Polly: My mum would never do what your mum does, because she’s too insecure. If I hang up without telling her I love her, she calls right back.
Me: I never tell Mum I love her.
Polly: I’m sure she knows without you having to say it every five minutes. And that’s why she can do what she does.
Me: I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it that way.
Polly: No, because even though you’re the cleverest person I’ve ever met, you’re dumb as fuck when it comes to real life.
Me: Fuck off. Why are you horrible to me?
Polly: You fuck off. I’m right.
Me: How are things with Training Wheels?
Polly: When can we stop calling him that?
Me: Probably never.
Polly: How are things with you?
Me: Great.
Polly: So not great.
Me: I’ve had a stomachache for, like, four weeks, and Kate is all loved up with her new boyfriend.
Polly: Kate has a boyfriend?
Me: Yes, James.
Polly: Who’s James?
Me: You know James. The guy who was at the thrift shop that day you came in. They’ve been getting it on for a c—
Polly: Wait a minute, she’s dating that hot guy?
Me: Yes. James.
Polly: He’s, like, twenty.
Me: Twenty-three, actually.
Polly: And she’s how old?
Me: Thirty-eight.
Polly: That’s so cool.
Me:…
Polly: Good for her.
Me: I’m sure it must be.
Polly: At least you’ve got someone super hot walking around yours all the time … possibly in a towel? Gosh (biting her lip), Kate’s so lucky.
Me (thinking about James in nothing but a towel, but unable to share her enthusiasm): And what about Tristan? You know. Sex. And all that?
Polly:…
Me: Seriously? How are you still with him? What’s the point in even having sex when it’s bad?
Polly: Because I love him. Don’t be so stupid.
Me: Why can’t you just masturbate and tell him to watch?
Polly (eyes nearly rolling out of her head):…
Me: Polly, seriously, what’s your problem? You’re not like that. You’re a feminist, and you think it’s great Kate is shagging someone half her age. What’s the deal with Training Wheels?
Polly (falling back into the sofa, covering her face): I don’t know, okay? I don’t know. It shouldn’t be awkward, but it’s awkward. And I hate that it’s awkward, and it’s all my fault, because I let it become awkward.
Me: You’re going to have to talk to him about the clitoris.
Polly (sitting up and suddenly proper in my face): Oh my God, Phoebe, can you stop going on about the stupid clitoris?
Me: Okay. So if you want a vaginal orgasm, and you’re on the bottom, you have to tilt your pelvis upwards.
Polly (clearly imagining this): I hate my life.
Me: It can’t be that difficult.
Polly: You have no idea.
Me: People like you are the reason why women still struggle in the world.
Polly (looking at me like I’ve actually gone insane):…
Me: Because you don’t insist on having what should be yours.
Polly:…
Me: So every time you and Tristan do it, he has an orgasm, right?
Polly: I’m sure I’ve told you this before, but sometimes I wish you sounded less like a textbook.
Me: It’s all textbook stuff.
Polly (sipping her drink): And they say romance is dead.
Me: No, listen. Training Wheels having an orgasm totally makes sense in a biological way. But you’re not there to make a baby.
Polly: Definitely not.
Me: So the sex is for fun.
Polly: And because I love him.
Me: But it should be enjoyable.
Polly: I didn’t say it wasn’t enjoyable.
Me: I’m sorry, but you need to insist you get what you came there for.
Polly: God, I’m a failure as a woman.
Me: Not what I said. But you and Tristan wouldn’t make dinner together and then only he gets to eat it.
Polly (lying back down on the Starbucks sofa, dramatically throwing her arms over her head): I’m responsible for suppression. Misogyny. The gender pay gap.
Me:…
Polly: Because I don’t insist on getting what’s rightfully mine.
Me (nodding): Basically.
Talking to Polly felt like the months of awkwardness never happened.
And for the first time in ages, I saw her as her own person again, not like this total weirdo who just follows Tristan around.
Maybe she’s changed back a little bit now that she’s more settled in her relationship?
It must be frustrating for her, putting in the effort when they have sex and getting fuck-all in return.
I honestly don’t understand it. Just say the words: I’m sorry, but what you’re currently doing with your penis is not effective. Please use your mouth.
Or something.
To be perfectly honest, I don’t get how people have the energy for it at all. Life’s hard enough without a (shit) sex life.
I hope Polly at least remembers to tilt her pelvis next time.
PS: Religious Studies 2 was fine. I reckon the rabbi would be pleased. And now I don’t have to think about any of it ever again in my life. Phew! Very glad that box has been ticked.
Thursday, May 17 #NationwideMentalBreakdownAlert
Kate left an article from the Guardian on the kitchen table for me with the headline: “Stress and anxiety: How the new GCSE is affecting mental health.”
I didn’t read it, to be honest, but I don’t have to because I’m basically living it.
Matilda has stopped taking in liquids now, because she doesn’t want to have to go to the toilet, which is unhealthy and will give her kidney failure. And just as we were going over to take Chemistry 1 this morning, Jonathon Luo was so nervous that he threw up into a bin in the courtyard, and because apparently Miriam Patel can’t watch people throwing up without throwing up herself, she also puked, but in the toilets.
And because everyone was being sick, the whole room smelled of sick, and I was literally dry-heaving all the way through the exam.
In the afternoon we had Computer Science 2, and at that point all I wanted was to be done with it. I know that attitude sucks, but whatever.
Oh, and PS: On the bottom of the article from the Guardian, there’s even the number for the Samaritans, should anybody feel suicidal.
That’s so bad, isn’t it?
PPS: I didn’t go to the thrift shop today, because I’ve got my final French GCSE tomorrow, and zut alors, did I have to cram in last-minute studying.
PPPS: Emma texted to say she’s going to the shop tomorrow, because she’s not got exams, and she’s feeling much better, and she needs to get out of the house, and so I’m going, too.
Friday, May 18 #Caught
Emma would say: Today will not be remembered for having taken French 4 but for having taken down a thief.
I was on the shop floor putting out bric-a-brac this afternoon, because Pat couldn’t possibly walk the ten steps from the stockroom herself, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw this little old lady reach into the size-ten rack, pull out a handful of blouses on hangers, and stuff them into her little-old-lady shopping trolley.
Then she turned around and casually shuffled out of the shop.
I was like: “No, you don’t!”
Because you don’t steal from charity.
I mean, you don’t steal at all, but you definitely don’t steal from charity.
You don’t nick shit and sabotage the effort of all those people who give up their free time rummaging through dead peoples’ clothes and other crap in order to make a quid here and there so there’s enough money for people who want to find ways to stop people like Emma’s broth
er from dying.
No word of a lie, it was like an epiphany, and I ran after her like a woman possessed.
Outside I was like: Right, left, right, left, and then I spotted her walking up towards Morrison’s.
It was raining, and I was soaked before I even passed Starbucks, and because the sidewalk was umbrella central, I ran on the road, dodging buses.
When I caught up with her, I grabbed hold of her trolley, but suddenly I was proper hydroplaning in my stupid school shoes.
I went arse over tit and skidded on said arse all the way to the entrance of the cinema, little-old-lady shopping trolley in hand.
She came hobbling across to me, her face all like: I’m going to kill you. But I was quicker.
I reached into her trolley, pulled out the blouses, and held them proper in her face.
Me: I saw you take these from the thrift shop without paying for them.
Her: Oh, I didn’t mean to—
Me: No! You meant to. I saw you. We’ve got you on CCTV (lie). You’re stealing from cancer children. You, madam, can sink no lower. And I’m having these back.
Then I just marched off.
I mean, of course I didn’t march; I sort of hobbled, because at that point I was like: Okay, so I’ve broken my hip.
Back at the shop, Alex, Kate, Emma, and Pat were all like: OMG!
Because I was drenched, Kate made me change into something dry, and I ended up wearing a pair of boot-cut Levi’s jeans and a brown and orange V-neck tank top.
Pat was like: “You look just like me when I was young.”
Whatever, Pat, you were never young.
At first Kate was like: “I’m saying this to everyone now: We do not confront shoplifters. It ended well today, but your health and safety are what’s most important here.”
But right after her speech, she hugged me and kissed my face the way she knows I hate, and I was a proper hero for a minute.
I think Emma was impressed, but because she’s Emma, she was like: “How sad, though. Having to steal. Or wanting to steal.”
I watched Alex contemplate this for a moment, and when he reached his conclusion, he was like: “But she was very brave.” Then he high-fived me. And Kate got Starbucks for everyone.
Now I can’t sit down, because my arse cheek is honestly so sore, but at dinner I realized that it had made me forget all about my stomachache.
Apparently if there are multiple simultaneous painful stimuli, the mind will only feel the sensation of pain from the most severe injury.
9:00 P.M.
Update: My butt cheek is black and blue.
I’m so glad we don’t have exams tomorrow or Sunday, because I don’t think I’d be able to sit. They’d have to get me a special table you can stand at.
Maybe I can do it all lying on my front, because let’s face it, that’s the only way I’m going to be able to recline for the foreseeable future.
9:15 P.M.
Kate just put arnica lotion on it, and she was laughing the whole time. I could’ve totally done it myself, but she said it was her duty as a certified (ex-) nurse and my guardian to make sure I hadn’t actually broken anything.
She gave the all clear, but she said that as far as bruises go, mine was a particularly impressive one.
I may take a picture.
Saturday, May 19 #StillNotSittingDown
I didn’t have a stomachache all day, which basically means the bruise pain is still suppressing every other pain receptor in my brain.
I even had to wear my school skirt to the thrift shop, because my skinny jeans press right on the bruise.
When Emma looked at me like: Why are you wearing that on a Saturday? I was like: “My bruise is enormous, and this is the only thing I can wear, so let’s not talk about it.”
Emma: Is it really sore?
Me: You have no idea.
Emma: Can you sit down?
Me: No.
Emma: Can I see it?
Me: No!
That was literally all she kept saying to me all day: Can I see it? Can I see it? Can I see it?
And then Kate was like: “You should see Phoebe’s bruise.”
And Emma was like: “Why, has everyone seen it?”
And I was like: “No one’s seen it. Kate’s seen it. But she’s a nurse.”
And then Kate said: “Go and show Emma the bruise, Phoebs. It’s such a good one.”
I looked at Emma, who was smiling, and then my brain went: It’s okay, the underwear you’re wearing is pretty standard, and so I was like: “Fine.”
I obviously wasn’t going to pull my skirt down in front of everyone, and so I went into the changing room, and Emma closed the curtain from the outside and peeked in through a tiny hole she’d left for her head.
She made the best face ever when she saw it, with her jaw literally hitting the floor, and then she just kept her mouth wide open.
Me: I know.
Emma: Ouch.
Me: I have to sleep on my front.
Emma: Can I touch it?
Me: No. Why would you want to touch it?
Emma: No reason.
And then her face disappeared.
Maybe she gets off on other people’s pain, who knows.
Today she smiled a lot.
Maybe it’s because I confronted the shoplifter.
Or maybe it’s because the donation of the week is a book called Painting with Cats: How You Can Help Your Felines Express Themselves.
Kate picked it up, and was like: “Oh…”
But Emma and I were like: “No!”
When we were leaving, Emma asked me to send her updates of Richard and the bruise regularly.
I’m currently lying on my front, and Kate’s put a bag of frozen peas on my arse.
From hero to zero.
Sunday, May 20 #BirthdayWishes
Mum WhatsApped me and gave me another GCSE pep talk.
Then I showed her my bruise and she laughed.
She also said I have to decide what I want to do for my birthday.
I can’t believe it’s my birthday again. I only just had one literally yesterday.
Looks like I’m going to deliver on my promise to turn sixteen gracefully, as I’m not in love and crazy.
I’ve got sociology tomorrow, but I need to actually study for English literature, which is on Tuesday.
Get this, the definition of sociology is: “The study of the development, structure, and functioning of human society.” But I swear all we ever discuss is the destruction, chaos, and malfunctioning of human society.
Monday, May 21 #IHateExams
I was directly behind Ben Carmichael in today’s exam, and he wouldn’t stop bouncing his foot up and down, and it was right in my eye line when I was writing, and it drove me absolutely crazy. I ended up twisting my body into such a weird angle in order to not see him that I gave myself a back problem and a crick in the neck. Not to mention the agony of having to sit on my bruise.
I was just willing time to hurry up, because I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
This afternoon I was supposed to study for English, but I ended up messaging with Emma.
Me: Hello.
Emma: Hello. How are you?
Me: Fine.
Emma: How’s the bruise?
Me: Still big.
Emma: What ya doing?
Me: Messaging you.
Emma: Ha ha.
Me: Studying, but I’ve got brain ache. I’m also thinking about what I want to do in life.
Emma: As in what job?
Me: Yes.
Emma: And?
Me: Don’t know.
Emma: I want to do what your mum does.
Me: Have a child and leave it with your best friend?
Emma: Harsh.
Me: Fact.
Emma: I’d like to help people. Maybe be a doctor. But I don’t know if I’m clever enough.
Me: I think you’re clever.
Emma: Thanks, we’ll see. Or maybe I�
��ll become a counselor or something.
Me: I hate people, and I don’t want to help anyone.
Emma: LOL.
Me: I don’t mean you, BTW. I don’t hate you.
Emma: Thanks. It’s good to be tolerated.
Me: OMG, whatever. You know I think you’re great.
Emma: And how would I know that?
Me: Why else would I want to spend time with you, and message you, and take kitten pictures, and walk you home, and show you my bruise?
Emma: Why indeed …
And then she went off-line.
No goodbye, no nothing.
Is that weird?
Am I overthinking it?
Maybe I’m overthinking it.
I knew I shouldn’t have messaged her. I knew it even before I messaged her, but apparently I just couldn’t help myself.
It’s like eating a whole pack of Percy Pigs. You know it’s going to make you feel sick, but you keep shoving them down your throat anyway, in some sort of compulsive frenzy.
10:05 P.M.
If I was working to Miriam Patel’s study schedule, I’d still have fifty-five minutes of studying time left, so I will look at English.
10:15 P.M.
Get these questions:
How does Sampson provoke the Montague servants?
What impression does the audience get from the Nurse?
What does Lady Capulet think of Paris?
Question number 4 should be: And why does any of this matter?
I’m going to bed; this is stupid.
Tuesday, May 22 #WhyIndeed
I am so exhausted, I can’t even.
English killed me.
I think I finally understand what Polly goes through when she looks at numbers and fails to see how they make sense, because I had to read the questions, like, three times to understand them.
Afterwards Polly and I went to the park for lunch. We were lying on the grass, and I was telling her that I have no idea what to do in life, was literally pouring my heart out to her, and then I realized that she’d gone to sleep.
I bet she doesn’t fall asleep on Tristan.
She even started snoring, but I only woke her when it was time to take Geography 1, and she didn’t even apologize, she was just like: “I think I needed that.”
OMG.
Tonight I was like: Okay, so instead of making an endless list of all the things I hate, why don’t I make a list of things I actually like in regards to long-term employment prospects, and here it is:
Love Is for Losers Page 16