The only thing worse than a skinny bitch is a skinny bitch who makes grandiose proclamations about being fat. Which is precisely what Dominique Delacorte was always doing. Christ, Jill thought, even her name bore the aura of thinness. Not like Jill’s own moniker, which, when said in its entirety—Jill Plotz—made her sound even fatter than she looked and felt. It was for this reason that she rarely said her last name aloud to anyone, and always dreaded when a teacher might utter it in school, lest one of the quintessential male bullies imitated a fart sound. That’s what she was to people: a fucking wet, juicy fart of a human being. Not like Dominique. Elegant, dainty Dominique. A girl who, just as Regina George, only seemed to go on about how fat she was so other girls would jump in immediately to assure her of her waifishness. Jill was one of those girls, and she hated herself for it. She was also keenly aware that the sole reason Dominique even opted to “allow” Jill in her orbit was so she could come across as looking even thinner than she already did without a fat person next to her.

Jill had wondered often if fat and thin people could truly be friends. For it seemed as though it was the thin people who got more out of the relationship than the rotund person in the permutation. Of course, one could also argue that a zaftig person being friends with a rail was motivational “thinspiration”—one of the most odious portmanteaus ever. And no, Jill was hardly “thinspired” by watching Dominique eat whatever the fuck she wanted, never exercise and still maintain what can best be described as “Paris Hilton body.” Because, sure, Dominique wasn’t “toned,” per se, but she still managed to keep that curveless, boyish physique no matter what she did. Hell, she could eat sticks of butter all day and nothing would happen to her (except maybe, at some point, a heart attack—but who cares about dying so long as you look svelte in your coffin?). Sometimes Jill also speculated that Dominique remained “friends” with her because she could still remember a time when Jill hadn’t been so plump. This brief tango with thinness occurred roughly around the period from first to third grade, before Jill ballooned right at the beginning of the fourth-grade school year. Maybe it was because she had done absolutely nothing all summer but sit in front of the TV eating chips and other assorted unhealthy snacks, and had lost all interest in previous recreational sports like swimming and soccer. Still, she never imagined the result would be for her shape to transfigure into something so…egg-like.

Although she could see the change in the mirror, she wanted to believe her body didn’t look as “bad” as she was perceiving it. And that maybe none of the other kids at school would notice any alteration at all. Otherwise known as: Lies We Tell Ourselves in Order to Walk Out the Door. Which Jill did, only to be slapped with the unfortunate nickname of Humpty Dumpty the instant she set foot in her new classroom. Surprisingly, however, Dominique was the one to eagerly sit down next to her, likely the only reason all the not-so-hushed tittering among the students ceased before the teacher, Mrs. Richards, walked in. Jill was relieved the taunting had stopped before Mrs. Richards felt obliged to intervene, for there was nothing more embarrassing than a teacher having to come to your defense—it was just so goddamn degrading, only adding to the general shame. The last thing nine-year-old Jill needed was more shame. For it was being piled on all at once that day when she also learned that they would be forced to start changing into actual gym clothes for PE instead of wearing their “street” clothes. Wasn’t that illegal, Jill thought. Something that had to be reserved for junior high? When it was till just as pervy and weird?

Needless to say, the Humpty Dumpty nickname was merciless in PE, where even Dominique had to keep her distance—for her popularity wasn’t powerful enough to withstand being “genuinely” associated with Jill. As the years dragged on, Jill grew accustomed to the soul-crushing denunciations of her body every time she deigned to go to school. At first, she tried to avoid it by pretending to be sick a lot, but her parents quickly got wise to the scheme. Although they knew why she was doing it, they never actually addressed it—never tried to talk to her about it or offer assistance in some way. Parents were just as helpless as their children, in the end. The only light faintly glimmering at the end of the perpetual tunnel was that Dominique suddenly saw fit to hang out with her in a “real” way when junior year rolled around. She had no idea what had flipped the switch to cause this, but she was grateful to finally be loosely accepted in some way despite weighing in at her highest integer to date.

What Jill hadn’t counted on was that the tradeoff for “acceptance” from Dominique entailed having to become one of her obsequious lackeys. Which required reassuring her constantly that she wasn’t fat—a major insult to Jill, forced to, if one will pardon the expression, ignore the elephant in the room: that she was fat herself. So for Dominique to constantly prattle on about how chubby she was getting (especially ever since she got on birth control) meant that Jill had to endure the amplification of her own body issues. For if Dominique believed her own flesh prison was “fat,” what must they all think of Jill? Was she some horrendous monster clopping through the halls like a Cyclops-esque creature of myth? Probably. That’s why it came as no surprise to Jill that nobody asked her to the prom, not even one of the desperate dweebs sans a date. They would rather stay at home playing video games where “actual” hot girls existed than bother with her flesh-and-blood fat ass.

Dominique obviously had a date. Her “steady” of the past two years, Bobby. The letterman-wearing beefcake who said little more than a few grunts here and there. But Dominique likely didn’t mind the grunting when he was sticking it to her with his wang of legend. It was a wonder someone as thin as her could take any dick, let alone a huge one. And that’s when something occurred to Jill. She had a gift that no waif possessed: the ability to receive pork swords without the problems and limitations of a daintier pussy. Why hadn’t she thought to “market” her body in this objectifying way before?

So it was that Jill decided the moment had arrived to seek her vengeance. It was time to snap the condescending twig known as Dominique in half. If only metaphorically by zeroing in on her man. Thus, she “dared” to show up at the prom alone, all elastic waistband and taffeta. And, as the foreboding lyrics to Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling” played, she could sense Dominique’s eyes on her as she approached the punch bowl. She was dancing with Bobby, but it appeared half-hearted on both sides. This was Jill’s opportunity, her chance to swoop in. After enduring the forced pleasantries with Dominique, the latter skirted off to the bathroom with a group of her minions, leaving Jill the opening to approach Bobby at the punch bowl table and lure him out to his car with the promise of a “mind-altering spliff,” as she billed it. It was even easier than she thought to seduce him in this way, and easier still, once he smoked of her fatty-boom-batty blunt, to get him in the car and further allure him with her body. Before either of them knew it, he was railing her with a force Jill was all-too-aware he never did with Dominique. Likely afraid of “breaking” her. When it was over, and they were exiting the vehicle (a black Mercedes-Benz befitting a rich boy), Dominique had emerged from the gymnasium in search of her “property.” The shock of seeing him all red-eyed and satisfied-looking with Jill threw her for a loop. Yet she didn’t immediately make the connection about what happened because it was so unfathomable to her to view Jill as a sexual creature. She being the self-superior bone bag that she was.

The reality only seemed to dawn on Dominique in the next few days, after she and Bobby naturally won the vote for prom king and queen as Jill watched with a smirk on her face among the crowd. It was clear that Bobby had gotten some new sexual ideas from banging Jill, which were employed rather overzealously that weekend when Dominique invited him over while her parents were out of town. It was there, in her frilly teenage bedroom, that he proceeded to fuck her with the same abandon and barbarism that he did in the arms of Jill, who was suddenly all he could think about. Fantasizing about her soft folds enveloping him, he lost track entirely of who he was currently inside of, looking down after orgasming intensely to visions of Jill to see that he had, in fact, snapped Dominique. She was crying out in pain, and certain bones were protruding more overtly than they had been before.

That Monday, the entire school heard news of how Dominique had ended up in the hospital from a sex injury. That she wasn’t “strong enough” to handle Bobby’s “manhood,” as it were. And this brought a beatific smile to Jill’s face for maybe the first time in her entire life as “Humpty Dumpty.” She had been vindicated. Her body type had won out, proven to be more valuable and multi-faceted in its pleasure-giving abilities than “fat” Dominique’s. A “grieving” Bobby very much agreed as he met up with Jill again in his car to be “consoled” every day for the next few months. After all, Dominique’s fragile frame might never recover… at least not fully enough to be fucked like this.