Stereotype (14 page)

I’m still in that I-feel-powerful-and-I-can-take-control-of-my-life state of mind as I go to bed.

I dream about Shane. He arrives at my house and tells me that he’s not with Sarah anymore, that it was unfair to her when he’s in love with me.

I am deliriously happy, walking on air, grinning idiotically. I can’t believe this is happening to me, that my wildest dreams are coming true.

Then I wake up and realise that it really is just a dream. It hurts. I want to recapture it, slip back into the dreamland where everything is perfect.

I feel like stamping my foot down on the ground and demanding to know
why?
Why is it that I’m doomed to live a life without reciprocated love?

And why must I be so melodramatic about it?

I lie in bed thinking about him. We don’t have much in common, really, I remind myself. He’s idealistic and pretentious. (And gorgeous.) The only reason I want him is because I think it’s never going to happen. I need someone to daydream about, and he’ll do.

It’s not working. I can’t convince myself that I don’t have feelings for him, because I do. And I don’t know how to stop feeling like this. You can’t control your emotions.

I think about cutting and then turn over in bed angrily. No. I’m fed up of doing that, fed up of having to hide the scars, fed up of being such a cliché.

I read a little Sylvia Plath before realising that I’m trying
not
to be depressed, and go downstairs and watch cartoons instead.
As Told By Ginger
is on, keeping me entertained for half an hour. I keep reliving the Shane-dream during the ad breaks, filling up with a longing for the unattainable.

She looks pretty. As always. Perfect and pretty and why can’t I be like that?

She has that glow, that happy-in-love glow, about her. I’m jealous. I almost hate her for having Shane, for being so
happy.

I’m trying to stay happy and positive and optimistic. But I don’t get it. I don’t understand how people survive in a world that’s so unfair.

I make the mistake of asking how things are going with Shane. We’re in my room, listening to the Foo Fighters, sitting on the bed, and she says, “He’s kinda possessive.”

“Really?” I say.

“Yeah, I don’t like it. I mean, he’s great and all, don’t get me wrong, but I wish he’d loosen up.”

“Well, if you don’t like it, you can always break up with him,” I say. It sounds more bitter than I meant it to be.

She looks at me strangely. “Abi, what’s your problem?”

“Nothing! Just . . .”

“Just
what?”

“Just that I can’t believe you’re complaining about him already! I mean, do you have any idea how lucky you are to be going out with him? And already you’re moaning about how possessive he is.”

“So much for you not liking him,” she mutters.

“Oh, screw you, Sarah! If you knew me at all you’d have known I was still crazy about him.”

“Maybe that’s the problem! I
don’t
know you. You never tell me anything! I don’t know why you do the things you do. I mean, you and Graham. What the hell was with that?”

“At least he actually
gives
a damn about me, unlike some people.”

“Oh, grow up! The only reason he’s nice to you is because he wants to sleep with you.”

“Get out. Get out of here right now.”

“Gladly,” she says coldly, grabbing her bag and storming out of the room. She closes the front door firmly, not quite loud enough to be a slam, but close enough.

I want to cry. I want to throw things. I want to slice at my arms until the blood turns into a river. I want to turn the world inside out, smash windows, start fires, kill people.

I cry first. Floods of tears. I can’t picture them ever stopping. I’ve never felt so alone, never been so alone. Unloved, unwanted, uninteresting. The rest of my life will be spent alone, living like a hermit, living like a crazy poet, and now that there’s an excellent chance of that dream becoming reality, it scares me. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be cut off from the world. I need my friends, I need to feel needed and valued.

Instead I’m just a petty self-indulgent whiny child, and everyone knows it, everyone has seen the real me, and they hate her. I don’t blame them. I’d hate me too. I
do
hate me. I hate who I am. I don’t know how I can change, if it’s even possible. I want to sleep and forget it all, but I don’t think I can.

I need a fairy godmother to tell me what to do. I need Sarah to come back and tell me that she’s sorry and that she still wants to be friends with me. I need Shane to confess his undying love for me. I need my parents to tell me that they think I need counselling. I need a hug.

And then the phone rings.

Chapter Seventy-Two

The music is pounding out of the speakers. It feels like it’s pounding in time with my heart. I dance. I dance crazily and wildly, possibly because I’m a little drunk. Emily’s friend Barry and a couple of other guys are dancing with me. One of them spins me around. I almost fall and he catches me. I giggle. He grins.

I catch Sarah looking over and glare defiantly at her. It’s like the night she and Shane got together. Let them do whatever they want. I can still have a good time. And I am. I feel pretty. Desirable.

Emily comes over and joins us. “Hey, everything OK?” she asks me.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Have you been talking to Sarah yet?”

“No, she’s too busy with her darling Shane.”

Emily makes a face. “Don’t let it bother you. Just have fun.”

“I’m trying,” I grin.

She laughs, and takes my hands. We twirl around,
Titanic
-style. The guys watch in appreciation. I get dizzy and slip. We both fall to the ground, giggling hysterically.

“OK, how much have you had to drink?” Barry asks, playing the part of the concerned older brother figure.

“Just a little.” I giggle.

“Yeah, right,” Emily says.

“Look who’s talking,” I say, sticking my tongue out at her.

“Don’t stick that tongue out at me unless you intend to use it,” she laughs.

I raise my eyebrows.

As do the guys. “Can we watch?” one of them asks.

Emily gives him the finger.

I try to get up, but fail miserably, falling back down on the ground beside Emily. She looks at me and suddenly I’m thinking
oh what the hell
and I’m kissing her and even though my eyes are closed I know the guys are watching.

She pulls away. I open my eyes. Talk about making a scene. It feels like the whole room’s staring at us. Sarah, Shane, Hugh, Fiona, Caroline, surprised and shocked in a terribly politically incorrect way. Barry and the other guys, looking as if they’d like us to continue, preferably with clothes removed. Emily’s friend Roisín, smiling.

She gets up off the ground and helps me up. Ignoring the stares, she dances. I follow her cue. I feel like she’s waiting to tell me something. A few minutes later she slips outside, indicating for me to follow.

“I’m not your toy, Abi,” she tells me.

“Excuse me?” I’m confused. Nothing to do with the alcohol or anything, oh no.

“Nice little show you put on there for everyone,” she says. “But for God’s sake, Abi, if you’re looking for a co-star, find someone else to use. Don’t mess around with me, OK?”

“I wasn’t –” I protest feebly.

She shoots me a I-know-you’re-lying-so-cut-the-crap look.

“OK,” I say softly. “Are you mad at me?”
Please don’t be mad . . .

She relents and smiles. “Nah. You’re too damn cute.”

“Aw, thanks.” I laugh.

“Come on, let’s go back inside,” she says, then pauses. “You know, they’re probably all in there thinking we’re out here screwing . . .”

Vodka shots. Ah, sure, why not?

“Abi, you sure that’s a good idea?” Emily says.

“Yes, I think it’s a great idea,” I reply.
Since when are you my mother? I don’t need to be looked after.

She shrugs. “OK . . .”

I’m annoyed. Just to spite her, I pour out another one and gulp it down. The taste isn’t so bad after a while. But it’s still pretty disgusting. I go into the kitchen to find something to get rid of the taste still lingering in my mouth.

One of the guys I was dancing with earlier – is it Declan? – is in there, opening up a can of beer. “Heya,” he says.

“Hey,” I respond, opening the fridge. Orange juice. That’ll do.

“Aren’t we very healthy?” he observes as I pour myself a glass.

“Need to get the taste of vodka out of my mouth,” I explain.

He grins.

“OK, so I’m not exactly a hardened drinker,” I admit.

“So why don’t you stick to alcopops?” he asks.

I shrug. “They don’t work fast enough.”

He’s amused. “You’re a bit of an alcoholic, aren’t you?” he smiles.

“Oh yeah. After this I’ve got my AA meeting,” I laugh. I try to casually sit up on the table, and slip off. Way to go, Abi.

“You’re a little drunk,” he notes.

“I am not,” I reply indignantly.

He looks at me sceptically.

“Maybe just a little,” I relent.

“So . . . what’s the deal with you and Emily?” he asks.

“Deal?”

“Well . . . you were scoring her earlier. Are you with her or what?”

“We’re friends,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I always act that way with my friends.”

“We’re friends who seem to end up kissing whenever we’re drunk. That’s about it.”

“I
see.”

“I don’t know why I did it. I guess because I know she likes me, and I like that, you know? I mean, we all like to feel desirable, right? I think she’s cool, yeah, but I’m not interested in her, I’m straight, I just . . . I don’t know.” I sit down at a chair and put my head on the table. “I don’t know! Aaaagh! I don’t know why I do these things! I do such stupid things, you know?”

He nods, taking a seat beside me. I notice he’s got a burn-mark on his hand. “How’d you get that?” I ask, touching it gently.

He shrugs. “Cigarette-burn.”

“You smoke?”

“Yeah. I know, I know, it’s bad for my health and all that crap.”

I shrug. “We all have our self-destructive habits.”

He nods like I’ve said something incredibly wise. “So what’s yours?”

“Apart from being an alcoholic?” I laugh.

“Yeah, apart from that.”

I shrug. “Sharp things.”

He gets it. Of course he gets it. I’m willing to bet he burned himself on purpose, that he’s got more marks hidden.

“Let’s see,” he says.

I push up my sleeve and I can tell he’s impressed and disgusted at the same time. There are fresh cuts, still crimson and raw and swollen, and then there are scabs, broken dark red lines, and scars, dark pink, fading but not quite gone, definitely making their presence known.

I’m right about him. Because then he shows me his cigarette-burns going all the way up his arm.

“Not as bad as yours, though,” he says.

The tone of his voice gets to me, for some reason. “It’s not a competition,” I say, but I don’t think he believes me. Suddenly I don’t want him looking at me, if he’s just trying to see who’s worse off. It feels too twisted, even for me.

I pull my sleeve down. Safe again. He follows suit.

“Why’d you do it?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Sometimes you just need to hurt yourself to make yourself feel something. And sometimes you feel too much.”

“And sometimes you’re just looking for attention, right, Declan?” Emily says, pushing the door open.

“Emily!” I can’t believe she’s just said that. I didn’t realise she was such a heartless bitch.

“It’s not like that,” Declan protests.

She looks at him tiredly. “No, of
course
it isn’t,” she snaps.

I’m starting to feel sick. I stand up, and it makes me feel worse. Head-rush combined with an onslaught of nausea.

“Abi?” Emily sounds concerned.

“I’m going to go . . .” I indicate the door.

“Are you OK?”

I nod. “Yeah, I’m . . . no.”

“Do you feel sick?”

“Kinda.” The nausea hits me even worse. I move towards the door. I don’t seem to be that good at moving.

“Here, come on,” Emily says, propelling me out the door and in the direction of the bathroom. I kneel down in front of the toilet and throw up. It feels almost religious. The kneeling, I mean. Like confession, or doing your penance afterwards.
Forgive me, Father, for all my sins . . .

She’s holding my hair back from my face and rubbing my back and I’m thinking,
what the hell have I done to deserve a friend who’ll watch me throw up after I’ve messed with her head.
Then I think about what she said to Declan, and it hurts. Is that what she thinks it’s all about? Getting attention?