Pretty Girls Don't Eat Bread

16. Fat Pig In A Skirt

The funeral will be taking place on Thursday. Dawson broke it to us in person in the school hallway, his eyes glossy and empty, like those glass marbles we used to play with as kids. They don't let the whole school know, his family wanted to invite only a handful of Tom's 'closest of friends'. I mean, what a fucking joke, because we definitely are the most loyal bunch, right? Mallory being fucking Mallory first ingratiates herself with flattering words and selfless acts of kindness before she really starts interrogating him about the latest news. Dawson admits that an autopsy has been performed and a funeral has been allowed, but the murder investigation continues. I try to follow the reactions of others, but they're not exactly of any help. Freddie's staring at the ground, Levi's dejectedly rubbing his brows, Jade remains silent, Rich is watching Levi dejectedly rub his brows, and Christian's soothingly rubbing Dawson's shoulder.

"Shit, that's only two days from now," Jade remarks nervously as soon as we part with Dawson, and my stomach turns upside down at her words.

"We should tell the others ASAP," Mallory promptly conducts. "I'll text Toby and Hayden. Christian, will you let Ava know?"

Trying not to show my irritation at her harmless request, I dig my fingernails into the skin on my forearm. Christian hums, nodding and immediately pulling his cell phone out of his pocket to do as he was told. I know he has the right to speak to whomever he wants and this whole weird obsession of mine with Ava has to end, all the more so because I was the one who didn't want it, who didn't want us, but she's so pretty it hurts, so right for Christian and I don't recognise myself when craving for it, for her, to be me.

"Done," Christian mutters, putting the phone back into the pocket on his black trousers. For a short moment I swear I can I feel his gaze on me, but I don't want to feed into it, so I don't give in and instead continue to stare convincingly at my pathetically looking deteriorating blue nail polish.

"Great," Mallory says looking up at Freddie for support, to which he responds with a nod as if they're using a non-verbal communication that we don't understand. "It's going to suck. We miss him. We're going to see his family and we'll be flooded with emotions. Don't say anything. You know better to keep it to yourself."

Her words of warning make my spirit shudder. It's confusing to stand right here with them, to be connected to one another with heavy chained balls dangling from our legs, when after Friday I want to be as far away from them as possible, but at the same time they understand me more than anyone else. In some ways maybe even more than Christian. I have probably never experienced a more dysfunctional relationship, and I have lived in one with my body all my life.

My name murder chart has found a place on the desk in my room, and the reasons for Mallory's name keep growing wider while my patience with her wears thinner. As much as I look at the other names on paper, I can't imagine any of them dealing. Except for her.

"Mal, can we talk?" I stop her with an innocent high-pitched voice as our group disbands.

She looks at me in confusion before willingly nodding at my unusual request and walking closer the window where no one will disturb us. "Yes?" She hurries me when I fall silent. "What do you need?"

I'm not quite sure how to start. I have two reasons. One is that I honestly and desperately do need to do this. Vodka is just not working anymore and I'm gaining weight, so I need something stronger and more effective. Opiates. I'm sure they'd do the job and they're less addictive than opioids. If it also meant confirming my theory about her, that would be just a bonus. I'm nervous, but I know I have nothing to lose.

"The funeral's going to be awful," I whisper sincerely and Mallory's nodding her head again before I even get to finish the full sentence.

"I agree."