And is lunging the only option? What about some nice, good old-fashioned, totally consensual handholding? (With say, Nick Brooker?)
I think me and Nick might have had another moment in music – or he could have just been squinting because of the sun. (I squinted back to join in, before I realised the sun wasn’t really in my eyes.)
But why are the two options for interacting with boys either name-calling for failing to meet the apparent standards of beauty expected, or physical attack for exceeding them?
I guess if I had to choose between physical assault and verbal assault, I’d probably stick with verbal assault. So maybe I’m fine as I am?
I mean, frankly, the last thing I need right now is some large-adult-son-in-the-making lunging at me unannounced. I just don’t want that kind of hassle. Why is Grace so sunny about everything and laughing off assault?
Saturday 16th March
GRACE
As you know, diary, I am completely happy in my own company, and very self-sufficient. I’m not one of those people who dreads to be alone with their own thoughts because they secretly hate themselves and need to distract the voices. Sure, I keep busy, but that’s because I’m a go-getter (not because I’d otherwise be prone to bouts of depression).
Therefore, I think it’s great to have a night in and relax, recuperate, have a nice bath, maybe do a face-mask, practise self-care and catch up on my reading. I am absolutely not ashamed to be home, alone on a Saturday night. In fact, I cherish it.
So there I was, having a lovely time, après mon bain moussant, just sitting up in bed, reading Jane Eyre again and (obviously) occasionally checking my phone.
I knew Sylvie and Brianna and a couple of the others were going to go roller-skating, and I wasn’t jealous at all.
In fact, it had been my idea, but I wanted to go next weekend, after a certain important netball match was out of the way, just in case I got injured.
I did say, “You could go this weekend, but then I can’t come, or next weekend, and I can.” But I suppose, if I’m honest, I was sort of bluffing. I didn’t think they would actually go without me.
But it’s fine. It’s fine. I wasn’t jealous, and anyone who says I was is mistaken.
Although (even though I wasn’t jealous), I did feel a little bit sad every time I clicked on insta and saw another story of them whizzing round together. And they did some very cute posing by the huge, cool neon sign that looked quite arty, and I realised I would have liked to do that.
But I am a serious athlete, treating netball with the importance and respect it deserves. I’m sure it’s what Charlotte Brontë would have done, if roller skates had existed in the olden days and she was supposed to play netball at a high level like myself.
Plus, it was a good opportunity to do more party planning.
Obviously I checked my phone a bit, now and then.
Had a quick look at what Erin was up to.
I remembered her insta page as being all a bit zany and unkempt. But I guess I hadn’t really concentrated properly.
There was a picture of her and (presumably) her sister, as little kids, next to a picture of them now, with the caption, “Slightly worried we still dress like this” because they were wearing the same colour tops and trousers.
It made me smile, but it also struck me as odd, to post a picture online and draw attention to being unfashionable in it, rather than, you know, emphasising how good you look.
But that seemed to be a recurring theme of Erin’s insta. She was always trying to be the butt of the joke and put herself down for a laugh.
She, and sometimes her sister, but mainly Nicole, were generally pulling comedy poses that were actually quite unbecoming – aesthetically speaking. It was like she didn’t even want to look cute at all.
Erin currently seemed to be having loads of fun at a sleepover where they were dressed up as animals. She was a zebra, Nicole was wearing a leopard onesie, and this other girl was either a grey mouse or a koala or something.
There was a SingStar on in the background and a couple of stories of them variously dancing, singing and putting way too many sweets in their mouths, then gurning to the camera with loads of fizzy wands hanging out. Then Erin crimping Nicole’s hair.
So many times, I thought, “I would never have posted a shot like that, so close to my nostrils,” etc.
Then one picture really caught my eye. In it, Nicole must have said something funny because Erin was really laughing. She was laughing so much she had a massive double chin, and it was an unflattering angle, but she looked so happy. Carefree even.
And then I realised that’s how she looked in all the photos. She was either pulling a funny face that she didn’t care looked ugly, or a wry sarcastic knowing face about whatever she was mocking, or she was just genuinely head back, snorting with laughter.
It took me another a moment to realise that I didn’t feel judgemental or jealous, I felt … wistful. Erin was free in a way that I – with my carefully, artistically crafted aesthetics – was not.
Erin could genuinely dance like no one was watching. Whereas I could do the perfect version of what it would look like if you were dancing like no one was watching, but were in fact very aware that actually everyone was, and you needed to make sure you still looked cute.
But so what? So sue me. I care about appearances. Because actually, appearances are important.
One should always be well dressed and appear tidy and clean and smart and competent. Daddy wears amazing suits because he believes the saying “clothes maketh the man” has truth to it.
One should think carefully about every picture one posts online because it could somehow affect a job interview when you are twenty-five. That’s not excessively stressful, it’s just prudent.
And actually, how do I know what Erin is thinking in these photos? She might think she looks great and super cute … though I doubt it.
And what if she is just pretending not to care? What if this whole account is a carefully-crafted attempt to look emo and not bothered about being beautiful? Looking breezy and insouciant?
Ever since Erin came into my life I’ve been full of questions and doubts and I don’t like it. But I think I like Erin. I just worry she might be bad for me.
Sunday 17th March
ERIN
EMAIL
16.47
FROM: ERIN BROWN
TO: CHARLOTTE BRONTË FAN CLUB
SUBJECT: RE: GHOST STORY
Dear Grace and Mrs Wilson,
Hope you’ve had nice weekends. My ghost story is attached.
Best,
Erin
The Haunted Walk
By Erin Brown
She’d been followed for at least thirty minutes now. She was sure of that. Thirty careful minutes that she’d made sure she didn’t go any faster than she needed to.
Every time she crossed the road, he crossed the road behind her. Every time she turned a corner, he turned a corner behind her.
Thirty minutes. She stuck carefully to her speed.
Keep up the pace – don’t do anything sudden or unexpected. Don’t let on that you know … then maybe you’ll still have the element of surprise…?
Keep to the well-lit areas. Take the long way around because there’s more people that way.
At least there should have been. Where was everyone? Had everyone gone home early today? Why was there hardly anyone around? Did they know something she didn’t? Or was fear making her paranoid?
It was getting darker and darker. Dusk had shape shifted into night-time like a fire turning into smoke.
Shadows loomed large everywhere. Streetlights were few and flickering.
All the shops were now shut. But there should still have been people. People like her, on their way home, on their way to their cars, to safety. To safety.
The march of the feet behind her continued their pace. Following her.
He was keeping his distance. For now.
What if he knew she
was already far too alone? What if he knew already that he could make his move easily?
Why were there so few people around? She needed to keep to the light. But there wasn’t enough light.
Should she tail around and go back? Back to the light? Back to the busyness and hubbub of the city centre? Back to the people? The shops were shut but the restaurants and bars and cafes would be open… There must be people there.
She could find help … call a taxi … find a policeman.
Would it be suspicious at this late stage? Too suspicious to turn around and double back?
Would that signal that she knew? He’d know he’d have to make his move soon…
But then… What if it was already too late? Her heart beat fast in her chest…
Was this it?
Should she run? Phone the police?
Suddenly she realised she couldn’t hear the footsteps any more.
What did that mean? Had he gone? Stopped?
Should she stop? Turn around and see what was happening? Or just run?
She turned around.
The man was standing still, holding a gun.
“Get down!” he yelled at her. “Now!”
She ducked to the floor.
A new sound – padded footsteps getting nearer, faster. A great wolf-like creature leapt into the air above her.
The gun went off. Once, twice, three times.
The animal made a roar that turned into a scream and crash-landed in a bleeding heap in front of her.
The man approached, gun still aimed.
“You saved me!” she cried. “I thought you wanted to hurt me, but you wanted to save me from that wolf.”
“I saved you from that wolf,” he said, putting his gun away, “so that I could drink your blood!”
He grinned and she saw his vampire fangs, growing in the flickering light.
GRACE
Ooooh, Erin finally did her ghost story. (Well, assuming “ghost story” as a category is allowed to include “general Halloween stuff”? I guess vampires are technically ghosts as they are dead…?)
It’s a good story, though. Quite tense. (Though maybe not as tense as mine?) And it has two twists. Mine only has one really. Grace is getting good at twists. I wonder if she is copying me? Haha.
#everyonecopiesme #theycanthelpitbabes #iamthebest
EMAIL
17.58
FROM: MRS WILSON
TO: CHARLOTTE BRONTË FAN CLUB
SUBJECT: RE: GHOST STORY
Well done again both!
Shall we meet at start of lunch on Monday (tomorrow) again, to discuss? Is this a good time to meet? When we make the group official we will need to stick to one lunchtime a week. Don’t have to decide now. Have a think about which days will work.
Best,
Mrs Wilson
Second in Department for English
GRACE
EMAIL
18.50
FROM: GRACE ABELLA
TO: CHARLOTTE BRONTË FAN CLUB
SUBJECT: RE: GHOST STORY
Dear Erin and Mrs Wilson,
Just to flag up I do have netball practice some lunchtimes. And as you know, I do lots of extra-curricular activities, so I think we should be mindful of that going forward.
Kind regards,
Grace
ERIN
Mindful?
Not long ago that would have made me eye roll and text Nic about how annoying and pretentious Grace is.
Now it makes me chuckle affectionately.
Yikes.
But Grace doesn’t mean to sound so officious. She just sometimes has crazy paranoia that everyone won’t think she’s important all the time.
Sometimes I think she’s happier than me because she seems so confident and at ease with herself. Other times I think it would be exhausting being her, and I am better off because I don’t care about stuff like if I am seen as important.
Like, I would never want to throw a big party like Grace. (And not just because my flat is so cramped that I can only really invite two people round at a time before it violates health and safety regulations.)
I would genuinely find it stressful trying to make it good and I’d hate it if everyone said it was rubbish. I just wouldn’t find that fun. Grace loves all that. Like she thrives on that kind of stress. It’s some fun challenge to puzzle-solve and perfect.
Not for me, no thank you. I don’t need a big party. I’m fine. I’m happy. Ish. I’m definitely happier, though, I think.
I’m a bit worried I’m being two-faced about Nic though.
Grace explicitly said I’m allowed to invite Nic and Liz to the amazing party. And I haven’t mentioned it to them yet.
I just sat about having fun at Nic’s impromptu sleepover, eating her sweets and not inviting her to a cool party. Like a terrible friend.
I know I’m a hypocrite, but honestly, if Nic thinks that wearing a onesie while you insta a new hair-do makes it somehow subversive and ironic, then she is kidding herself and is a total hypocrite too.
I mean, I guess, maybe it is a tiny bit subversive. But still. In some ways, the irony only seems like a smokescreen, to hide that you actually secretly want to insta hair appointments. (I might be over-thinking this.)
Sometimes, now, when Nic is rude to me, I feel this weird anger flare up inside me; then I squash it back down and add it to the little ball of annoyance in my stomach where I keep my feelings about Nic at the moment.
I’m not sure this is a good long-term plan.
And it occasionally results in Nic going, “What’s wrong? Are you annoyed with me?” as if she actually cares.
But then I go, “No, I’m fine.”
And she goes, “Phew, I thought for a minute you were going off me because I can’t recite pi to a hundred decimal places or whatever.”
And then I go, “That’s maths, not English.”
And she goes, “So?”
And then I can’t be bothered to point out that she’s bullying me for being good at the wrong thing. Because that just proves I’m a swot even more. Or, you know, someone who pays attention to details.
Maybe I should say, “Don’t call me a swot. It’s hurtful and you’ve said it so much, it isn’t funny anymore. And please change the name of that WhatsApp group.”
But I know she’d just say, “I’m only joking! Why can’t you take a joke? God, I can’t say anything to you any more, can I? Don’t worry, I’ll never say anything funny to you ever again!” Or something.
I mean, that’s what she says in my head. And I’m usually right about stuff like this. So there’s no point giving her a chance to prove me wrong. Because if I’m right, it will be an awful row.
My point is: it’s just better to not confront.
Monday 18th March
GRACE
Well, today was a game of two halves.
The morning was fine. Caught up with all my friends. Chloe is worried her hamster is getting too fat. (Honestly. Eye roll emoji.) It shouldn’t be that difficult to give a hamster proper nutrition.
That girl is a little more foolish than I realised. Not that I’m judging her as stupid just because she went down in English. I’m not a snob. (Well, only a tiny bit.) But it is weird how I never noticed before that she is not the sharpest tool in the shed.
#notjudging #lovetoanyenemies
Anyway. Had a lovely time in CBFC at lunchtime, discussing our ghost stories.
Erin brought up an interesting point (which actually stemmed from something interesting I said – just saying).
Erin was critiquing my work, and said she couldn’t tell what ye olden century it was set in as it was all a bit vague, and I should maybe give a clue or indication of a more specific era.
And I said, “Oh, you mean mention who the monarch is? Or have someone use like carbolic soap or whatever as clues?”
And then Erin said, “You know what I’ve always wondered? When you read a novel from nowadays that’s set in the olden days,
say the Victorian era – the characters will often refer to their soap as carbolic soap. So that we, the reader, are picturing how different soap was then, or it conjures a certain historically accurate image, etc. But like, in Jane Eyre, Jane only ever calls soap, soap. She never mentions if it’s carbolic or not. Is that because she had regular soap? Or is it because ALL the soap was carbolic soap, and so there was no need to mention it?”
“That is a very interesting question,” said Mrs Wilson, looking impressed. “Although carbolic soap is a Victorian invention, it went with the whole Germ Theory Revolution pioneered by people like Joseph Lister. But the mass production of carbolic soap didn’t happen until towards the end of the Victorian era, so Charlotte Brontë would most likely not have had it. She may well have had access to Pears soap, invented by Andrew Pears, though you had to be quite well-to-do.
“But it’s great that you’re thinking like a writer, Erin, and really trying to picture the accurate world your characters would inhabit.”
I didn’t even feel jealous that Mrs Wilson was giving Erin praise. I was pleased to have facilitated such a great bit of discussion. I’m very gracious and basically the instigator of all interesting things.
Then Mrs Wilson said maybe the two of us should meet up another time to discuss a bit more before we wrote our feedback notes.
“I don’t mind coming to yours,” I offered to Erin, after Mrs Wilson left. “If that’s easier for you?”
“You can’t come to mine,” said Erin. “You wouldn’t fit. Literally as well as figuratively. My flat is the size of this sofa.”
“Well that’s palpably not true,” I replied.
Erin smiled at me curiously, then said, “I kind of want you to come round, just to see the horrified look on your face. But still no.” She grinned at me.
I attempted to return the smile, but I’m not sure it passed muster. Truthfully, I felt a little put out. I’m not used to being told “no” very often. (Not because I’m spoiled – but because I’m a fantastic negotiator. Obvs.)
The Weird Friends Fan Club Page 8