The DUFF: Designated Ugly Fat Friend

  “Me?” I laughed. “You’re the one who’s trying to get in my pants again, like, ten seconds after a failed attempt at a heart-to-heart. I’d say we’re both pretty fucked up.”

  “Very true.”

  We started kissing again. This time his hands moved up my shirt and unhooked my bra. There wasn’t much room in my little twin bed, but Wesley still managed to get my top off and my jeans unzipped in record time. I started to undo his pants, too, but he stopped me.

  “No,” he said, moving my hand away. “You might not agree with blow jobs, but I have a feeling you’ll enjoy this.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but shut it quickly as he started kissing down my stomach. His hands began moving my jeans and underwear down toward my knees, one of them pausing briefly to squeeze the ticklish place above my hip, causing me to jerk once with a giggle. His lips moved lower and lower, and I was surprised by how much I was anticipating their final destination.

  I’d heard Vikki and even Casey talk about their boyfriends going down on them and how good it felt. I’d heard, but I didn’t entirely believe it. Jake and I had never done that, and I’d always just assumed it was gross and weird.

  It was kind of weird at first, but then it wasn’t anymore. It felt… strange—but in a good way. Dirty, wrong, amazing. My fingers curled in the sheets, gripping the cloth tightly, and my knees shook. I was feeling things I’d never felt before. “Ah,… oh,” I gasped with pleasure and surprise and—

  “Oh, shit.”

  Wesley jumped away from me. He’d heard the car door slam, too. That meant my dad was home.

  I pulled up my underwear and fastened my jeans quickly, but it took me a minute to find my bra. Once I was completely dressed, I flattened my hair and did my best not to look like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar.

  “Should I leave?” Wesley asked.

  “No,” I said breathlessly. I could tell he didn’t want to go back to the empty almost-mansion. “Stay a little while. It’s fine. Dad won’t care. We just can’t… do that.”

  “What else is there to do?”

  So, like complete losers, we played Scrabble for the next four and a half hours. There was barely enough space in the floor of my tiny room for someone as tall as Wesley to stretch out on his stomach, but he managed, and I sat across from him, the board between us as we spelled out words like quixotic and hegemony. Not exactly the most exciting Friday night, but I enjoyed it way more than I would have if I’d gone to the Nest or some lame party in Oak Hill.

  Around nine, after I’d kicked his ass three times—finally, something I could beat him at!—Wesley got to his feet. “I guess I should go home,” he sighed.

  “Okay.” I stood up. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  I was in such a good mood that I’d managed to forget all about Dad… until we ran into him in the living room. I smelled the whiskey before I saw the bottle on the coffee table, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment. Please don’t notice, I thought to myself as I walked Wesley toward the front door. I guess I should’ve started worrying when he hadn’t checked upstairs to see whose Porsche was in our driveway. I mean, it wasn’t like having a car that shiny in front of our house was a common occurrence. Maybe Wesley hadn’t thought about that either. It was a Friday night, after all. Dads could drink whiskey on weekends… well, ones that weren’t recovering alcoholics, but Wesley didn’t know that side of the story. As long as my father acted normal, this might slide by as nothing out of the ordinary.

  But, of course, I never had that kind of good luck.

  “Bumblebee!” Dad said, and I could tell he was already smashed. Great. Just fucking fantastic. He stumbled to his feet and looked over at the front door, where Wesley and I stood. “Hey, Bumblebee. I didn’t even know you were home. Who’s this?” His eyes narrowed at Wesley. “A boy?”

  “Um, Dad, this is Wesley Rush,” I said, trying to stay calm. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “A ‘friend.’… I bet.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle before taking a few unsteady steps toward us, his eyes squinting at Wesley. “Did you have fun up in my little girl’s bedroom, boy?”

  “I sure did,” Wesley said, clearly trying to sound like one of those innocent oh-gee-whiz! boys from fifties TV shows. “We played three games of Scrabble. Your daughter is really good with words, sir.”

  “Scrabble? I’m not an idiot. That must be some new code for… for oral sex!” Dad snarled.

  I must have turned scarlet. How did he know? Could he see right into my mind? No, of course he couldn’t. He was just drunk and making accusations, and looking guilty would only make things worse. So I laughed as if it were ridiculous. As if it were a joke. Wesley, following my lead, did the same.

  “Sure, Dad,” I said. “And intercourse is Yahtzee, right?”

  “I’m not being funny!” Dad snapped, swinging his bottle and sloshing whiskey onto the carpet. Wonderful. I’d be the one cleaning that up. “I know what’s up. I’ve seen the way your slutty friends dress, Bianca. They’re rubbing off on you, aren’t they?”

  I couldn’t force the laughter any longer. “My friends aren’t slutty,” I whispered. “You’re drunk off your ass, and you don’t know what you’re saying.” With a surge of bravery, I reached forward and swiped the bottle from his hand. “You shouldn’t have any more, Dad.”

  For a second, I felt good. That was what I should have done all along. Just taken things into my own hands and removed the bottle. I felt empowered. Like I could fix things.

  “I should go,” Wesley said behind me.

  I started to turn around and say bye, but the words never left my mouth. I felt the bottle slip from my hand and heard it smash on the floor beside me. I was knocked to the ground, but for a second I didn’t understand what had happened. Then the delayed pain in my temple stunned me. It was like I’d been hit by something. Something hard. Something blunt. Something like the palm of my father’s hand. I reached up and rubbed my head in shock, barely feeling the actual pain.

  “See!” Dad yelled. “Boys don’t stay with whores, Bianca. They leave them. And I’m not going to let you turn into a whore. Not my daughter. This is for your own good.”

  I looked up as he reached a hand down to grab my arm. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting to feel his fingers clamp around my forearm.

  But they never did.

  I heard a loud thud, and Dad grunted in pain. My eyes flew open. Wesley moved away from Dad, who was massaging his jaw with a shocked look on his face. “Why you little shithead!”

  “Are you all right?” Wesley asked, kneeling in front of me.

  “Did you just punch my dad?” I couldn’t help but wonder if I was delirious. Had all of this really just happened? Totally bizarre.

  “Yes,” Wesley admitted.

  “How dare you touch me!” Dad screamed, but he was having trouble balancing enough to approach us again. “How dare you fuck my daughter, then hit me, you son of a bitch!”

  I’d never heard my father swear like that before.

  “Come on,” Wesley said, helping me to my feet. “Let’s get out of here. You’re coming with me.” He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close against his warm body, and ushered me out the open door.

  “Bianca!” Dad yelled behind us. “You better not get in that damn car! You better not leave this house! You hear me, you little whore!”

  The ride to Wesley’s house passed in silence. Several times I saw him open his mouth like he wanted to speak, but he always shut it again. I was in too much shock to say anything. My head didn’t hurt that much. I just couldn’t wrap my head around what Dad had done. But worse was the embarrassment. Why? Why did Wesley have to see that? What did he think of me now? What did he think of Dad?

  “That’s never happened before,” I said, breaking the silence when we pulled into the driveway of the almost-mansion. Wesley cut the engine and looked over at me. “Dad’s never hit me… or even yelled at me like that before.”

  “All
right.”

  “I just want you to know that wasn’t normal for us,” I explained. “I don’t live in an abusive house or anything. I don’t want you to think my dad is some kind of psychopath.”

  “I was under the impression that you didn’t care what people thought,” he said.

  “About me. I don’t care what they think about me.” I didn’t know that was a lie until the words had left my mouth. “But my family and friends are different…. My dad isn’t a psychopath. He’s just having a rough time right now.” I could feel the lump rising in my throat, and I tried to gulp it down. I needed to explain. He needed to know. “My mom just filed for a divorce, and… and he just can’t handle it.”

  The lump wasn’t going away. It just kept growing. All of my worries and fears had been leading up to this moment, and I couldn’t fight them back anymore. I couldn’t keep them bottled up. Tears started gushing down my cheeks, and before I knew it I was sobbing.

  How had this happened? It felt like a bad dream. My father was the sweetest, nicest man I knew. He was naive and fragile. This wasn’t him. Even though I’d heard his reasons for sobriety before—even though I knew, in the back of my head, that his drinking was dangerous—it still didn’t seem real. It didn’t seem possible.

  I felt like my world was finally spinning out of control. And this time, I couldn’t deny it. I couldn’t ignore it. And I definitely couldn’t escape it.

  Wesley didn’t say anything. He just sat with me in silence. I didn’t even realize he was holding my hand until after the tears had stopped. Once I’d caught my breath and wiped away the few salty drops from my eyes, he opened his door and walked around to open mine. He helped me out of the car—not that I needed it, but it was still nice—and led me up to the porch with his arm tight around me, like the way he’d guided me out of my house, keeping me close. As if he was afraid I might slip away in the darkness between his car and the front door.

  Once we were inside, Wesley offered me a drink. I shook my head, and we went upstairs like we always did. I sat on the bed, and he sat down next to me. He wasn’t looking at me, but he seemed to be deep in thought. I couldn’t help wondering what horrible things were on his mind. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, turning to face me finally. “Do you need an ice pack or anything?”

  “No,” I said. My throat was sore from crying, and my words came out kind of croaky. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  He reached over and brushed the hair away from my face, his fingers barely grazing my temple. “Well,” he said quietly. “At least now I know.”

  “Know what?”

  “What you’re trying to escape from.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that your father has a drinking problem?” he asked.

  “Because it’s not my place to tell,” I said. “And it’ll pass. He’s just going through a hard time right now. He hasn’t had a drink in eighteen years. Just since the divorce papers came in…. He’ll get better.”

  “You should talk to him. When he’s sober, you should tell him that it’s getting out of hand.”

  “Yeah,” I scoffed. “And make him think I’m against him, too? When my mom has just handed him the divorce papers?”

  “You’re not against him, Bianca.”

  “Tell me, Wesley, why don’t you talk to your parents?” I asked. He was being a hell of a hypocrite, wasn’t he? “Why don’t you tell them that you’re lonely? That you want them to come home? It’s because you don’t want to upset them, right? You don’t want them to blame you for their misery? If I tell Dad he has a problem, he’ll think I hate him. How can I hurt him more? He just lost everything.”

  Wesley shook his head. “Not everything. He didn’t lose you,” he said. “At least not yet. If you don’t talk to him, he’ll just end up driving you away, and then he will be in far worse pain.”

  “Maybe.”

  Wesley’s fingers continued to rub soothingly against my temple. “This doesn’t hurt, does it?”

  “Not at all.” Actually, the way he was massaging my skull felt pretty good. I sighed and leaned into his hand. “The things he said hurt way more,” I murmured.

  I bit my lower lip. “You know,” I said to Wesley, “I’ve never been called a whore in my life, and today two different people have implied that I am. What’s funny is, I’m pretty sure they’re right.”

  “That’s not funny,” Wesley muttered. “You’re not a whore, Bianca.”

  “Then, what am I?” I demanded, feeling suddenly angry. I pushed his hand away from my head and stood up. “What am I? I’m screwing a guy who isn’t my boyfriend and lying about it to my friends… if they’re even my friends anymore. I don’t even think about it now, whether this is right or wrong! I’m a whore. Your grandma and my dad both think so, and they’re right.”

  Wesley stood up, his face hard and serious. He grabbed me by the shoulders and held me firmly, forcing me to look up at him. “Listen to me,” he said. “You are not a whore. Are you listening, Bianca? What you are is an intelligent, sassy, sarcastic, cynical, neurotic, loyal, compassionate girl. That’s what you are, okay? You’re not a slut or a whore or anything remotely similar. Just because you have some secrets and some screwups… You’re just confused… like the rest of us.”

  I stared at him, stunned. Was he right? Was the rest of the world just as lost as I was? Did everyone have their secrets and screwups? They must. I knew Wesley was just as messed up as me, so surely the rest of the world had its imperfections, too.

  “Bianca, whore is just a cheap word people use to cut each other down,” he said, his voice softer. “It makes them feel better about their own mistakes. Using words like that is easier than really looking into the situation. I promise you, you’re not a whore.”

  I looked at him, into his warm gray eyes, and suddenly understood what he was trying to tell me. The message hidden beneath the words.

  You’re not alone.

  Because he understood. He understood how it felt to be abandoned. He understood the insults. Understood me.

  I pushed myself onto my tiptoes and kissed him—really kissed him. It was more than just a precursor to sex. There was no war between our mouths. My hips rested lightly beneath his, not pressed tightly. Our lips moved in soft, perfect harmony with each other. This time it meant something. What that something was, I didn’t know at the time, but I knew that there was a real connection between us. His hands stroked gently through my hair, his thumb grazing my cheek—still damp from crying earlier. And it didn’t feel sick or twisted or unnatural. Actually, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  I slid off his shirt, and he pulled mine over my head. Then he laid me down on the bed. No rush. This time things were slow and earnest. This time I wasn’t looking for an escape. This time it was about him. About me. About honesty and compassion and everything I’d never expected to find in Wesley Rush.

  This time, when our bodies connected, it didn’t feel dirty or wrong.

  It felt horrifyingly right.

  18

  I knew something was wrong the instant I opened my eyes the next morning.

  The sky looked dull and cold outside Wesley’s window, but I felt warm. So warm. Wesley’s arm was draped over me, holding me against his chest, and his soft, rhythmic breathing heated the back of my neck. It was so peaceful. So perfect. I felt safe and content.

  And that was the problem.

  I caught sight of a pink sweater lying forgotten in the corner of the room. It had been there for weeks. Property of some nameless girl. One of many Wesley had brought up to his bedroom. Seeing it, I suddenly remembered exactly whose bed I was in. Who was holding me.

  I shouldn’t have felt safe or content. Not here. Not with Wesley. It was wrong. I should have been disgusted. I should have been repulsed. I should have wanted nothing more than to push him away from me. What the hell was going on? What was wrong with me?
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  And just as I asked myself the questions, the answers hit me like a tidal wave. An icy tidal wave that left me wide-eyed and shocked.

  I was jealous of the other girls he talked to.

  I was willing to do anything to make him smile.

  I felt safe and content in his arms.

  Oh my God, I thought, half panicked. I’m in love with him.

  I had to shake myself then. No, no, no. Not love. Love was a big word. Too big. Love took years upon years to develop… right? I was not in love with Wesley Rush.

  But I had feelings for him. Feelings other than hatred and disgust. It was more than a crush. More than anything I’d felt for Toby Tucker over the past three years. Maybe even more than I’d felt for Jake Gaither all those years ago. It was real. It was powerful.

  And it was terrifying.

  I had to get out of there. I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t let myself fall into this trap. No matter how I felt about Wesley, he would never feel the same.

  Because he was Wesley Rush.

  And I was the Duff.

  There was no way in hell I was going to torture myself that way. I’d learned my lesson with Jake. Getting too close just led to getting hurt, and Wesley had plenty to hurt me with. Last night he’d seen me at my weakest. I’d let him in. I’d opened up. And if I didn’t leave now, I’d pay the price.

  No matter where you go or what you do to distract yourself, reality catches up with you eventually. Mom had said that about herself and Dad.

  A bitter smile spread across my face as I reluctantly crawled out of Wesley’s arms. Mom had been right. Wesley was my distraction. He was supposed to be my escape from emotions. From all the drama. And here I was… feeling nothing but emotions.

  I crept around the room, trying to get dressed without making any noise. After yanking on my sweater and jeans, I grabbed my cell phone and slipped out onto the balcony.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, or convince myself that she wouldn’t answer, I dialed Casey’s cell phone number. I knew she’d still be pissed at me, but I couldn’t think of any other options. No matter how mad she was, I knew Casey would help me. She’d help anyone. It was just part of her nature.