Am I Normal Yet? (12 page)

“So, you looking forward to this date then?”

I gave him a sideways look. “I guess.”

He took a drag and giggled a bit under his breath. “And this one's not a nympho?”

I glared at him. “Not that I know of… No.”

“He's just a pussy.”

My glare intensified. “I object to that word.”

“What word? Pussy?”

“Yes. It's sexist. And vulgar. What's having a vagina got to do with not having any courage? You're a misogynist.”

“I'm an a-what-a-nist?”

“If you don't know what it means, then you definitely are one.”

He giggled again in response. “You're funny.”

“I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to be angry.”

“That's what makes it so funny.”

“It's only funny to you 'cause you're high. Alone. On a Thursday.”

He laughed again, his eyes already red. “I'm not alone, I'm with you.”

“That's not what I'm telling the police if they pull over and arrest you.”

His laughter got more and more amplified. I let him giggle himself out and watched him finish his joint and flick it into a bush. Younger girls had started crushing majorly on Guy since the big church gig. I'd heard some girls from the local secondary school, my old school, discuss his fitness in the fish and chip shop, and some of them followed him and Joel around in town. I examined him now. The sun lit his face from behind, giving him his own little golden lining, detailing his unruly mop of hair. He was attractive, I
guessed.

He muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I said, I'm not a misogynist.”

“I'd believe you more if you weren't laughing as you said it.”

He ignored me. “Anyway, the context of the word ‘pussy' isn't in relation to a vagina. It's pussy as in ‘pussycat'. Put that” – he flicked out his hand towards my face – “in your pipe and smoke it.”

I gave a wry grin in defeat. He was right. Pussy came from pussycat. “I can't smoke it. You've smoked it all.”

And I lost him again in splutterings of laughter.

The sun beat down on us. The leaves were glowing golden, our jackets hung off our arms. As we neared my house, we conducted an epic game of “Would You Rather?” which had us both tearing up with hysterics.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Guy said, hands flailing dramatically, barely able to talk. “If you HAD to…would you rather have two bollocks the size of watermelons, or twenty the size of grapes?”

I snorted. “That's disgusting. I don't even know what it's like to have balls in the first place.”

“Oh, it's great. Trust me.”

I suddenly found myself thinking of Guy's balls, and went a bit red. “Umm…two the size of melons, I guess.”

He pointed at me. “Why?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. They'd be easier to tuck into my boxers?”

It took a while for him to calm down. It was hard to tell with Guy how much of his laughter was my natural wit, and how much was his cannabis habit.

When he calmed down, I said, “Right, I've got one.”

He raised both eyebrows, his dark eyes almost glowing hazel in the sun. “Okay. Hit me.”

“Would you rather have…incurable full body acne…” I paused for comic effect.

“Or…?” he prompted.

“Or, a full body Celine Dion tattoo. Her face was your face. Her arms were your arms. Her legs were your legs.”

He dissolved into hysteria again, sitting down on the wall of someone's front garden and whacking his thigh like an old man.

“No…neither.”

“You HAVE to choose,” I insisted. “I told you about my melon balls.”

More hysteria. “Okay, okay, okay… The acne. Oh God, it would have to be the acne.”

I sat next to him and laughed too. For one moment, he rested his head on my shoulder. Then his head was gone. We stopped laughing abruptly and earlier's convo napalm descended again instantly.

“I'm almost home,” I said. For no real reason.

I felt Guy turn to me on the wall and instinctively turned towards him too. The tips of our knees touched and it made my heart do a…thing. A thing I didn't quite understand. My face tingled with the dappling of oncoming sunburn.

“So you coming to this party on Saturday then?” Guy asked, all serious.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“And you're bringing this guy?”

“Oli.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe, I guess. We'll see.”

“The pussy…cat?”

I shot him a look. “Why do you care?”

He leaned back off the wall, balancing his weight in mid-air, and put his hands behind his head.

“I don't care. I don't care about anything.” He said it with pride.

“Right, well, see you Saturday.”

“See you then.”

It was date time. Time for the date. Another actual date! My heart was going boom badda boom badda boom badda BOOM.

“Are you okay?” Rose asked, poking her head around my bedroom door halfway through my wardrobe-meltdown. She was holding a toothbrush and pyjamas, packing for a sleepover she was going to that night.

“No,” I told her. “I am supposed to be going on a date but all my clothes hate me.”

Rose looked at the fashion concoction I'd draped myself in. “You're not wearing that, are you?” And she made a little face.

“I'm not now you've made that face.”

“Flared jeans
and
a dress? Umm…why?”

“BECAUSE I WANT TO WEAR THE DRESS BECAUSE IT'S PRETTY BUT WE LIVE IN STUPID ENGLAND AND IT'S TOO COLD OUTSIDE.”

Panic took over – stupid overwhelming panic, over a stupid underwhelming wardrobe crisis. My chest tightened and I flopped back onto the bed, focusing on my raggedy breathing.

Rose instantly rocked into calm-down mode. “Shh, shh,” she said, joining me on the bed and stroking my hair. “It's okay. We'll sort your outfit out.”

Tears bulged up in my ducts at her kindness. “You're not supposed to see me like this. Mum will go nuts.”

“I don't care what Mum thinks.”

“I just…I…I know it's just a date. But the other one went so badly…and…and…”

BAD THOUGHT

I'm corrupting my little sister and she'll go mad and it will be all my fault.

BAD THOUGHT

This date is going to go awfully and I'm going to get sick from the filthy cinema and die alone.

“Shh, Evie, it's okay. Everyone gets nervous before dates. You're not going mad, you get that, right? This is normal nerves.”

I sniffed. “Is it normal to put jeans on under a dress?”

Rose giggled. “No, that bit's just you.”

We laughed together quietly, though not quietly enough for Mum not to hear. She barrelled into my room, cradling a bundle of fresh laundry.

“What's going on in here?” she asked, all suspicious, like Poirot. She spotted my blotchy face and I saw her freak-out face forming. “Evie, have you been crying?”

Mum's eyes flicked from Rose's face back to mine again, like she was analysing Rose for crazy-by-osmosis.

Rose – bless her – kept a poker face. “I'm just helping Evie pick out what to wear.”

“Wear where? Where are you going?”

“Umm…to the cinema.” I wasn't going to tell Mum about my date. She'd have opinions. Negative opinions.

She still looked surprised though. “The cinema? Evie, that's huge. Are you sure you're ready? I mean, you've not mentioned it… Have you talked it through with Sarah? I mean, the cinema! That's great…but, are you ready for that?” She looked at Rose and then realized she'd hinted at the crazy. “I mean…well, not that it's a big deal…”

“Muuuuuum,” I said. “You're not helping!”

“Oh… Okay, but I do wish you'd tell me these things, Evie.”

“Mum,” I sighed again. Rose and I stared pointedly at her until she took the hint and left.

“Now,” said Rose, clapping her hands together. “Take off the dress and show me what lacy tops you have.”

I did as she said. “I love you, Rose.”

“Yes…yes… Oh my God, Evie, why are you wearing cowboy boots?”

We were meeting at the cinema. Like dates do. My date. And I. For our date. DATE. Rose had calmed me down enough to put some make-up on and shoved me out the door with the strict command of “tell me everything”.

Oli'd actually asserted himself when it came to deciding what to watch. I'd had my eye on this new indie comedy called
And Rainbows
but he'd messaged quite firmly saying he'd booked us tickets for the new Tarantino.

BAD THOUGHT

He won't have booked an aisle seat. How am I supposed to run away if it all gets too much if I don't have an aisle seat?

I'd been given a new method for dealing with the resurrection of bad thoughts – courtesy of Sarah. I was supposed to start owning them, rather than the other way round. This involved a process she'd scribbled down for me, with strict instructions to practise.

How to own your bad thoughts

1) Put them through the Worry Tree.

What the heck is a worry tree? Well…it's a bit like those flow chart tests you get in women's magazines that tell you what sort of orgasm you're supposed to be having or whatever. However there are only two branches to the tree.

Is there anything you can do about this worry right now?

2) Acknowledge that you've had a bad thought.

Sorta like “Oh, hello there, you fine young man of a bad thought, I can see you, you know.”

3) But do not “indulge” the bad thought.

Example of indulging a BAD THOUGHT

Bad thought
: Hey, you, do you think that maybe you're always going to be mad? That maybe, Evie, darling, you should just give up on this whole “recovery” thing and go back to the unit and get sectioned for ever and never have a boyfriend because you're so fucking crazy?

Evie
: Oh my, you're right. I am crazy. How long do you think I have left before everyone realizes and gives up on me?

Bad thought
: Hmmm, maybe a year? Then you're screwed.

Evie
: A year's quite a long time.

Bad thought
: You're right. Six months. Who do you think will be the most disappointed?

Evie
: Mum probably…but then Rose…

Bad thought
: Yeah, Rose. Man, you're really going to screw her up, aren't you?

Evie
: *nods sadly* I know.

* Continue until Evie lies sobbing on her bed for no visible reason.*

What next? Well, after you've successfully acknowledged but not indulged the bad thought, you…

4) Return your mind to the present moment.

Note: Modern psychology is currently OBSESSED with The Present Moment, like it's the elixir of life or something. You do this by either focusing on your breathing, or listening to all the noises around you and concentrating really hard on them. Sort of like meditation, like the Buddha did.

5) When you find your mind drifting…

Which it inevitably will, because the present moment is so utterly boring compared to freaking out and fretting obsessively, well…

Return to step two.

Over and over.

There you go, thoughts owned.

That's about five hundred quid's worth of therapy, right there for you. But does it work? Ha, that's the problem. You have to exert brain control in order to do it, and isn't a lack of control over your brain why you're in therapy in the first place?

As I walked to the cinema to meet Oli, I did try and own them. This was my backlog of bad thoughts so far:

BAD THOUGHT

You look like crap.

BAD THOUGHT

How are you going to eat the popcorn? You can't seriously dip your hand repeatedly into something – think of the germs multiplying. You'll get sick and vomit down yourself and Oli will hate you.

BAD THOUGHT

Will it be awkward? What if we don't have anything to talk about?

BAD THOUGHT

What if you have a panic attack in the cinema? You've not had one in ages, but you've not been to the cinema in ages…

So I really tried to concentrate on The Present Moment to calm myself down. I looked up at the leaves on the trees and thought how pretty they were, the first tinges of yellow tarnishing the edges. I listened to the steady whir of traffic as cars passed me. I counted my steps on the pavement – up to ten each time. And, soon, Sarah was right… I was almost there and I hadn't spiralled into a sobbing incoherent mess.

The cinema was in the distance, all new and shiny and the-most-exciting-thing-to-happen-to-this-town-in-five-years. Oli was in there, with his basil eyes, and his questions about monkeys, and his tendency to prefer violence in movies…and all of these were good things and things that made Oli Oli. And I was going on a date to find out more about what made Oli Oli, and he was going to find out more about what made Evie Evie because that is what dates are and that is how love begins to maybe happen and I so wanted to fall in love. Because love means someone accepts you for who you are, unconditionally; it's like you've been given a giant “well done” sticker from the universe, and I was well on my way to starting that so why…why…