The Manifesto on How to be Interesting

by Holly Bourne

  Oh well. Who didn’t have issues with their mother?

  Bacon sandwich demolished, Bree set out on her day’s challenge. She pulled on her duffel coat and marched out towards the high street. It was a crappy day – drizzle-tastic. The sort of day that made the pretty girls squeal and hold folders over their heads and then whinge about their hair frizzing like it was the worst thing in the world, when, somewhere, children were dying of Aids in Africa. But Bree was learning that people don’t find Africa and Aids very interesting. Not unless some celebrity – with non-frizzy hair – goes over there with a TV crew and starts blubbing for Comic Relief. Bree was trying to be more interesting. So she put Africa to the back of her mind and powerwalked to the local DVD shop.

  Change hadn’t hit their sheltered, privileged town just yet. As DVD chains closed around the country, their posh independent store continued to thrive, customers still tempted in by the decorated boxes of organic chocolate buttons and gourmet popcorn to rent the latest films.

  As she pushed through the shop doors, Bree felt kind of dirty, like she was walking into a sex shop or something. She’d been here eight million times before. She and Holdo came almost every weekend while everyone else their age got pissed at parties they would never be invited to. But Bree wasn’t going to their usual section – the corner dedicated to foreign films and independent cinema. No. She was going to a more shameful corner. One that, until today, she wouldn’t be caught dead in.

  Romantic comedies.

  She was immediately overwhelmed by the bubblegum pink colour. It was on every DVD case in some form, alongside giggling airbrushed actresses. Bree pulled one case out and flipped it over to read the blurb.

  “Give me an L, O, V and an E.”

  Angela always thought there was nothing more important than cheerleading. Until she met Kirk – star quarterback of her school’s biggest rival football team. Uh-oh. Suddenly her seemingly-perfect life is turned upside down when she has to decide between her two biggest loves. But who will win her heart? Pom-poms or the Prom King?

  “Oh Philip Larkin,” Bree whispered. “We’re not in Kansas any more.”

  Bree was almost ill with judgement. As she read the four-star review from Teen Here magazine, it practically oozed from every pore. Yet, despite the film’s lack of original storyline and any semblance of three-dimensional characters, Bree couldn’t ignore the other reviews on the case:

  Blockbuster smash.

  Cinema hit of the year.

  And she couldn’t forget overhearing girls at school raving about it in the corridors. In fact, if she remembered correctly, the film was so popular someone had started a cheerleading club. It had run for two terms.

  People liked this stuff.

  It was interesting.

  Bree grabbed the DVD case and shoved it under her armpit. She spent a good twenty minutes picking out more – reading each blurb carefully before adding it to her bulging stash. Eventually satisfied, she dumped her bundle on the cashier’s desk.

  “You having a girly sleepover?” he asked, stuffing 10 Things I Hate About You into one of the shop’s specially-designed ink-black sleeves.

  “Huh?” Bree looked around to check he was talking to her.

  He pointed to the pile. “A sleepover? Looks like you and your mates are preparing for a chick-flick fest.”

  “Umm. No. They’re just for me.”

  He gave her a My, you’re an even bigger loser than me look. “Riiiiight.”

  Bree had never been to a girly sleepover – not since puberty anyway. She’d never played truth or dare, never rung up the boy she fancied while her friends giggled manically in the background, and never swapped kissing tips. A whole teenage-girl rite of passage whirred past as the guy rang up the register.

  “They all need to be back by seven tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  chapter eight

  She exited into the drizzle and stormed home, clutching her carrier bag like it was stuffed full of stolen goods. With the films rented, she felt even more compelled to put her plan into action. She was just turning onto her long, well-manicured road when her mobile went off. She dug in her coat pocket, retrieved it, and looked at the screen.

  Holdo. Well, who else would it be?

  “Morning,” he said. “I feel like absolute hell. Was it you who put that bucket next to me? If so, thanks. I very much needed it at about three o’clock this morning.”

  Bree grinned. “I thought you might.”

  “Who knew burgundy could be so dangerous?”

  “Indeed.”

  “How’s your head?”

  As if it had overheard the question, Bree’s forehead thumped dully. “Not great. Not awful though.”

  “God, I really was wasted last night, wasn’t I? Were you? I can’t even remember you leaving.”

  Bree grimaced. His voice sounded rehearsed and she wondered if he was lying. Was this his way of bringing up the leg-grab thing (or lack of)? Did he remember? To be honest, Bree was relieved he hadn’t done anything. The thought of what could’ve happened made her feel a bit sick. And she didn’t need to have sex with Holdo any more. Not now she had her plan.

  “I don’t remember much.”

  “Oh.”

  So he did remember…awkward.

  “I just woke up this morning with my notepad stuck to my face…”

  Holdo laughed. “Night-time drunken writing?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So…” Holdo started. “What you up to today?”

  Bree looked at the carrier bag swinging alongside her, thought about lying, and decided against it. “Watching some films.”

  Holdo’s voice lit up over the phone. Could voices light up? Or was it only faces? Bree’s head hurt. She needed her duvet. And more carbs. Soon. Very soon.

  “Awesome. Hangover day of cinema. I might join you. What you watching?”

  Bree gulped.

  Er…what could she say? A wide selection of chick-flicks, all featuring girls being made over and discovering that life is sooo much better when they’re pretty and thin and beautiful and swept away by the hottest boy in school. She whispered a few of their titles, noticing they spanned several decades.

  Holdo went quiet.

  Then: “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Am I allowed to ask why?” His voice was angry; actually angry. Like Bree had just revealed she was planning to drown puppies or something.

  “I need them for a…project I’m working on. That’s all.”

  “What is this project? Lobotomy by Pop Culture 101?”

  “Holdo, come on. I’m probably the only girl alive who hasn’t watched these movies.”

  “And that’s why we’re friends.”

  Bree arrived at her house and punched in the security code. Hard.

  “Is this something to do with your book?” Holdo asked, his voice still all superior. “Are you having some kind of meltdown because it got rejected again?”

  She gritted her teeth. She wasn’t ready to tell Holdo about her idea just yet. She needed to iron out the kinks first. Bree had once read that the most successful people don’t tell others about their projects until after they’re finished. Apparently, if you boast about something you’re doing, or planning to do, people go “Oh wow, that’s amazing”. Then you get all the self-worth and congratulations too soon and have no motivation to actually get stuff done. But successful people – like, the really-made-it ones – stay quiet until it’s finished. Bree didn’t do failure, not well anyway. Therefore she was keeping quiet until she knew for sure that her plan was foolproof.

  “You gonna join me then?” She only asked because he would say no.

  Sure enough: “I’d rather go to an eighties-themed disco with pins sticking out of my eyes.”

  Bree headed up her driveway. Her dad’s BMW convertible wasn’t there. He was still at work then.

  “Suit yourself. The offer’s there.”

 
“I think I’ll work on coding my game today, and wait for your identity crisis to pass.”

  “You do that then.”

  “I will.”

  “Well, have fun.”

  “You too. If it’s possible.”

  “Oh it’s possible.”

  And Bree hung up.

  chapter nine

  The rest of the day was spent in a media-induced coma. Bree sat in bed, with her legs snuggled under the duvet and her notepad perched on her lap. She watched one film after the other after the other, obsessively making notes and adding to her list of rules, until her eyes hurt. By dinner time she had a checklist and possibly square-shaped eyeballs.

  “Dinner,” her mum called up the stairs.

  “Coming.”

  Bree turned off the screen and John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John’s flying car disappeared with a zap. She pulled on a grey hoodie and made her way down to a torturous hour of awkward conversation.

  Her parents sat in silence at one end of their huge dining table, chewing their roast beef. Bree’s dad, as always, looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his suit crumpled. Bree sat next to him and added roast potatoes and green beans to the Quorn fillet on her plate.

  They all chewed in silence and it was Bree, unusually, who broke it.

  “Mum, what are you doing tomorrow?”

  Her mum’s forkful of beef stopped on its journey to her mouth. Out of shock maybe, or suspicion that the question was somehow a joke.

  “Umm. I’m going to my body combat class in the morning.”

  “Can I come?”

  Her mum put her fork down. “Of course you can, sweetheart.”

  Bree’s dad looked from one to the other with bloodshot eyes – bewildered as to why his eating had been interrupted. They never normally spoke to each other at dinner.

  “What the hell is body combat?” he asked. “You learning how to beat people up, huh, Paula?” He snorted at his own joke, then stopped quickly, looking knackered, like his terrible attempt at humour had sapped any remaining energy out of him.

  “It’s non-contact. It’s just a cardio class. You sure you want to come, Bree?”

  Bree nodded, ignoring her dad. “And, er, I was wondering if we could go shopping or something afterwards? Maybe go to the hairdresser as well? If any are open.”

  Her mum’s mouth flopped open. “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shopping where? A bookshop or something?”

  “No, like a clothes shop. Maybe that nice place in town?”

  “You’re honestly telling me you want to go to body combat, get a haircut, and come clothes shopping with me?”

  Bree nodded again. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  Bree’s mum smiled. It was just a little one, so small you would barely notice it. She picked up her fork, took a mouthful of beef and leaned back in her chair. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”

  Silence returned to the table, with only the sounds of chewing and sipping filling the air.

  Until her dad perked up a bit.

  He jabbed at her half-eaten Quorn fillet with his fork. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A Quorn fillet.”

  “What in the name of Christ is a Quorn fillet?”

  “It’s a meat substitute. It’s made out of mushrooms.”

  Bree’s dad would probably have looked less confused if she’d told him it was made from reconstituted pigeon poo.

  “Mushrooms made to taste like meat?”

  “Yes.” Bree took a mouthful.

  “And since when have you been a vegetarian?”

  Bree was just about to respond when, to her amazement, her mother cut her off.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Daniel. Bree’s been a vegetarian since puberty, after she watched that documentary about fast food. If you were actually ever here you would’ve noticed.”

  Her dad looked like someone had just wiped reconstituted pigeon poo on his face. Bewilderment carved through his tired features. He looked from Bree to her mother, before shaking his head and returning to his meat, muttering, “Mushrooms don’t taste of meat…” like a child who’d lost a playground argument.

  Bree’s mum caught her eye and did a mock sigh, blowing her hair up. Bree rolled her eyes back and they both fell into silent unnoticeable laughter. Her stomach glowed with the unfamiliar sensation.

  She ate the rest of her Quorn fillet happily. And, in some odd sort of way, found herself looking forward to tomorrow.

  chapter ten

  The next morning she was shaken awake by her mother.

  “Morning, love. It’s time for body combat. Remember you said you wanted to go yesterday?”

  Bree rubbed her eyes to dislodge the sleep from them. Her half-conscious consciousness was being ripped down the middle. Pre-The-Plan Bree would’ve screamed “LEAVE ME ALONE”, gone back to sleep until noon, rung Holdo and then spent the remaining weekend watching the director’s commentary on something. But Post-The-Plan Bree knew she needed to do this. Even though it was going to be painful.

  Bree slowly sat up. “What time is it?”

  “8.15. The class starts at 8.45.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “Yes. On a Sunday.”

  Bree yawned, stretched, and squinted.

  “Give me a minute to get ready.”

  Half an hour later, Bree was in a personal hell of her own making. She had no workout gear so was wearing her school PE kit and a clumpy pair of black trainers from her earlier teenage years. She probably would have stood out less if she’d worn sexy lingerie. Everyone in the class wore belly tops, tight Lycra leggings and special workout trainers – mostly in pink – with their hair scraped up immaculately into bouncy ponytails. Everyone’s limbs were perfect. Each calf was uber-defined, each buttock cheek sculpted into a perfect curve, and flawlessly toned tummies peeked out all over the place.

  The instructor hadn’t arrived yet but all the women seemed to be stretching out and limbering up. Bree, unsure of what to do, bent over and tried to touch her toes. “Tried” being the operative word.

  She was just in the difficult process of getting back up again when some teeny tiny stick figure with French plait pigtails rocketed through the doors.

  “Right, ladies,” she yelled. “Are you ready to burn some calories?”

  “YES!”

  “That’s not loud enough. I said ARE YOU READY TO BURN SOME CALORIES?”

  “YESSSSSS!” Bree could hear her mum’s voice over all the others.

  Just as Bree was going to make some spot-on observation about the cult-like ways of this exercise class, the stick insect flipped on the sound system and Bree’s life rapidly flashed past her eyes.

  It was physical torture like she’d never experienced before. As everyone around her effortlessly kicked and punched in time to the quick (and awful) music, Bree could hardly keep up. Sweat dripped down her face. Her legs started to seize up, still tight from her not-fully-healed scars. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and her face resembled a sunburned tomato just home from a last-minute trip to Lanzarote.

  And then, as if she wasn’t feeling terrible already…Jassmine Dallington arrived from nowhere. She looked brilliant – wearing some vibrant red top and tight black leggings. She mouthed her apologies to the instructor, pushed her way to the front, and joined in the routine in flawless synchrony. When Bree wasn’t focused entirely on not fainting, she watched Jassmine’s blonde hair swish about in front of her. Jassmine watched herself in the mirror, working through the moves effortlessly and smiling smugly at her own reflection.

  An emotion stronger than exhaustion passed through Bree.

  Anger.

  Suddenly she hated Jassmine. Her easy life, the way everyone seemed to care about her though she’d never done one nice thing to deserve it.

  Bree stepped up her effort and concentrated harder on the routine.

  Hatred drove her – as she squatted, lunged, boxed and panted. It soon eclipsed t
he knackeredness and pain. She bobbed and weaved to the music, now keeping pace with everyone around her. Sweat still poured from her body but she wasn’t aware of it.

  And then, with the heavy bass as a background, something began to happen to Bree. Something…good-feeling began to rush through her veins. Her heart pounded frantically – but no longer out of protest, now almost like it was spurring her on. Her breath finally caught up with her body and adrenalin rushed through her. She’d never felt like this before. Not naturally anyway. It was the same rush she got when she locked herself in the bathroom and made red patterns on her thighs. Her head thumped in the same way. She got the same tidal wave of relief. But she wasn’t bleeding. She wasn’t going to scab up tomorrow. Her thighs would hurt, but good hurt. Healthy hurt.

  When the music stopped, Bree was almost upset. She was just balancing in a calf stretch when Jassmine picked up her stuff and left. She passed Bree with barely a smidgeon of sweat on her forehead. A look of dim recognition crossed her face and she looked confused, trying to place Bree in her inner list of who’s-worth-knowing. When she realized who she was, she deliberately curled up her lip in disgust.

  I have never done one bad thing to you, Bree thought, and anger surged through her again. Nothing about my existence affects your life in any way, and yet you deliberately make me feel like shit.

  Jassmine gave a beaming smile to the instructor and waved goodbye, before she sashayed out the room.

  You don’t know or care who I am. But you will on Monday. I’m going to start fighting back with the best weapon I have: words. Indelible, permanent words.

  Bree’s mum came over, wiping her face with a towel.

  “You enjoy it, Bree?” She tossed over the towel and Bree caught it and dabbed her forehead.

  “It was…hard. But good.”

  Her mum looked nervous. “Do you still want to go shopping and get your hair done?”