Me: Oh.
Emma: Because as you can imagine, with everything that’s been going on, dating sits pretty much on the very bottom of my pyramid of priorities.
Me: Same.
We nodded in agreement, and then she once again held her ice cream in front of my face, and I licked it.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to taste strawberry now without thinking of Emma and remembering the smell of hot concrete, the sounds of a Saturday, and the blue in Emma’s eyes forever changing with the angle of the afternoon sunshine.
Sunday, April 29 #Richard
This morning I was like: “I know about Bradley.”
Kate put down a handful of kittens and was like: “I was wondering why you were being odd last night.”
Me: I wasn’t being odd.
Kate: Yes, you were. You were being preoccupied and strange. Anyway, I hope you’re not mad at me for not saying anything.
Me: No, it’s fine, I get it.
Kate: Good.
Me: Emma said everyone’s been treating her differently since he died.
Kate: Yes, I suppose it would be very difficult to not do that.
Me: Do you treat her differently?
Kate: I only met her in October when she came in and asked to volunteer. And I think Bradley died in the summer.
Me: July 17. Two days after my birthday.
Kate (nodding then): I treated her like a young woman who just lost her brother.
Me: It’s so sad.
Kate: Yes, it’s horrible.
Me: I’m glad I’m an only child. And I’m glad I’ve never lost anyone.
Kate: You’ve lost your dad.
Me: That’s different because I never knew him, which means I can’t miss him emotionally. I only miss him intellectually.
Kate (looking at me a moment, then laughing): Oh, Phoebe, you’re such a strange creature. Come here.
And then she hugged me and kissed my head.
Kate (still hugging me): I love you, you’re wonderful.
Me: I love you, too.
Emma is coming over this afternoon, so I’m going to tidy.
9:47 P.M.
Kate just dropped Emma home in the car, because it’s absolutely raining buckets.
Kate had sexed the designer kittens earlier, and I could finally reveal to Emma that the one she resuscitated is a boy, and so we now call him Richard.
Obviously that’s only his working title, because we won’t actually get to name him, because in an ideal world, he’s going to be sold, even though I actually doubt that, because his eyes are a bit too close together, and he can’t seem to walk in a straight line.
The half-designer kittens are doing much better, but I suppose they’re two weeks older. And not inbred.
Emma loves them all, of course, but she especially loves Richard, and he loves her. I swear he recognizes her as the woman who gave him life, because he made proper squeaking noises when she walked in.
The weather was grim, so we just sat around and took more pictures of the nondesigner kittens, which we then put on Instagram, because we still haven’t had a single offer.
We had a big thunderstorm at five, and then it rained and rained and rained, and Emma and I went up to my room and just sat on the bed and looked out of the window.
Then Emma started giggling, and I was like: “What?”
Emma: Remember that day after Sprinkles when Alex suggested you were just like that woman in your class you hate?
Me: Oh God, Miriam Patel. Yes.
Emma (laughing): Your face.
Me: Fuck off.
Emma (laughing, slapping my arm): Honestly, Phoebe, your face …
Me (slapping her arm back):…
Emma (slapping mine again):…
Then, I stabbed her in the ribs with my finger.
Turns out she’s absurdly above average ticklish, so of course I wasn’t going to let that go, and I honestly tickled her until she was begging me to stop and started having the hiccups, which was hilarious.
Then she looked at me through her insanely blue eyes, and everything that had just been wild and chaotic stopped, and it was just us looking at each other.
But, like, really looking, and all I was thinking was: If I knew what you’re thinking, I could say something, but since I don’t, I can’t.
And then I felt her hand brush against mine, which made me jump.
Obviously not because it was unpleasant, because it wasn’t, but because I hadn’t expected it, nor had I seen it coming in my peripheral vision. But Emma totally must have thought that I recoiled in horror, because then she was like: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.”
And I said: “Yeah, I know, it’s fine.”
But it’s not fine.
Nothing’s fine now.
Did she want to touch my hand? And what would that mean?
11:02 P.M.
It’s still raining.
12:15 A.M.
I’m still awake, but Kate is, too. I just heard her crash-banging in the kitchen. Maybe my insomnia is contagious.
Maybe it’s the rain.
Monday, April 30 #Scandal
Kate and James had sex!
When I said I heard Kate “crash-banging” in the kitchen last night, turns out I heard her actually banging. Banging James.
Oh my God, I’m so glad I stayed in my room. Imagine walking in on something like that. Blech!
It all transpired this morning when I went downstairs.
One of the designer cats sat by the front door, watching one of the half-designer kittens tear something to shreds.
I was like: “Oy, get off that,” but at that point, white fluff was already everywhere.
I shooed the kitten away and discovered that it was eating the inside of a bra; the three-quarter-moon-shaped booster bit that gives extra cleavage.
I followed the trail of fluffy evidence down the hallway and into the living room, where another one of the half-designer kittens was asleep on an actual bra. And since it wasn’t mine, I was like: It’s obviously Kate’s.
So I was thinking: Hmmmm, this is a bit awkward, but she shouldn’t leave her bras lying around.
A moment later, the plot thickened, because the bra wasn’t the only item of clothing that was randomly lying on the floor.
I found a pair of jeans, another pair of jeans, the T-shirt Kate was wearing yesterday, and another T-shirt that looked familiar.
I was just like: OMG.
So I positioned myself in the kitchen where I could see into the hallway, and maybe ten minutes later, I heard Kate’s bedroom door opening and closing, followed by quiet footsteps padding down the stairs.
Me: Good morning, James.
James (jumping up in the air): Oh. Eh. Ah. Uh. Phoebe.
Me: Did you have a good night? Breakfast? I’m having toast.
James: Eh. Yes. Thanks. No.
Me: Why aren’t you talking in full sentences?
James (running his fingers through his hair): Sorry. I … I.
Me (shaking my head, because what happens to people when they’re in love/lust?):…
James (awkwardly rubbing his manly biceps): Kate and I … we … it … ehm … errrrr …
Me: What’s happened to your speech?
James (shaking his head): I … this …
(Enter Kate.)
Me: Tea? Toast?
Kate: You need to go to school.
Me: And miss the afterglow?
Kate: Phoebe …
James (blushing):…
Me: This is so great.
Kate: I … well … it happened.
Me (nodding in a very understanding way):…
Kate: And so … And now you can go to school.
Me (looking from one to the other): Okay. (to James) See you later.
James: Eh. Oh. Uh. Ah.
I casually walked out of the house, humming, and then I texted Emma.
Found James in our house this morning. He and Kate had sex.
>
She texted back straightaway:
Finally!!!
I was just like:
Really? You saw this coming?
Emma texted back:
OMG, Phoebe, it was so obvious.
Was it? Because I thought there was a tragic love triangle going on where Kate fancied James who fancied Emma who fancied Luke Skywalker (who turns out to be her actual brother, who is now dead). And does that make it an incestuous love square? And why am I even joking about it?
I must be broken the way Mr. Data from Star Trek was broken, unable to even observe the obvious.
I think the only way they could fix Data in the end was to take out the emotion chip. The equivalent for me would be futuristic neurosurgery. But to be honest, at this point in my life, I’m game.
PS: I wonder what’s going to happen now. I mean with James.
Was it a one-off, or are Kate and him all official now? Is he going to move in? Do I have to spend every moment I usually spend with just Kate with James as well? We’d be, like, the weirdest patchwork family in history.
Maybe I should write a book about it, except no one would believe it.
I wonder what Mum’s going to say when she finds out Kate’s having sex with someone who could be her own son.
I’m not ageist, obviously, but lots of people are.
I hope Kate doesn’t forget about me.
If they get married and have babies, I’ll have to give up my room in her house.
Mum’s going to have to let me stay on my own, but I’ll be sixteen by then anyway.
Kate tried to act all normal tonight, but her pupils are literally blown, and she looks zombified.
PPS: I could have sworn James fancied Emma.
PPPS: I think everyone fancies Emma.
PPPPS: I hope Emma and I are okay after the weird hand-touching incident.
Tuesday, May 1 #StressingNotStressing
Today Craig Sullivan told me he was starting to stress about GCSEs, and so I spent the rest of the day wondering if that means it’s time for me to start stressing, too, because Craig Sullivan never studies for anything, because he’s got a photographic memory.
At lunch Matilda Hollingsworth was like: “I’ve basically not had time to wash my hair in like a week, and so I basically had to buy dry shampoo on my way to school.”
I’m not being funny, but if you’ve “basically” got time to go to school via the shops, and buy dry shampoo, you’ve “basically” got time to wash your hair like everybody else.
She needs to get over herself. Basically.
I think there’s, as always with people at school, a fine line between justified worry and irrational hysteria.
I’ve decided that I’m not going to worry about math, because I know that I know it, and there’s no way I will allow myself to be outsmarted by numbers.
In all fairness, the only thing that is actually making me twitchy is English literature.
I don’t agree with us having to do GCSEs in English the way we have to do them. I mean, English language is fine, because we need more people to know that “could of” doesn’t actually mean anything apart from the fact that you don’t know how to speak English, but why do I need to interpret a poem?
What’s my opinion got to do with GCSEs? And besides, it’s not that you’re actually allowed your own opinion anyway, because you have to say what the teachers want you to say/what the GCSE study guide suggests you say.
Everyone always goes on about how it’s so beneficial in life to be well-read, but mentioning something you’ve read for GCSEs neither makes you clever, nor does it make you sound clever, because everyone else has read it, too, and has the same opinion on it, because that’s the only opinion your brain was trained/allowed to remember.
I reckon that’s why everyone’s so stupid.
And one more thing: No one’s ever admitted to hating Romeo and Juliet, because you can’t possibly say anything against Shakespeare, and I swear you’d fail GCSEs if you did, even if you backed it up with the best arguments ever.
Fair enough, Shakespeare was popular and wrote a lot of plays, but Romeo and Juliet is actually a bit shit, isn’t it?
It’s basically teenagers throwing a massive tantrum.
Sure, it must be totally annoying if your parents don’t allow you to go out with someone, but do you kill yourself literally five minutes later?
In my opinion, Romeo and Juliet is a crap story well written, which disproves the theory that apparently you can’t polish a turd.
But can I say that?
No.
9:05 P.M.
I just texted Emma:
We’ve been slack with the donation of the week.
I mean, we’ve had nothing since the Star Wars poster.
9:10 P.M.
She texted back:
Thursday. It’s a date.
She’s obviously joking.
Wednesday, May 2 #PanicAttackCentral
Miriam Patel had a meltdown in math today.
It was LOL at first, with her literally rocking in her chair, Little-Miss-Smart-Ass glasses askew, chanting: “I don’t get it, I don’t get it, I don’t get it.”
But then she couldn’t breathe, even though she was taking in proper lungfuls, and Mrs. Adams made her breathe into a paper bag, but that didn’t help, and then it wasn’t funny anymore, and they ended up calling an ambulance, and Miriam Patel was taken to hospital.
Mrs. Adams reckons Miriam had a panic attack.
What the actual?
If this is what school does to people, then something is seriously wrong.
I normally think Miriam Patel’s, like, the biggest drama queen in the entire universe, but she looked proper shit scared.
I told Kate, and she was like: “Stress can manifest itself in many different ways.”
Trust Miriam Patel to take it to the extreme and be hospitalized.
Maybe I’m secretly stressed and that’s why I can’t sleep.
I’ve also had a tummy ache for days. Not like period pain, but up, just underneath my rib cage.
Thursday, May 3 #Mentionitis
Kate’s actually in love.
Blech!
I thought the ridiculousness that comes with it was reserved for teenagers (like Polly, not like me, obviously), but apparently not.
Kate: James isn’t working tonight, so he’s coming over for dinner.
Me: Okay.
Kate: James likes stir-fry, so I’m going to make one.
Me: Okay.
Kate: I think I’m going to get some beers in for me and James.
Me: Okay.
Kate: I wonder if James likes Cornettos.
Me: Can you say just one sentence without saying James?
Kate (doing the rapid blinking thing): No, I don’t think I can at the moment, pet.
Me: Can you at least try?
Kate: I don’t think I want to.
Me:…
Then Kate let out a high-pitched squeal, grabbed me, and kissed my face for like thirty seconds, going: “But you’re still my favorite. I love you, I love you, I looooove you.”
She’s so crazy.
And now she’s even crazier because she’s in love.
If this trend continues, I’ll be the last sane person standing.
No, it’ll be me and Pat, because she literally knows no emotion apart from annoyance and hatred.
PS: OMG, I’m Pat.
10:10 P.M.
Emma was weird today.
Everything was fine at first. We picked up The Woman’s Guide to Cookery and Household Management, and I was like: “Hmmm, delicious. Chicken and vegetables in aspic. Basically cat food,” and we laughed, and then we decided on the donation of the week. We’re going for the RockJam professional bongos. TBF, we basically chose it because we want Alex to ask all the old ladies who come to the till if he can interest them in the RockJam professional bongos, and see their reaction.
Then I didn’t really get to speak to Emma mu
ch, because she and Kate were changing some of the shop around, and because Pat wasn’t in, I had to select, steam, and price everything by myself in the back. When we were leaving, I asked Emma if she wants to do anything on Monday since it’s a bank holiday, but she was like: “I’m so sorry, I can’t. I have to study this weekend.”
On the way home, I asked Kate if she thought Emma was being unusual, but Kate was just like: “What do you mean?”
Me: I asked her if she wants to do something on Monday, and she said she has to study.
Kate: Maybe she has to study.
Me: She’s never had to study before.
Kate: Maybe you should study.
Maybe. But I can’t concentrate at the moment. My brain feels like a sieve.
Maybe I need sleep. I know I look tired, and I definitely should be tired, but I don’t really feel tired.
At times I can feel pure adrenaline running through me. There’s a constant tingling in my arteries.
I’m awake all night, and my brain is just like: How about this, how about that, and I don’t think Emma tried to hold your hand, because why would she do that, and today she basically told you to go away. And have you noticed your persistent stomachache?
On that note, I’m too scared to look at the medical book, just in case I’m actually dying. And I’m most certainly not Googling it, because the internet’s always like: Cancer, stroke, heart attack, DEATH!!!!!!!!
3:14 A.M.
Oh my God, I slept for, like, three hours, but now I’m wide awake, and my stomach hurts again. It’s a dull pain that gets worse every time I breathe in.
Maybe I shouldn’t breathe in.
This is seriously horrendous.
Maybe I should reread Romeo and Juliet. It usually puts me to sleep.
Or I could watch some idiots on YouTube or just the news, because the more I watch stupid people, the less I fear death.
Friday, May 4 #HappyStarWarsDay
Today I had to go on a mission no fifteen-year-old would ever have to go on if they
a) didn’t have a dead father,
b) didn’t have an absent mother,
c) weren’t living with an insane Scottish woman who’s now even more insane and who only knows other insane people.
I’d just gotten home from school when Kate called me from the thrift shop.
Love Is for Losers Page 13