ones,” I add.
Or maybe I don’t even know this guy. I’ve never met him, I don’t know what he looks like, and the only thing I do know about him is that he’s talented.
And has a wide vocabulary, which is why the daydreaming began. Aaagh! I ask you, how many sixteen-year-olds do you know who find big words a turn-on?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
On Saturday I am struck with a severe case of anti-social-itis. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to see people. I just want to stay at home and read and watch TV and if that makes me a loser than so be it, because I’d prefer to be at home than out and not enjoying myself.
I consider making an excuse. “Look, Sarah, I’m feeling really sick, I don’t think I can come tonight.” Or plead a case of irrational parents. “My mom’s really pissed off with me, she won’t let me go.” Or anything, any reason for not being able to go to a party full of people I don’t know. People who take their music really seriously and can tell you everything you never wanted to know about a particular band or singer.
People who idolise Kurt Cobain and light a candle every April 5 and who can explain exactly why his death was such a tragedy and how he influenced the music of today, blah blah blah.
People who talk a lot about suicide and think it’s cool. People who would sooner shoot themselves than listen to uplifting, pop music once in a while. People who are so pretentious that I would happily put them out of their misery and kill them.
I hate pretentiousness about anything . I hate people who only read “literature”, like Jane in my class. Jane spent her childhood with her nose in the classics and thinks you’re deprived if you haven’t read Pride and Prejudice at least ten times. She uses English class to make comparisons between every male character ever created and Mr Darcy. Riveting, I assure you. (I mean, if you’re going to take any literary character to use as a basis for comparison, it should really be Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff. But that’s beside the point.)
I wonder if Sarah will even care if I don’t go. If I’m not there it’ll give her a chance to spend more time with her instantly-acquired music-related friends, and before I know it, we’ll be drifting apart. I’ll call to her house one day before school only to be told that she’s already left. I’ll suggest doing something for the weekend and find that she has other plans that I was never told about. I’ll ring her on the phone and she’ll find some excuse to hang up after five awkward minutes.
I’ll go back to being Lonely Abi. And even though I enjoy being alone a lot of the time, it’s much worse to have it thrust upon you because no one wants to be around you.
I really don’t want that to happen. Besides, I usually have a good time once I actually go out. And I have the rest of the weekend to be my usual anti-social self.
So . . . what am I going to wear?
Chapter Thirty
I run into Graham’s mother while I’m walking down to Sarah’s. Mrs – sorry, “Anna, call me Anna” – O’Brien. Considering there’s all of ten metres between my house and Sarah’s, it’s surprising I see her at all.
I happen to like Anna, despite the intensely obnoxious nature of her son. She, after all, has no idea what an asshole she’s raised, and I think she always secretly hoped that I’d become Graham’s girlfriend and eventually wife and mother of her grandchildren, and so on.
We do the hi-how-are-you exchange, followed by a don’t-you-look-lovely-where-are-you-off-to on her part, followed by an explanation from me, followed by an oh-enjoy-yourself.
She says goodbye and walks off, weighed down with green bags from Superquinn. I think about her going home and telling Graham that she was talking to me.
I imagine Graham filling her up with lies about what a horrible person I am. Funny that I care more about what his mom thinks of me than what he does. Then again, I
Or maybe I don’t even know this guy. I’ve never met him, I don’t know what he looks like, and the only thing I do know about him is that he’s talented.
And has a wide vocabulary, which is why the daydreaming began. Aaagh! I ask you, how many sixteen-year-olds do you know who find big words a turn-on?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
On Saturday I am struck with a severe case of anti-social-itis. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to see people. I just want to stay at home and read and watch TV and if that makes me a loser than so be it, because I’d prefer to be at home than out and not enjoying myself.
I consider making an excuse. “Look, Sarah, I’m feeling really sick, I don’t think I can come tonight.” Or plead a case of irrational parents. “My mom’s really pissed off with me, she won’t let me go.” Or anything, any reason for not being able to go to a party full of people I don’t know. People who take their music really seriously and can tell you everything you never wanted to know about a particular band or singer.
People who idolise Kurt Cobain and light a candle every April 5 and who can explain exactly why his death was such a tragedy and how he influenced the music of today, blah blah blah.
People who talk a lot about suicide and think it’s cool. People who would sooner shoot themselves than listen to uplifting, pop music once in a while. People who are so pretentious that I would happily put them out of their misery and kill them.
I hate pretentiousness about anything . I hate people who only read “literature”, like Jane in my class. Jane spent her childhood with her nose in the classics and thinks you’re deprived if you haven’t read Pride and Prejudice at least ten times. She uses English class to make comparisons between every male character ever created and Mr Darcy. Riveting, I assure you. (I mean, if you’re going to take any literary character to use as a basis for comparison, it should really be Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff. But that’s beside the point.)
I wonder if Sarah will even care if I don’t go. If I’m not there it’ll give her a chance to spend more time with her instantly-acquired music-related friends, and before I know it, we’ll be drifting apart. I’ll call to her house one day before school only to be told that she’s already left. I’ll suggest doing something for the weekend and find that she has other plans that I was never told about. I’ll ring her on the phone and she’ll find some excuse to hang up after five awkward minutes.
I’ll go back to being Lonely Abi. And even though I enjoy being alone a lot of the time, it’s much worse to have it thrust upon you because no one wants to be around you.
I really don’t want that to happen. Besides, I usually have a good time once I actually go out. And I have the rest of the weekend to be my usual anti-social self.
So . . . what am I going to wear?
Chapter Thirty
I run into Graham’s mother while I’m walking down to Sarah’s. Mrs – sorry, “Anna, call me Anna” – O’Brien. Considering there’s all of ten metres between my house and Sarah’s, it’s surprising I see her at all.
I happen to like Anna, despite the intensely obnoxious nature of her son. She, after all, has no idea what an asshole she’s raised, and I think she always secretly hoped that I’d become Graham’s girlfriend and eventually wife and mother of her grandchildren, and so on.
We do the hi-how-are-you exchange, followed by a don’t-you-look-lovely-where-are-you-off-to on her part, followed by an explanation from me, followed by an oh-enjoy-yourself.
She says goodbye and walks off, weighed down with green bags from Superquinn. I think about her going home and telling Graham that she was talking to me.
I imagine Graham filling her up with lies about what a horrible person I am. Funny that I care more about what his mom thinks of me than what he does. Then again, I
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