UNFAMOUS [BOOK ONE] (A Wattpad 'Featured Story')

Ch. 9 | New Slaves

*Present Day*

October 2013

“Shut up you any guy!” Carmen snaps comically at Tyson over a large pot of Tuna and Pasta.

I have just entered the dorm kitchen fresh from my encounter with Nate. Our parting conversation had stirred the recesses of my memory bringing the things I stuffed so deep down in my head to the surface; the walk home was not a pleasant one and I knew that if I was alone that it wouldn’t be pretty so I opted to be around my friends to take my mind off of it all.

Carmen is preparing dinner while Fontaine, Yoshi and Tyson sit around the table playing black jack with a huge bag Haribo Tangfastics.

“What’s good family?” I call out planting myself next to Tyson. He loops his arm over my shoulders and pecks me on the forehead casually.

“Where you been?” he asks, curving his cards slightly to stop Fontaine from peeking at his hand. She pouts then giggles settling back into her seat.

“I had to sort out something,” quickly before he can ask what I put the spotlight back on them, “What have you lot been up to?”

Carmen flings down the pot spoon and skips over the fridge in her Ugg boots and blue silk pyjama pants. I swear to God this girl wears Uggs with everything!

“Listening to your boy chat shit,” she snorts taking a block of cheese from the shelf. Tyson groans.

“What was he talking shit about this time?” I ask reaching for a sour cherry in Tyson’s pile. He smacks my hand and throws me a warning look.

“Car shut up and stop hating ‘cause you’re poor!” he laughs putting an Ace of Spades down on the messy stack of cards arranged in the centre of the table. He glances at his hand and calls out, “Hearts.”

“At least I accept my brokeness. These times you image hunters are rollin’ up to the Gucci SALE with your STUDENT LOANS trying to PRETEND you are living the high life, then eating 20p noodles for dinner every night. Cool. Thanks. Shut up!” Tyson kisses his teeth and fans her off.

I snicker and get up to help Carmen prepare the food.

“Gucci sale?” I enquire.

“Yeah; Ty, Amari, Ace and Shaquille think that they are spice because they’re goin’ Eastpark on Saturday to buy out of season Gucci ACCESSORIES that rich people who can afford to buy Gucci suits don’t want any more ‘cause they know it’s old and dead!”

“Ty, that’s like what, a third of your loan?” I giggle joining Carmen on the mockery.

“Yeah but unlike you bums, I have a job.”

“Um excuse me; I have a job thank you very much!” Fontaine interjects.

We all say nothing. It’s not that her modelling isn’t a real gig, it’s just, well, aside from what we deem the REAL jobs for established companies (which are few and far between), most of the modelling Fontaine does is for up and coming labels -i.e. t-shirts with words printed on them -or music videos for rappers that we all know aren’t really going to blow…ever. Her modelling career would be an utter success if it was based on Instagram likes.

Tyson breaks the silence before she has a chance to take offence.

“Fine Fonts, I’ll let you off, but the rest of you need to shut up. Actin’ like man’s broke out ‘ere; like man don’t make p!”

“No one said you don’t make p, you just don’t make in season Gucci p,” Carmen states. I am slowly sinking to the floor with laughter now.

Before my transformation, I never quite understood why people would move heaven and earth to purchase superfluous material items they couldn’t really afford, so that they could flaunt it in front of their peers who were just as broke as them. It was like everyone needed to partake in this common fallacy to prove that even though they weren’t rich, they were doing more than all right because they had the latest Celine bag or Ralph Lauren polo shirt to back it up in order to avoid the veracity of their reality. It didn’t make any logical sense to me back then, but it does now -we live in a society where we define each other by the things we own. We’re slaves to materialism. It’s natural that people first judge you by what you look like and in a world where we idolize the rich and famous, especially if your lifestyle is the complete opposite of that, we look down upon people who look broke. Brokeness is a disease that we feel we need to be cured of because the things associated with it will never be glamourized by the media in a way that will allow us to feel okay about it, hence we end up with kids partaking in illegal activities to try and get out of the hood for a better life like they see their favourite rappers enjoying. By purchasing certain luxury items you can pretend you are living the lifestyle and people will respond to you as if you are up there with the best of them. Having money equals status and status equals power and the more powerful you are the more money you can make to gain even more status, resulting in even more power. The delusions of grandeur we subject ourselves to plant the idea that these things make us worth of being a ‘somebody’; for men it’s the alpha male title and for women…it’s Beyonce; it’s always Beyonce.

As people were so desperate to appear affluent, a lot of them had knock offs, so ratings are awarded to the people that purchased the genuine article, even if they had to scrimp and save to get it. It’s common to see the underprivileged in designer gear emblazoned with the logo just so people can see that it is in fact YSL, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Armani, Gucci (etc), whereas the day to day people who are well off tend to dress more plainly in their designer gear. The poor want to look rich and the rich don’t care how they look because they know they’re rich; therefore they have nothing to prove.

It’s easier for women to get away with not having to ‘stunt’ than it is for men because in our patriarchal society men are advocated as the bread winners and life has demonstrated many times over that the man with the money gets the girls, hence a lot of young men are jaded by the ‘Money Over Bitches’ mentality because they know that if they focus on getting money, women will come.

In order to move away from my old life I had to embrace new ideals, including ones I wasn’t so hot on, because it would help me move forward. Before I came to Brompton the most expensive branded item I owned was an old Gap hoody that still managed to be a size too big that I’d held onto since secondary school. I didn’t care about the latest trends and must have items, but ‘they’ do, so now, so do I.

Tyson pops a Haribo in his mouth, “Listen yeah, it’s my money and I’ll spend it on what I want. You lot can talk all you want but at the end of the day I don’t care ‘cause we all know how you females operate.” The laughing came to a halt.

Fontaine is looking at Tyson over the top of her cards, “And how are we exactly?”

Tyson takes in our awaiting expressions and realizes that he’s now put his foot in his mouth so he has to be very careful about what he says next.

He sighs, “Let’s be real; if dudes don’t look the part, no matter how attractive or thuggish they are, you lot won’t rate them.”

“That’s not true,” Yoshi pipes up looking genuinely offended.

“Don’t gas. You’re telling me that if Ace had stepped to you in Primark jeans, Hi-Tec trainers and a Gola hoody, you would give him the time of day?”

Yoshi trails her heavily embellished pink acrylic nails over her cards in a contemplative fashion.

“I dunno,” she shrugs quietly “Maybe.”

“That means no. I rest my case.”

“That’s not fair though. You said he was wearing Gola and Hi-Tec!” Carmen argues on Yoshi’s behalf.

“So? Why does what he’s wearing matter?”

“Because it’s GOLA and HI-TEC!”

Tyson rolls his eyes, “Like I said; I rest my case.”

I stay in the kitchen with them for another hour, long enough to eat and crack a few jokes before I decide that this distraction is no longer working. I force a yawn and an exaggerated stretch.

“I’m tired. I think I’m gonna have a nap.”

“How are you tired already? It’s not even 6 o’clock,” Fontaine remarks.

I avoid their curious gazes and shrug, “It’s been a long day.”

They accept my answer and I scurry off into my room locking the door behind me, kick off my shoes, close the curtains and crawl into bed willing the sandman to make an express visit so that I can stop thinking about my baby shame.

Nathaniel’s parting words ring in my ears, “D’you know what, maybe you shouldn’t forgive me, ‘cause standing here talking about what you did to our child, I’m not sure I really forgave you either.”

I pull the duvet over my head and squeeze my eyelids together as tightly as I can, but still a determined tear slips out. I had hoped that all of the therapy sessions the doctor had sent me to would’ve helped me deal with the situation, but no matter how much I tried to deal with it (or ignore it), the guilt from me having that abortion never went away, and to hear him say those things to me only made the experience more painful to re-live.

It seems as if we’ll never forgive one another for the pain we cause each other, or to ourselves. 

What remained of our broken relationship was starting feel like a burden that hadn’t finished crushing us yet.