by Alice Oseman
What a dumb question.
“Er, yeah,” I say. “I assume you are too.”
“Yes, yeah. Who are you dressing up as?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He nods as if what I’ve said actually means something.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll look good,” he says, and then quickly adds, “Because, you know, when we were little, you were really into dressing up and stuff.”
I don’t remember ever dressing up as anything except a Jedi. I shrug at Lucas. “I’ll find something.”
And then he just turns bright red, like he does, and sits there watching me attempt to read for some time. So awkward. Jesus Christ. Eventually he gets out his phone and starts texting, and when he goes off to talk to Evelyn, I get to wondering why he is always hovering around like some ghost who doesn’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want to talk to him, really. I mean, I thought that it’d be nice to try and rekindle this friendship, but it’s too hard. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
Of course, I tell Charlie everything when we get home. He does not know what to say about Solitaire’s mysterious message. Instead, he tells me I should stop talking to Michael so much. I am not sure what I think about that. At dinner, Dad asks, “How’d it go this morning?”
“We didn’t find anything,” I say. Another lie. I must be borderline pathological.
Dad starts talking about another book that he’s going to lend me. He’s always lending me books. Dad went to university when he was thirty-two and did an English literature degree. He now works in IT. Nevertheless, he is always hoping that I’ll turn out to be some magnanimous thinker who has read a lot of Chekhov and James Joyce. Coming out as a book hater to my dad is comparable to coming out as gay to homophobic parents. I’ve never been able to tell him, and he’s lent me so many books now that it’s just too late to repair the damage.
Anyway, this time it’s Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. I nod and smile and try to sound a little interested, but it probably isn’t at all convincing.
Charlie quickly changes the subject by telling us about some film he and Nick watched over the weekend, An Education, which from Charlie’s description sounds like a total mockery and patronization of teenage girls worldwide. Oliver then tells us about his new toy tractor and why it is so much more majestic than all his other toy tractors. To Mum and Dad’s delight, we finish dinner within one hour, which must be a new record.
“Well done, Charlie! Great job!” says Dad, slapping him on the back, but Charlie just winces away from him. Mum nods and smiles, which is about as expressive as she gets. It’s like Charlie’s won the Nobel Prize. He escapes the kitchen without saying a word and comes to watch The Big Bang Theory with me. It’s not a very funny program, but I still seem to watch at least one episode every single day.
“Who would I be,” I ask at some point, “if I were any of the Big Bang Theory characters?”
“Sheldon,” says Charlie, without hesitation. “But, like, not as loud about your views.”
I turn my head toward him. “Wow. I’m offended.”
Charlie snorts. “He’s the only reason this show is any good, Victoria.”
I think about this, and then nod. “That’s probably true.”
Charlie lays still on the sofa, and I watch him for a minute. His eyes are sort of glazed, like he’s not really watching the TV, and he’s fiddling with his shirtsleeves. Charlie always wears long-sleeved shirts these days.
“Who would I be?” he asks.
I stroke my chin thoughtfully before declaring, “Howard. Definitely. Because you’re always chatting up the ladies—”
Charlie chucks a cushion at me from the sofa. I scream and cower in the corner before hurling a barrage of cushions back at him.
Tonight I watch the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice and find it to be almost as dreadful as the book. The only tolerable character is Mr. Darcy. I don’t see why Elizabeth finds him proud at the beginning, because it’s quite clearly obvious that he’s just shy. Any normal human being should be able to identify that as shyness and feel sorry for the poor guy because he’s dreadful at parties and social gatherings. It’s not really his fault. It’s just the way he is.
I blog some more and lie awake listening to the rain and forget what the time is and forget to change into my pajamas. I add Metamorphosis to the pile of unread books. I put The Breakfast Club on but I’m not really watching, so I skip to the best part, the part where they’re all sitting in a circle and they reveal those deep and personal things and they cry and all that. I watch that scene three times and then turn it off. I listen for the giant/demon but it’s more of a rumbling tonight, a deep growling rumble like a drum. In the swirly wallpaper of my room, stooped yellow figures creep back and forth and back and forth until I’m hypnotized. In my bed someone has placed an enormous glass cage on top of me and the air is slowly stewing sour. In my dreams I’m running around in circles atop a cliff, but there’s a boy in a red hat catching me every time I try to jump off.
ELEVEN
“I’M NOT JOKING, Tori. This is an extremely serious decision.”
I look Becky squarely in the eye. “Oh, I know. This could determine the whole future of human existence.”
We are in her bedroom. It’s 4:12 p.m., Friday. I’m cross-legged on her double bed. Everything in here is pink and black, and if this room were a person, it would be a Kardashian on a moderate income. There is a poster of Edward Cullen and Bella Swan on the wall. Every time I see it I want to put it through a shredder.
“No, seriously though, I’m not even joking.” She holds up the costumes again, one in each hand. “Tinker Bell or Hermione?”
I stare at each. They’re not very different, except one is green and one is gray.
“Tinker Bell,” I say. Seeing as Becky maintains her coolness and hilarity by acting like an idiot, it would be an insult to the name of Hermione Granger and J. K. Rowling and all Potterheads to allow Becky to be the brightest witch of her age.
She nods and chucks the Hermione outfit onto a steadily growing mountain of clothes. “That’s what I thought.” She starts changing. “Who are you going as again?”
I shrug, still thinking about Harry Potter. “I wasn’t going to dress up. I thought I could wear my invisibility cloak.”
Becky, in just her bra and knickers, puts her hands on her hips. I know I shouldn’t feel awkward because I’ve been her best friend for over five years. I still do, though. Since when did nudity become so normal?
“Tori. You are dressing up. It’s my fancy-dress party and I say so.”
“Fine.” I think hard, weighing my options. “I could go as . . . Snow White?”
Becky pauses as if waiting for the punch line.
I frown. “What?”
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t think I could go as Snow White.”
“No, no, you could be Snow White. If you want.”
I look at my hands. “All right. I’ll . . . er . . . think about it.” I twirl my thumbs. “I could . . . make my hair . . . all wavy. . . .”
She seems satisfied and puts on the tiny green dress with fairy wings.
“Are you going to try and talk to people tonight?” she asks.
“Is that an actual question or an order?”
“An order.”
“I make no promises.”
Becky laughs and pats me on my cheek. I hate that. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. I always do, don’t I?”
At home I put on a white shirt and a black skater skirt I bought once for some job interview I never showed up to. Then I locate my favorite black jumper and black tights. My hair is just about long enough to style into tiny plaits, and I draw on more eyeliner than usual.
Wednesday Addams. I was sort of kidding with Snow White, and I despise Disney anyway.
I leave the house around seven. Nick, Charlie, and Oliver are just sitting down to dinner. Mum and Dad are going to see a play and th
en stay at a hotel tonight. To be honest, it was Charlie and I who insisted that they stay overnight rather than take the two-hour drive home. I guess they were kind of worried about not being there for Charlie. I almost decided to stay home and not go to Becky’s party, but Charlie assured everyone that he would be fine, which I’m sure he will, because Nick’s staying round this evening. And I’m not even going to be out for very long.
It’s a dark party. The lights are dimmed, and teenagers are spilling out of the house. I pass the smokers and the social smokers who gather in rings outside. Smoking is so pointless. The only reason I can think of for smoking is if you want to die. I don’t know. Maybe they all want to die. I recognize most people from school and from Truham, and there are Year 11s through to Year 13s here, and I know for a fact that Becky doesn’t know them all personally.
A selection of Our Lot is squeezed into the conservatory, along with a few other people that I don’t know. Evelyn, scrunched into the corner of a sofa, spots me first.
“Tori!” She waves, so I wander over. Eyeing me thoughtfully, she says, “Who are you?”
“Wednesday Addams,” I say.
“Who?”
“Have you seen The Addams Family?”
“No.”
I shuffle my feet. “Oh.” Her own outfit is rather spectacular: straightened hair put up in a classy bun, insect sunglasses, and a fifties dress. “You’re Audrey Hepburn.”
Evelyn throws her arms up in the air. “THANK YOU! Someone at this party has some bloody culture!”
Lucas is here too, sitting next to a girl and a boy who have basically merged into one being. He’s wearing a beret and a rolled-sleeve stripy T-shirt with these skintight ankle-length black jeans, and he has an actual string of garlic bulbs hung around his neck. Somehow he looks both very fashionable and very ridiculous. He waves shyly at me with his beer can. “Tori! Bonjour!”
I wave back and then practically run away.
First I go to the kitchen. There are a lot of Year 11s in here, mostly girls dressed as a variety of promiscuous Disney princesses, and three boys dressed as Superman. They’re chatting excitedly about Solitaire’s pranks, apparently finding them hilarious. One girl even claims she took part in them.
Everyone seems to be talking about the Solitaire meet-up blog post—the one that Michael and I found after he broke me out of that IT classroom. Apparently, the entire town is planning to attend.
I find myself standing next to a lonely-looking girl, possibly a Year 11 but I’m not too sure, who is dressed as a very accurate David Tennant’s Doctor Who. I immediately feel a kind of connection with her, because she looks so alone.
She looks at me, and as it’s too late to pretend I haven’t been staring, I say, “Your costume is, er, really good.”
“Thank you,” she says, and I nod and walk off.
Ignoring the beers and WKDs and Bacardi Breezers, I raid Becky’s fridge for some diet lemonade. With my plastic cup in hand, I amble into the garden.
It’s a truly magnificent garden: slightly sloped with islands of rainbow flowers and a pond at the bottom, enclosed by clusters of bare willow trees. Groups are huddled all over the wooden decking and the grass, even though it’s about zero degrees Celsius. Somehow, Becky has got her hands on an actual floodlight. It’s as bright as the sun, and the groups of teenagers spill swaying shadows over the grass. I spot Becky/Tinker Bell with a different group of Year 12s. I go up to her.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the circle.
“Toriiiiiiiii!” She’s got a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream in her hand with one of those curly plastic straws in it. “Dude! Guess what! I’ve got something so amazing to tell you! It’s just so amazing! You’re going to die, it’s so, so, so amazing! You are going to die!”
I smile at her, even though she’s shaking me by the shoulders and spilling Baileys on me.
“You. Are going. To DIE.”
“Yes, yes, I’m going to die—”
“You know Ben Hope?”
Yes, I know Ben Hope, and I also know exactly what she’s about to say.
“Ben Hope asked me out,” she splutters.
“Oh,” I say, “my God!”
“I know! I, like, did not expect a thing! We were chatting earlier and he admitted he liked me; oh my God he was so cute and awkward!” And then she talks for quite a while about Ben Hope while sipping on her Baileys, and I’m smiling and nodding and definitely feeling really pleased for her.
After a while Becky starts repeating the whole story to some girl dressed as Minnie Mouse and I feel myself getting a bit bored, so I check my blog on my phone. There is a little (1) symbol, signifying I have a message:
Anonymous: Thought for the day: Why do cars always part for ambulances?
I read the message several times. It could be from anyone, I guess, though no one I know in real life knows about my blog. Stupid anons. Why do cars always part for ambulances? Because the world is not filled with assholes. That’s why.
Because the world is not filled with assholes.
As soon as I make that conclusion in my mind, Lucas finds me. He is a little bit drunk.
“I can’t work out who you are,” he says, always so embarrassed.
“I’m Wednesday Addams.”
“Aah, so cute, so cute.” He nods knowingly, but I can tell that he has no idea who Wednesday Addams is.
I look past him, out into the floodlit garden. All the people are just blurred darkness. I feel a bit sick, and this diet lemonade is giving me a nasty taste in my mouth. I want to go and pour it down the sink, but I think I’ll feel even more lost if I don’t have something to hold on to.
“Tori?”
I look at him. The garlic was a bad move. It doesn’t smell great. “Mm?”
“I asked if you were all right. You look like you’re having a midlife crisis.”
“It’s not a midlife crisis. It’s just a life crisis.”
“Pardon? I can’t hear you.”
“I’m fine. Just bored.”
He smiles at me like I’m joking, but I’m not joking. All parties are boring.
“You can go and talk to other people, you know,” I say. “I really don’t have anything interesting to say.”
“You always have interesting things to say,” he says. “You just don’t say them.”
I lie and say I need another drink, even though my cup is more than half full and I feel really sick. I get out of the garden. I am out of breath and so angry for no reason. I barge through the crowds of stupid, drunk teenagers and lock myself in the downstairs bathroom. Someone’s been sick in here—I can smell it. I look at myself in the mirror. My eyeliner has smudged, so I sort it out. Then I tear up and ruin it again and try not to start crying. I wash my hands three times and take the plaits out of my hair because they look idiotic. Someone’s banging on the door of the bathroom. I’ve been in here for ages just staring at myself in the mirror, watching my eyes tear up and dry and tear up and dry. I open the door, ready to punch them in the face, and find myself directly opposite Michael Goddamn Holden.
“Oh, thank Christ.” He races inside and without bothering to let me leave or shut the door, he lifts the toilet seat and starts to pee. “Thank. Christ. I thought I was going to have to piss in the flower bed, for Christ’s sake.”
“All right, just pee with a lady present,” I say.
He waves his hand casually.
I get out of there.
As I exit through the front door, Michael catches me up. He is dressed as Sherlock Holmes. Even the hat.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
I shrug. “It’s too hot in there.”
“It’s too cold out here.”
“Since when did you acquire a body temperature?”
“Will you ever be able to talk to me without making a sarcastic comment?”
I turn and start walking farther away, but he’s still in pursuit.
“Why are you following me?”
&nbs
p; “Because I don’t know anyone else here.”
“Don’t you have any Year 13 friends?”
“I—er—”
I stop on the pavement outside Becky’s drive.
“I think I’m going home,” I say.
“Why?” he asks. “Becky’s your friend. It’s her birthday.”
“She won’t mind,” I say. She won’t notice.
“What are you going to do at home?” he asks.
Blog. Sleep. Blog. “Nothing.”
“Why don’t we crash in a room upstairs and watch a film?”
Coming from any other person’s mouth, it would sound like he is asking me to go into a room and have sex with him, but because it is Michael who says this, I know that he is being completely serious.
I notice that the diet lemonade in my cup has gone. I can’t remember when I drank it. I want to go home but at the same time I don’t want to, because I know I won’t sleep. I’ll just lie there in my room. Michael’s hat looks really stupid. He probably borrowed that tweed jacket from a dead body.
“Fine,” I say.
TWELVE
THERE IS A line that you cross when making relationships with people. Crossing this line occurs when you transfer from knowing someone to knowing about someone, and Michael and I cross that line at Becky’s seventeenth birthday party.
We go upstairs into Becky’s room. He, of course, begins to investigate, while I drop and roll onto the bed. He passes the poster of Edward Cullen and Bella No-Expression Swan, raising a skeptical eyebrow at it. He trails along the shelf of dancing-show photographs and medals and the shelf of preteen books that have lain untouched for years, and he steps over the piles and piles of crumpled dresses and shorts and T-shirts and knickers and bras and schoolbooks and bags and miscellaneous pieces of paper until, finally, he opens a wardrobe, bypasses the shelves of folded-up clothes, and locates a small row of DVDs.
He pulls out Moulin Rouge but, seeing the look on my face, quickly replaces it. A similar thing happens when he retrieves It’s a Boy Girl Thing. After a moment more, he gasps and grabs a third DVD, leaps across the room to the flat-screen, and switches it on.
