The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (22 page)

“Really? That's pretty low.”

Bree released Jassmine and told Jessica to fetch a glass of water to dissolve the medicine into. She lay back on a cushion, her brain tired and lost…and not expecting Jassmine to lay back with her.

“Bree?” she whispered. The faint whiff of sick was on her breath, and her eyes were wide and childlike. “Have you seen Hugo?”

At the mention of his name, more emotions tumbled into her belly. “Briefly, why?”

Her wide eyes got dewy with new tears. “He's barely seen me all night. I've not even had a chance to give him his present.”

“I saw him in the dance tent, why don't you go find him?”

She shook her head stubbornly. “No. He has to come to me. That's the only way I'll know.”

“Know what?”

“That he does actually love me.”

A wave of nausea hit Bree – she felt like she was on a ferry, about to capsize in a storm.

She couldn't do this. She had to leave.

Now.

She hobbled to her feet.

“Bree? Where you going?”

“I, er, I don't feel very well.”

“Have some of my diarrhoea medicine.”

At that moment, Jessica returned with the water.

“Here you go. Do you want to add the stuff?” Bree pushed past her, shoving the packet into Jessica's hand.

“Bree? Where you off to?”

“I don't feel well. I'm gonna go home.”

“What?” Gemma said. “Just have a lie-down. We've got Jassmine sorted now, and she's twelve times more pissed than you are.”

“No. Thanks. I just want to get home.”

And she ran out of the tent into the blackness.

As she waited for her taxi, ankle-deep in mud, Bree tried to think of things to stop the gloom spreading through her bloodstream like a lethal injection.

Reasons why losing my virginity to Hugo wasn't so terrible after all

1. He used a condom
   

   So there was no chance of producing a mini-Hugo as a lifelong reminder of what a horrible, disgusting, despicable thing she had just done. Plus there was no chance of catching some gross STI, which he no doubt had.
   

2. No sexual encounter will ever be as disappointing
   

   Which would be nice if she planned to have sex ever again, which she really didn't. If that was sex, it could go do one. It wasn't anything like she'd read or seen about sex before. Even literary books that won awards for their “realism” had the girls writhing in orgasmic bliss. What a con! She'd endured the whole experience trying not to vocalize her pain and therefore couldn't even think about having one of those orgasms everyone goes on about. From her own measly experience, orgasms were figments of women's imaginations – used as some kind of deluded fantasy to gift-wrap the fact that, when it really comes down to it, men just mount you like lions do on the Discovery Channel.
   

3. He said “That was great” afterwards, which, even though she shouldn't care, must have meant she wasn't particularly bad at sex
   

   Which, again, was futile. As she never wanted to put this “skill” to use ever again.
   

4. It's material, it's material, it's material
   

   The reason why she did it. She could write about it now. Losing your virginity is always of interest. But she wasn't sure if she could relive the last hour in her brain to put it into words. It would make it more true, more dirty, more horrid, horrid, horrid.
   

Yet, if she didn't write about it, then what? What had she done it for?

She didn't sob the whole cab ride home; she still didn't know how. Instead Bree stared out at the winter sky and felt the inky blackness fill her entirely. It sank through the windows and into her like vapour. She felt the dark grow inside her, killing off everything like a toxic gas.

Sometimes, when she got this low, she didn't want to hurt herself.

Not because she wasn't down, more the opposite. She was too down to even bother spending the time on herself.

Tonight there was only numb left.

There was no desire to do anything other than creep into her house quietly and lie flat on the bed, her eyes on the ceiling, staring indefinitely, thinking nothingness.

The next morning, after sleep finally found her, the numbness was still there. There was ice in her veins, hardening up her blood, making her arteries bulge like milk smashing its bottle when left outside in the snow. She was vaguely aware of her mum coming in, talking some nonsense about the party, asking how it was, whether she wanted to come to body combat or not. Bree just turned over in bed and stared out the window.

Her mum left.

The sun moved from one side of Bree's window to the other.

Her eyeballs filmed over from lack of blinking.

Still there was nothing but numb.

Maybe it went quickly, or maybe it dragged on for ages, but eventually the sun left and the dark sky came back.

She got up only once.

To sit at her desk and type slowly and lethargically at her computer.

Rule number three: One must have sex with other attractive people

So I'm attractive.

I'm mates with other attractive people and have been drip-feeding you all of their secrets. What's next on the list?

Why, I must have a love interest, mustn't I?

And, in the spirit of the living-the-teenage-dream cliché, who better to have “a love interest” with than the most attractive and popular member of the opposite sex? And by “love interest”, I mean “sex”. Because we can flirt and kiss all we want, but that's not what interests you, is it?

There's always one, isn't there? That special someone when you're growing up and surviving school. That one person who shines a little brighter than the other pennies.

But they're not just your special someone. They're the whole school's special someone.

We all fall for them at the same time like Lust Lemmings, catapulting ourselves in their direction, sprucing ourselves up each morning for that one chance encounter in the corridor. Everybody wants to be the person they pick, the one they choose to live a perfect couple existence with.

You've got their name in your head?

That's nice, because they probably don't know you exist. Let alone that you think about them constantly.

Well I did it. I got him.

Oh yes, I ignored romance and self-esteem and saving-yourself-for-love and all the other nonsense that you shouldn't really ignore if you can possibly help it… That special guy in my school…I just gave him my virginity.

How I wish I could tell you all the gory details – and I know this is probably the most interesting thing I've done so far – but I just can't, readers, I can't.

You'll want to know if it hurt, probably. What he said. How we did it. What positions. Was it romantic? Has it changed me as a person?

All I can say is that I've sacrificed a lot in the pursuit of being interesting, and I just took it too far.

Worse than that, I took it to a point where I can't undo it. Virginity loss isn't something you can Tippex out, or erase with a rubber and blow away the dusty bits.

And while some of you may be gagging with jealousy that I lost it to the captain of the rugby team, I can honestly say I'd be very happy to swap places.

Because here's the thing. We don't KNOW these love obsessions of ours. If you're a loser like I was, you don't chat with them, you don't spend time with them, you usually only admire them from afar. And the problem with attractive people is that you can project an attractive personality onto them.

In my case, that personality wasn't there.

I tried for you guys, and for myself, to worm some information out of him. To glean an insight into his mind, his heart, his soul. I wish I could tell you that he opened his heart up to me afterwards. That I lay my head in his lap and he told me everything about his overbearing parents, and his favourite book, and what his childhood was like, and how much pressure there is on him to be the most popular guy in school…

But he just pulled up his zipper and left.

And though that might be interesting news to you, it's kinda heartbreaking for me.

So. I'm sorry, folks, but that's it. Rule three is finished as quickly as it started.

“Bree?”

She didn't hear him.

“Bree?”

Huh?

“Bree? Are you okay?”

She could see Mr Fellows's mouth move. And yet his words were garbled and nonsensical, like she was underwater.

She half-nodded her head.

“I said, are you okay?”

Bree heard him that time. She nodded properly. Her head felt like it weighed ten tonnes. “Yes. I'm fine.”

Mr Fellows bent down so his face was level with hers.

“Seriously? Are you alright? You've barely spoken all session.”

It was Monday afternoon, after school. The big Monday after the big party and she was running the creative-writing workshop. Well, her body was. Her mind was elsewhere entirely. The truth was, no, Bree wasn't really okay at all. She'd blown Jassmine off that morning, couldn't bear the thought of seeing her. Or pretending to be a good friend. She'd sent a text saying she felt sick then skulked around school all day like a ninja, making sure nobody saw her.

Listening in on corridor conversations though, she learned that Jass had successfully fed everyone a brilliant lie that she'd had her drink spiked at Hugo's party. It was a genius cover-up for such a public spectacle – now nobody could take the piss out of her trashed behaviour. And the rumour was that Hugo and she were even more in love after he helped her through the “ordeal”.

Hugo… Bree had spent the whole of yesterday with the duvet over her face, half-smothering herself, counting to a hundred and back again, a hundred and back again, to pass time. She didn't get this dark often, thankfully, but when she did it was terrible. Worse than when she hurt herself. At least then she felt something, not just nothingness. But this was like the universe was treacle and she was stuck in it. Just moving was effort. The treacle piled on top of her head and made everything hurt and her brain turn to sludge. She'd bumped into Holdo on her way to Latin and he'd seen it in her eyes immediately. Despite the fact they never talked any more, he'd stopped her.

“Bree? Are you okay?” He went to grab her hand but stopped himself. “You look…you know.”

He'd always been so great when she got like this. No questions. No pushing her. No “snap out of it”s. Holdo would just silently put on one gruesome horror film after another and let Bree lie on his sofa, watching them sideways, until it passed.

But that was then and this was now, and so Bree just muttered “I'm fine” and pushed past him. Not able to handle the sympathy in his face. She didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve anything.

Lessons over, here she was in creative writing, a bunch of overeager Year Sevens scribbling away at an exercise she couldn't even remember giving them, and Mr Fellows's face in her face.

“Has something happened? No offence, Bree, but you look…well…not great.”

She stretched her arms up and yawned. She'd not bothered with her appearance today, just like the good old times when she was nobody and Hugo's body parts hadn't been inside her. She exhaled dramatically. “I'm…fine. Honestly. It's just…you know.”

Mr Fellows sat next to her. “No. I don't know.”

“It's just, what's the point? That's it. What's the point? In anything?”

It exhausted her just getting those words out. She closed her eyes for longer than she probably should have but it felt nice.

“Bree. Has something happened to you?”

“No. Yes. I dunno.”

She couldn't talk to him here. Not with all the kids around, trying to listen in. Could she talk to him anyway? He was a teacher. And he liked her. And he wouldn't like her if he knew what had happened. What she'd done wasn't a Bree thing to do. It would ruin his view of her – and his was the only view that really mattered.

“Why don't we chat after creative writing is finished?”

She found herself nodding.

Half an hour later, Bree sat on Mr Fellows's desk, rolling a yellow pencil back and forth.

“So are you going to tell me what's wrong?”

She rolled the pencil off the table by accident. It landed on the carpet without making a sound.

“Is this in your job spec, sir? Or am I supposed to go to the school counsellor or something?”

He sighed and rubbed his face. “A student's welfare is my business, Bree.”

“Is that all I am? A student?”

She expected him to get mad. Defensive. Like he always did when she pushed the boundaries. This time he didn't. He just moved a little closer.

“You know you're more than a student, Bree.”

The darkness lifted a little.

“You're a friend… And friends tell each other when something's up.”

She couldn't tell him. It would wreck her in his eyes. “It was just…Hugo's party.”

“What happened?” he asked. “You're worrying me.”

But she couldn't say. He wouldn't get it.

She stood up. “Just forget it.”

Bree went to leave but he grabbed her arm.

“Stop.”

She looked at where he was touching her. He didn't let go.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he almost whispered.

“Huh?”

His face looked urgent. Conspiratorial. “Tomorrow.”

“Umm, coming here. As always. Why?”

His touch on her softened but he didn't remove his hand.

“How would you feel about going on a field trip? An educational one. Just you and me?”

It was against all the rules. Logic, as always, pinged straight into her brain, listing all the reasons why this was wrong. But that's not how you live, is it? Through logic. So, like unwanted dinner guests, Bree pushed the thoughts from her brain to make room for spontaneity. And excitement.