The Manifesto on How to be Interesting by Holly Bourne Page B

chewing and sipping filling the air.
    Until her dad perked up a bit.
    He jabbed at her half-eaten Quorn fillet with his fork. “What’s that?” he asked.
    â€œA Quorn fillet.”
    â€œWhat in the name of Christ is a Quorn fillet?”
    â€œIt’s a meat substitute. It’s made out of mushrooms.”
    Bree’s dad would probably have looked less confused if she’d told him it was made from reconstituted pigeon poo.
    â€œMushrooms made to taste like meat?”
    â€œYes.” Bree took a mouthful.
    â€œAnd since when have you been a vegetarian?”
    Bree was just about to respond when, to her amazement, her mother cut her off.
    â€œOh for God’s sake, Daniel. Bree’s been a vegetarian since puberty, after she watched that documentary about fast food. If you were actually ever here you would’ve noticed.”
    Her dad looked like someone had just wiped reconstituted pigeon poo on his face. Bewilderment carved through his tired features. He looked from Bree to her mother, before shaking his head and returning to his meat, muttering, “Mushrooms don’t taste of meat…” like a child who’d lost a playground argument.
    Bree’s mum caught her eye and did a mock sigh, blowing her hair up. Bree rolled her eyes back and they both fell into silent unnoticeable laughter. Her stomach glowed with the unfamiliar sensation.
    She ate the rest of her Quorn fillet happily. And, in some odd sort of way, found herself looking forward to tomorrow.

chapter ten
    The next morning she was shaken awake by her mother.
    â€œMorning, love. It’s time for body combat. Remember you said you wanted to go yesterday?”
    Bree rubbed her eyes to dislodge the sleep from them. Her half-conscious consciousness was being ripped down the middle. Pre-The-Plan Bree would’ve screamed “LEAVE ME ALONE”, gone back to sleep until noon, rung Holdo and then spent the remaining weekend watching the director’s commentary on something. But Post-The-Plan Bree knew she needed to do this. Even though it was going to be painful.
    Bree slowly sat up. “What time is it?”
    â€œ8.15. The class starts at 8.45.”
    â€œOn a Sunday?”
    â€œYes. On a Sunday.”
    Bree yawned, stretched, and squinted.
    â€œGive me a minute to get ready.”
    Half an hour later, Bree was in a personal hell of her own making. She had no workout gear so was wearing her school PE kit and a clumpy pair of black trainers from her earlier teenage years. She probably would have stood out less if she’d worn sexy lingerie. Everyone in the class wore belly tops, tight Lycra leggings and special workout trainers – mostly in pink – with their hair scraped up immaculately into bouncy ponytails. Everyone’s limbs were perfect. Each calf was uber-defined, each buttock cheek sculpted into a perfect curve, and flawlessly toned tummies peeked out all over the place.
    The instructor hadn’t arrived yet but all the women seemed to be stretching out and limbering up. Bree, unsure of what to do, bent over and tried to touch her toes. “Tried” being the operative word.
    She was just in the difficult process of getting back up again when some teeny tiny stick figure with French plait pigtails rocketed through the doors.
    â€œRight, ladies,” she yelled. “Are you ready to burn some calories?”
    â€œYES!”
    â€œThat’s not loud enough. I said ARE YOU READY TO BURN SOME CALORIES?”
    â€œYESSSSSS!” Bree could hear her mum’s voice over all the others.
    Just as Bree was going to make some spot-on observation about the cult-like ways of this exercise class, the stick insect flipped on the sound system and Bree’s life rapidly flashed past her eyes.
    It was physical torture like she’d never experienced before. As everyone around her effortlessly kicked and punched in time to the quick (and awful) music, Bree could