He Bet on the Wrong Girl

I stared at the announcement pinned at the top of the group chat for nearly 10 seconds.

"Congratulations, Oliver! You just won yourself a 200-pound girlfriend!"

Three firecracker emojis appeared beneath it.

There were more than a hundred people in the chat, and the messages were coming in so quickly that I barely had time to finish reading one before another pushed it up the screen.

"Oliver rolled a six and actually won. Fred really got screwed this time."

"How is Fred the loser? He just got rid of a human tank. Sounds like he won to me."

"Oliver, where's your acceptance speech?"

A photo suddenly appeared in the chat, and I recognized it the moment it loaded.

It had been taken during field day in my junior year of high school.

I weighed 198 pounds back then, so my school uniform stretched tightly across my body as I sat alone at the far end of the bleachers. My head was lowered as I munched on a piece of bread.

Whoever had taken the picture had obviously been standing quite a distance away, but the poor quality did nothing to hide how big I had been.

The most upsetting part was seeing who uploaded it. It was Fred Lowe, my online boyfriend.

He had been sending me private messages and trying to convince me that everything happening in the group was harmless just a minute ago.

"Babe, the guys are just messing around. Don't take it so seriously."

Another message had followed almost immediately.

"I lost the game, so I gave Oliver your number and agreed that you two would do a couple's challenge. It's only a game."

I hadn't bothered replying.

To be fair, I didn't know what I was supposed to tell him when the group chat had already turned me into entertainment.

"Oliver's gonna need a moving truck if he plans to pick her up tomorrow."

"What's the couple's challenge again? Is he supposed to carry her like a bride? Somebody better book him an orthopedic appointment first."

"I think we should change the challenge. It might actually be easier to train a pig to fly."

Then, Fred joined in by sending a laughing emoji with its hand covering its mouth. "Take it easy, guys. You're going to make her cry."

To anyone else, it might have looked like he was trying to defend me. Yet, I knew him well enough to understand what he was really doing. He wasn't telling them to stop. Oh, no. He was merely giving them another reason to laugh at my expense.

My fingers tightened around my phone until they felt cold.

Fred and I had been together online for 11 months.

I stayed awake and played games with him until morning whenever he couldn't sleep. I spent the night talking him through his sensitive, snowflake of a heart when he lost an important tournament.

When the SATs rolled around, I recorded a voice message every morning just to encourage him when he became so anxious that he could barely concentrate.

I had even placed Harbor City University at the top of my college list because of him.

Fred had been the one who asked me to do so. "Lauren, let's go to the same college. When school starts, I'll be waiting for you with a bouquet of flowers."

I had believed him.

I had imagined what it would feel like to finally meet him in person for months. Instead, he had turned me into part of a stupid game and handed me over to another guy as though I were nothing more than a prize a day before our freshman orientation day.

A new notification appeared before I could put my phone down.

Someone had started a betting pool on whether I would show up at tomorrow night's freshman party.

The amount climbed almost immediately. Now, there was more than 30,000 dollars placed on the option that I would not show up when Fred joined the betting himself.

He put down 10,000 against me.

"She won't come."

A second message from him appeared a moment later.

"She's really sensitive. Say one harsh thing to her, and she starts crying."

A quiet laugh escaped me as I thought, 'So, you do know how I'm like. You know I'll cry. You know exactly how much this will hurt me, and you still let more than a hundred people watch you humiliate me.'

Another message appeared before I could close the chat.

It came from Rita Steele.

"Guys, don't talk about her like that. There's nothing wrong with being a little bigger. What matters is whether someone is a good person."

I was already aware of her identity, as nearly everyone in Harbor City University's freshman class knew her.

Rita had already earned the nickname "the campus belle" among the freshmen.

She shared a series of beach photos featuring her in a white dress two days ago, flaunting her flowy locks that she'd gracefully draped around her shoulders with a seemingly effortless smile on her lips. The comments on those pictures seemed endless.

Then, she tagged me. "Lauren, you're still coming tomorrow night, right?"

For a moment, I wondered whether she was actually trying to help.

Her next message answered that question.

"Seriously, nobody means anything by it. You shouldn't feel insecure just because of how you look."

The group immediately began praising her, saying she was gorgeous and kind.

I had no interest in replying to any of them. Instead, I opened the betting link and entered 3,000 dollars.

I placed the money on myself.

My bet was simple. I was going to show up at the party exactly on time.

The entire group chat went silent for about two seconds before the screen suddenly filled with question marks.

My phone buzzed again.

Fred had sent me another private message.

"Are you crazy?"

Another message appeared immediately after it.

"These people are brutal. Why would you actually come?"

I slowly raised my head and looked at myself in the mirror.

My long hair was draped over my shoulders, and my waist had become so slim that it seemed like someone could wrap their hand around it.

Now that I no longer had all the extra weight hiding my features, my face had changed more than I had ever expected.

My features looked sharper, my eyes appeared brighter, and strangers had started turning to look at me when I passed them.

27 guys had stopped me at malls, on the subway, or at the gym to ask for my number over the past two months alone.

A talent scout had even followed me around for nearly 30 minutes, trying to convince me to appear in an advertisement.

Fred knew nothing about it.

After all, I had deliberately kept the changes from him because I wanted the first time he saw me like this to happen in person.

Now, I no longer wanted to give him anything because he didn't deserve that surprise anymore.

A tear gathered at the corner of my eye, but I wiped it away before it could fall. Then, I returned to the group chat and typed one final message, "A bet's a bet."