The DUFF: Designated Ugly Fat Friend

  “Just don’t abandon me again, okay?” The words came out in a weak murmur. “Even with Jess, I was really lonely without you… and I didn’t have anyone cool to drive me around. Do you know how much it sucks to have Vikki as your chauffer? She almost hit some poor old dude on a bike the other day. Did I tell you that story?”

  We drove around Hamilton for a while, just wasting gas and catching up on what we’d missed. Casey had a crush on a basketball player. I was acing English. Nothing too personal. Casey knew my secret now—or part of it—and she wasn’t mad at me anymore… well, not that mad at me. She assured me I had a lot of groveling to do before we were totally good again.

  We drove around until her mom called at ten, demanding to know where her truck was, and Casey had to take me home.

  “Are you going to tell Jessica about this?” she asked quietly as she turned onto my street. “About Wesley?”

  “I don’t know.” I took a deep breath, deciding that keeping secrets wasn’t the best idea. It had only fucked things up so far. “Look, you can tell her. Tell her everything if you want. But I don’t want to talk about it. I just kind of want to forget about this if I can.”

  “I understand,” Casey said. “I think she should know. I mean, she is our best friend… but I’ll tell her you’re moving on. Because that’s what you’re doing, right?”

  “Right,” I murmured.

  I couldn’t help feeling anxious when she pulled into my driveway. I stared at the oak front door, at the shuttered windows that looked in on my living room, and at our simple, clean, picket-fenced yard. I’d never realized what a mask my family lived behind.

  Then I thought of Dad.

  “I’ll see you Monday,” I said, looking away so she couldn’t see the worry on my face.

  Then I slid out of the truck and started walking toward my house.

  20

  I was standing on the porch before I realized I didn’t have my keys. Wesley had pulled me from the house so quickly the night before that I hadn’t been able to grab my purse. So I found myself knocking on my own front door, hoping Dad was awake to let me in.

  Fearing, dreading, remembering.

  I took a step back as the knob turned and the door swung open. There stood Dad, his eyes red and deeply circled behind his glasses. He looked really pale, like he’d been sick, and I could see his hand shaking on the doorknob. “Bianca.”

  He didn’t smell like whiskey.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Hi, Dad. I, um, left my keys inside last night, so…”

  He moved slowly forward, like he was afraid I might run away. Then he wrapped his arms around me, pulled me into his chest, and buried his face in my hair. We stood there together for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, I could tell the words came through sobs. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “I know,” I murmured into his shirt.

  And I was crying, too.

  Dad and I talked more that day than we had in seventeen years. Not that we weren’t close before. It’s just that neither of us is very expressive. We didn’t share our thoughts or feelings or do any of that stuff they tell you is important on those public service announcements you see on Nickelodeon. When we ate dinner together, we were always in front of the TV, and there was no way either of us would interrupt the program with lame small talk. That’s just how we were.

  But that day we talked.

  We talked about his work.

  We talked about my grades.

  We talked about Mom.

  “She’s really not coming back, is she?” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his face with both hands. We were sitting on the couch. For once, the television was off. Ours were the only voices that filled the room. It was a good kind of semi-silence, yet scary at the same time.

  “No, Daddy,” I said, bravely reaching out to squeeze his hand. “She’s not. This just isn’t the right place for her anymore.”

  He nodded. “I know. I’ve known for a long time that she wasn’t happy… maybe even before she knew. I just hoped—”

  “That she’d change her mind?” I offered. “I think she wanted to. That’s why she kept leaving and coming back, you know? She didn’t want to face the truth. She didn’t want to admit that she wanted a”—I paused at the next word—“divorce.”

  Divorce was just so final. More than a fight. More than a separation or a long speaking tour. It meant their marriage—their life together—was really and truly finished.

  “Well,” he sighed, squeezing my hand back. “I guess we were both running away in different ways.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dad shook his head. “Your mother took a Mustang. I took a whiskey bottle.” He reached up and readjusted his glasses, an unconscious habit—he always did it when he was making a point. “I was so devastated by what your mother did to me that I forgot how horrible drinking is. I forgot to look on the bright side.”

  “Dad,” I said, “I don’t think there is a bright side to divorce. It’s a pretty sucky thing all around.”

  He nodded. “Maybe that’s true, but there are a lot of bright sides to my life. I have a job I like, a nice house in a good neighborhood, and a wonderful daughter.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh God,” I muttered. “Don’t go all Lifetime movie on me. Seriously.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “But I mean it. A lot of people would kill for my life, but I didn’t even consider that. I took it—and you—for granted. I’m so, so sorry for that, Bumblebee.”

  I wanted to look away when I saw the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, but I forced myself to focus only on him. I’d been turning away from the truth for too long.

  He apologized multiple times for everything that had happened over the past few weeks. He promised me he’d start going to weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings again, to go back on the wagon, to call his sponsor again. And then we poured every single bottle of whiskey and beer down the drain together, both of us eager for a clean slate.

  “Is your head all right?” he asked me about a million times that day.

  “It’s fine,” I kept telling him.

  He always shook his head and murmured more apologies for slapping me. For saying what he had. Then he’d hug me.

  Seriously, a million times that day.

  Around midnight, I joined him in his nightly ritual of turning out the lights. “Bumblebee,” he said as the kitchen went dark. “I want you to thank your friend next time you see him.”

  “My friend?”

  “Yeah. The boy who was with you last night. What’s his name?”

  “Wesley,” I muttered.

  “Right,” Dad said. “Well, I deserved it. He was brave to do what he did. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m glad you have a friend who’s willing to stand up for you. So please tell him I said thanks.”

  “Sure.” I turned and walked up the stairs to my bedroom, praying that wouldn’t be anytime soon.

  “But Bianca?” He winced and rubbed his jaw. “Next time tell him he should feel free to write a strongly worded letter first. Hell of an arm on that kid.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “There won’t be a next time,” I told him, taking the last few steps and heading to my bedroom.

  Both my parents were facing reality, giving up their distractions. Now it was my turn, and that meant quitting Wesley. Unfortunately, there were no weekly meetings, no sponsors, or twelve-step programs for what I was addicted to.

  21

  I was pretty sure Wesley wouldn’t approach me at school. Why would he? It wasn’t like he’d miss me… even if I really, really wanted him to. He wasn’t losing anything. He had plenty of replacement girls ready and willing to fill any gaps I might have left in his schedule. So there was no need for an avoidance plan on Monday morning.

  Except that I didn’t even want to see him. If I had to look at him day after day, I could never hope to forget about him. I could never hope to
move on. For this situation, I did need a plan, and I had one all lined up.

  Step one: keep distracted in the hallway in case he passed me.

  Step two: stay busy in English and never look over at his side of the classroom.

  Step three: speed out of the parking lot in the afternoon so I didn’t run into him.

  Dad made step three possible by fixing my car Sunday, so I was sure I could keep from seeing Wesley. In a matter of weeks, I’d be able to put our relationship—or lack thereof—out of my mind. If not, well, we’d graduate in May and I’d never have to look at that cocky smirk ever again.

  That was the theory, anyway.

  But by the time the final bell rang on Monday, I knew my plan sucked ass. Not looking at Wesley didn’t necessarily equal not thinking of Wesley. In fact, I spent most of my day thinking about not looking at him. Then I just thought about all the reasons I shouldn’t be thinking of him. It never freaking ended! Nothing seemed to distract me.

  Until Tuesday afternoon.

  I was on my way to lunch after an unbearably long AP government class when something happened that gave me just the distraction I needed. Something unbelievable and shocking. Something pretty damn awesome.

  Toby fell into step with me in the hallway. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” I did my best to sound at least halfway pleasant. “What’s up, Harvard Boy?”

  Toby grinned and looked down, shuffling his feet. “Not much,” he said. “Just trying to decide what to write about for the editorial assignment. Mr. Chaucer wasn’t very specific. What are you going to write yours about?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I’m thinking of doing it on gay marriage.”

  “Supporting or opposing?”

  “Oh, definitely supporting. I mean, the government has no right to dictate who can and can’t publicly declare their love for each other.”

  “How romantic of you,” Toby said.

  I snorted. “Hardly. I’m not romantic at all, but it’s basic logic. Denying homosexuals the right to marriage infringes on their liberty and equality. Pretty screwed up.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Toby agreed. “It seems we have a lot in common.”

  “I guess we do.”

  We walked for a couple of seconds in silence before he asked, “So, do you have any plans for prom?”

  “No,” I told him. “I’m not going. Why pay two hundred bucks for a dress, thirty for a ticket, forty for hair and makeup, and a handful more for dinner, where all you can have is a salad with no dressing because you have to avoid getting gunk on the poufy dress? It’s kind of ridiculous.”

  “I see,” Toby said. “That’s a little unfortunate…. I was kind of hoping you’d go with me.”

  Okay, so I hadn’t seen that coming. At all. Ever. Toby Tucker, the boy I’d crushed on for years, wanted to ask me to prom? Oh my God. Oh my God. And I’d totally bashed the whole institution of high school dances like an opinionated idiot. I’d practically rejected him without even meaning to. Oh, shit. I was a moron. A complete moron. And now I was at a loss for words. What did I say? Did I apologize or take it back or—

  “But it’s fine if you feel that way,” Toby said. “I’ve always thought prom was a pointless rite of passage, so we’re on the same page.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said lamely.

  Oh, someone fucking shoot me right now!

  “But,” Toby pressed, “are you opposed to regular dates? Ones without poufy dresses or crappy salads?”

  “No. I don’t have a problem with those.”

  My head was spinning. Toby wanted me to go on a date with him. A date! I hadn’t been on a real date since… Hell, I’d never been on a real date. Unless you counted making out with Jake in the back of a movie theater a date.

  I didn’t.

  But why? Why would Toby want to go on a date with me? I was the Duff. Duffs don’t get dates. Not real ones. Yet Toby was defying the odds. Maybe he was a bigger man than most. Just like how I’d always imagined him in my stupid, girly, midclass daydreams. Not shallow. Not conceited. Not cocky or vain. A perfect gentleman.

  “That’s good,” he said. “In that case…” I could tell he was nervous. His cheeks were turning pink, and he was staring at his shoes and playing with his glasses. “Friday? Would you like to go out with me on Friday night?”

  “I’d like…”

  Then the inevitable happened. I thought of the douche bag. The playboy. The womanizer. The one person who could ruin this moment for me. Yes, I had a crush on Toby Tucker. How could I not? He was sweet and charming and smart… but my feelings for Wesley were way beyond that. I’d skipped the crush kiddie pool and jumped right into the deep, shark-infested ocean of emotions. And, if you’ll forgive the dramatic metaphor, I was a lousy swimmer.

  But Casey had told me to move on, and here Toby was, tossing me a float and offering to save me from drowning. I’d be stupid not to accept. God only knew how long it might be before another rescue party came along.

  And, come on, Toby was adorable.

  “I’d like that,” I said, hoping my pause hadn’t freaked him out too much.

  “Great.” He sounded relieved. “I’ll pick you up at seven Friday night.”

  “Cool.”

  We separated in the cafeteria, and I think I skipped—yeah, skipped like a little kid—to the lunch table, my bad mood totally forgotten.

  And it stayed forgotten.

  For the rest of that week, I didn’t think about how I shouldn’t be thinking of Wesley. I didn’t think of Wesley at all. Not once. My brain was too full of things like What should I wear? and How should I fix my hair? All the stuff I’d never worried about before. Talk about surreal.

  But those were the things that Casey and Jessica were experts on, so they came home with me on Friday afternoon, and they were eager to make me their own personal Barbie doll. If I hadn’t been so nervous about this date, I would have been horrified, my feminist sensibilities offended at their preening and squealing.

  They forced me into, like, twenty different outfits (all of which I hated) before deciding on one. I wound up in a knee-length black skirt and a low-cut turquoise blouse, cut just low enough that you could make out the curve of my tiny boobs. Then they spent the rest of the time using a flatiron on my unwilling hair. It took them two hours—that’s no exaggeration, by the way—to get it all straight.

  It was already six-fifty when they placed me in front of the mirror to examine their work.

  “Perfect,” Casey announced.

  “Cute!” Jessica agreed.

  “See, B,” Casey said. “All of that Duff shit is ridiculous. You look freaking smoking right now.”

  “What Duff shi—uh, stuff?” Jessica asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “B thinks she’s the ugly one.”

  “What?” Jessica cried. “Bianca, do you really think that?”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “She does,” Casey said. “She told me so.”

  “But you’re not, Bianca,” Jessica insisted. “How could you think that?”

  “Jessica, don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s no big—”

  “I know,” Casey said. “Isn’t it stupid? Isn’t she hot, Jess?”

  “She’s super-hot.”

  “See, B. You’re super-hot.”

  I sighed. “Thanks, guys.” Time for a subject change. “So, um, how are you getting home? I can’t take you if Toby is picking me up in ten minutes. Are your parents coming to get you?”

  “Oh, no,” Jessica said. “We aren’t leaving.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll be here when you get back from your date,” Casey informed me. “Then we’re having an ultra-girly, tell-all slumber party in honor of our B’s first big date.”

  “Yep,” Jessica chirped.

  I gawked at them. “You’re not serious.”

  “Do we look like we’re kidding?” Casey asked.

  “But what w
ill you do while I’m gone? Won’t you be bored or whatever?”

  “You have TV,” Jessica reminded me.

  “And that’s all we really need,” Casey said. “We already called your dad. You don’t have a choice.”

  The doorbell rang before I could argue any further, and my friends practically pushed me down the stairs. Once we were in the living room, they started straightening my skirt and adjusting the collar of my shirt, attempting to maximize the amount of cleavage I was showing.

  “You’re going to have such a good time,” Casey sighed happily, pushing some hair behind my ear. “You’ll be over Wesley in no time.”

  My stomach clenched.

  “Shh… Casey…,” Jessica murmured. I knew Casey had told her the whole story by now, but she hadn’t said anything to me about it, which I appreciated. I really just wanted to keep my mind as far from Wesley as possible.

  I hadn’t spoken to him since the morning I’d left his house. He’d tried to talk to me once or twice after English, though. I just avoided him, starting up conversations with Jessica or Casey and rushing out of the class as fast as I could.

  “OMG, sorry,” Casey said, biting her lip. “I didn’t think.” She cleared her throat awkwardly and scratched the back of her head, ruffling her short hair.

  “Have fun!” Jessica chimed, forcing the uncomfortable pause away. “But, you know, not too much fun. My parents might not like you so much if I have to bail you out of jail.”

  I laughed. Only Jessica could save us from these awkward moments with such bubbly grace.

  I looked at Casey, and I could see a spark of fear in her eye. She wanted me to move on after Wesley, but I knew she was worried. Worried I’d leave her behind again. Worried Toby would replace her.

  But she had nothing to be afraid of. This was totally different from my relationship with Wesley. I wasn’t running anymore. Not from reality. Not from my friends. Not from anything.

  I smiled to reassure her.

  “Go! Go!” Jessica squealed, her blond ponytail swinging as she bounced excitedly.

  “Yeah,” Casey said, smiling back at me. “Don’t keep the boy waiting.”

  They shoved me forward and disappeared back upstairs in a fit of giggles and whispers.