I, Pippa Jane Addams, make this statement of my own free will. I understand that I do not have to say anything but that it may harm my defence if I do not mention when questioned something which I later rely on in court. This statement may be given in evidence.
It wasn't like me not to open my mouth after what I saw, but I felt tired. I did tell Quinn I felt horrible for not doing something, but she said the problem wasn't anything I could help with.
She didn't know I was behind her in the supermarket Sunday morning. I didn't make myself known. I'd had a shitty morning and wanted to get what I needed and go home.
My mum's sister was visiting for the weekend. Aunt Linda and I have never been close, so I wasn't bothered she was coming to snoop. To be truthful, she looks down on us, but nobody has the guts to say it. Linda is a woman that doesn't understand money because she's never had to. Why my mum can't afford a detached four-bed house is beyond her.
She arrived as I was leaving for the shop. Sunday was a beautiful summers day, so I put on a maxi dress and made myself look nice. I felt good. I was happy with my reflection. I did my hair wavy, and my makeup went on excellent. My eyebrows that I did a little different looked terrific—the struggle is real. For the first time in months, I was happy with the person looking back at me. I even clapped with excitement.
I passed aunt Linda on the drive, and she smiled at me. I didn't stop to talk. I smiled back and headed to the path where I waited to cross the road. The day was going to be good. I could feel it, but then I heard my auntie tell my mum that I was quite pretty for a big girl.
Wow! I felt my heart shatter. All that feel-good momentum I had going smashed into thousands of pieces.
I kept my eyes on the sky, hoping tears wouldn't come and ruin my mascara. I tried to disregard the embarrassment crawling on my chest, no doubt turning red, but tears came. Within seconds my face was a mix of foundation and water. I could see that on my fingertips.
My mum ignored aunt Lindas comment. She does that. Sometimes she glazes over things that make her uncomfortable. I was too hurt to turn around and too proud to start shouting.
As I crossed the road with that comment weaved deep in my mind, I became mad at the permanency of the words. I went over the way she said it with joy as though it was a compliment. She couldn't say I was pretty and leave it at that, could she? No, she had to use the word significant to define me.
That is what gets into my head. I like my body until people make me second guess my confidence.
I hate the word BIG. How can three letters make me feel so much pain? So different? So abnormal? I wish the word would vanish from the English language. What that word does to me is horrible. I'm afraid of it. Even when it's used to clarify the size of a building or an idea, its presence to me is very personal.
By the time I got to the shop, I felt beaten down and bought one of those horrid green smoothies. Already I decided honesty was the best policy when recording my next TikTok. I fell for the backhanded comment from aunt-fucking-Linda and bought a fake feel-good drink. I'm always honest with my followers, even when I don't always find the strength to believe what I preach.
When I walked into the supermarket, I did what I do every time I'm in there. I got out my phone to record myself grabbing a hand full of segregated plus size clothes. I put them with all the other sizes. I'm happy my size is mainstream now, but why do they need to be separate from the other sizes? They're the same garments! Christ, humans are so intelligent yet so fucking stupid at the same time.
Some size six once said it's a good idea because I don't have to search for my size or ask if they even stock my size.
What the fuck? Pure stupidity. Does anyone think about what they're saying anymore?
When Prim started making size four, nobody put them on a unique stand to make them easier to find. What does that even mean?
Small girl. Tall girl. Plus size girl. Do we need any more defining labels? Really? Do we?
Men don't have that. Men have leg lengths on one rack. They add one more letter to the tag as the size goes up or down, again on the same rack.
I wore a bandeau dress last summy to a party, and the girl's mother patted my arm and said, "good for you wearing a tight dress."
What do you think about that then? Patronising much? Could have just said I looked nice, no?
I loved my body in that dress. I love the way I look until someone opens their mouth and speaks to me as if I'm seeking reassurance or approval to wear a fucking dress.
My mum remembers when supermarkets didn't sell clothes. That must have been great, lucky her. Now I'm forced to walk through them to get to the food. Brilliant.
Mummy Marge goes on at me for posting these videos because she thinks I'm making too much of a fuss. She has no clue that one major online clothes brand offered me a modelling job. I said no because they advertised a dress I liked, but it only went to size twelve. Not good enough.
After the clothes hurdle, I spot the cardboard shelves for "skinny" biscuits. They were the brand that every Yorkshire family knows all too well—established before God was an egg—you know the ones. I get out my phone again to record myself asking for the original biscuits name? Do we have fat and skinny bloody biscuits now? It was just the last thing I needed to see that morning.
My likes hit high within a few seconds of posting. The biscuits post is my most viewed post. It's funny how having a few too many followers and a lot to say makes everyone listen. What can I say? I'm relatable and debatable. I'm loved and hated by brands.
I got to the till and saw the back of Quinn. It's her beautiful long hair, I noticed. She has that hair every sixteen your old such as myself would love to have naturally. I started colouring my hair when I was eleven against my mum's wishes. I regrate it now, but I'll never admit it to her.
So Quinn lives on the outskirts of Roseville in Hesley—literally only like three houses there—a pointless place. She told me back in primary school, it was just her and her dad, but until Sunday morning, I had no idea that her dad was a bully. Never even seen him before then.
While hanging back in the queue, I witnessed Quinn cower when her snap-back-hat dad grabbed her arm with way too much strength. He had a gold looking chain around his neck that bounced off his chest when he clenched his fist.
My first thought was to get involved, and my second was to tell her boyfriend, Chase. But I didn't do either in the end. I kept away from it because I was too wrapped up with myself. I was upset. I needed someone to stick up for me for a change. I wanted someone to recognise something beautiful about me, in the same way I noticed Quinn's hair. Of course, my anger leads to other resentful thoughts like me wanting what Quinn and Chase have. Why couldn't I have young love? Why did I hate trying clothes on in shops? Instead, I take a wheelbarrow of parcels back to the post office rather than try clothes on in a changing room.
I watched Quinn, and her dad leave. He was angry. I could tell by how he walked off holding imaginary carpets under both arms. He was the kind of person to avoid at first glance because his stance tells the tale of how hot-headed he is.
On the way home, I did call Chase to tell him what I saw in the supermarket. He told me to stay away and be there for Quinn when she needed me. Chase always has everything under control. I've known him all my life, so I trusted he would take care of her if she needed him.
There's constantly evolving drama with all of us. Every day we learn something new about each other after all these years. But things were getting serious. As soon as I saw the bruises on Quinn's arm, I knew this was serious.
It was her dad hurting her. She told me he was a drunk. I could have guessed that, but it felt like she was holding something back. Something was worrying her that day because Quinn only goes deathly quiet and chews her lip when something is on her mind. I tried to talk to her, but Quinn is excellent at diverting any conversation. She ended up listening to me. She's the master of making me feel good about myself.
I left early Sunday night. I told my mum about the marks on Quinn's arm, and she told me she'd call the school first thing in the morning.
Did she call them? Is that why I'm here? Has something happened to Quinn?