Stereotype (15 page)

“I’m never drinking again,” I vow.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Emily warns.

It is the morning after. Emily, me, and assorted other people, excluding Declan, are having breakfast, sprawled across the floor of the sitting-room and the kitchen. Or trying to have breakfast, anyway. I can’t eat much. This would be what they refer to as a bad hangover. Actually, this is what they refer to as a
monster
hangover, the kind that feels like it’s going to cling to you forever, like the nausea’s never going to leave and you’re never going to be able to eat ever again, or think clearly, for that matter, because you’ve got people with sledgehammers bashing away from inside your skull, and it really, really,
really
hurts.

It kills me to admit it, but I find myself thinking that my parents have the right idea. Damn. I was trying to rebel.

Emily goes to make us tea, good hostess that she is. Roisín sits down beside me and asks me if I’m OK.

“Yeah, I think so,” I reply. “I will be, anyway.”

She smiles. “I know how you feel.” She pauses. “Mind if I ask you something personal?”

“Go ahead,” I say, although I’m nervous. I’m not good with discussing anything personal. And I don’t know her that well. But she’s friendly, and maybe I’ve got to stop thinking that I need to have people’s life histories before opening up to them.

“What’s the deal with you and Emily?”

I feel like I’ve been down this road before. Oh, wait, I was, last night. I’m not sure what to say this time. I get the feeling whatever I say will be repeated to Emily later.

“We’re friends,” I say.

“Friends who kiss.”

“Once.”

“Twice.” She smiles. “Yeah, she told me. Look, Abi, she likes you. I don’t know if it’s a rebound thing or what, but she
does
like you. And you shouldn’t take advantage of that.”

“I know,” I say softly. “I feel really crappy about it.” I think I’m about to cry. And I think she knows, because she looks at me sympathetically.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it too much. We all have drunken moments that we regret.”

“Have you got any?” I ask.

She muses. “Well, I got into a fight with Fiona last night and called her a fat slut, but apart from that . . .”

I laugh. “No way!”

“I know! It’s awful!” She hides her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I just told you that. She’s one of your best friends, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, she is. But I haven’t really spoken to her since she got together with Hugh.”

“You’re avoiding her?”

“Not really, just haven’t made the effort to talk to her much. Besides, it was kinda tacky.” I can’t believe Emily’s still on speaking terms with both of them, that she invited them last night. If I were her I wouldn’t want to see either of them ever again.

“It really was,” she nods. “For both of them. I think I told her that last night as well.”

“It certainly was an eventful night, wasn’t it?”

“Oh! I haven’t told you the other thing. Sarah and Shane had a massive fight. It was after you went to bed. He was flirting with that girl – ah, what’s her name? She’s got blonde hair, she’s in the band . . .”

“Caroline?”

“Caroline! That’s it. Anyway, they were flirting – well, she was flirting, he was listening, Sarah gets annoyed, and they start arguing. Meanwhile the rest of us are just standing there, trying to look as if we’re
not
watching with bated breath to see what they’ll do next.”

“Did they make up?”

“I don’t think so.”

I’ll have to go and talk to her later. As soon as possible. Only I don’t know if she’ll want to see me . . .

I hate fighting with her. We never fight. We’ve had minor rows that last ten minutes and then we hug and apologise profusely, and everything’s OK again. But never like this. Never yelling at each other, and storming out.

After I finish my tea I tell Emily I have to get home. I hug her, Roisín, Barry, and assorted people whose names have deserted me, and leave.

My parents are waiting for me. “Where have
you
been?”

“I left you a note,” I say.

“We were in the house, Abigail. Why didn’t you tell us you were going out?”

“Because you wouldn’t have let me.” That’s true. They’re not a fan of last-minute arrangements. In fact, they despise them. They like to plan ahead, have time to get phone numbers and addresses and probably police records while they’re at it.

“I’m starting to think we
shouldn’t
let you out if you’re going to behave like this.” Ah, parent-logic.

“I’m going upstairs,” I say.

“Not until you tell us where you were.”

I sigh in exasperation. “I left you a note. I told you I was going over to Emily’s.”

“And who is this Emily? You’ve never mentioned her before.”

I thought I was past the stage of my parents keeping tabs on every single person I hang around with. Clearly not.

“She’s a friend,” I say.

“Where does she live?”

I give them the address.

“And you stayed at her house last night?”

“Yes.” I honestly don’t see the point of all this.

“Without telling us in advance?”

How many times to I have to say it? “I left you a note!”

“Don’t yell at us.”

“So
listen
to me! I left you a note, I’m home now, and I’m going up to my room.”

“We’d just like to know where you are. What if there was an emergency?”

“Then call my mobile!” I yell down at them.

“There was no answer.”

“I had it switched on. Are you going to start blaming me for the bad coverage now, too?”

“You need to let us know if you’re going to be going out.”

“I did!” Are they stupid or something?

“No address, no number . . .”

“Well, you have them now. Good for you. Now you can keep a close eye on me at all times and make sure I
never
have any fun.” I go into my room and slam the door. Then I scream. I can’t remember the last time I screamed, if ever. It makes me feel a little better.

After I shower and get changed, I go downstairs.

“Can I go over to Sarah’s?” I ask the parents politely.

They exchange looks. I can tell they’re thinking,
Should we let her out or make her suffer?

“Be back for dinner,” my dad finally says. I’m glad. The last thing I needed was to be grounded. Parents don’t care if you absolutely
need
to see your friend because she’s upset. As far as they’re concerned, it’s not important. We’re only children, after all. I hate it.

My heart is pounding as I walk down to her house. I don’t want another fight.

Sarah’s looking out of her bedroom window. She sees me. I freeze. She runs downstairs and opens the door to me.

“Hey.” She half-smiles.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

She nods. “Me too.” She hugs me tightly. “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have been such a bitch to you.”

“It’s OK. You weren’t. I was just – being me. Being horrible.”

“You’re not, you’re not!”

We head up to her room. “I heard about your fight with Shane,” I say quietly.

“Ah, yes.
That
was fun,” she mutters sarcastically.

“What happened, exactly?”

“He was flirting with Caroline. I got annoyed. He said I was over-reacting, and that
really
pissed me off, since he gets unbelievably jealous if I so much as
look
at another guy.”

“It’s pretty unreasonable,” I agree.

“And then he left, and I left, and that was that. I haven’t talked to him since.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know. I want to, but I’m still really angry with him.” She sighs. “Anyway. Did you hear about what Roisín said to Fiona?”

“Yeah, Roisín told me this morning.”

“This morning? Where’d you see her?”

“Oh, a few of us stayed the night at Emily’s.”

“Ah. I see.” She pauses. “So, you seem to be getting pretty close to Emily . . .”

“Oh, you noticed that too?” I grin.

She laughs. “Got anything you want to tell me, Abi?”

“We’re friends. That’s it,” I shrug.

“That’s not what the guys were saying,” she grins. “I think you two made their night. What
is
it with guys and their obsession with seeing two girls together?”

“I think it’s more that they want to join in,” I surmise.

She laughs. Everything’s back to normal, we’re friends again, and all is as it should be.

Sarah and I spend the afternoon discussing other people’s love lives. We return to the subject of Fiona and Hugh.

“I know she liked him, but I still can’t believe the fact that she went after someone else’s boyfriend.” Sarah frowns.

“In fairness, though, he made it really obvious he was interested in her,” I point out.

“True,” she nods. “They’re both to blame, I guess. Still – it’s really not like Fiona to do something like this.”

“I guess you never really know some people,” I say.

“The words ‘pot’, ‘kettle’ and ‘black’ come to mind,” she says pointedly.

“There’s not much to know about me,” I tell her. “You know all the important things.”

She seems doubtful. “Can I read some of your poems sometime?”

“What?”

“Please?”

“If you really want to . . . but they’re horribly, horribly self-indulgent. They’re awful.”

“Pleeeease?” she begs.

“OK,” I smile.

“Yay. Thank you.”

“But you’re going to be sorry . . .” I warn her.

She rolls her eyes. “Stop putting yourself down.”

“It’s an addiction.”

“So get help.”

“I don’t think there is any.”

“Sure there is. You’ve got me, for a start, haven’t you?” She grins.

Yeah. I guess I do.

As promised, I’m home for dinner. While we eat I’m thinking about Shane. I’m still a little attracted to him, still mildly infatuated with him. Even though I think he acted like an asshole towards Sarah, I still like him.

But only a little. I can deal with it. I can fantasise about him but not be crazily madly passionately in love with him. It’s a good way to be, I guess, and yet oddly unfulfilling. I miss the craziness, even if it hurts.

“I hate fish,” Jess complains. “Why do we have to eat it?”

“It’s Good Friday,” my mom reminds her.

“So?” she moans. “I don’t care.”

“Eat your dinner. It’s good for you.”

“You’re not making us go to Mass on Sunday, are you?”

One look from Mom tells her that yes, yes she
is
making us go.

Jess whines. Greg joins in. I leave the table and go watch
The Simpsons
and wonder what poems to let Sarah read.

I don’t see Sarah until after the weekend. She comes over on Tuesday and we rent out videos and munch on popcorn.

“Shane and I talked,” she says.

“And?”

“And we made up.” She beams. She’s so happy. It hurts a little, but it’s OK. I can handle it.

I go into the kitchen to get more Coke. The knives look so tempting. I pick one up. I’m not sad or angry or depressed – I’m OK, and still I pick one up. Habit, I guess.

The door begins to open and I put it back quickly.

I think about it that night. Is it just a matter of picking up a bad habit and not being able to stop? Would I have used it if I hadn’t been interrupted or would I have put it back anyway?

Do I perhaps think too much about this little occupation of mine and blow it out of all proportions? Maybe.

I curl up with a book that night and stay up until two reading. I haven’t done that in ages. My childhood solace, and I’ve been neglecting it, abandoning it for parties and moping. There’s something so delightfully comforting about being wrapped up in a duvet with your eyes glued to the page of an interesting book. It feels safe.

There is a razor blade in the drawer beside my bed, and I don’t touch it once all night. It’s a start.