I felt her eyes on me, and my chest felt all tight, and I was thinking: Why are you giving me such a well-considered gift when I’ve been ignoring you because I’m trying so hard to forget you ever happened?
I was just like: “Thank you.” But it came out all shaky and pathetic.
I was dying to read her card, but I waited for half an hour and then stuffed it into my trousers and went into the toilet.
I sat down and ripped open the envelope.
It looked more like a Valentine’s card than a birthday card, because it had just one red heart on it.
Mine almost stopped.
Dear Phoebe,
Happy birthday. I hope sixteen is everything you want it to be and more.
I’m sorry for kissing you without asking you first, and for assuming it was something you wanted, too. I must have misinterpreted things.
I hope we can be friends.
Love, Emma
x
I tucked the card back into my jeans, washed my shaking hands (even though I never actually went to the toilet…), and when I looked at myself in the mirror, I was just like: What are you doing? Because Kate’s right, I’m not a coward. And so before I could rethink anything, I walked out of the toilet and straight up to Emma, and I was like: “Please can you come with me for a sec?”
I went out into the shop and into the changing cubicle.
Emma came in behind me.
I pulled the curtain shut, and suddenly it felt like there was only the two of us, and we were on an interstellar mission into the future, and the only air we could breathe was between us, because everything else was the infinite vacuum of space.
For a moment, I just looked at her, and it felt like I was seeing her for the very first time.
She smelled of raspberries.
Her cheeks were flushed, and she was biting her lip, and I got all confused for a moment because her eyes weren’t blue, but pitch-black, and I’d forgotten what that meant, but then I was like: Okay, Phoebe, go!
Me: It’s not that I didn’t want it.
Emma:…
Me: The kiss.
Emma:…
Me: I tried to not want it.
Emma (looking confused):…
Me: Because it made me feel physically sick.
Emma: Oh my God.
Me: No, not like that. Obviously not like that. No, not like … that. Obviously. What I mean is … I … you … this … we …
And then I was just like: For fuck’s sake, Phoebe! Because I literally couldn’t remember words, and Emma looked at me the way you look at your phone when it’s suddenly stopped working.
She opened her mouth a little to probably say something that would make my previous statements sound less idiotic (because she’s good like that), but before she could actually say anything, I leaned forward and I kissed her.
And that was literally, like, the end of gravity.
It was all soft lips and tongues, fruity lip gloss and terror, and eighty million bacteria, and the single most delicious thing I ever experienced in my whole entire life.
When we stopped, I felt like I’d swum the whole length at Tooting Lido underwater: dizzy, boneless, and breathless.
Then we giggled, and I was like: “I’m so sorry I’m so ridiculous.”
Emma was like: “I’ve never met anyone like you, Phoebe, and I wouldn’t change you for the world.”
I was like: Wow. And then I was like: Maybe that’s what it’s all about?
I don’t think I let go of her hand for the rest of the day after that.
Kate knew immediately what had transpired, and I reckon an hour later pretty much everyone else got it, too.
I’m 98 percent sure that Pat opposes homosexuality, because she kept looking at me like: You corrupted the lovely Emma. But in reality, it was Emma who corrupted me with her beautiful eyes and lips, and class, and funniness, but whatever, Pat.
At one point in the afternoon, I looked at my phone, and there was a WhatsApp message from Mum.
She sent a picture of herself and a girl holding a tiny baby.
Mum:
Happy sixteenth. I hope you’re enjoying your party.;)
You share a birthday with this little man who I had the pleasure of welcoming into the world this morning.
He is called Salomao, which means Man of Peace.
I’ll be home on Thursday.
I can’t wait to see you.
I love you, and I’m very proud of you.
Mum xx
Emma was like: “The mother looks like a child,” and Kate was like: “Amelia said the girl’s only fifteen.”
Emma was like: “Imagine having a child at fifteen. In a refugee camp.”
I obviously feel like a massive dick now for having been so horrible about Mum not coming home but wanting to help a pregnant person instead. But if you don’t know the whole story, how are you supposed to behave like you do?
* * *
So that was yesterday.
Today it was back to normal life (except it’s the summer holidays), but I have to say, I do feel different. Like there’s a lot of open space ahead, but I don’t hate it.
When Kate got home she was like: “Sit.”
Me: What?
Kate: Remember the birds and the bees?
Me (rolling my eyes so much I nearly severed my optic nerve): Oh my God.
Kate: It obviously doesn’t quite apply.
Me: Obviously. Quite.
Kate: I just want to say to you that I’m here for you should you need anything. Help, emotional support, advice, even though I trust you know where things are—
Me: Oh my God, Kate. I’ve literally been with Emma for twenty-four hours. I’m not going to have sex with her straightaway.
Kate: All of that is between you and Emma, pet. I only wanted to let you know that I’m here if you need me.
Cringe!
I’m 100 percent not going to talk to her about my sex life when I have one.
On that note, Emma’s coming over in a minute, but we’re not going to have sex.
All the kittens are being collected, and we’re seeing them off. (Not Richard. He’s staying at Kate’s for the time being, because I still want to give him to Emma, but I think I may have to get into her mum’s good graces first. #pressure #inlaws)
So I think it’s time for me to present to Kate the final financial breakdown of all moneys owed and services rendered:
FYI, I’m not including the financial loss of Richard here, because Kate agreed to keep him (for now).
I thought I’d end up owing £2,000, because the nondesigner kittens were expected to bring in zero pounds.
However, we are selling three of them for £250 each. That’s £750.
£2,000 − £750 = £1,250
I’m also going to take off the £530 for the Star Wars poster (only fair), so that’s £720. Also, minus £15 for the bowling shoes is £705.
My labor over the past four months has definitely been worth £705, so I think this means Kate and I are even.
PS: I can’t believe I’m sixteen.
Turning sixteen was always for other people.
But I suppose so was love.
Acknowledgments
The creation of this novel coincided with a time of great change and uncertainty in my life, and I must thank first and foremost the three women this book is dedicated to for pulling/dragging me through it: my best friends Brittain, Luci, and Sophie. Thank you for your unwavering love and support, for putting me up, for making me dinner, for making me cake, and most importantly for always making me laugh. I love you endlessly.
Thank you, Tony: you drove the getaway vehicle back then. Thank you, Ruth: you gave me a home. Thank you, Dawn, who offered me a job and casually threw in a handful of amazing new friends for free.
A huge and heartfelt thank-you goes to Melvin Burgess for your encouragement, your wisdom, your humor, and for giving me a leg up.
I would like to thank the Bath Spa U
niversity MA Writing for Young People community, especially my workshop besties Hana Tooke and Lucy Cuthew. From day one you have been both supportive and critical, and I know I was so very lucky to have landed in your midst.
Thank you to Audrey and Jack Ladevèze for the Bath Spa University MA Writing Award, which greatly eased the financial burden at the time.
Thank you to Julia Green and all my phenomenal tutors on the MA, especially to my genius manuscript tutor, and Phoebe’s real-life godmother, Joanna Nadin. Your tenacity and hard work is an inspiration to me, and I will forever be grateful for your continuously and savagely pushing me to try harder and do better.
Thank you to Jo Unwin for forwarding my love letter to JULA to the wonderful, fierce, and courageous woman who then became my agent: Rachel Mann. Rachel, Rachel, Rachel: thank you for loving Phoebe as much as you do and for telling everyone. Thank you for checking in with me when I’ve gone quiet again, for teaching me what’s what, and for always knowing what I want. You are the most wonderful gift.
A big thank-you to the hardworking team at Macmillan, who hosted us and threw a mini party for Phoebe even though it was in fact the Gruffalo’s birthday that day. Thank you to my brilliant editors Rachel Petty and Joy Peskin, who always ask the right questions. Your insight, knowledge, and empathy enabled me to make better choices again and again.
About the Author
Wibke Brueggemann grew up in northern Germany and the southern United States but calls London her home. She originally studied acting at the Academy of Live and Recorded Arts but ended up becoming a writer. She has a master’s in writing for young people from Bath Spa University, where she was the recipient of the Bath Spa University MA Writing Award. Wibke enjoys traveling and is a clandestine lover of romantic poetry and Renaissance art. Love Is for Losers is her debut novel. @wibkebrueggeman. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Begin Reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
Copyright © 2021 by Wibke Brueggemann
Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271
fiercereads.com
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019035923
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945 ext. 5442 or by email at [email protected].
First hardcover edition, 2021
eBook edition, 2021
eISBN 9780374313982
Love Is for Losers Page 24