“Fat ass.”
“Stupid, ugly fat chick.”
“Did your Grandma give you that bra?”
They wouldn’t stop. I locked myself in my room after that, the humiliation too much to handle. Emailing my professors, claiming I had some form of sickness that wouldn’t go away. Working on my assignments and emailing them back, so I didn’t fall behind. It was working well until Ronnie pointed out that if I didn’t make a physical appearance in class I was going to fail.
I’ve never failed a class in my life and although the thought of walking out of this room makes me want to hurl everything I’ve eaten in the past three weeks, I know it’s something that I must do.
Of course, no one traced the picture back to Chase, he covered his tracks well. If anyone found out he’s the source, he would be kicked off the basketball team and expelled from school.
JSU is a very liberal college, this sort of inappropriate conduct would land him back home with his parents. I could tell my advisor what he did but then I risk being thrown out also.
If I’d paid better attention when someone screen shots a photo on SnapTalk it alerts you, if I would have looked, I’d known what was in store for me.
Even though I stopped leaving my room, I still read the comments—the horrible, horrible comments. Not one person had something nice to say.
Someone even printed the picture and hung it in the student union. Social media wasn’t enough of an attack whoever was doing it wanted everyone to be able to see it even if they didn’t own a digital device.
The comments all focused on the bra I was wearing and how fat I was. Harsh words about my audacity of photographing something so disgusting. No one caring I was underage, or that I’m an actual person. They all thought I was sharing it, revealing myself for attention. As if I would ever expose any of my body to the public, people are gullible sometimes.
Fashion is not something that interested me; if it doesn’t’ challenge my brain I could care less. I’m a person more interested in comfort than style. Up until an accident a few years ago, my Mom did my shopping. I never gave a second thought to my plus size, full coverage beige bras or my full granny panty style underwear. I’m the only one who ever saw them. If they’re comfortable, I don’t care what they look like. I don’t see the point in wearing a piece of string up my ass to be sexy. A constant wedgie doesn’t seem like it would compel me to feel better about myself.
I’m a 46 triple D bra size. If a bra holds up the ladies and eases some pressure on my back, I’m good. Only wide straps and large cups provide the support I need, not something to pushes them up and make them look larger than they already are.
I live in yoga pants, leggings, and big baggie sweatshirts, praising Ryan McLatchy for inventing the most comfortable pants on the planet.
My wardrobe hasn’t been updated in years, the photo had one intended viewer, one person was supposed to see me bare but instead, thousands are reveling in my humiliation.
Give me a book on The Mechanics of Human Psychology and I’m a happy girl. Matching my bra to my panties will not make me smarter, I don’t see the purpose.
Once upon a time, I had dreams of being a novelist, a soothsayer of words. When my Mom’s condition became my reality, I decided my brains were better used to help people.
I never go to the mall; I never go shopping. When I sent the picture, I sent the real me. The girl he had been talking to for three weeks. Flat hair, squinting eyes because I took my glasses off, cleavage so large it looks like a baby’s butt, beige Cross Your Heart bra with a fat roll showing underneath, and pouty duck lips. I thought it would make him lust after me, I thought he wanted me the way I am. I hoped it would bring him rushing to my door, unable to contain his lust for me. I thought dealing with a man instead of a boy would produce a more mature outcome. I was wrong on all accounts.
Proving a high IQ, high test scores and graduating high school at seventeen years old doesn’t mean shit if you don’t have the common sense to recognize an evil snake when it offers you an apple. We never will learn not to bite the damn apple, no matter how many times it’s offered, the shitty people of the world always win.
Now I must pay the piper, I must go back to class. Today’s class, Psychology 1201: Your Brain on Drugs. One of the classes I have with Chase and all the other basketball players. A required general education class for most degree programs.
Wearing my black yogas with little holes in the knees, an old Hyper Color sweatshirt that was my Mom’s, throwing on my Chucks, pulling a beanie over my head and putting large sunglasses on. I head out to face the firing squad.
The Quad at JSU.
Hoping my hat and glasses mask me enough to hide from the harshness of cruel words.
Chapter Two
Social Media sucks big hairy balls!
—Tensanne to Ronnie
Tensanne
“COME ON, I’LL walk you to class,” Ronnie calls.
“Do you know viral is a medical term? It’s used to describe something that is small but can infect all types. Everyone who views a viral picture or video becomes infected. Evoking emotions from a viewer is what makes the watcher share the item they have seen. People want to share their elation, laughs or, in my case, their disgust with everyone,” I ramble.
“Stop stalling, we need to go,” she orders.
Sighing in defeat, I grab my backpack. Grabbing Ronnie’s hand, I drag her down the hall, to the stairs as fast as my chunky legs will carry
