White Lady by Jessica Bell Page A

aren’t you?”
    I close my eyes. Hold my breath, try to hum this feeling down to my feet and into the floor and into the earth and into the core. The darkness behind my eyes transforms into coloured swirls, and for a moment I feel like I’m floating. Is it relief? Am I falling asleep? Standing?
    “Mia? Are you there?”
    I flick my eyes open and touch the flab under my chin.
    “I, uh, yeah. I’m still the same size.” I lower myself to the floor and hug my knees. I look between my legs, at the way my stomach folds over itself.
    I’ll be the same size.
    “Fabulous! I have the perfect outfit for you. Fun! Are you excited?”
    I smile at a thin image of myself. I’ll never do this on time. Maybe I should leave town, quit school. Nothing here for me anyway. Go somewhere where no one knows me, hide out for a while until I’m back to my normal size, then return, you know, all happy and shit, and say, surprise, I’m not actually dead, man. I’m sorry I made you cry.
    “Yeah. Full-on excited,” I say, rolling my eyes again. Funny how I sound so convincing.
    Mum claps. “Let Nash know, okay? I haven’t had a chance to speak to him.”
    “Okay.”
    “Fabulous. Speak soon?”
    “Sure.”
    I return the receiver to its hub, and Dad opens the front door, sopping wet, pale, shivering, gasping for breath.
    “Dad, you have to tell her no!” I cry, standing up too fast, feeling dizzy and balancing myself against the wall.
    Dad lifts his cap, smoothes his hair into it, and puts it back on. He shakes his head, grabs a T-shirt off the arm of the couch, and wipes his face dry. “What are you on about?”
    “Mum. She said she’s coming over. In a month!”
    “Oh.”
    “Oh? Look at me, Dad. I’m a fucking rhinoceros.”
    “Mia, she’s not going to care.”
    “Of course she’ll care,” I scream, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Look at who she married.”
    “Mia—” Dad steps towards me, reaches for my shoulders.
    “Don’t touch me. I should have known. Why would you care what Mum thinks of me? You probably agree with her. You think I’m a fucking fat ugly bitch just like everybody else. No wonder you keep pushing me to lose weight. You can’t stand the sight of me, can you?”
    “Mia, it’s not like that. I’m just concerned about your health. Please, can you—”
    “No. Leave me the fuck alone.” I grab the picture frame off the wall, of Dad playing footy, and hurl it across the room. It shatters on the TV and screams I hate you.
    I stare at Dad, I want to say “sorry,” I want to take it back. Dad has tears in his eyes, tears , he never cries. I’ve never seen him cry.
    I run into my bedroom, sobbing, choking on my own thick breaths, wishing the big fat ugly bitch in me would just die, die, die.
    I rummage through my schoolbag and pull out the plastic Ziploc of pills. I empty it onto my bed.
    There are only two left.
    I swallow them both and clench my jaw until my head hurts.
    I’m so fat I probably can’t even overdose.
    I grab my iPod, put the earphones back in. Go for the goddess. Today’s goddess. I press Play, stand still, straight and tall, pretending to watch myself from above.
    Courtney Love.
    Skinny Little Bitch.

Chapter 29
    Nash: I think I’ve lost her anyway.
    I pick up the photo and the glassless frame off the floor, focus on Ibrahim, his pouted mouth and stocky legs. I rest the photo on the arm of the couch. Coach Warren gave it to me. A gift. A message. A sign I’d be the one to “make it.”
    Yeah, I miss my footy days. I even miss the kinds of matches when it pelted down with rain. Once, it was raining so hard I couldn’t see properly, and I slammed into a fellow team player when we both jumped to catch the footy midair. I broke my collarbone. He fucked up his nose. We were mates. We shook hands and laughed about it. That was brotherhood. Not the team of psychos Ibrahim assembled when I married Celeste.
    So? I could have become a pro player. Could have won trophies. But you