Chapter One
Brains do not equal common sense. Some of the smartest people make the dumbest mistakes
—Tensanne’s inner thoughts
Tensanne
20 Years Earlier
“WHERE DOES SHE shop? Panties for Grannies?”
“Look at those rolls, gross.”
“OMG, she is way too much of a fat ass, and who makes duck lips anymore?”
The comments keep going. A whole new barrage of venom for the day. They’re not wrong, I think, closing the Instaword app on my phone, internally wondering why I subject myself to this torture. I need to be like an ostrich and bury my head in the sand until it’s safe to come out.
Fluffy, fat, chubby, you have such a pretty face, you have a great personality, perhaps you just need to burn more than you eat, exercise some, lose a little weight and you will be perfect. Perfect, what does that even mean? My idea of perfect is different from the haters, perfect to me is more than what is visible on the outside.
Mom always said, “You’re so smart and your face is so pretty, you should never judge a book by its cover.” Before her mind left her, she emphasized, “Ugly can live in some perfect packages. The packaging may look great but it doesn’t mean what’s inside is worth anything.” I know she meant well and was trying to be supportive. Her motherly attempt to make me feel better after a rough day of being picked on at school, but still criticisms masked as compliments, even if they were said with love behind them.
The mirror is my enemy but its honesty is brutal; even when you want it to lie it tells the truth. The image staring back at me is the same one from yesterday and the day before; the same ugly one from last year. My eyes are harsher than any words ever said to me. I am my own worst enemy.
My waist length, flat, lifeless brown hair, always pulled up on top my head, plain brown eyes hidden behind glasses so thick they magnify the eyes making them look like bug eyes, bushy eyebrows, round full cheeks with some acne scars and a double chin. Nothing spectacular, glamorous or unique. Nothing worth taking the time to improve on.
Moving my eyes down my five-foot-eight-inch body, the reflection gets worse. Flabby upper arms that flap when I move, I’m certain if I flap them fast enough, I would take flight. Jiggling, flabby rolls make up my stomach, along with my huge thighs, round ass, large calves, all the way down to my size ten feet.
The piece de resistance is the two huge mountain lumps right in the middle of my chest. Most women call them boobs, I call them back breakers: my size triple D breasts. The only thing half-assed good about my body is my small ankles and skinny hands and feet. At least I can’t add cankles and sausage fingers to the list of ‘ugly’.
“Always find something positive,” Mom would say. I’m positive I’m ugly. I’m also certain that’s not the positivity she was referring to.
“Stop staring in the mirror, Ten, you’re going to be late for class,” Ronnie calls standing in the bathroom doorway with her hands on her hips.
Turning my eyes in her direction, I envy her beauty. Veronica “Ronnie” Leeland is the quintessential perfect woman if there is such a thing. Long, shiny blond hair ending at her waist and always styled with precision, big sparkling aqua eyes framed by long lashes, her smile lights up a room with pearly white, straight teeth and dimples dotting either cheek. Her body toned, muscularly thin with athletic definition and she is one of those people who can eat whatever they want and it never goes to their ass.
I hate those people.
I smell a piece of cake and I gain ten pounds of ass. Proving once again the universe does hate me.
The icing on the cake is, on top of being glorious on the outside, she is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet. Once you get to know her, you will love her. She’s nice to everyone, she volunteers her time at the local homeless shelter, her grades are impeccable and she volunteered to be my roommate and guardian when no one else wanted the job. If I didn’t love her so much, she would be one of those people I would run from. She’s a people magnet; everyone wants to be in her orbit. She radiates a light that draws you in and keeps you warm.
Tensanne Craig, that’s me. Seventeen-year-old, college sophomore. A child genius, the former apple of my parent’s eye and target of every school bully I came across. I’m the fat girl no one wants to be friends with, the smart one in the corner with her nose in a book. The one trying to hide, the one you laugh at when a joke is made at my expense. The one you don’t want to sit with at lunch or play with at recess. The girl with only one friend, the one never invited to birthday parties, the outcast.
Once I escaped high school and fled to the Hoosier state to Jalapa, I thought I left all the bullies behind.
College would be better, right?
Jalapa State University, JSU, one of the premier colleges in the country for the study of psychology and the brain is what drew me here. I could start over, reinvent myself, be a better me. Throw away the shy girl who was always hiding in libraries and sticking her nose in a book. I had this enamored vision of college being a huge turning point in my life.
College is worse than high school. Hindsight is always better, I should have stayed invisible.
“I’m not going to class, Ronnie. I can’t, I’m not ready,” I sulk, walking over to flop down on my bed. The bed dipping and the springs groaning from my weight.
Sighing, she replies, “Sorry but you have to. You’ve already been out for three weeks. Your professors are going to fail you if you don’t start showing up for classes in person. Besides, I’m sure the worst of it has passed. I’m sure the student populous has found something else to focus on and share.”
Tears fill my eyes, pissing me off, damn it, I’m not going to cry anymore.
Seeing my tears, she sits next to me on the bed wrapping her arms around me in a sideways hug. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? Really, Ronnie? Did you see it?”
“Well, yes, I saw it. But it’s no worse than if you had been wearing a bikini top. You know, an old, 1940’s retro bikini.”
“A retro bikini? I don’t think they had bikini’s in the forties. A picture of me in my bra goes viral and you’re comparing it to a ‘retro bikini’?” I sulk.
“Maybe you need to update your underwear collection. It could have been worse; he could have talked you into being nude,” she retorts, “You put your trust in the wrong person. The sooner you show everyone you’re better than their nasty comments, the sooner they will stop bothering you.”
Rubbing the spot between my eyes to alleviate a forming migraine, I respond, “He tried for topless, I refused. I wasn’t ready to be that exposed; plus, no one needs to see that much of me.”
“I wish you had told me Chase Masters was SnapTalking with you; I would have told you to stay away. Everyone knows he’s a player and a dick.” Frowning she continues, “This is my fault. I signed on to be your guardian, while you live in the dorms since you’re under eighteen; I’m responsible for you. I dropped the ball on this one. There is no bigger dickcanoe on campus than Chase, he may be fun to look at but inside he’s nothing but horrendous,” she says with her slight southern twang, making the curse words sound foreign coming from her mouth.
“This isn’t your fault. Even if you had warned me, I still would’ve done the same thing. He made me feel special.”
Yes, I’m that girl. I fell for the jock. The hot basketball star who has every girl on campus wanting to drop her panties. Feeling complete elation when I received the first message from him, being so happy I was even on his radar. Almost giddy when he knew me. Naïve in believing he saw me among all the perfection surrounding him. I ignored the warning signs and trusted him.
With an IQ of 160 and SAT scores of 1500, finding someone to talk to is hard at times. I miss social cues a lot and often speak over people heads, ramble on about useless facts and hide behind knowledge. When I registered for classes, I tested in at the sophomore level, Chase and I crossing paths in a few of my classes.
He’s beautiful—Adam Levine style eye-candy. Almost seven feet of solid, lean muscle infused man. Dark hair, short on the sides and floppy on top often styled into a faux hawk, always looking like someone just ran their fingers through it, his bright childlike smile lights up his whole face, his bedroom eyes will give you wet dreams and his charisma draws you in like a moth to a flame.
When I first started receiving messages via SnapTalk, I thought, this is my fresh start, a college man would look past all the superficial bullshit and like me for me. I never thought he had malicious intentions. I’m the moth who gets electrocuted by the bug zapper.
His beauty shined, bright like the sun but staring into the sun will leave you blind and seeing spots. Those glowing colored dots clouded my vision, blocking what was right in front of me.
SnapTalk is a social media app allowing the user to communicate with photos that disappear within seconds of being viewed, never to be seen again. Unless the person viewing them takes a screen shot. A reminder to everyone, what is out on the internet, is always there. Lurking, waiting to destroy. Screaming to be careful of what you send.
Chase and I talked back and forth for two weeks, hundreds of messages, touching on everything from our families to his basketball career; we became great friends with the promise of more, I thought. I knew something was fishy when he suggested we keep it to the messages. Advising we not acknowledge each other in class or any other public place. Claiming it was for my benefit. Having no association with him would keep the ‘wolves’ away from my door, the ball groupies and other people who are always after him.
The warning signs were blaring at me but I ignored them. I enjoyed his attention so much I was blinded by the obvious.
Chase Masters, the campus king. Wanted a picture of me. Tensanne Craig, the invisible, fat, smart girl. I should have asked “why?”, I should have said “no”, I should have been smarter. If should have’s were money, I would be a rich woman with all of them.
I was so flattered when he started asking for me to send him a topless picture, thinking he found me sexy when most thought I was revolting, that I forgot who I am. I believed he was so enamored with me, so infatuated with my inner beauty, he found me attractive on the outside too. Forgetting he’s shallow and self-serving, I believed he wanted something to get him by, our hidden relationship never allowing for alone time. We’d had a few heated exchanges in our messages, a few times where I wanted him so bad I could taste it and I believed he wanted me too.
He convinced me he needed to see ‘more’ of me so he could take care of himself. Telling me if he couldn’t touch me in person, a visual image would let him look at me while he fantasized about the bliss he would find when could sink into my body. Instead of offering to meet and move our relationship into the land of physical contact, his request rang as romantic in my attention starved brain. His words were something I would read in a romance novel, the fantasy world I could lose myself in from time to time when my brain needed a break. Right off the pages and into my life, bewitching me beyond foresight.
I wouldn’t agree to a topless nude picture, no matter how much he begged; he changed tactics asking me to send him one of me shirtless. He was relentless in his pursuit until I agreed, the biggest warning sign was his persistence.
If he genuinely cared for me he would have respected my reluctance but for one small second, I felt sexy. My brain recalling all the times I heard girls in high school talking about sending pictures to their boyfriends, finally, someone wanted one of me.
I took off my glasses, whipped my shirt off my head, posed in my best duck lips because that’s what sexy vixens do, snapped the picture and sent it off. Butterflies eating at my stomach while I waited for a response. The response never came.
Wondering if something was wrong, I pulled up my contacts to call him when Ronnie came charging in the room, furious. When she said there is an unflattering picture of me pinging on every phone on campus, I knew why I hadn’t received a response.
My boobs, better known as North America and South America, and I had gone viral.
Why didn’t I leave my face out of the picture you ask because book smart does not always equal good common sense.
Now, when I step out of the dorm, I hear nothing but disparaging comments, giggles, and pointing.
“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.