Holding Up the Universe

by Jennifer Niven

I’m not a shitty person, but I’m about to do a shitty thing. And you will hate me, and some other people will hate me, but I’m going to do it anyway to protect you and also myself.

For now, this is how I get by: Nod/smile at everyone. Be charming. Be “on.” Be goddamn hilarious. Be the life of the party, but don’t drink. Don’t risk losing control (that happens enough when sober). Pay attention.

Anything to keep from being the prey. Always better to hunt than be hunted.

PS. You’re the only person who knows what’s wrong with me.

Prosopagnosia (pro-suh-pag-NO-zhuh) noun: 1. an inability to recognize the faces of familiar people, typically as a result of damage to the brain. 2. when everyone is a stranger.

Tomorrow is my first day of school since fifth grade. My new title will be high school junior, which, let’s face it, sounds a lot better than America’s Fattest Teen. But it’s hard to be anything but TERRIFIED OUT OF MY SKULL.

You should never have gone to the party. You should never have had a drink. You know you can’t be trusted. Avoid alcohol. Avoid crowds. Avoid people. You only end up pissing them off.

As long as you live, there’s always something waiting; and even if it’s bad, and you know it’s bad, what can you do? You can’t stop living. (Truman Capote, In Cold Blood)

There’s just this shit happening at home that I can’t talk about right now, so if you can bear with me and find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll be forever in your debt. The shit happening at home part is completely true.

This is the price I pay for trying to keep everyone happy.

The guy in the mirror isn’t bad-looking—high cheekbones, strong jaw, a mouth that’s hitched up at one corner like he just got done telling a joke. Somewhere in the neighborhood of pretty. The way he tilts his head back and gazes out through half-open eyelids makes it seem like he’s used to looking down on everyone, like he’s smart and he knows he’s smart, and then it hits me that what he really looks like is an asshole.

They couldn’t know that once I make up my mind about something, I’m going to do it. And I’d made up my mind to eat.

Every book I read and movie I watch seems to give out the same message: high school is the worst experience you can ever have.

“All you have to do is today, Libbs. If it completely and totally sucks, we can go back to homeschooling. Just give me one day. Actually, don’t give it to me. Give yourself one day.”

Dusty is dark like Mom. Marcus, on the other hand, couldn’t be whiter. Me? I’m just Jack Masselin, whoever the hell that is.

“If I want to carry a purse, I’m going to carry it. I’m not going to not carry it just because they don’t like it.”

We have bad skin and bad hair and good skin and good hair, and we’re all different shapes and sizes. I like us better than our TV selves, even though sitting here, I feel like an actor playing a part. I’m the fish out of water, the new girl at school. What will my story be?

It is disgusting that anyone would ever let themselves get so large, and it is disgusting that your father wouldn’t do anything about it. I hope you survive this and get straight with God. There are people starving in the world and it is shameful that you would eat so much when others don’t have enough. So I ask you, What can high school do to me that hasn’t already been done?

In this thirty seconds, I let myself think all the things I won’t let myself think for the next eight hours. The song always starts the same way. I have a fucked-up brain….

You belong here as much as anyone. No one knows who you are. No one cares. You’ve got this, girl. Don’t get ahead of yourself, but I think you’ve got this.

We’re Caroline and Jack, Jack and Caroline. As long as I’m with her I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

Fourth period is advanced chemistry with Monica Chapman. Science teacher. Wife. And the woman who slept with my dad.

I am going to blind her with this fucking smile so she won’t ever be able to see my dad again.

“Man.” And I can tell in that one word what a letdown I am.

Maybe one day I can be thinner than I am now and have a boyfriend who loves me, but I’ll still be a liar. I’ll always be a liar.

His eyes come sliding back to me, and he’s about to say something, and I know whatever it is I don’t want to hear it because no one could say anything nice with a mouth that looks like it swallowed a whole lemon, seeds and all.

I think, If I were Bailey Bishop, I’d run too. She has legs as long as light poles. If I were Bailey Bishop, I wouldn’t even look for me to see where I’d gone off to. I would just run and run and run.

“We can’t fight another person’s battles, no matter how much we want to.” But we can chase the bastards who terrorize them down the street.

This will be me one day, living in this town, running this store, marrying, having kids, talking loudly to foreigners, cheating on my wife. Because what else am I possibly equipped for?

“People are shitty for a lot of reasons. Sometimes they’re just shitty people. Sometimes people have been shitty to them and, even though they don’t realize it, they take that shitty upbringing and go out into the world and treat others the same way. Sometimes they’re shitty because they’re afraid. Sometimes they choose to be shitty to others before others can be shitty to them. So it’s like self-defensive shittiness.”

This is where I take things apart and put them back together in new and stupefying ways. The way I wish I could do with myself.

When in doubt, always, always throw Seth under the bus.

The ground between us feels a little more solid, but the rest of the world shakes, like it’s built on a high wire miles above the earth.

Yes. All right now. That’s me. Nothing will ever be okay again, not in the same way, but I’m getting used to it. Maybe I will get that normal life after all.

I rest my head on the desk. I feel like crying my own heart out right now. Finally, I’m like: To hell with it. I lift my head and just start writing. I’m not a shitty person, but I’m about to do a shitty thing. And you will hate me, and some other people will hate me, but I’m going to do it anyway to protect you and also myself…

I think, I didn’t lose three hundred pounds and give up pizza and Oreos just to be shamed in my school cafeteria by this jackass.

“Better to be the hunter than the hunted. Even if you’re hunting yourself.”

“Sometimes people are just shitty. Sometimes they’re shitty because they’re afraid. Sometimes they choose to be shitty to others before others can be shitty to them. Like self-defensive shittiness.” Because my brain is damaged. Because I’m damaged.

Her eyes meet mine again and I smile at her, even as I’m hating myself, and my lip starts bleeding.

At some point, I lie back on top of them, right on the cold concrete floor. It’s uncomfortable as hell, but I tell myself, You don’t deserve comfort, asshole.

My mom used to say sometimes it’s actually about the other person and you just happen to be there. Like sometimes the other person needs to learn a lesson or go through an experience, good or bad, and you’re just an accessory in some way, like a supporting actor in whatever their scene happens to be.

This is the reason I don’t watch a lot of TV or movies. I tell myself my brain is too busy thinking important things to keep track of the characters.

By fourth period, it’s clear that everyone, even the janitors, knows me as the Girl Who Had to Be Cut Out of Her House. I’m Indiana’s high school version of Typhoid Mary. In each class, I sit alone, like fatness is catching.

Her head was back, her eyes open, like she was just waking up. She didn’t look peaceful. She looked empty.

Mr. Levine turns back to me. “So why did you punch him?” I want to go Look at him. He’s perfect. He’s never had a bad day. Okay, he has this strange disorder that keeps him from recognizing people, but no one’s ever called him fat or ugly or disgusting. No one’s sent him hate mail or told him he would have been better off killing himself. His parents never received hate mail just for having him. Also, he has parents. I doubt he knows what it’s like to lose someone he loves. People like us, we can’t touch him because he’s too good for you and me and the rest of these kids and this punishment. Not to mention his friends utterly suck. I want to say Why wouldn’t I punch him? But I don’t really have an answer other than “I was mad.”

I hunch forward and stare at the floor. I look like I’m trying to come up with just the right words, which I am. But the main reason is so I can avoid eye contact. Sometimes I want to close my eyes and forget that I can see. Because sometimes being face-blind feels a lot like being regular blind.

“How is it, you know, to have it?” “It’s like having a circus in my mind and always jumping through hoops. It’s like being in a crowded room where at first you don’t know anyone. Always.”

“You’re in good company. Or maybe shitty company, depending on how you look at it.” I smile. She almost does, but stops herself. “With face blindness, I seem to constantly lose the people I love.” She goes quiet for a second. “I know what that’s like.” And walks away.

Mr. Levine grabs the ball from him and says, “This is not Keshawn hour. It’s about helping out your teammates. It’s about we’re all equal. It’s about pulling together.” He sinks a perfect three-pointer. “Take a time-out, Mr. Basketball.”

My dad and I are driving home on National Road, heading past the college, when this wave comes over me, and I feel the hollow in my heart that’s been there ever since my mom died. Loss does that, hits you out of the blue. You can be in the car or in class or at the movies, laughing and having a good time, and suddenly it’s as if someone has reached directly into the wound and squeezed with all their might. I can see my dad and me driving home, this same direction, that night we lost her. We pass us on the road, and I can see our faces through the windshield. We are ghosts.