The sound of the song "Hellbent for Leather," by Judas Priest, had become the bane of my existence.
After my fucking father hanged himself upon the discovery of my mom's affair with her boss on the eve of my eighth grade year in school, I have used that song to wake up at 6:15 religiously; pun intended, considering I went to a Catholic school.
Don't get me wrong, I am not a metal head by any stretch of the imagination. I happen to be a firm believer in music where any man singing higher than early 2000s Tim McGraw is screamo and needs to be ignored. But, upon discovering my dad's vinyl collection that featured many albums by Judas Priest, I found some comfort in it for the time being.
The last two years, though? Hatred.
Because my life went to shit after he was lowered into the ground.
First came the pain. Aunt Flo was never that kind to me, but once I turned 14, I had to stay in bed for the first day of my cycle.
Then the painful, cystic, scarring acne came.
Then the moustache that was more impressive than your average seventh grade boy.
Then the skin flaking away like I was a bluegill.
Then the 88 pounds on my size 00, extra small frame.
Then came the diagnosis of Type 2 diabetes out of absolutely nowhere.
My general practitioner had no clue what it was, but she referred me to my gynecologist and an endocrinologist friend of hers. That's when the diagnosis at the gyne came down. The four letters no woman…or girl…ever wants to hear.
PCOS.
Getting told that I was never going to be skinny again broke my heart. I was going to be over 200 pounds for the rest of my life. I was going to have debilitating pain every cycle for the rest of my life. I was going to have cystic acne that would make my skin so painful and so weak that it would peel off when I tried to wax my facial hair. I was going to have periods (pun intended) where parts of my hair was going to fall out. I might never be able to give the man I marry in the future a child. I might never be able to give anyone I love the life they might want because of how big I was.
All of this was going to happen…for the rest. Of. My. FUCKING LIFE.
I felt like a fake woman.
I felt unwhole.
I felt empty.
I felt unworthy of love from another human being.
And I missed my dad.
And my step-dick was a terrible person that made fun of me every single chance he got because of my size.
I hit the snooze button on my phone, desperately wanting to sleep my life away. Sadly, my alarm also goes through my massive stereo system, and that meant Doug had the opportunity to raise his voice as loudly as he fucking could.
Prick.
"Evangeline! Get your fat ass out of bed right now! I should have heard your globe-shaking footsteps going across the hallway by now! Fix that!" Doug bellowed from his usual spot at the head of the table in front of the sliding glass door. You know…right where my father used to sit.
I groaned. I didn't want to go to school. It was the first day of junior year at my local Catholic high school. It was so cliquey. Everyone fell into one of three categories: the athletes, where everyone knew everyone, slept with everyone else, and just generally had more drama than a room full of soap opera actors; the nerds, who were always organizing where the next table top gaming campaign or session or whatever was going to be at; and the rejects, who were there because their parents had money. I didn't belong in any of those groups because my main tormenter, Tristan Voss, ran the school. He was a member of everything because he just happened to be one of those people that life is just unfairly and stupidly easy for. He was quarterback of the football team, took four AP classes, and drummed in a punk rock band.
He was also insanely gorgeous. His perfectly combed, rich, chocolate brown hair swooped back in a wavy flourish; his green eyes could set off a party in the panties of any cheerleader who happened to look his way; and he had a washboard eight pack that you could ride on with a fucking surfboard.
Oh, yeah, I was treated to shows every once in a while for that, because he was my next door neighbor. His bathroom window opened up to my window and when he'd come home from practice with scrapes on his arm, blood on his face, and grass in his hair, I would find myself daydreaming about cleaning him up.
Lucky me for seeing that. Swoon.
Then he'd totally ruin the image he'd build in my own mind by making size jokes and otherwise fatshaming me.
Could a heart break from words alone? Mine sure did…each time he opened his mouth to tease me.
Last year, he started the year by screaming, "HOLY SHIT, CHINA CALLED, EVEE! THE WHOLE COUNTRY WANTS YOU TO LEARN HOW TO LEVETATE FROM CLASS TO CLASS TO CLASS!!!"
The year before that? "UH OH! EVANGELINE MARLOWE! WIDE LOAD!!!"
If I could hide my girth like a normal person, everything would be okay. I'd be able to put on a 3XL hoodie and just be done with it. But no, because my school was run by the man in Rome, that meant uniforms. The saving grace was there were no skirts or anything plaid. Instead, I just had to wear a polo with khaki pants. If you're skinny, polos make you look gorgeous, or at the very least not slovenly. But if you're the size I am…let's not go there.
Whatever.
I threw my quilt off, swung myself over to the side of the bed, and rose. Almost immediately, I was hit with the worst wave of nausea I had ever encountered without actively puking all over myself. With how bad my hormones were, I guessed that my blood sugars were way out of whack. I reached in my nightstand for my blood sugar tester and a test strip. Sure enough, I was way low. I needed carbs and fairly quickly.
I stood up again, a little steadier this time, and walked over to my closet, found my Royal blue polo that didn't make me look like a personified house, squeezed myself into khakis that were a size small yesterday but my delusional self decided was perfect, did my makeup to hide seven new blackheads that Houdini'd themselves onto my face, and bravely made my way downstairs to face my day.
Mercifully, my mom was still home, scrambling eggs and frying sausages before going to her job as the secretary for Doug's law office. My relationship with my mom–Margaret was her name–was complicated; more than a part of me would always hold her responsible for the death of my father, but she realized that Dad's death made my mental health absolutely crater.
David J.R. Marlowe would always have a part of him live within me.
"Good morning, Evie," my mom said, trying to cheer me up. "How are you feeling on your first day of junior year?"
"Iffy," I replied. "My sugars are a bit low."
I took my seat on the left side of the table and slid the furthest away from Doug I could get. I reached for a slice of toast and a generous portion of the eggs to try to get my proteins up, but Doug took the plate of toast and slid it back towards him.
"You don't need this," he said with a sneering grin that was more than a little disturbing.
"Yes, I do," I shot right back. "My doctor says that in the early morning if my blood sugar is low, I need at least one slice of bread, preferably two, and some protein. You would know that if you had been there." I reached over to take the plate but Doug moved it closer towards him.
"I didn't need to be there, because I know that bread means carbs, and you're too fat to eat carbs," he said. "You're simply not eating fattening foods in my presence. A little blood sugar dip will do you good."
"Come on, Doug," Mom whispered, but did little else. I had no clue why she was so meek around him; I could never recall any instances where she was so soft-spoken around my father. The affair must have really changed her.
"I will not have my family look any other way than perfect," Doug said calmly. "Appearances are everything, and my step-daughter will look the part. I firmly believe that whatever medical excuses she's hiding behind can be overcome by simply being accountable. I will not have mediocrity surrounding me under any circumstances."
"Yeah, well, I have medical proof that I can't help it, and if I don't have some complex carbs right now, I will end up passing out before the first school bell rings," I snapped while standing up–way too fast, I'll grant you that–and reached for the toast. Doug, however, was faster. He stood up, took the plate of bread, opened up the sliding glass door to our back patio of our house and threw it like a frisbee out the door and onto a parked car outside on the street behind our property, shattering the plate and the windshield of the car at the same time.
"Maybe now, you'll listen to the Alpha Male of this family," Doug growled.
That did it for me. I snuck away, tears threatening to stream down my face fast enough to completely wreck my makeup. I couldn't stand being anywhere near him anymore. Luckily, I had a backup makeup case in my car for emergencies just like this. I had a feeling that by the time I made it to school, I would be requiring it just to enter the building.
With it being the first day, I anticipated not needing anything of importance. I texted my best friend, Gianna Caravello, saying I had a bad morning using my car's talk to text function.
"What the fuck happened?" Gianna asked.
"Doug wouldn't let me eat bread. I feel like I am about to pass out. My blood sugars are actively crashing right now, and I don't know if I can make it to school," I replied.
"Grl wut," Gianna replied. "Come to my new house. We just finished the move, and with me being closer, we can ride together in case crap like this happens again."
"Bet," I replied and punched in the address to the house that Gianna's family had just bought. "This will be so much easier."
I'd known Gianna for just about 12 years, having first become friends with her in Kindergarten. She had been the rock that held me up when my dad died and through my health issues, and I was her rock through her parents' divorce when we were in sixth grade. All told, she was my person, and I was her's.
"You're right, and I will do anything to make up for it," I texted.
"Damned right you will," Gianna replied. I could picture that sarcastic little smirk on her face that would get her out of killing someone if a cop was standing right there.
I made it to her house, and her mom greeted me with a bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich with a side of toast. I wolfed it down before I could even ask for a tour. The drive took longer than expected and we snuck into our first hour U.S. History class just in the nick of time. After the prayer and the Pledge, announcements were made. I wanted to pay attention to the majority of them, but low and behold, we heard this:
"Drama Club: Audition information for the fall play Much Ado About Nothing will take place in room 213 during the activity period after eighth hour. Audition sequences will be available in rooms 213 and 209. Please see Mr. Weber and Mr. Montelioni for more information."
I was hoping to hear more announcements, but Ginna immediately was in my ear.
"You have to audition with me! It would be so much fun!" she practically squealed.
"Ha!" I snorted. "Me, in front of other people?! You've lost whatever marbles you had to begin with."
"Remember how you said this morning that you'd do anything for me in order to make up for it?" Gianna asked.
Uh oh.
You know those thoughts of where you know the direction something is going, you don't like it, but the only choice you have is to simply ride it out?
That was me in this moment.
"Fine, I'll do it," I groaned.
Much of the rest of the day went by in a blur. I was more than slightly dreading speaking in front of people. I had no interest in parading my size to everyone, but this was much different. I didn't know if I was going to like it or not, but I was certainly nervous.
The most refreshing thing about this first day of school was that by this point, the gossiping about me had died down. Yes, I was the stepdaughter of the most powerful lawyer in the town and I was more than acutely aware of it. Same with the open secret that my dad was dead by his own hand. I was able to exist in my own anxiety about the Drama meeting at the end of the day. It was nice that all people involved in some form of extra curricular activity had time with their advisors and/or coaches at the end of the day so that way once the day itself ended, we could go to the fields or stage and have at it.
When the day finally ended, Gianna and I trudged all the way across the school to Mr Montelioni's classroom with his comfy seats and tables you could prop your feet up on for the Drama Club meeting. Mr. M., as he wanted to be called, was simultaneously the most energetic and shortest man I have ever met, but damnit if he wasn't a good director; at least, that's what his reputation was around town. The previous spring, he had done something from Disney, and I heard amazing things about the show. Mr. Weber was his polar opposite. Stout, blonde, always smiling, and with the dumbest necktie I had ever seen, Mr. Weber talked about all of the characters that we could play and how he expected the characters to be portrayed. When the bell rang to dismiss all of us, Gianna dragged me to the front of the room for me to grab my audition sequences. I was finally wrapping my head around this being something I might enjoy.
Or so I thought.
Because right as I turned around after grabbing my audition packet, guess who was standing right there.
Tristan Voss.
And his eyes…those piercingly, freakishly hypnotizingly blue eyes…locked onto mine.