Page 14 of One Week in Paris
6
IT’S BEEN TWO DAYS since the ill-fated dinner, and I’m still shaken.
All I wanted to do when I left the restaurant was run to the nearest donut shop and buy a whole box. Instead, I ran to the gym. It’s my happy place, it’s where I work, where I’m surrounded by true friends. At the gym, I’m not Whaley Wilson, I’m Kayla.
Whaley Wilson is what Matt used to call me. It’s what everyone used to call me, but Matt came up with it. I don’t know why he did it. I thought we were friends. But I suppose, he wanted the laughs and the attention. He was the class clown, and he needed a punchline. I, unfortunately, was his punchline.
He’d gotten a few good laughs when he stuck a photo of a whale on my locker, when he’d left a whale stuffie on my desk seat, and that time he’d left a basket of fish treats by my locker on my sixteenth birthday. I’d told him that he was an idiot, that whales aren’t fish.
“So you’re not a fish,” he’d said. “Good to know, Whaley Wilson.” Everyone had cracked up. I’d never felt so low. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. That night, my mom and my sister did their best to cheer me up. I ate a slice of my birthday cake and feigned a smile as I opened my presents; pretty notebooks, costume jewelry, fun socks, a scarf, and a pair of boots. But no clothing or candy. By then, Dad was already gone, and I was glad he wasn’t there to see me. In recent years, I’d only gotten bigger. Later, after Mom and Sarah went to bed, I snuck into the kitchen and ate the whole cake. Then I purged it. It was the start of something horrible.
The next day, I told my mom that I had thrown out the cake, that I didn’t want the temptation. She hugged me and told me she was proud of me.
My best friends don’t even know my secret. I don’t know why I’ve never told them. I suppose I just want to be the person they see every day. I don’t want them to know who I was before. They think I’m perfect… ethereal even. Corrie says I’m a knockout, and that she’d kill to have my body. She’s always complaining about her small boobs and lack of curves. Maeve and Gabbie also think I’m beautiful. When I look in the mirror, I don’t always see what they see. Occasionally, I see the old me, and it scares me a little. I don’t know why. I was the same person back then as I am now. I hate that I feel this way. I hate that I can’t love myself with a few extra pounds. Matt Moore did this to me. Before he came along, I was okay with the extra weight. I didn’t love it, but I accepted it. I still liked myself. But after he came along, I started to hate myself, and became obsessed with transforming myself into something he might approve of.
The women in my classes are not yogis, they are all shapes and sizes. They are all beautiful to me; tall, short, the small slender ones, and the curvier ones. They are healthy and love their bodies, and that’s what’s important. But for me, that’s not good enough. I need to have a certain BMI, and I need to fit into my favorite skinny jeans to be happy.
Bullying
Courage is fire, and bullying is smoke.— Benjamin Disraeli
A world without bullying.Wouldn’t that be something? Bullying has been in the news a lot lately, but unfortunately, it’s nothing new. It’s been around for ages. Back in my day, no one talked about it. At least now people are talking about it, which is an improvement. But it’s still happening.
And now kids have to deal with cyber-bullying too, which might just be one of the worst forms of bullying.Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.Not so, my friends. Words have the power to hurt as much as punches. If I could have chosen to be slapped in the face once a day instead of being teased mercilessly, I would have done it.
The anonymity of the internet and the freedom to type anything you want without having to fear consequences is a lethal combination.
There will always be dominant people out there, those who feel the need to belittle others to make themselves feel bigger. Bullies are usually the ones with issues, bigger issues than those of their victims. When one thinks of a bully, one pictures a big kid kicking a smaller kid to the ground. But unfortunately, bullying encompasses so much more than that, and its effects are long lasting — I speak from experience. Intimidation, manipulation, coercion, alienation, verbal abuse, and mocking are all tools of the skilled bully.
Small wars are rampant on our schoolyards, and parents are often powerless to stop them. Unfortunately, bullying doesn’t just happen on the playground. It happens in workplaces, universities, and groups, anywhere where there are dominants eager to strike.
And the lasting effects of bullying can be devastating: low self-esteem, depression, and even suicide. How many therapist hours have been devoted to memories of bullying? I should probably still see a therapist… I have in the past. Matt Moore’s words and actions will forever be branded on my heart.
Bullying’s mark is not a stamp, it does not fade. It is a brand. A tattoo. Irreversible and permanent.
* * *
I’m fucked up.
And no one knows that more than Oscar Cohen.
I desperately want to call him. I hate it when we fight.
He knows the whole Whaley Wilson story. He’s one of the few people in my life who do.
I couldn’t hide it from him — he’s always snooping around my stuff. The man seriously has no boundaries. He fell upon an old yearbook of mine once. Another time, he found my old photo albums. He claimed he was looking for my hidden stash of sweets. He has a sweet tooth like me, and he knows I have a small stash that I keep out of sight, out of temptation.
As he flipped through the pages of my old photo album, slack-jawed, I fell into sobs. I couldn’t help myself. I told him the whole sordid story right there. He gave me the longest hug known to man, and kissed my cheeks, and my nose, and my forehead, and told me I was the most beautiful person he’d ever met, and that he’d love me no matter how small or big I was.
“You were super cute in high school,” he said. “I would have totally had a stiffie for you.”
And I laughed.
I wonder if Oscar’s socks have arrived. I haven’t been to get my mail in ages. I wash my face, slip on my Uggs and make the trek downstairs to the lobby to retrieve my mail — the usual: junk mail mostly, a magazine, a few bills and yes, a parcel.
Suddenly, I’m in a better mood. I’ve read somewhere that receiving a gift or a package gives you a shot of dopamine. I guess it’s the excitement of opening and discovering something. Despite the fact that I already know what’s in the box, I’m giddy as I dash back upstairs.
I tear into the package. The new yoga mat bag I ordered is gorgeous, and Oscar’s socks are just as expected. I dig through my holiday drawer for some ribbon, and wrap it around the socks. I don’t waste any time in delivering them. I don’t even need to slip on a jacket because Oscar lives right next to me. We met at an annual barbecue thrown by the landlord for the tenants — it was my first year here.
