Please enjoy the following deleted scene from In Ruins by Danielle Pearl
*In Ruins was published on October 4th, 2016 by Forever Romance
April, senior year of high school
COLLEGES HAVE THEIR spring breaks earlier than we do, and a bunch of prior graduates are back home tonight. Everyone was at Andy's earlier, but he disappeared upstairs with Tina halfway through his own party, and not long after that, Rory left claiming to be tired, with Cap hot on her heels. He came back a few minutes later saying he was also suddenly tired, and proceeded to bail on us as well. Shocker.
The rest of the boys and I pile into Dave’s SUV, and head to The Diner to get a midnight snack—a regular activity for a town without a a whole lot of options for late-night entertainment—and not because Carl said that’s where she was headed.
The Diner is busier than usual with so many people home for break, and our friends mix with older familiar faces, some friendly, some not so much. Carl is seated next to Kendall, who graduated last year, and they're chatting with a couple of guys from her graduating class. I'm about to head over to say hello when I recognize one of the not-so-friendly faces. One that makes my muscles tense, and the fact that he's standing over Carl, murmuring something to her, makes my hands clench into fists.
Brian Falco, the asshole who broke Bits'—Cap’s little sister’s—heart barely a year ago, has had his sights set on Carl ever since. I know it. Even if Carl doesn't. For such a formidable girl she can sure be naïve. But she never showed an ounce of interest in him, and then he was gone, so it wasn’t an issue. But now, whatever he's saying to her appears to have her utterly enthralled, if a little irritated.
"Dude, no drama tonight. Please," Luke murmurs when he sees who I'm looking at and how I'm looking at him.
"Fuck that. We can't just let him move in on Tuck's girl," Dave replies. He's always had a soft spot for Bits, too—so much so that sometimes I wonder if it’s a little too fucking soft. But Cap and I have been tight with Dave practically since birth, and Bits is practically like a sister to him, too, and though he doesn't know about what happened last summer, he knows the rest. Everyone does. So Dave is all too eager for any opportunity to butt heads with Falco—and throw fists, for that matter. But his words snap me out of my rapturous glare. Because they're all wrong.
"She's not my girl," I mutter coolly. Because what the fuck. We're not in a relationship—I know that—but we've been hooking up for months, and at the very least she's one of my closest friends. And she knows how I feel about Brian fucking Falco. In fact, I thought she shared my opinion.
Well fuck that.
Instead of going to their table, I make my way over to a table halfway across the dining room where a group of older girls are munching on cheese fries. My boys follow me, and I ignore their loaded glances. I don't care if I'm being transparent to them. I'm not fully in control of myself at the moment—in control of my goddamn feelings, and not for the first time I resent Carl for bringing them out of me at all.
Tully is another girl who graduated last year, and I hooked up with her a couple of times when I was a sophomore. I have no interest in her now, of course, but we've always been friendly, so I distract myself by taking a few minutes to catch up with her and her friends. My boys don’t complain—they're an attractive bunch—and Dave is making suggestive comments and spitting game before the waitress even drops by the table to take our drink orders.
I purposely position my back to Carl to remove the temptation of watching her. It's pointless, though. I realize Tully has been telling me some story for the past five minutes and I couldn't tell you a word she’s said. And even now, as I realize this, I still can't bring myself to pay attention. I'm so fucking pathetic.
Finally, I give in, and turn around.
But Carl isn't there.
I notice Falco drop some bills onto the table and then stroll out toward the exit. And I lose it.
What in the fuck is she thinking leaving with him?
Rationally, I know I should just let her do what she wants. I have no claim over her, and if she's stupid enough to want to spend time with that asshole, then what the fuck do I want with her anyway?
But I'm not rational when it comes to Carl. My blood rushes through my veins with urgency and momentum, and I'm up and out of my seat with no plan of action or even words. The only thing I know is that I have to stop this from happening, however necessary, regardless of the consequences.
By the time I get outside, Falco is almost at his car, and I search for Carl, expecting to see her climbing into his passenger seat, but he's alone.
"Falco," I call. I don't shout, but my voice carries well enough through the hushed night and the mostly empty parking lot.
Falco swings around to face me, his freshly lit cigarette illuminating his surprise.
I approach him slowly, but don't bother getting too close. If Carl’s not with him then I have no use for him. I'd prefer not to get into a fight tonight. And I still don't know where the hell Carl is. "Where is Carl?" I demand.
Falco arches a brow and curls his lip in distaste. Yeah, he's not my biggest fan, and I doubt he thinks he should be answering to me. But just because I'd prefer not to get into a fight tonight doesn't mean I won't.
I raise my eyebrows impatiently.
Falco rolls his eyes and shrugs. "How the fuck should I know?"
My nostrils flare with my sharp exhale, though I work to keep my composure. "Don't fuck with me right now, Falco. I'm not in the mood. You were talking to her. Where is she?"
He has the nerve to fucking smirk, and I take a step forward, my hands so desperate to do damage that my nails dig into my own palms, threatening to break skin.
Falco shakes his head and sighs, as if I'm suddenly not worth the trouble. "She's inside as far as I know. We were chatting a bit, she got a little upset, and excused herself to go to the bathroom. Haven't seen her since."
"What the fuck did you say to upset her?" I growl.
"Not my fault," he says simply, reaching for his car door. Part of me wants to throw him right up against it and get a good hit in, but most of me is fixated on hearing that Carl is upset about something, and filled with the inexorable urge to somehow fix it. Whatever it is.
So I turn my back on Falco and jog back inside. I peek my head into the dining room to see if she's back at her table with Kendall. She isn't. So I head back toward the counter, where the bathrooms are located.
I stare at the door to the women's bathroom. What the hell am I supposed to do now? I can't very well just waltz my way into the damned ladies room.
A girl who was sitting at Tully's table a few minutes ago walks out and stares at me with bemused, appraising eyes
"Is Carl Stanger in there?" I ask her before she can question what I'm doing standing outside the women's bathroom like some kind of creep.
She blinks at me a moment. "Uh, no. I don't think so.
I pull out my phone to text her, and also to dismiss this girl whose name I can't remember, and she takes the hint and goes on her way. And then my eyes land on the private family restroom. The one with only one toilet and a changing table meant for parents with young children. I knock on the door.
"Just a minute." It's muffled, but it's her voice.
"It's me, Princess," I call back.
"I said, just a minute." Her tone holds no familiarity and certainly no warmth- as if she wants to make a point that I'm no more welcome than any random stranger. It feels all wrong, and it unleashes a sharp wave of anxiety.
Is she pissed at me? What the hell could I have done to piss her off already? She's the one chatting up people I despise. And I haven't even told her off for it yet.
I bang my fist harder against the door. "Let me in, I want to talk to you!"
She opens the door with a growl. "I'm in the bathroom!"
Yeah, I can see that. I push my way inside, and close and lock the door behind me, ignoring her indignant and decidedly hostile glare. "You've been hiding in here for ten minutes. You're not going to the bathroom," I call her out.
That shuts her pretty, gaping mouth. "I wasn't hiding," she insists. Her shoulders square in challenge, drawing my attention to her chest, and I'm momentarily distracted.
Jade eyes narrow. "What are you doing here, Tucker?"
Right. "Saw you talking with Falco. Thought you left with him." I work to keep my tone nonchalant, as if I'm more curious than anything—as if unaffected by the idea. It’s a masterful act.
Carl’s bottom lip drops again, as if she can't quite believe what she's hearing, and it's validating.
"You thought I left with him?" Her voice rises a full octave.
"Well you were talking to him so long you didn't even notice your actual friends walk into the damned diner!" Yeah, so much for hiding my emotions. My heart pumps faster as I think of him bent down to her ear, murmuring intimately, his breath coming into contact with her delicate skin. Suddenly my own breaths come more harshly.
"He came over to me, not the other way around, in case you didn't notice!” Carl retorts.
"You didn't exactly send him away!" Damn it, Green, calm the fuck down. I want her to want to kiss me, not hit me. At least now that I know she was never considering anything with Falco. But the way she's looking at me right now makes me wonder if I shouldn't run before she skins me alive.
"Well," she lowers her voice. "I was interested in what he had to say. He was telling me a story about my actual friends."
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Carl shrugs. "Guess he saw you and some of the guys out at Martine's Bar last night. He was just asking why I didn't go. Said my friends seemed like they were having a good time."
Shit. I feel the blood drain from my face and I will myself to not be so obviously distressed. Because I already know where this is going.
Sarah kissed me last night. Right at the bar. I didn't see it coming, and I stopped it. But I was drunk, and my reaction time was probably a little delayed. Fucking Falco must've seen. By now everyone knows Carl and I have a thing. Smug little shit must have really enjoyed upsetting her. I should have fucking knocked him out in the parking lot, after all.
"Princess, I don't know what that douchebag told you, but it wasn't what you're obviously thinking—"
"I'm not thinking anything. I know. And I don't care, Tucker. You're allowed to hook up with whoever the hell you want," she says pointedly. "And so am I." She sidesteps me and reaches for the door handle.
Oh, hell no. I grab her elbow and spin her back to face me. "Yeah? Except I do hook up with whoever I want, Princess. But that isn't Sarah. I think I've told you that before," I remind her.
She raises her chin, ready to sling some snarky remark, but I cut her off.
"She kissed me, yes. At a crowded bar. And I pushed her off of me." Every word I say gets me more and more pissed. "I can hook up with whoever I want, but do you really think I'm such an asshole that I would hook up with your fucking friends?"
Carl's glare falters.
"You want Falco?" I challenge.
I watch her delicate neck move with her nervous swallow. Because she wants to goad me—it's her nature—but she does not want Brian fucking Falco, and she won't lie and say otherwise just to set me off, I know it.
"I don't want anyone right now," she says instead.
I take a step forward until I'm crowding her. Her scent invades my senses, sweet and heady, and my jeans tighten instantly. Her gaze is unblinking and her breathing quickens and deepens. God, I love the way she reacts to me. "Is that so?"
She doesn't answer in words, but her body tells me everything I need to know. Her mouth opens slightly and she flushes with desire.
It's been too long since I've had her. My mom's been home a lot and Billy’s always around when I’m at Carl’s. And she's not the kind of girl you screw in the back seat of a car. I lift my hand slowly, almost afraid to spook her, just in case she decides to deny me as punishment for that kiss from Sarah I never wanted it in the first place. But she doesn't move. I brace her chin and run the pad of my thumb over that plump little bottom lip. She lets me. She tries to stop me from hearing that small gasp escape her mouth, but I feel it on my thumb, and I lean down for a taste.
Just a small taste. We're in a public bathroom, after all.
But her mouth is utterly intoxicating. The slide of her tongue against mine is torment enough, and the soft sigh she exhales makes me deepen the kiss until it's dangerous to continue. But I can't bring myself to stop. And then her arms are around my neck and her seductive curves are pressed against my body, and I know she can feel how close I am to taking her right here and now. And, God, if she were anyone else, I would—I really would. I never claimed to be a saint. But even I know you don't fuck a princess in a public bathroom.
I wrench my mouth from hers, but I don't let her go. She lets her head fall back against the door and closes her eyes, catching her breath. I love her like this. Completely out of control. I love that I can make her like this.
"I can't wait to have you all to myself in Miami. No parents, no little brothers, just a hotel room, a bed, and you," I tell her, becoming increasingly impatient at the thought. Fuck, I need to calm myself down.
Her eyes flutter open, heated and almost a little vulnerable. A small mischievous smile plays on her lips. "We'll see," she breathes.
"We'll see?" I ask, a mixture of disbelief and desperation. She knows that the threat of withholding herself from me makes me crazy. But then, of course, that's why she does it.
Her shoulder raises in a half-shrug. "Yeah, Tuck. We'll see if you deserve me alone in that hotel room."
I know she's toying with me, but her words hit harder than she intends, and I try to swallow down the spark of unease. Because I don't deserve her. I never did. And if that's a caveat for having her, then I've already lost her. Why does my chest ache at the thought?
I don't realize my jaw is clenched until she grazes it with her fingertips, lightly scratching my stubble, and I turn into it like a fucking pet cat. "I'm looking forward to Miami, too," she whispers, a confession I know costs her.
Every muscle in my body relaxes and I feel myself break out into a lopsided grin.
There's a knock on the door and we both call out at the same time--just a minute/one sec—and Carl grimaces. Neither of us thought the other would answer, and now, whoever is on the other end of that door knows we're in here together.
Well, there's nothing to it now. We open the door and I'm almost ashamed by how satisfied I am by Carl's rare, deep blush. She avoids eye contact with our discoverer—some girl I've seen before, but don't really know. But I throw her a suggestive smirk and wink as I slide my arm around Carl's waist. That’s right, sweetheart, Carl Stanger is fucking mine. Spread the damned word.
Summer Before Ninth Grade
"Come on, man, it will be a good way to stay in shape over the summer," Cap encourages when I whine about joining the summer intramural volleyball league. It's coed, so I can't imagine how competitive it will be. Nothing against female athletes, but now that we're about to enter high school, a lot of the guys have already hit our growth spurts, and I just don't see how girls will be able to compete at the net physically. I’m starting to think Dave had the right idea when he bailed on us to go to the beach.
"Whatever," I give him the same response I did the last time he tried to get me more enthusiastic about the whole thing. With my summer job and now this, I'm finding my time more scheduled than ever. But now that it's just me and my mom, I feel like I need to contribute in some way, especially after everything we've been through.
The league isn't really an official league. It's run by Phil Lohman, an incoming senior and captain of our high school's varsity volleyball team. I've always liked the sport, but it interferes with lacrosse season, so neither Cap nor I have ever had the chance to play in any organized way.
"Damn…" Cap murmurs when we enter the high school gym. There are a lot of people here. I knew the league had gotten popular over the past couple of summers, but I didn't realize quite how many people would be trying out. Phil only makes four teams of ten, so half of the eighty or so people here won't actually get to play.
But that won't be me or Cap. Even if we are only freshmen, we are known athletes, and more than likely Phil will hoard the both of us for his own team.
Open palms smack ball after ball, the sound reverberating in an endless echo through the sprawling gymnasium. The kids who play on one of the school's teams are decked in volleyball sneakers and knee pads, but mostly everyone is in regular gym clothes. There are even a few girls dressed in tiny cotton shorts and tight fitted tank tops, and I doubt they're here for any other reason than to get a little attention. Not that I'm complaining. But my eyes are automatically drawn to one perfectly athletic, slim body, dressed in actual volleyball shorts and a plain white t-shirt that’s being rhythmically whipped by her flying blond ponytail.
My pulse quickens. I knew Carleigh played volleyball. I knew she was on the team in middle school and that she was good. But for some reason I hadn't considered she'd be here. Girls rarely make the league, and I would assume those who do are older, not incoming freshmen like Carleigh. But she's a setter. Her job is to control the plays and set the ball up nice and high so a hitter like me can slam it down onto the opponent's side of the court, so height doesn't really matter as much for her position.
She passes a ball back and forth with an older girl I kind of recognize but don't actually know. They're good. Better than a lot of the guys, actually. The older girl bumps, Carleigh sets it in a beautifully designed arch, and her partner smacks it back in her direction in a perfect forty five degree spike. But Carleigh flies forward and down onto her waiting knee pads and bumps it right back up before it can touch the ground, aiming it perfectly back as if she'd had all the time in the world to calculate the move.
I'm utterly hypnotized. Not just by her skill, but by the way she moves. The way her calves flex and her thighs tighten as she bends into a ready position. The way her ass stretches those shorts.
"Dude, you here to play or watch the show?" Cap laughs.
But I'm glad for the distraction, because I'm already fighting off wood and my gym shorts aren’t exactly hard-on-friendly.
Cap holds up a ball he must have grabbed while I was busy drooling over Carleigh.
We pass and hit back and forth until a bunch of guys form a spiking drill at the net. It isn't formal or anything, but still, no one invites any of the girls. Phil and some other kid who’s probably on the school team with him walk around with clipboards like they're pro scouts or something, observing and taking notes.
I roll my eyes. It's all a little pretentious for a just-for-fun summer league, but whatever.
I’m waiting my turn when I’m attacked from behind without warning, small fingers digging into my sides, where I'm regrettably, exceptionally ticklish. I bark out an insuppressible guffaw and jump around to face my assailant. Carleigh is smiling up at me, green eyes bright and promising like freshly cut grass.
"Well, hi there, Princess," I grin like I didn't already know she was here.
"I didn't know you'd be here," she says, obviously pleased at the development, and every reservation I had about joining this stupid league vanishes instantly.
In fact, it was a great idea—Cap is a freaking genius.
"You're really good," I tell her, gesturing to where she'd been practicing earlier, even though it gives away the fact that I absolutely did notice her before now.
"Thanks. I hope I get to play. There are a lot more people here than I expected. And I don't think they take a lot of girls, if any."
I shrug. "I wouldn't worry about it, Princess. You're better than a lot of the guys, too." It's true. A lot of the guys here have height and bulk, but no skill, and a good, precise setter is more valuable than a bunch of sloppy, powerful hitters. "Why don't you go set for us?" I nod toward the net. That way she can show off to everyone at once.
Carl looks uncertainly over to where the one setter who has been working the drill for the past twenty minutes taps ball after ball up in the air with just the tips of his fingers. The other guy with the clipboard—not Phil—is only a few feet away, so I call out to him. "Hey, you should let Carleigh set for a bit. She's sick," I tell him.
Carleigh doesn't blush at the compliment; she just smiles, owning her talent, and it makes me grin.
Clipboard guy stutters for a moment before glancing over at Phil, who's preoccupied with jotting down notes. "Uh, after Steve, I guess." But he doesn't seem particularly excited by the prospect. In fact, I doubt he has any intention of letting her set for us at all.
Only a few more minutes pass when Phil blows a whistle—an actual whistle—and calls for everyone to line up on either side of the court to serve. Carleigh did not have a chance to set for the drill. But if she's annoyed by it, it doesn't show. She simply grabs a ball, goes to the back of the court, and serves it over the net with a strength her petite body doesn't actually look capable of.
We continue this for a while, and then a few minutes later Phil announces that he's got what he needs, and that he'll post the team lists in an hour or so.
I squeeze Carleigh's shoulder and head to the boys locker room to get some water from my gym bag. A few of the older guys are in there bullshitting, collaborating over the clipboards but not looking at them, including Phil and Clipboard Guy.
Cap goes over to them to talk to a kid we played football with in middle school and I join him.
"You guys don't have to stick around if you don't want," Phil says. "You're both on my team. Team 1."
"Cool," Cap murmurs, no more surprised than I am.
"How do you choose who makes it?" I ask.
"We've been scoring everyone based on skill. Highest scores are in," Clipboard Guy says.
"Well..." Phil says, smirking conspiratorially and it rubs me the wrong way.
Clipboard Guy rolls his eyes. "Right, well then we obviously cross off the girl names, if any of them mistakenly scored high enough to make a team."
"Why is it a mistake if they scored high?" I ask, confused.
Another eye roll, this time from Phil. "Because even if they're good, you know, for a girl, it doesn't mean they can hold their own on our court, and no one wants someone holding their team back."
It’s complete bullshit.
I admit that for some positions that may be true—after all, girls' regulation nets are set lower than guys'—but for a setter it just doesn't fucking matter. Someone with a soft touch and precise aim doesn't necessarily need height.
But what am I going to do? Start a fight about it? I'm an incoming fucking freshman. I can't exactly complain to the athletics board since this isn't even a school league, even if it is being played on school grounds.
I glance at Cap. He doesn't like it either, I can tell, but he doesn't feel like he can do anything about it, either, and neither of us says another word about it.
"We're going to play a scrimmage for a little if you guys want. Just for fun, you know," Phil offers.
I thought this whole thing was supposed to be just for fun.
Cap looks at me.
"Nah," I say. I would like to play, but right now, I don't really want to play with them.
“You want to do a few laps around the track?" Cap asks me instead. Running tends to calm us both down, so I agree.
We run in the hot late-June sun until we're both sweating far more than we were from a few volleyball drills, and though I do feel a little better physically, I'm still feeling irritable.
I know it probably isn’t as big a deal as I’m making it in my head. But I keep picturing Carleigh's pretty mouth curve up into that smile when I said how good she was, and her disappointment when she doubted she'd make a team. And I told her not to worry. But the thing that pisses me off is that she deserves to make a team.
Phil and his lackeys are still playing their scrimmage when we head back inside the empty locker room, and the corrupt clipboards are just sitting there on a bench, taunting me with their injustice.
I decide to take a peek, skimming through the scores. Just as I suspected, Carleigh is in the top forty, and if she were a guy, she'd make a team. But they're just going to cross out her name.
Well, fuck that.
I grab the pencil at the top of the clipboard, thankful these assholes didn't use pen.
"What are you doing?" Cap asks.
"Just righting a wrong." I smile wryly as I carefully erase the l-e-i-g-h from Carleigh’s name, leaving her as Carl Stanger, and then I head to the showers.
When I'm clean and dressed, the volleyball scrimmage is over and the upperclassmen are preparing the team list.
I chew on the inside of my cheek to stifle my smirk when I see that Carl Stanger is on ours.
Phil is going to be pissed as all hell when he realizes that not only did he unwittingly allow a girl into the league, but that he assigned her to his own team. But by then it will be too late. I doubt he's stupid enough to announce his sexist selection methods. Asshole.
Cap looks at me, eyes smiling, and gives me a subtle, approving nod. Belatedly I consider the two other girls who scored high enough to earn a spot—the one’s whose names I didn't masculinize… But then, I never claimed to be a damn saint. The truth of it is, this was never really about trying to correct an injustice—or at least it wasn’t my primary motivation. I was just looking out for my friend, the girl I'd do practically anything for, including risk pissing off a couple of douchey seniors.
Phil posts the lists and people line up to look for their names. There's a mixed chorus of disappointment and enthusiasm, but I just stand by the water fountain and wait. I don't have to listen for her voice to hear her excited squeal. It pierces the air and finds my eardrums all on its own, and then she's standing in front of me with a beautiful, self-satisfied smile. I return it, though she'd never guess the reason for my self-satisfaction. Instead, it just reflects my pride.
"We're on the same team," she gloats.
I grin wider.
"Even though they wrote my name as Carl," she grumbles.
I sigh with mock annoyance. "Damn, so I have to see your face twice a week now? All summer?" I tease.
She smacks me lightly on the bicep. "Shut up." But she's still grinning.
Phil calls for his team to meet in the gym for a minute, so we walk back through the double doors. I catch the moment he sees Carleigh, and his puzzled expression. He consults his stupid clipboard, but finds no answers.
He tells everyone he's going to do a roll call so we can get to know each other's names, and I wonder if this was planned or if he's just doing it to weed out the girl he obviously thinks is a confused interloper.
Name after name is called, hands raise, and guys are accounted for.
"Carl Stanger," Phil calls, and he's definitely not looking at Carleigh, but she raises her hand and smiles confidently.
Phil's brow furrows and he looks at her with bemusement.
"But it's Carleigh, not Carl," she corrects.
Phil's eyes widen, and then they narrow as he realizes he's been played, but his accusatory gaze suggests he suspects Carleigh was behind it herself.
"I can't imagine why it says Carl here, unless you wrote it that way on the sign-in..." Phil wants to say more, but he can't, not without saying: If I knew you were a girl, you'd have been cut.
Carleigh blinks at him for a second. "I—"
"She always goes by Carl," I announce, cutting her off. "Since we were kids."
Carleigh stares at me, but she doesn't ask questions. She's smart enough to get it, and she gets it fast. "Yeah," she agrees. "My full name is Carleigh, but everyone calls me Carl."
Phil's displeasure is obvious to me, but given no other choice, he moves on. Carleigh, or Carl now, I guess, peeks at me out of the corner of her eye. She knows exactly what I did and why, and she's not sure how she feels about it. She's not the kind of girl who appreciates having a guy come to her rescue. She's the kind of girl who can rescue herself. But then, I'm not looking for a thanks. I get as much out of this as she does. Because now I get to see her—in those little shorts—at least twice a week, all summer.
Carl Stanger and Tucker Green. You think you know them, but you've only scratched the surface. Both have secrets, and one will decimate their fragile relationship, leaving them in ruins. Can he forgive? Can she forget? Is their love strong enough to rebuild what they've lost?
Find out in In Ruins, releasing October 4th, 2016
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*The Boxed Set will only be available for Kindle
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Holy narcissistic, delusional asshole, Batman!
The first thing I did was check the date to see if this was in fact created recently, as the rhetoric--or, more accurately, verbal venom--didn't feel very 2015-esque. It was. Next I looked to see if this was a spoof of some kind. It wasn't. Then I went to comment on the video on this not-so-much-a-friend-as-high-school-acquaintance's Facebook wall, and my hideously cracked-manicured finger (3 week old baby, hello!) froze above the touchscreen. He--who shall remain unnamed--did not post this video as a hey, check out this asshole. No, he agreed with her.
So, in my first free-ish moment since I saw the video a week or so ago (thanks to my hands-free pumping bra), I decided to share my own response to @NicoleArbour, which I lovingly call Dear Self- Important Assholes.
I should start by saying I've never been overweight. Sure, my weight has fluctuated within a twenty or so pound range--excluding pregnancies--but I have always been relatively thin. It runs in my family. As a child I was lanky, and my twin brother was so skinny he earned the nickname "Bones", and by the time he hit high school, became vaguely obsessed with a dietary supplement called Weight Gainer 2000 and spent enough time in the weight room at the gym that he began to resemble a Jersey Shore character. But just because I was usually pretty thin, it doesn't mean that when I did put on some weight it didn't take an emotional toll.
I used to think that girls are just mean. Then that kids were just mean. But at thirty something, I've gathered the wisdom that it's just people. People are mean. Not all people, mind you, but a lot of people. And Nicole Arbour, You. Are. Just. Mean.
Fat shaming IS A THING. Not only is it a thing, but it is, in fact, a part of an even larger thing called body shaming. Overweight people are not the only ones being teased or ridiculed for their weight. I've been accused of being anorexic or bulimic--which I have never been--just because I was thin. In fact, several of these people who made such comments believed they were actually paying me a compliment. Newsflash--accusing someone of having a dangerous and debilitating disease? Not a compliment. On the contrary, I have had friends--and I'll use that term loosely in this context--particularly in high school, who were all too quick and thrilled to point out if I did gain a few pounds.
But it isn't only weight. Some of the body-related things I've been teased about? Hair (both head and body), Sweat, My big feet, My nails (which I chewed down to the cuticle until mid-high school), Skin, Teeth, Cellulite (even at my thinnest).
Shaming Vs. Discriminating.
These words are not interchangeable, they do not mean the same thing, and while they have different implications, neither are okay. Let me play a little dictionary.com for Miss Arbour, who claims not to be "slow in the brain" (debatable)--though she is decidedly slow in the heart.
1. a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.
humiliation, mortification, chagrin, ignominy, embarrassment, indignity, discomfort
To say that there is no "fat card" in the sense that people who suffer from obesity do not face discrimination is false, but that isn't the point. While I agree that the fact that our world has not been built for them is not inherently discriminatory, there are many more opportunities out there for discriminatory behavior, I assure you. But that is not the point. We are talking about Fat Shaming (see definition of shaming above).
Exhibit A- *points to your video, raises eyebrows, gives censuring look.
Surely if you were not, in fact, slow in the brain, you would understand the difference between discriminating against a group of people and shaming a person. You say you are not talking about those with legitimate medical reasons for their weight. Who the hell are you, Dr. Arbour?
Hypothyroidism, insulin resistance, polycystic ovary syndrome, Cushing's syndrome, leptin deficiency, depression, antidepressants (yes, both the disease and the treatment can cause obesity), medications for seizures, diabetes, hormones, corticosteroids, high blood pressure, antihistamines.
These are all potential causes of obesity. Who the hell are you to compare these people to Frankenstein? And how do you not understand that doing so is the very definition of shaming?
You, Nicole Arbour, should be ashamed.
What I actually find most offensive is the implication that you are coming from a place of concern. The idea that you can "shame" someone into getting healthy is both self-important and ridiculous. Do you honestly believe that someone suffering from obesity is unaware of it? That he doesn't feel badly enough already? That she hears some skinny bitch call her Frankenstein and is suddenly hit with an epiphany of motivation to get fit? If you do, you are an idiot. All you succeed in doing is compounding the problem. Someone is eating their feelings? Well let's give them some more shitty feelings! Genius.
And then, in the eleventh hour, you refer to your video as "satire". Now I can't be sure if you simply don't understand the word or if it's just a lame defense, but it sure as hell excuses nothing. Just as sure as the measure of being an asshole is not simply whether or not one is willing to switch seats on an airplane with someone who may or may not be disabled.
Now, feel free to play the Asshole Card.