have a tendency to seek approval from authority figures and/or role models. It’s part of my insecurity complex.
I try to present myself as a quiet-but-polite girl to adults, an intelligent and reasonable teenager. This obviously excludes my parents and anyone who actually knows me well, because fooling them would be impossible. Not that my parents know me that well, but still.
I wonder what Anna would think of me if she saw the scars on my arm. Recent, still red, still painful. Considering it makes me feel uneasy. I don’t want anyone to find out what a mess I am, I realise slowly in something akin to an epiphany.
Obviously I am nowhere near as messed up as the kids who have real problems. You know what? I hate that term. “Real” problems. Who defines what’s real and what’s not? It’s a real problem if it involves death, abuse or illness, but not real if it involves anything else? Real if you’ve got a prescription for Prozac, not real if you just don’t want to go out to a party? You’re only allowed complain if you have a real problem, but if it’s just melodramatic teen angst, forget about it. It’s not important. You are irrelevant.
I am irrelevant and I hate it. Surprise, surprise.
Chapter Thirty-One
I find myself thinking of that debate in Irish during the party. The one about the uniforms. One advantage that we never mentioned was their ability to hide just how skinny some people are so that the not-so-skinny people can feel a little better.
I’m also reminded of why I hate colour days. Well, in a way I love getting to wear my own clothes into school, but in another way I hate the fact that all the thin people wear clothes to emphasise that and I’m left feeling rather elephant-like.
And it’s ridiculous because on a good day I know that I’ve got a relatively good figure. Maybe not wonderful, but it’s not that bad.
I just hate the way that everyone else seems to be prettier, thinner, better than me. I don’t want to compete with anyone. It’s pointless.
Everyone else has make-up plastered on, too. Well, the girls do. The guys – for the most part – don’t. I’m wearing a little eye shadow and tinted lip-balm. I feel severely inferior.
I think most of the girls here are from school, although I’m not sure. I don’t know that many of the Fifth Years. It’s not like Sarah has parties regularly. Or ever. Not like this. Not with the loud music and people spilling out into the back garden. Sarah’s sister is upstairs, locked away in her room. Their parents are away for the weekend and she’s supposed to be in charge and not let any wild parties be thrown. Because she’s the desperately “good” type – sort of like Rebecca The Annoying Optimist – they know they can trust her to keep things under control.
Which is why she’s made Sarah promise to clean up thoroughly tomorrow morning. Fiona and I are staying over to help, on the condition that anyone throwing up is her responsibility.
Fiona, I notice, is doing a wonderful job of mingling. I am the wallflower, watching – and utterly bored. I don’t know most of these people. I hate parties. Why am I here?
I could just hide out in Sarah’s room until everyone leaves. Read a book, watch TV, escape from this.
I hate drunk people. I think I inherited this from my non-alcohol-drinking parents, who are always the designated drivers at an event, the sober people who end up taking care of the ones who can barely walk. Now I know how they feel, surrounded by incoherent idiots.
The party has barely begun, so not everyone has reached that stage just yet, but a lot of people were drinking before they arrived. That annoys me too. I mean, what’s the point? (Oh, God, I’m turning into my parents. Help!)
I go into the kitchen to get another glass of water, debating whether or not to follow the “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” rule and go for a Smirnoff Ice instead.
Sarah is sitting on the table with
I try to present myself as a quiet-but-polite girl to adults, an intelligent and reasonable teenager. This obviously excludes my parents and anyone who actually knows me well, because fooling them would be impossible. Not that my parents know me that well, but still.
I wonder what Anna would think of me if she saw the scars on my arm. Recent, still red, still painful. Considering it makes me feel uneasy. I don’t want anyone to find out what a mess I am, I realise slowly in something akin to an epiphany.
Obviously I am nowhere near as messed up as the kids who have real problems. You know what? I hate that term. “Real” problems. Who defines what’s real and what’s not? It’s a real problem if it involves death, abuse or illness, but not real if it involves anything else? Real if you’ve got a prescription for Prozac, not real if you just don’t want to go out to a party? You’re only allowed complain if you have a real problem, but if it’s just melodramatic teen angst, forget about it. It’s not important. You are irrelevant.
I am irrelevant and I hate it. Surprise, surprise.
Chapter Thirty-One
I find myself thinking of that debate in Irish during the party. The one about the uniforms. One advantage that we never mentioned was their ability to hide just how skinny some people are so that the not-so-skinny people can feel a little better.
I’m also reminded of why I hate colour days. Well, in a way I love getting to wear my own clothes into school, but in another way I hate the fact that all the thin people wear clothes to emphasise that and I’m left feeling rather elephant-like.
And it’s ridiculous because on a good day I know that I’ve got a relatively good figure. Maybe not wonderful, but it’s not that bad.
I just hate the way that everyone else seems to be prettier, thinner, better than me. I don’t want to compete with anyone. It’s pointless.
Everyone else has make-up plastered on, too. Well, the girls do. The guys – for the most part – don’t. I’m wearing a little eye shadow and tinted lip-balm. I feel severely inferior.
I think most of the girls here are from school, although I’m not sure. I don’t know that many of the Fifth Years. It’s not like Sarah has parties regularly. Or ever. Not like this. Not with the loud music and people spilling out into the back garden. Sarah’s sister is upstairs, locked away in her room. Their parents are away for the weekend and she’s supposed to be in charge and not let any wild parties be thrown. Because she’s the desperately “good” type – sort of like Rebecca The Annoying Optimist – they know they can trust her to keep things under control.
Which is why she’s made Sarah promise to clean up thoroughly tomorrow morning. Fiona and I are staying over to help, on the condition that anyone throwing up is her responsibility.
Fiona, I notice, is doing a wonderful job of mingling. I am the wallflower, watching – and utterly bored. I don’t know most of these people. I hate parties. Why am I here?
I could just hide out in Sarah’s room until everyone leaves. Read a book, watch TV, escape from this.
I hate drunk people. I think I inherited this from my non-alcohol-drinking parents, who are always the designated drivers at an event, the sober people who end up taking care of the ones who can barely walk. Now I know how they feel, surrounded by incoherent idiots.
The party has barely begun, so not everyone has reached that stage just yet, but a lot of people were drinking before they arrived. That annoys me too. I mean, what’s the point? (Oh, God, I’m turning into my parents. Help!)
I go into the kitchen to get another glass of water, debating whether or not to follow the “if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em” rule and go for a Smirnoff Ice instead.
Sarah is sitting on the table with
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