The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (34 page)

Bree lifted her blanket up and peeked at her leg again. She was already dreading the day the bandage would come off, and what her leg would look like underneath.

“Okay…” she said quietly. “The video, you can tell them about the video. That's enough reason for now.”

“I'll tell them for you.” And there was sympathy in his eyes again. The video – that awful video – it would make anyone feel sorry for her. Well, anyone who wasn't a student at Queen's Hall. “You'll need a few follow-up appointments, I'm afraid. I'll chat to your parents about setting up some talking therapy sessions for you. Unfortunately, it will take a few weeks for the referral to come through.”

“What? I have to go to therapy? But I've told you everything!”

“Bree, stop arguing, please. Telling is just the beginning of what you need. Remember why you're here. Remember what you've just promised. I'll go bring your parents in.”

He pushed through the curtains and Bree heard him start talking to them in a quiet calming tone.

Bree was scared about seeing them. She rearranged herself in the bed multiple times. First she sat up with a fake beaming smile. Then she experimented with slumping low, her head lolling on the pillow. She wasn't sure what they wanted to see. Just as she was readjusting once more, the curtains flung open and Bree's mum hurtled onto the bed.

“Oh Bree, my darling.” And she clutched at the blanket and sobbed.

Bree's father strode in nervously, sat on the chair, and looked at everything other than Bree.

“Bree, why didn't you tell me? I could've helped you, stopped you…oh God…I thought you were going to die.” She was off again, tears making blotchy marks all over Bree's scratchy blanket.

“Muuuuuuum,” Bree tapped her back awkwardly. “It's okay. Stop crying.”

Mum answered with fresh tears. Bree and her dad exchanged a look, though he still didn't say anything.

“Mum, I'm okay. Please calm down, come on, this isn't like you.”

Her mum hiccupped then sat up. She appeared to get a grip on herself and wiped the make-up rivers away from under her eyes. “Sorry…I'm just in shock, that's all. I never expected…”

“For your daughter to be so messed up?”

She grabbed her hand. “Oh, sweetie. You're not messed up. You're wonderful. We're going to get you help.”

“Mum, I don't want help. I'm okay.”

“Honey, you're in hospital. Because of what you did to yourself. You need help.”

Bree pouted and looked back down at the blanket. “Sorry.”

“Sorry for what? You don't have to apologize. I'm just glad you're alright, that's all.”

“No. It's not that.” She could hardly bring herself to say the next words, but talking earlier to the doctor had helped. Maybe now was the time to start being more open. “I'm sorry for not being the daughter you thought I'd become. All together and pretty and popular. I'm still just a loser mess, like always.”

Her mum's grip tightened on the blanket. As Bree peeked out from beneath her hair, she saw Mum's mouth drop open.

“You don't honestly think I care about all that, do you? I love you just the way you are.”

“No you don't.” Bree's voice was shaking. “You're just like everyone else. You didn't care about me when I had pink hair and ugly clothes and was a massive loser. You were ashamed of me. And then I got all pretty and popular and suddenly you couldn't get enough of me. Well, sorry I'm such a disappointment, but this is how I am.”

She was met with silence.

“Bree. Look at me. That's not how it is.”

Bree wouldn't look at her. “That's what it feels like.”

Her mum grabbed her chin and pulled it up. “I've always cared about you, Bree. I've always loved you. But, these past few months, you've finally let me care for you. You've finally let me love you. It's not to do with your hair or your clothes or your workout sessions or who you hang round with at school – that's not why we've got close. We've got close because, for once, you've let me in, Bree. And I jumped on it – it's the first chance you've given me since adolescence, I think…” She trailed off.

Bree did a long hard think. “Is that true?”

“Of course it is. You're my daughter, I love you.”

“But I'm a loser. I'm nobody.”

Then her mum hugged her so hard her ribs hurt. Bree's dad watched on, still silent.

“No you're not. You're smart and pretty and kind and wonderful and so much better than you've ever given yourself credit for. So people don't get you at school – so what? So you're not popular and you're a bit bitter about it – so what? None of it really matters, honey, as long as you love yourself.”

Bree thought about school and instantly felt sick.

“I can't go back, Mum, don't make me. The doctor must've told you what happened…” She went bright red. Oh, the humiliation. Every time she remembered the video clip, it was like being doused in an icy cold shower of fresh humiliation. And her parents knew about it now – that she'd had sex. The embarrassment churned through her stomach. “…He…he filmed it.”

There was nothing her mum could say. The pity in her eyes was excruciating to see.

Mum hugged Bree tight. “Don't worry, love, you don't have to go back there. It's okay.”

“Really, you promise? Dad?”

It was then that her father finally spoke. “Bree, you will go back.”

Bree and her mother sprang apart and stared at him.

“You can't run away from your problems.”

Bree was too stunned to talk.

“You heard what happened. How can we let Bree go back there?” Her mother stood up.

“It's exactly why she should go back there.” He stood up too, his chair making a horrible shrill screeching sound on the hospital floor as he pushed it back. “Bree, I can just about handle a psychiatrist telling me he's not going to section you after all. I can maybe learn to deal with the memory of taking tonight's phone call from your mother. All this I can handle. But what I won't tolerate is my daughter, my only daughter, letting herself be a victim. Letting herself get kicked down the stairs by people who are not half the person she is. I won't take it. I know I'm not around very much because of work, and I'm sorry I've not been there, but I'm here now and I'm telling you this. We didn't raise you to be like this. We raised a fighter. Now where is she?”

Silence was the most appropriate response to that.

Her dad, taken aback by his own dramatic outburst, sat back down, looking exhausted. A hint that he cared, that he was worried.

Bree did another long hard think.

So much had changed. Her looks, her life, her love. And, yes, it had ultimately made her that bit more interesting, but she'd paid quite a price for it. Along the way she'd lost her ethics, her morals, her virginity, her dignity, her old best friend, her new best friend.

All those weren't a tragedy, not completely. Let's face it, most people lose all of the above at some point.

But the one thing she had lost, and that she really missed – though she hadn't realized it until now – was not caring what people thought. She didn't used to give a holy crap. And
that
was power.

Her mother, worried by her silence, jumped to her defence. “Don't be so unsupportive. Let's look at good schools she can transfer to. Or how about home schooling? I'm not letting her go back there.”

Bree cut her off. “Dad?”

“Yes, honey?”

It was the first time he'd ever used a term of endearment.

“How do you propose we fight this?”

The exhaustion left his face, and an energy fired up behind his eyes. For the first time, she saw him for the powerful man he was, rather than the knackered mess they saw at home.

He smiled.

“Well, there's a reason you and your mother never see me. It's because I'm a lawyer. And I know lots of those evil lawyers that everyone hates…”

And so it came to be that Bree and her family managed to get on for a while. She was discharged the next day, with a change of bandages and some stern words from Dr Thomas.

“Don't get all cocky now, thinking you're all better just because you and your family had a chinwag. There's still lots you've not told them. And I still want to book you in to talk to someone.”

“I talked to you, didn't I? Didn't that cure me? And are doctors allowed to say the word ‘cocky'?”

“See, you're being cocky. Life's tough, Bree. I think you need to work on your coping mechanisms.”

She made a face. “Maybe Santa will give me some for Christmas?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not that easy, sorry. Coping mechanisms take a bit of work… I'll be ringing in the New Year.”

When she wasn't thinking about Logan, or Hugo, or Jassmine, or Holdo – or anything else resembling her life for the past couple of months – Bree, at first, was surprisingly chirpy in the lead-up to Christmas. Being a social outcast gave her more time to do all her favourite things. Like reading
Ulysses
(by James Joyce) and pretending she understood it. Writing emotional poetry about what her feet looked like in the bath. Revising for her exams that weren't for another two months. And watching reality television for the sole purpose of tutting at it (but secretly loving it).

They stayed in their unexpected version of happy families through the entire festive period. Dr Thomas gave Bree's dad some stern advice to be around more and so he took Christmas Eve off and took them up to London for a posh meal, before whisking them off to Selfridges for some last-minute shopping. He let them each pick something and Bree chose a key necklace, the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. She promised herself she'd wear it whenever she needed strength. They got home in the early hours of Christmas morning and watched
It's A Wonderful Life
until silly o'clock.

The next day the mass effort of “being happy together” continued. They wore Christmassy jumpers and oooed and aahed over each other's gifts. Bree's dad even bought something called a “Tofu Turkey” with a meat-free wishbone and everything.

Unfortunately the fake turkey tasted of sawdust, and her dad complained so much that her mum drove to the 24-hour petrol station to buy him some bacon. The day ended with her mum drinking too much brandy and snoring lightly on the sofa, while Bree and her dad discussed the upcoming legal proceedings against Hugo. It was a bit of a sour end to a nice few days and the bitter taste was still there when she woke up on Boxing Day.

Bree's dad went back to work (“But I'll be home by seven, I promise”). Her mum began stressing about her Christmas calorie consumption and wouldn't shut up about detox juicing. Days and days of utter loneliness spread out before her.

A few days after Christmas, a letter was left in their postbox.

It was typed and hand-delivered. Logan obviously didn't trust her not to blab. Her hands trembled as she read it, and she sank down onto her bedroom carpet.

Bree

I don't know where to start.

I am so sorry. I am so sorry for what I have done to you. You are just a child and I am sorry.

I'm leaving Queen's Hall so you won't see me again. I am sure you'll be glad about that after how I treated you. You made me feel young again, Bree. In a good way. You were the dream I never had when I was your age, and I was selfish and cruel to act on my impulses. You also made me act like I was your age, which is the only explanation I can offer for my behaviour on the last day of term.

You are not like anyone I've ever met before. There is something there, Bree, something very special that, with time, you'll see more of yourself. And someone worthy of loving you will see it too.

I'm moving to a school in a bad area of inner city London. The pay is worse, the kids are definitely going to be worse, but I have to stop kidding myself that helping rich teenagers get into Oxford is making a difference.

My wife and I are working on keeping things together. I would appreciate it if you didn't try and contact me in the future.

Again, I am so sorry.

Yours,

Logan.

There were so many potential reactions to such a dung heap of a letter.

Bree could've laid on the carpet and cried until nothing was left. She could've ripped the letter up and burned the pieces. She could've taken it to her mum and told her everything, and built on their new foundations of “sharing”.

All Bree really wanted to do was let out every emotion using a sharp instrument.

She reread Logan's writing over and over, a sadness building in her guts and breeding through her intestines. Rejection. Rejection from an utter gobshite, but still more rejection. She slowly walked with it over to her bookshelf and carefully stabbed the letter onto the clogged nail.

The urge to go to her en suite was overwhelming. Even though her parents had removed everything sharp (thinking she wouldn't notice) she was sure she could fashion something. But Bree remembered what she'd promised the doctor.

She went to the dresser and put on her key necklace and made her way quietly to the kitchen. She pressed a pint glass calmly against the ice machine and listened to the loud clatter of it being filled. Then Bree returned to her room, locked herself in the bathroom and, one by one, clenched the cubes of ice in her hands until they each melted.

Just like they'd told her to do.

The pain from the ice wasn't quite the same but it did hurt. In a different way. She clenched until her hands were so numb she couldn't pick up any more cubes.

It wasn't quite enough.

So Bree told her mum she was going for a walk, wrapped herself up in all sorts of woollen things and walked from her house to the nearest park. Then, from the nearest park, she walked into town. Then, from town, she walked to the next town. Then to the next park. She walked until her face was red raw from cold and her legs felt like they were molten iron being whacked by a blacksmith. On the return journey, at some points, she wasn't sure if she had enough energy to get home. But she carried on walking, her feet crunching over frosted grass, her breath heavy and even.