Dating Disasters of Emma Nash

by Chloe Seager

  “I’m not meeting random strangers.”

  “Oh really?” She held up her phone. There was a picture of me trying to fit an entire burger in my mouth, and underneath it said, “Emma Nash. 18 Years Old. Spirit Pokémon: Jigglypuff.”

  “Oh my God. Mum...what is that?!”

  “You tell me.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “No more lies, Emma, OK?”

  “I swear. I’m not lying. I’ve never seen that before in my life... I don’t know...”

  Then I stopped.

  Steph.

  “Go upstairs. I’ve heard enough.”

  “No really, listen...”

  “Just go upstairs.”

  “Mum, WHY would I use that picture? Why would I refer to myself as a JIGGLYPUFF?!”

  “I have no idea what that even means.”

  “Why do you ask me to explain, then not listen to me?!”

  “I decided I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Ugh, even if I was doing it, which I’m not, YOU do it all the time!!!”

  “I am an ADULT. Those websites are NOT for people your age. That’s why there’s a little click box that says ‘I am 18 years and over.’ Or did you just miss that?”

  “All right, fine, so in one and a bit years it would be OK, would it? What’s the difference, really?”

  “One and a bit years is the difference.”

  “All right, fine, well when you tell people that you’re thirty-nine I’m going to point out the five and a bit years difference there.”

  “GO UPSTAIRS NOW.”

  And now I’m in my room, which is minus one laptop.

  “Mum, where’s my laptop?!” I call out.

  Mum storms in. “Aha, if you think I’m letting you anywhere near that computer you’ve got another thing coming.”

  I can just go on my phone. Ha.

  An Hour Later

  I can’t say the exact time, because Mum has taken my phone. And I don’t own a watch, because who owns a watch? I am writing from a scruffy, old notebook, stuffed at the back of my wardrobe. My hands are all covered in dust.

  So, she barged back in and snatched my phone right out of my hands. “I’ll be taking this, too.”

  “How dare you!! Give that back!”

  Desperation. Fear.

  “I’m only using it to talk to Steph, honest. I... I... It doesn’t even have the internet!”

  “Do you think I was born yesterday?” She snorted and stalked off.

  “No. I think you were born forty-four and a bit years ago!!” I called after her.

  My cheap shot fired into the cold, technology-barren wasteland.

  Then once again I heard footsteps thundering along the hallway. She stood in the doorway, rubbing her temples. She was shaking.

  “Do you even know how dangerous what you’ve been doing is, Emma? Going to meet complete strangers, and I’d have no idea where you were. You’re a young, vulnerable girl, you’re a target. People put up different pictures, people lie about their age. Not just like I do, I mean really lie. You could have been going to meet someone really dangerous today, Emma.”

  I wanted to laugh out loud at the irony.

  “Mum...”

  But again, she left before I could get another word in. Does she not realize I was born in the twenty-first century? That I’ve seen Catfish? That I’ve grown up on internet safety workshops? That in Year 7 we did a somewhat disturbing play where Crazy Holly pretended to be a predator lurking on the other end of a computer?! I know, OF COURSE, that what she’s saying would be true, if she was right. (Though somehow her warnings can’t carry any weight accompanied by the image of Baby Charlie wielding a knife at me.) But I’m not an idiot, I was being totally safe. Agh, why didn’t I just tell her about the stupid “date” before I left?!

  I’m going to KILL Steph when I see her.

  God, my hand hurts... I think the last time I opened this book I must have been about ten or eleven. I’m just looking at all my old drawings of different outfits and little bits of material stuck in like a scrapbook. There’s a bit of my old duvet I tried to make into a mermaid tail, and I thought Mum wouldn’t notice. (She did notice.) It’s sort of giving me the urge to cry, though I’m not sure why.

  I Will Never Be Able to Masturbate Again

  I can’t because every time I try I see Baby Charlie. Stopitstopitstopit. I’ve tried doing it with Mr. Allen but every time he morphs back into Charlie. What kind of cruel world is this where a) I have no one to have sex with except in my own mind and b) even in my own mind I cannot choose who I want.

  Gave up. My mind is too clouded. Sometimes I wish I could just look at porn and get on with it, instead of having to use my “imagination.” It’s such an effort. But me and Steph watched porn once and very quickly turned it off again.

  The Five Stages of Phoneless Grief

  1—Boredom

  I have absolutely nothing to do except twiddle my thumbs and think about what a crappy day this is. Found an old to-do list that says “Make Mum a hot cross loaf.” I don’t remember this happening... Did I bake?! Who am I?!

  Oh, no, it says “Make Mum buy a hot cross loaf.” That makes much more sense. Identity crisis over.

  Apple’s GREAT at baking. Ugh. What a boring skill.

  God, look at me...mocking Anna for taking an interest in something. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with baking and I am just a bitter old lemon. At least she HAS a skill. Maybe I should be thinking less about masturbation and more about how I feel when someone asks me what I like doing and the only answer I can come up with is “watching TV.” I could answer easily for Faith (art) or Steph (sports). I have nothing. Sitting here in this room, stripped down to just...me, that is really, painfully obvious.

  2—Isolation

  I REALLY want to talk to someone, even if it’s just to have Steph laugh at me again. I keep having the urge to reach out to someone with a message, or even just look at some pictures and comment on something. I think of everything going on without me. Everyone contacting each other and having fun whilst I am here, being left out. Totally invisible and forgotten. I start thinking about how lonely I feel, how deeply, deeply lonely, and I start crying uncontrollably. Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? I am alone. Everything is carrying on without me because no one really cares. Leon definitely doesn’t. All this time I’ve been keeping us alive in my head, but that’s not real. It’s just an illusion created by the fact that I still, technically, know what he’s doing. So do his other 567 Facebook friends.

  3—Frustration

  I am sobbing so, so hard I can’t breathe. I can’t face being left alone, without any distractions. I can’t face myself. It occurs to me how ludicrous it is that I’m feeling like this. But that just makes me feel even lower.

  4—Rage

  And now I’m just angry. How dare Mum cut me off from everyone, from my life? What gives her the right to lock me up here whilst she can go around doing whatever she wants?! She’s such a hypocrite.

  Left the house. I’m sitting on a wall a few roads away, watching some kids kick a ball around. When she realizes I’m gone she’ll be sick with worry and I won’t have a phone that she can contact me on.

  Ha-ha.

  5—Inevitable Descent into Madness

  I keep walking across roads without even looking. I don’t care if a car hits me or not. I feel blank. And also like that would really teach Mum if I got killed or seriously injured. I’m just wandering up and down the high street. Bored and a little bit cold because I left without a jacket.

  I hear some guy say, “Listen, mate, if I HAD a fridge...”

  At least I’ve got a fridge.

  What am I doing? I feel more alone than I’ve ever felt before in my life. I sit down by a wall and start sobbing again. People keep asking
me if I’m OK and it just makes me cry more. A couple of people assume I am homeless and give me money. I hear one girl say, “What if she’s been mugged or something?”

  I hear a car screeching to a halt and I know it’s Mum before I even look up. She slams out of the car and drags me up off the floor by my arm (which really hurt).

  “Go away!!” I yell. “I don’t know you!!”

  “Get in the car, Emma,” she warns. I can see that she’s been crying.

  “You can’t make me,” I say.

  Am now in the car driving home.

  Neither of us says anything.

  Back in My Room

  Now with the “Emma lock” on the front door. Caged in like a prisoner. Slamming out of the house and walking around like Cathy on the moors distracted me for a brief period but the loneliness has taken over again. I’m also not sure the Cathy reference works because then Heathcliff would have to be my laptop. It’s just not as romantic somehow.

  Lying very still on my bed, trying to stay calm.

  Doodling with some pens and paper in my room. Is this what I’ve been reduced to? I doodle a little Leon and Emma. In paper world we are together, and we have nothing to do in the vast expanse of white except kiss. And I’m wearing an amazing dress.

  It really is an amazing dress.

  I’ve sketched out the dress on another sheet of paper, in more detail. It’s black with a couple of see-through stripes. I remember that I used to do this a lot, and I was quite good at it (well, as good as it’s possible for ten-year-olds to be at anything). It feels a bit weird. It’s been so long since I designed anything... I remember one time I made Mum this really gross, mint green skirt out of a pair of old kitchen curtains and made her wear it. And every time she took it off I cried, so she wore it to the cinema with Heather.

  Thinking back, she probably took it off en route to the cinema.

  Still Sketching

  How did I forget that I liked doing this so much? When did I stop? Why haven’t I even thought about this in years? What happened?

  Possibly it was when I got a mobile phone.

  I’ve made a couple of designs that I’m really happy with. Childishly, I really want to go and show them to Mum but I think she’s probably still upset from earlier.

  Going to Bed

  For a moment I feel peaceful and safe in my room, like nothing matters because the outside world can’t touch me and I am enough. Alone and secure in my own company. But just for a moment, and then my fingers burn to type.

  Admiring my drawings before I go to sleep. This was definitely a more positive use for my time than crying on the street. I maybe feel a little bit, slightly, almost imperceptibly, better about myself.

  On the downside, I’m still unable to masturbate successfully.

  SUNDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER

  Woke up from a dream where I was kissing Leon (obviously) but then he started getting smaller and smaller and disappearing in my arms, and then I looked down and there was a baby sitting on the floor. Then the social services lady from “The Sims” came to take the baby away, and then Steph appeared, shaking her head and saying that she couldn’t be my friend anymore.

  I feel so dirty.

  Now I’ve got all my paper and pens spread out on the floor. I’m hoping to block out the fact that somewhere, out there in the world, is a small, scared thirteen-year-old I have technically been out with. I’ve been designing a shirt. Mum came in and looked over my shoulder.

  “That’s pretty,” she said.

  Trying to Make Clothes

  Mum suggested that we go to Cloth House so I can start actually making the stuff I’ve been sketching. It was actually really...nice. We avoided all other topics, and just talked about fabric. Now we’re back with loads of lovely materials... She’s got her old sewing machine down from the attic, and we’ve put it in the front room. I’ve ripped out pictures from magazines and stuck them on the wall around the window.

  Failing to Make Clothes

  I was feeling quite positive, looking at the space I’ve created. It’s almost like having my own studio. Then I started attempting to make stuff and felt instantly grumpy again. I’ve messed up almost all of the fabric we bought earlier. Why didn’t I make a first attempt using old sheets or something??! I even used to do that when I was a kid. I thought as you got older you were supposed to learn stuff, but it turns out I’ve actually LOST wisdom over the years. I forgot all about leaving a centimeter allowance for stitching and just started sewing bits together. They look AWFUL. I was just sitting staring at it in a ragged heap on the floor when Mum came in and said,

  “I guess it’s harder to make stuff than it is to imagine it.”

  “That’s helpful, thanks,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “You probably should have made a toile.”

  “A what?”

  “First attempt.”

  “You don’t say.”

  But I have nothing else to do so I may as well keep going.

  My emotions are going round and round in circles. One minute I feel tragically invisible and angry at the world for going on without me. Then I feel angry at myself for being so pathetic, and realizing that my only apparent source of self-esteem is from outside myself. From the amount of likes I get. From Leon. Why doesn’t it come from me? Then I stop thinking for a while, and carry on attempting to sew things (and failing), and then it starts all over again.

  Hours Later

  I have spent nearly five hours attempting to make clothes and all I’ve got to show for it is a single sleeve. Nonetheless, it is a good sleeve and I am immensely proud of it.

  A Glimpse into the Dark Ages

  Mum comes into my room holding a brick or something.

  “Are you going to kill me with that?” I ask.

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “What is it?”

  “This is for you to take to school.”

  I look closer at the black object. “Is that... Is that a phone?”

  “No, it’s a puppy.”

  “No offense, Mum, but I don’t want to carry around some dinosaur phone from the eighties or whenever you grew up.”

  “I would have been so lucky to have a mobile phone when I was a teenager, Emma.”

  I put the phone in my blazer pocket and it looks like a massive, square boob. I burst out laughing.

  “Mum, I can’t go into school with this...”

  “You’re taking it. But not until tomorrow morning,” she said, snatching it back.

  This is absolutely ridiculous.

  Going to Bed

  With my sleeve. Now beside the Band-Aid. I wonder what Leon has been doing this weekend? I have no idea. I can’t check. And he does actually feel ever so slightly distanced from me. Like he’s standing a millimeter further away than he was before. Maybe I should block his profiles when I’m allowed the internet back.

  * * *

  Then again, there are lots of things people should do which they absolutely never will. Like hoovering under the bed.

  MONDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER

  POSTED BY EDITINGEMMA 8:37 A.M.

  Registration

  ON A COMPUTERRRR. In spite of my productive weekend, I’m so happy to see other human beings I could cry. I hugged Gracie really tight when I saw her and she looked very startled. I almost hugged Mr. Morris and I even forgave Steph. When I came in she groveled like a worm.

  “Emma!! You’re alive!!”

  I sat down next to Gracie.

  “What is that buzzing sound?”

  “Emma, I’M SORRY.”

  “Can you hear that, Gracie?”

  Then Steph came and sat on my lap.

  “I’M SORRY. IT WAS A JOKE. FORGIVE ME. EMMAEMMAEMMAEMMAEMMAEMMA.”

  Then she licked my forehead.

  “Ugh!
!!” I pushed her off.

  “Aha!” she said. “You spoke!”

  Then she threatened to follow me around licking me and my belongings all day, and resistance seemed futile.

  In the middle of pulling my things out of my bag and dangling them in front of her tongue, Steph came across dinosaur phone.

  “What is that?” she shrieked.

  “Emma, give me the walkie-talkie,” said Mr. Morris, taking it from me. “This isn’t allowed.”

  “That’s my phone.”

  He raised one fluffy eyebrow at me.

  “No, really,” I said.

  POSTED BY EDITINGEMMA 11:12 A.M.

  Break

  No one’s said anything about the Alex–Charlie incident, which is highly unusual. Faith clearly instructed Steph and Gracie not to mention it.1

  I wonder how long that will last.

  POSTED BY EDITINGEMMA 1:17 P.M.

  Five hours in total. Real Alex just came into the Sixth Form Centre and headed for the pool table. He looked over here and Gracie was practically wetting herself.

  “So...what do you think that look said, Emma? I fancy you or...I heard she preys on thirteen-year-old boys?”

  Can’t say I blame her. Oh God. I can still see his brother’s terrified little face peeking up at me from behind his mum.

  Where can I hide?!

  POSTED BY EDITINGEMMA 1:51 P.M.

  Hiding like a Mole in the Ground

  Found refuge in the “Tech Lab” i.e. Laurence Myer’s Lair. I’ve never been in here before. It’s actually quite calming... Apart from Laurence Myer staring at me over the ridge of his computer.

  At Home

  I started making the dress I designed on Saturday. Still not finding this part as easy as the designing. I was wearing my second, slightly mangled attempt and feeling quite pleased that it at least sort of resembled what I drew, and Mum came in and laughed.

  I thought I might start off a bit easier, and make a pattern from a pre-existing dress. Then I had a light-bulb moment. MY BLANKY DRESS. I can re-create it!!

  I’ve laid out the dress on the floor, and have started to lovingly draw around it. I’m so excited!