheerleader, until I run out of steam. I sink down onto my bed and say, “Why are people so concerned with how big I am?” She doesn’t answer, just takes my hand and holds it. She doesn’t need to answer because there is no answer. Except that only small people—the inside-small kind—don’t like you to be big.
I’ve never built a robot before, but I’m determined. I watch a couple of YouTube videos. Consult a couple of books. By the time I’m done, I’ve decided it’s going to be the best damn Lego robot ever.
For my eighth birthday, I asked for a hammer, screwdrivers, and wire cutters. I got my first soldering iron when I was nine. No one knows where this urge to build comes from, except that my dad has always been pretty handy, so maybe I get some of it from him. I just know that ever since I was little, making things out of thin air is what centers me, like the way other people turn to yoga or morphine. It’s why we have a pizza oven and a pitching machine in our backyard, a catapult in our garage, and a weather station on the roof. When I’m working, I see the object as a whole before it ever exists, and I build my way there. It’s the exact opposite of my everyday life.
But right now all I see are the pieces, which is exactly like my everyday life. Red ones here, blue ones there, white and yellow and green and black. At some point, I lie back on top of them, right on the cold concrete floor. It’s uncomfortable as hell, but I tell myself, You don’t deserve comfort, asshole.
I wonder what Libby Strout is doing right about now. I hope she’s not thinking about me or today. I hope somehow she can think about something else. Anything else.
I hear footsteps on the basement stairs, and a woman appears, first her legs, then the rest of her. I assume it’s my mom, because what other woman would be in the house unless Dad’s decided to bring Monica Chapman in here? I look for the identifiers. This is Mom-with-Hair-Down. Her mouth is wide. She’s clearly black. I try to build my way to her face, but even after I locate enough pieces to tell myself Okay, that’s her, it’s not as if the image of her snaps into place for me, and it’s not as if it sticks around. I suddenly feel old and so, so tired. It’s exhausting, constantly having to search for the people you love.
She says, “I don’t need to tell you how disappointed I am in you. Or how angry.”
“You do not.” I look up at her from the floor.
“We have to hope they don’t decide to press charges. You may not see yourself as black, and you may not think people see you as black, but it’s a fact that our society treats kids of color more severely than others, and I do not want this following you for the rest of your life.” We’re both quiet as I think about my dismal, dead-end future. She says, “What are you doing?”
“I was preparing to build a Lego robot for little man, but right now I’m contemplating what an asshole I am.”