Karen is the Devil and I think it is OK to fight the Devil.
Ella got annoyed about my whole insistence that Karen is the Devil because she does not believe in the Devil, and even if she did she would not think Karen is he or she. It is a bit implausible. But we did both agree that Karen is a nasty piece of work. (That is what Mary, Ella’s mum, calls people who are mean.)
I know by the way Joel’s been acting recently (shaving regularly even though he doesn’t need to, buying those stupid little weights) that he would really like to meet someone special. I know he would. He sings along with sappy love songs on the radio as if he means them and I think he daydreams just as much as I do. He just hasn’t told me about who yet. And I know the reason why and he knows I know, so I don’t understand what the big deal is with saying it out loud.
Anyway, that is up to him and is also none of my business. Except I want him to be happy, so it kind of is. I mean, there is nothing wrong with being attracted to boys instead of girls. And I know he thinks there’ll be all this drama and whatnot if he actually admits it to people but I really don’t think there will be. And if there is, it’ll totally pass because anyone who knows Joel loves him to bits. He is all warm and funny and strong and likeable and people are just drawn to him, like moths to a lovely, friendly, not-going-to-burn-you flame.
I wish that there was something I could do to make it easier. I think that the stuff he went through in his last school really dented his confidence, even though to look at him you wouldn’t know it. He had to move from St John of God’s to my school because he was being bullied there. He still won’t call it ‘bullying’ either. I think that he thinks that in some way he deserved it or brought it on himself or something. And that breaks my heart.
MERCURIAL: Changeable, unpredictable. Like how sometimes sour cola bottles are my absolute favourite type of sweet, but at others only the delicious small fried eggs will assuage my sweet hunger. Also, how sometimes I love Ciara to bits but other times I’m all eye-rolly and ‘for God’s sake’ at her. I am pretty mercurial. I would like to be less so.
ACKNOWLEDGE: Admit or accept that something is the case, or that you know something or someone. Like if Joel came into the room and was all ‘Howya?’ I would acknowledge him with either a theatrical wink, indicating that I was in flying form or a surly ‘Grand’, indicating that things could be better but I did not want to talk about it.
MELANCHOLY: Like sadness, only prettier.
SCANDALISED: Shocked! Appalled! Outraged! Taken aback! Probably by some form of scandalous behaviour. Like hardcore parent-on-parent neck-kissing action.
MR CAT: Ella’s cat, which we got from a shelter last year. He is a very grumpy individual but has been known to show affection when there is some sort of food-like treat involved. He has very long whiskers and a sort of cat-version of a beard, where the fur on his chin is longer than the fur on the rest of his head. It looks very dignified indeed. Sometimes Mr Cat has been known to be dressed in teeny tiny women’s clothes. This usually results in glowering of the highest order.
A WEEK LONG AGO (1, 8)
Last night Dad was a bit weird and distant and stuff. Then this morning he sat me down and said he had something to tell me. I swear to God, I thought he had cancer or something, from the tone of his voice, and I was almost physically shaking because I can’t go through what happened with Mum again, only a lot slower and without any spare parent to fall back on. I literally do not know what would happen to me if Dad were to get sick. But it kind of surprised me that that was the first thing that came to mind, because I hadn’t really worried about it up till now.
Anyway, what he had to tell me was less life-shatteringly dreadful, but still seems so terribly, terribly unfair. Brian McAllister has been released from prison, less than a year and a half after he got sentenced to three years for killing my mother with his car while he was drunk.
IRREVERSIBLY: Unchangeably. If something is irreversible, it can’t be undone or righted. You just have to cope with it.
I don’t know how to feel about that. I mean, initially I was relieved that Dad wasn’t sick, but then the suckiness of it all sank in. I mean, the reason Dad found out is that he (Brian McA) applied for a job at Dad’s friend’s firm. It wasn’t like the police rang us up and told us or anything.
You’d think they would have done. You’d think there’d be a law where they would have to. I mean, he took my mother’s life. His actions changed my life irreversibly. And there he is, applying for jobs, like he was a normal person. Like he deserves a job. There are plenty of people who haven’t killed anyone looking for work at the moment, without letting him loose with a CV and a motorcar. I don’t think he is allowed to drive for a long time, though. But who knows? I mean, he was supposed to be in prison.
My head is going in so many circles. I can’t concentrate on anything. I just keep falling back into this chicken–eggy loop of crime and punishment and what is and isn’t fair.
I am worried about school tomorrow. Dad says I have to go because it is not like Brian McAllister will be there or anything. Which is true, but in a sense he will be. Because he is out in the world and so am I. We could, like, bump into each other in town.
I wonder would he recognise my face? I think I’d know him, but I amn’t sure: I didn’t exactly spend the day of the hearing glaring at him and memorising his features.
Dad was wondering whether or not to tell me, and he decided it was better that I find out from him than some other way, like the aforementioned hypothetical town-bumping. That is the thing with prison sentences: unless you have done something very bold indeed, you can get out earlier than you are supposed to ‘on good behaviour’. No matter that a thirty-two-year-old woman is dead because of you. Agh. It makes me really frustrated.
HYPOTHETICAL: Theoretical, imaginary. Good for playing out scenarios in your head. I once asked Ciara, ‘What would you do if Syzmon cheated on you?’ and she replied, without a flicker of emotion, ‘Then I would kill him.’ I am pretty sure she was joking, but I am very glad that the scenario was a hypothetical one. Although, if it came to it, I would probably give her an alibi. I like Ciara a lot.
AN UNBIASED OUTSIDER: Someone who has nothing to do with the situation and would therefore think about it objectively. Kind of like ‘a reasonable man’ or ‘a normal person’. It is hard to think like one of these when you are not actually one.
But then I remove myself from the situation and try to look at it as if I were an unbiased outsider. And I do believe that people should be forgiven and reintegrated back into society and things, I don’t want him dead or anything but still… it’s just really, really hard to accept.
I am lying on my bed with Roderick snuggling his head into the crook of my armpit and I don’t know what to do. The world is so big and people are so stupid and I am so utterly, utterly powerless. I wish Dad hadn’t told me. But I’m glad he did. I don’t think he would have this time last year. And this time two years ago, Mum would have been alive, so it wouldn’t have been an issue.
We talked about it, Dad and I, for a while, but not too long because, even though my brain is overactive, there is not really all that much to say before you start repeating yourself. Angrily, and with hand gestures. Which never really solves anything. Thinking and moping are the best course of action for me now, I think. And I do those best alone, except for my Roderick, who provides an ear and the warmth of a tiny hot-water bottle. He loves me unconditionally, like Mum did. Well, I suppose the only condition being that I don’t, like, step on him or anything. Mum wouldn’t have liked being stepped on either, except in some sort of weird yoga/massage context.
I wonder what she would have made of all this? I often find myself wondering that, but I can’t really give myself a definite answer that isn’t based on guesswork mixed with what I would want her to think. I mean, she isn’t here, so I’ll never really one-hundred-per-cent know how she would have reacted, whether she would have loved my hair or thought I was
too young for it or something.
If Brian McAllister had only injured her, if she had had to go through almost two years of physio only to see him out on the streets again before she could even walk properly, before she could earn a living or whatever, would she have been angry? Because no matter how injured you are, it is almost always better than being dead, than not being anything at all any more.
I think she would have been angry. I think she would be so, so very angry if she knew that he was out walking the streets like it was over. Like her death was over. But it isn’t. She will never not be dead and I hate this. I hate it so much. It makes me angry in a way I don’t like. A sad, destructive, hating kind of anger is what it is and I am powerless in all of this and it’s not even a small bit fair.
I wish I had more of a life, something to take my mind off all of this stuff that I can’t control. I always feel like other people are more interesting than me, even though they can’t ALL be. Or maybe they can?
I am just feeling that the world is a very unfair place right now. I mean, how can people do things like that and just get away with it? Not completely, know, there is the guilt and stuff, but I don’t think his guilt is going to be even one fraction of what I feel every day. I am still not used to not having a mum. And sometimes when I go a whole day without missing her or wishing she was here, I will get this huge wave of guilt about it, like my being happy when she’s dead is a slap in the face to her or something.
I don’t really talk about it, not since I stopped going to therapy. The group thing was fine but it didn’t really make much of a difference to me one way or another. I think that if I’m going to be sad about something, I’m going to be sad about it, and there’s not much that talking it out with a group of other sad people and one happy leader-type can do to change it.
I’m mostly OK, though. I think I’m coping well. Suppressing the urge to find out where B McA lives and burn it to the ground, but mostly OK.
I don’t know if I want to be a cruciverbalist any more. Maybe I will be a vigilante instead. Or just someone with really good hair.
VIGILANTE: Basically a citizen who takes it upon himself or herself to uphold the law without being a part of state-sanctioned law enforcement. Like Batman, these people are generally a little bit mental. Unlike Batman, these people are generally not awesome and are rarely playboy millionaires by day.
A SENNIGHT
Ella went a bit funny today. Maugie’s (her SNA’s) hours have been cut this year — she’s only with Ella for mornings now — and so she was all by herself, which kind of unsettles her.
She kept tapping and muttering and couldn’t stop, even when Ms Smith gave out to her. Teachers rarely give out to Ella because it’s kind of harder for her than it is for the rest of us. I don’t know why Ms Smith was so snappy with her; it was really stupid and unproductive.
I offered to take Ella out for a breath of fresh air, because sometimes Maugie does that and it’s not like being in class was doing her any good, but Ms Smith accused me of skiving off. As if. I never skive. (That isn’t exactly true. I rarely skive. But I wouldn’t use Ella as some sort of skiving aide. It wouldn’t be fair: she’s my friend, even if she can be a bit baffling at times.)
To be honest, I felt a bit muttery today myself. My muttering would have been a good deal swearier than Ella’s, though. I am still kind of het up about the whole my-mother’s-killer-being-out-on-the-streets thing. The same streets that people who haven’t killed anyone can walk on. I couldn’t switch my brain off. It just kept at me all day, like an alarm clock with no snooze button.
And I know this is going to sound really stupid and whatnot, but I was kind of jealous of Ella today, because she can get away with stuff that I can’t, and people feel sorry for her when she’s all het up, instead of calling her a grumpus.
Ciara called me a grumpus eight times today. She obviously heard the word somewhere over the weekend and was looking for an excuse to use it. Joel told me that I had a face like a smacked bottom, which was more hurtful, and also not true at all. I do not have round pink cheeks. When I pointed that out, he called me a grumpus and high-fived Ciara enthusiastically. I hate the two of them. They would turn even the nicest, cheeriest person into a grumpus. Which, as I pointed out to Ciara about seven times, is NOT EVEN A WORD.
Of course, I was shooting myself in the foot there. Because being pedantic about what is and is not a word is exactly the kind of thing a grumpus would do.
Also of course, they were both lovely to Ella. Which I don’t resent or anything; I’m not completely self-centred. I mean, they probably would have been lovely to me as well if I’d told them about the whole Brian McAllister thing. I kind of don’t know why I didn’t tell them. Maybe because that would make it all more real? Or maybe I didn’t want it turned into drama, which it kind of is already. I mean, my feelings about the whole thing are pretty dramatic, but you know the way once you mention a thing in school suddenly everyone knows and it’s all this major gossip? I really didn’t want that. If there is to be major gossip about me, I want it to be because I have successfully stolen Mac from Dolphin Laura and we are engaged to be teenage-married. Not for stupid hurtful reasons that I don’t like talking or thinking or hearing about.
After school, Ella wanted to be by herself. She was really frustrated and just went into her room with Mr Cat. I did my homework in the kitchen. I took a break halfway through to help Mary peel potatoes. When her back was turned my hand slipped and I sliced off a couple of layers of thumb-skin. There was a fair amount of blood on the peelings but none on the actual potatoes. Mary put disinfectant and a bandage on my thumb. The bandage had Winnie the Pooh on it for some reason. It must have been quite old — Felix and Ella are kind of past the Winnie the Pooh stage. Also, Ella hates Winnie the Pooh, because his name is disgusting to her.
I’m not sure if my hand slipping was on purpose or not. Is that weird? I was kind of thinking about what would happen if the peeler sliced my thumb and then before I knew it, it was happening. I was letting it happen, and it’s like nothing else counts when you are concentrating on that, which can sometimes be kind of a relief, if you see what I mean?
Of course, now my thumb hurts like nobody’s business and I still have geography, French and science to finish off.
Also Roderick finds my thumb bandage mysteriously delicious. He keeps on licking it and trying to eat around the edges. He is doing himself no favours by conforming to the rats-liking-to-nibble-disgusting-things stereotype. Next thing I know, he’ll be spreading plague in the fourteenth century. I’m tired. I might just leave it. What is the worst that could happen?
ROUNDED SWELLINGS SOUNDING SAUCY (6)
When I didn’t do my homework I forgot one thing: how much I hate being picked on by teachers. I kind of like sailing along, being one of the clever ones, only ever getting negative attention for messing with my friends. And last night it seemed like it would be OK. That I would just put up with it and that the extra hour of bad television and listening to Dad grumbling about his un-ironed shirts (our cleaning lady is on holidays) would be worth the nagging.
I actually even ironed four of his shirts and three of his trousers. He pretends that he isn’t able to do it, but he is well able. He just doesn’t like it. It is kind of the same way I feel about mopping floors. God, I hate mopping floors. I’m glad I never have to do that in this house, although I do sometimes help Anne or Mary out with it the odd time. Mum hated it too. (You see -1 get that from her.) So we’d always argue over whose turn it was to do it.
Anyway, when I waltzed in to school this morning after my extremely wonderful night of hardcore ironing fun-time, I got this weird feeling in my stomach, you know the muffin bit that pokes out when your jeans get too small for you? That exact bit of my stomach was full of a tension heaviness that seemed to whisper to me ‘Primrose …’
‘What, very specific section of my stomach?’
‘Primrose …’
‘Stop being myst
erious and tell me what you want.’
‘You don’t have to go to school today, Primrose.’
‘Stop saying my name, belly-part. And don’t be ridiculous, of course I have to go to school today. I’m wearing my uniform and everything.’
‘You have maths first class and you haven’t done your homework.’
‘Fair point. But I should still probably go in.’
‘It is a sunny morning, you have half a Kit-Kat and a paperback about murderous monks in your school-bag.’
‘I’m listening …’
And listen I did, until I found that my stomach had convinced me to take the morning off. I snuggled up beside a particularly mossy tombstone in the graveyard near our school, munching and reading away as if I had not a care in the world. It was only marvellous. Not that I’ll be doing it all the time, mind. But once in a while couldn’t hurt much. It put me in a good mood for the day, actually.
And I didn’t tell anyone that I hadn’t had a dentist’s appointment. Even Joel. It is good to have some secrets because it makes you feel powerful, like not everyone knows all there is to know about you.
Ciara was in a bad mood today. It is like we are all taking turns. It is not easy living with Lily. She is very set in her ways and makes Ciara say the rosary with her every night. And not just a decade of the rosary. The entire thing from start to finish. Ciara is getting increasingly frustrated with it, but she can’t exactly back out because no one else is going to do it. Her mum doesn’t have the patience and her dad is always working. It is enough to make her want to eat her own hair again, like she used to do in primary school. I can tell because her nails are all picked and bitten down.
ROSARY: Basically a whole lot of prayers that you say using beads. You have to do one prayer for every bead and repeat as required, depending on how much you want to get into heaven.
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