"Your thighs are like hams."
That was the sentence, a sentence that was said in humor by my own brother that started everything leading up to this point.
In high school, I'm not super well-known. I'm most known for being quiet and serene, apparently. My brother's the one with the dynamic personality. Half of the population knows me as "Alfred's brother", and the other half knows me as "who?". It used to annoy me a bit—that I wasn't important enough to be my own person—but it's peaceful now. I'm invisible, but in a good way.
Like a ninja.
But as for Alfred, he was my rowdy and obnoxious half-brother. He never entered a conversation without leaving an impression. He was loud and didn't really have a filter from his head to his mouth,.
I don't really blame him for what he said—besides, he probably didn't know better or thought his comment was irrelevant.
It was my sophomore year in school, and I spent most of my time out of class under the stairs in the corner next to the art room.
It was nice and quiet—I've always appreciated the atmosphere of the art room, and my lunch time was right after fourth period. I usually just walked the fifteen feet from my third period art class with whatever project I was working on and sat in the colorful corner.
Alfred always laughed when he found me under the stairs. "Dude, you look like Harry Potter before Hogwarts—get out from under there!"
I remember the day Alfred said it, because I was just finishing my watercolor commission: a beautiful concept piece of a Japanese-style scenery for a friend, Kiku, who was honestly paying me way too much for something I finished in less than five days. Backgrounds were always my forte considering I usually blended into them, and I was excited to get to do something as challenging as a watercolor background. I figured that the colors melded brilliantly, and I was truly proud of the commission.
I had pulled myself up from where I sat and carefully picked up the painting. The curved roof tiles were still wet with brown water.
The art room's really small in my school, see—Westbank Secondary's a standard "sports before arts" kind of place. In spite of (or perhaps because of) this, the art room is really homey, though. Mr. Roerich's favorite pieces paint the walls with vibrant colors of all shades and saturations; in fact, two of mine hang together above one of the five computers. It's a cramped but cozy niche-like place. Usually if I'm out in the hallway, I'm in the actual room.
So I left the commission on the table next to a ceramics student's dragon tea pot. I admired the piece for a while; the colors blended so well with each other, and as most amazingly "too good" pieces are wont to do, the sculpting of the head made me want to cry.
My phone chimed as I turned to leave, and I checked the usually dormant piece of equipment.
[ Alfred: U coming to lunch? Arthur and I are going to be the table today. ]
It was Alfred. I texted a quick reply.
[ No, I'm not going today—Yao brought some dumplings and said he'd share. ] I never liked to talk in text speak. It usually gave me secondhand embarrassment.
[ Alfred: Btw- can I borrow your xtra pair of jeans? ]
[ Sure. Any reason? ]
[ Alfred: Dumb BF spilled his tea on mine ]
[ Alright, go for it. ]
[ Alfred: oh hey, but would they fit? ]
When I got this message I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows. Alfred and I have been the same size since eighth grade—we even wore the same tux for our parent's wedding. It just fazed me.
[ Yeah… we're the same size. ]
[ Alfred: Still? Bro- no offense, but your thighs r like hams ]
To know my brother Alfred is like knowing twenty different people at once. He's never the same; I'm surprised that Arthur's hung around for this long.
I didn't send another message after that.
I shoved my phone into my pocket and stepped out of the shadowy entrance to the library. I typically spent my lunches in the library if not the art room, and Yao was waiting for me to help him with French.
The fact that my school was bigger than the town's college should tell you a lot about it. It always irritated me that our art room was the size of a mini cooper, considering our gym alone was the width of half a football field, but that's what you get for living in Maryland I suppose.
And yes, Alfred and I measured.
When I stepped into our ironically small library, Yao already had all of his textbooks and his handy dandy legal pad out. He nodded to me when he saw me coming.
"You're late."
I've known Yao since before my father married Alfred's mom. In the past three years, his Chinese accent has slowly begun to fade, but the pronunciation remains a common issue as his first language still lingers in his mind and lips. The boy usually wears his long hair in a ponytail, but his uneven hair always fall into his eyes, forcing him to tuck it behind his ear. Yao's family is a multicultural foster family, so despite him getting a lot of odd looks for it, they encourage him to look however he wants.
He always gets angry when Alfred comments on it, though, so I usually choose to stay quiet when I see it growing out.
I sat down in front of Yao, turning his textbook towards me. French was my second language, but I started learning it at a very young age. My dad was natively French, and when my mother died, he began to teach it to me.
I never understood why, but now I guess it was to distract me from the sadness. Maybe it was to distract himself.
I heard Yao sigh dramatically and looked up to see a frustrated Chinese man with his head in his arms.
I tapped him. "Yao? What's wrong? Is it the feminine pronouns again?"
"I don't understand—why is there such a difference in these words? To me, pronouns should just be gender neutral—otherwise we wouldn't have so much controversy over them!"
"Chinese is a completely different language than French," I soothed, knowing distantly that Chinese didn't have masculine or feminine pronouns in the spoken language. "It's like an English man attempting to learn Finnish. It's hard." Yao's first language was Chinese, so as soon as he asked me for help with French, a required language course, I immediately understood—and because I had finished French the year before (I was given permission to do the classes online, and completed French I through French IIII my freshmen year) I had plenty of knowledge to share.)
Yao's eyes lit up at the end of my sentence. He'd been tapping his finger on the edge of our table but brought his entire hand down on the wooden surface.
I'd never seen how thin his fingers were before then. Or all of him, really.
"Speaking of hard—I made us lunch!" he said brightly, pulling out a large plastic container.
I snorted. "What does that have to do with hard?"
"They're going to be if you don't eat them," he said with a sly look. The Chinese youth opened his Tupperware container of white rice and curried shrimp. Another smaller Tupperware dish sat right beside it, with four soft dumplings lying in perfect order.
The smell rose in invisible puffs and danced on the outer rims of my nostrils as I inhaled the aroma of pork and shrimp. I looked into the container and saw crisp green onions in the curry; the vermillion shrimp sat on top of the rice, and to the side dried mango curled in on itself as the plastic divider kept it from touching the neat main dish.
It was beautiful.
I didn't deserve it.
Underneath the table I grabbed at the flesh at my arms as Yao handed me a fork and separated a share of the meal onto the separate container that held the napkin, fork, and a pair of chopsticks. I watched him place the food evenly, dividing it in two.
My phone burned a hole in my side pocket.
The pocket of the jeans that hid my huge thighs.
"Yao—I'm sorry, but I actually have to go help Arthur really quick—gotta make sure Alfred's okay, too. Can I take a rain check?"
Holding a dumpling to his lips, Yao blinked at me. "At least take food with you. This is too much for one person, seriously."
Wanting not to be anymore rude than I already was, I took the container and the fork, sending a nod of thanks to my friend.
My phone vibrated again, but I was too scared to dig it out of my pocket. What if I hadn't exited out of Alfred's chat box and I saw the message again?
I went straight to the men's room as the bell rang for fifth period, and dumped out the food Yao had given me, feeling immediately guilty as I stared at the red-stained rice and chunks of shrimp, now so different and unappetizing, even as my stomach howled as the aroma found its way to my nose again.
I backed up and looked into the mirror. What I saw was what I had been seeing for my entire life: sandy blond hair met the bottom of my ears and ended abruptly, curling at my nape. Glasses framed an ovular face and hid large, violet eyes. My teeth were straight, and my nose was too. I wasn't ugly.
Then I looked down at my soft stomach and my big shoulders. I looked at my wide hips and big thighs.
I wasn't ugly.
No, I was fat.
It had never come to my attention until now. It was surprising—jarring. I used to be a small kid, and no matter how old I got or how many pancakes I ate, I never changed. Until now. The burning lump of frustration pushed into my neck, and tried to push back the stinging in my eyes but it only made the feeling worse. This wasn't ever something I cared about—so why did it matter now?
My phone vibrated again, and I pulled it out, finding the courage to unlock it.
It was a text from Arthur.
[Please don't take into mind what Alfred said. You know how idiotic he can be.] It was just like Arthur to speak formally in a text message. I continued on reading.
[ Arthur: You look fine, Matthew, it's just the way you were built. ]
The way I was built. Fat.
[ Arthur: Matthew, are you alright? Please don't let this start anything. ]
Oh Arthur, I thought.
Too late.
.
.
.
Without hesitation, as soon as the bell rang, I dashed out of the bathroom. The smell was beginning to take up more than just the stall, no matter the amount of paper towels I stacked on the food.
I shuffled quietly to class as the occasional late person scooted past me. If you really knew me well, you could tell when I was upset of not. I had a give, and I knew it was in the way I carried myself, but only those close to me knew well enough to notice.
I scanned the hallway for the familiar face of a friend, but looked back down when none were to be seen. They were all honor students, and they couldn't bother to be late for someone like me anyway.
I swear I would have burst into tears if the surprise of someone hitting my shoulder didn't knock me out of my numb haze.
"Ahh, shit!" an unfamiliar voice exclaimed as my arm flew back and I tripped on my own two feet. His papers flew around so dramatically you'd think we were in an over-the-top movie where two destined lovers meet—or something cheesy in that context.
"Are you alright?" I looked up to a face I'd never seen before- which was interesting, because I figured I would have seen a white-haired guy in a hallway at some point, no matter how big this school was. I took his offered hand, and felt a pang of guilt as I heard him grunt when he pulled me up.
When I was back on my feet, he looked at me for a while. I was struck by the hue of his eyes: they were an iridescent red, a deep garnet color that I'd like to use for painting.
I didn't say that out loud, though, because that'd probably be creepy.
He just looked at me smiling, like I was the albino he'd seen for the first time this year. Maybe he was mirroring me.
When he was apparently done looking at me, he seemed to have remembered all of the papers that had flown out of his hand.
"Scheiße…" he huffed frustratedly as he bent down to pick up the scraps of paper.
For a moment I stood there in silence, but ass soon as I recovered from the shock I bent down to help him. My short nails struggled to pick up the sheathes against cold tile, and I grimaced until I turned one over. There I paused, half crouching; the pieces of paper were either blank, scrawled with lines, or covered with anatomical figures. Others had fully drawn sketches, some with eyes and fingernails, and one was covered in skin blends. One character, a small older woman with large circular spectacles, smiled up at me, fully colored in rich shades of umber and viridian.
Wow.
I didn't even notice I was holding them out until he grabbed them with a blinding smile.
"Thanks—sorry about that by the way, I wasn't looking where I was going—did I hurt you?"
I couldn't speak. His voice was... nice, for lack of abetter word—not smooth, but not to hoarse or sharp—like the sound of an older instrument: worn down but still melodic.
Wow.
"I'm fine…" I finally managed with a whisper. We honestly just stood there for a good while—just looking at each other. I noticed embarrassedly me how he watched me—with this half-smirk on his face that by now I thought was permanent.
The tension was so thick anyone would crumple up like paper. He finally cut it when he glanced down at his papers and brought a smooth hand up in thanks. "Awesome of you to help me get them—I would have never found them all…" And he had a thick German accent clinging to his every word, too—and I knew from there came the striking staccato of his voice.
"What are they?" I brought myself to ask. My throat closed in on me like someone was stepping on it but only slowly applying pressure.
He deliberated for a moment, as if unsure of how he wanted to phrase his answer. "Storyboards. Like for cartoons and animated novels. Or comics. Comics too. I sort of want to be a story board writer when I'm older. It's something to think about…" He shuffled awkwardly when he spoke, taking his hands out of his pocket, running them through his hair, and putting them back in forcefully, only to repeat the cycle all over again.
"I'm sorry—I didn't even ask for your name…" Here his volume dropped off at the end, though the entire time he'd been explaining he was booming.
"Er—Matthew," I replied stupefied. I hated that even though it was such a simple question, it was so difficult to answer.
"Gilbert," he returned with a smile. "And, uh, thanks again, Matthew."
"Oh, eh, yeah…" I tried to find something to say other than nonsensical grunts. He was surprisingly attractive, I couldn't help but notice. He had hiss thumb hooked to the strap of his silver backpack, and he had nice arms: lean, but still muscled in all the right places. And he had a slouch to him—but the kind that started at the waist and make someone look really laid back, not the ones that left the curled hunches. His hair fell onto his forehead in white tiffs, and his right ear was pierced with an industrial bar in the cartilage.
Basically he was the most attractive boy I'd ever seen.
And he just stood there looking at me with his smile.
I fixed my glasses and pulled my bag from off of the floor, then waited for him to move.
He didn't.
"Well… I have to go to class." I was getting tired of my stupid mumbling, and I tried to hide my blush, bringing my red backpack to my shoulder and bunching up the fabric of my hoodie beneath the weight of it. I hoped to make my escape surreptitiously, but when I started to back away, he turned around, shuffling the papers and putting them back into order.
And he had such a nice smile. "I hope I see you around, Matthew! It was awesome meeting you."
Gilbert walked with a stride, and even today it embarrasses me to think that I watched him walk all the way down that hallway until he was nothing but a silver and black blur. My face was crimson, and I had only just started to feel the heat. I shook my head and went the opposite direction, hanging my head once again.
He wouldn't like a guy with hams for thighs.
~ Hola! I was so tired yesterday I got home at three in the afternoon and went straight to bed. I didn't wake up until six the next day. Because school is coming to an end and I have NO FINALS YAAAAAAAAS I have more time to work on my writing. This idea came to me when I was looking for some seriously breaking mental angst, and there was no abundance on the internet, so I just thought "Maybe a PruCan!" and thus, the first chapter of a story I won't spend nearly as much time absent in as I have been on "Puppet" Thanks again for reading, and I'll have the next chapter up an running ASAP.
If you or a friend suffers from an eating disorder, boy or girl, I'm right here to help, or to just talk to. Please, if anyone ever needs anything, do NOT hesitate to ask. I'm here for all my readers, or even people who don't know who the heckers I am.
With love, Keyboardmurderer~
