So call me childish, then!
Chapter Six
Leanne and I were best friends from fifth class onwards. We did the usual best friend stuff – talked about boys, painted each other’s nails, listened to pop music together, bitched about almost everyone we knew.
I started being friends with her because she was nice to me. She told me I was smart and that she wanted to be friends with me. I was flattered, having absolutely no self-esteem, and we began hanging out.
Neither of us were contestants for the Miss Popularity pageant. We didn’t even make it through the first round. I was quiet and weird; she was bossy and mean. Maybe she did think I was cool, or maybe she just needed a friend and anyone would do. “Using” is an overused word in the primary school vocabulary, but it’s probably because it happened so much. People are selfish and to be alone is unthinkable. So you use people. You mightn’t even like them, but they suit your needs right now.
It doesn’t automatically stop when you enter secondary school, either. Maybe not even when you head out into The Real World. Sometimes you don’t even know that you’re doing it, and sometimes you don’t realise how much you can hurt other people. But you do it all the same. I’ve done it. More than once. Too often.
Maybe I was using her too. I needed a friend as much as she did. But I don’t think I ever dismissed her the way she did to me, making me feel like a tiny insect she wanted to crush. I never put her down the way she constantly did to me. She set out to make me feel stupid and inferior and it worked. Of course I probably would have felt that way anyway. I was just about as neurotic and insecure then as I am now. The only difference is I was much bitchier back then.
We were as close as sisters and fought about as much too. And eventually I started hating her. I could have entire conversations with other friends about how much I hated her. Like Hannah, who agreed with me entirely – but who was too scared of her to stand up to her.
I hated Hannah for that, for her weakness. I hated everyone who put up with being treated like crap. I spent a lot of time seething, then finally exploded into screams and tears.
I was fourteen and I’d lost my best friend of four years. Never mind that she’d been an awful friend – I was alone and lonely and miserable and I hated it. I was Angry Abi. You didn’t want to be around me. I hated the world and the world hated me.
Later I learned how to be a good girl, a normal girl, and how to turn the rage inwards instead.
Chapter Seven
I don’t want you to think I’m crazy. Well, part of me doesn’t. The other part is hoping that I am. Then maybe everything would make sense.
I mean, look at my arm, for God’s sake! Look at it! See the red scratches and the fading scars? Now tell me that I’m perfectly OK and that everything’s going to be all right. Just try it. Do you really believe what you’re saying?
Oh, oh, and I’m Attention-Seeking Abi again. Sorry, I’ll try to stop myself from doing that, but it’s hard when you spend a great deal of your time feeling like you’re screaming into a void.
It’s weird because I really hate people who are always whining on and on and on about their problems. Even Fiona and Karen can get on my nerves sometimes. Sarah is the exception to the rule because I trust her completely. There’s a lot she doesn’t know about me, but she knows me better than Fiona does, better than Karen does, better than all those people at school do.
I mean, how many of them would suspect that Abigail Evans hates herself? She’s too quiet to make much of an impression on anyone who doesn’t make a point of getting to know her. Even then she won’t reveal much. She’s a relatively good student. She doesn’t do any sports but she doesn’t mind PE, although her laziness leads to her just not bothering with it most of the time. She lends CDs to her friends and daydreams a lot. She scribbles quotes from songs and poems on her homework journal amid various squiggles and doodles. She sometimes talks about herself in the third person, which is probably just a way for her to distance herself from her disturbed psyche.
Disturbed psyche? God, who even talks like that? No wonder I’m so completely introverted. I’m weird. I’m the stereotypical school nerd/outcast/freak (tick all boxes that apply, and they all do).
I don’t want to be a stereotype. I just want to be me.
Chapter Eight
Fiona is in the library when I go up there at lunchtime to bring back a book that has been overdue for about three years. (Yep. I’m one of those scary people who visit libraries regularly. Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re surprised. You knew it was coming.)
“Hey,” she smiles at me.
“Hey,” I return. “What’re you looking for?”
“History stuff. We have this essay to do, and we’re meant to get ‘extra sources’. I hope they have something here.”
“When d’you have to have it done for?”
She checks her watch. “About two hours from now?”
I grin. “I see.”
She shrugs. “I know, I know. I’m hopeless.” She takes a book off the shelf and flicks through it. “Yeah, this’ll do. Hey, did Sarah tell you about her band?”
“Her what?”
She laughs. “Yeah, I know. She wants to set up a band.”
I am in shock. “Why?”
Fiona shrugs. “Don’t ask me. She thinks it’s going to be cool. She was talking to this guy Shane yesterday, who plays the guitar – he suggested the idea, and she fell in love with it.”
“Or him,” I mutter.
“Probably! She’s really excited about the idea, anyway.”
Silence. Huh. I never really know what to say around Fiona when it’s just the two of us, because I don’t know her that well. She’s more Sarah’s friend than mine – they’re in the same class – and since I am not Karen and therefore not always at ease with people, we have an awkward silence.
“I’d better go write that essay.” Fiona smiles.
“Good luck.” I smile back.
Back in the classroom I sit on a desk and swing my legs while the group babble on about last weekend (party at someone’s house) and next weekend (St Patrick’s Day is on Monday, so there are various activities going on). I am still in shock at the thought of Sarah being in a band.
You see, Sarah is even less enthusiastic than I am about things. She is one of those people who can barely find the energy to do PE and go to her piano lessons every week, let alone be part of a band. She loves music, sure, but I just can’t see her in a band. It’s such a clichéd thing to do, the alternatively-trendy hobby. Everyone seems to be in a band or know someone who is. It’s so . . . un-Sarah-like.
You know that awful disconcerted feeling you get when you realise that something you’ve taken for granted turns out to be completely wrong, and that you don’t know one of your best friends as well as you thought you did? Or maybe even at all? That’s me now.
Maybe it’s just that she likes this Shane guy, and wants to get to know him better. But that idea is even weirder than the first. She wouldn’t go to all that trouble for some boy, even if it was, say, Brad Pitt. (Well, maybe for Brad Pitt, but since I don’t think he’s lurking around Dublin posing as a seventeen-year-old guitar player, it’s not really an issue.)
My world has suddenly stopped making any sense whatsoever.
Chapter Nine
On the way home I listen to Alanis Morissette on my walkman. Hands Clean is an obsession of mine. Karen stopped liking her because she thought she was getting too “popular” and commercialised, but I think that it’s just part of her “I can’t like anything remotely popular or something that isn’t completely and utterly obscure” phase. I hate that. Why can’t people just listen to what they want to without being defined by it? Oh, but wait. Then we’d all have to judge people on what they’re really like instead of having neat categories that everyone slots into. We couldn’t have that.
Greg is out playing football with his friends, Jess is probably listening to horrendously loud “music” at
someone’s house. I have the house to myself.
I switch on the computer, open a blank Microsoft Word file and stare at it for a few minutes before closing it and going to watch TV instead.
Sometimes you just can’t write, even when you’ve been meaning to. Besides, I have nothing to say. Except perhaps Oh how strange this all is/ Sarah is starting a band. Nope. Definitely not the beginnings of an epic masterpiece.
There is nothing on TV. Well, obviously there’s something, but nothing worth watching. I turn on my phone. One message from Sarah. Not going 2 school 2day, c u later. I’ll go around to her house and if she’s not too “sick” to see me, I’ll ask her what the story is with this band idea.
I used to want to be a singer. Famous and beautiful and adored universally, with little girls dreaming of being just like me when they grew up. Then I realised that not only am I not beautiful, but I have no musical ability whatsoever. I love listening to it, but as far as being creative in that area goes, I’m a hopeless failure.
Sarah writes songs. I found that out the first day I actually spoke to her. She doesn’t often show me her stuff, just like I tend to keep anything I write to myself, but sometimes she will. I guess I’m a little jealous. It’s not fair that she’s so talented when it comes to music. I’d hate her if she wasn’t as insecure as I am.
And now I’m more than a little jealous. This whole new musical world has opened up to her, a world where she and Shane and assorted others will live in harmony (ouch, bad pun) and where I’ll be lucky to be invited for occasional visits.
She hasn’t even gone through the door yet, but already I’m worrying and paranoid about our friendship. Just call me Abigail “Overreacting” Evans . . .
Chapter Ten
I know Sarah’s room almost as well as I know my own. Around her mirror she has a bunch of those cool fridge magnets, the ones that have great phrases on them like When I found Mr Right I didn’t realise his first name was Always. Fiona bought that one for her after she broke up with Kieran, her boyfriend of six months. None of us, including Sarah, were too broken-hearted when that relationship ended. In fact, as I recall, we went out to Planet Hollywood to celebrate.
“Hey, guess what?” Sarah says.
“You’re starting a band,” I reply.
She looks disappointed at not getting to announce it. “Fiona told you, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So . . .”
“So . . . what?”
“So what do you think?” she demands.
“Does it really matter what I think?” I ask.
“Abi! Yeah, it does. You think it’s a stupid idea, don’t you?”
Honesty is the best policy, but also helps you lose friends quicker than any other virtue.
“No! I think it’ll be great,” I lie.
“Really?” she beams.
“Really. Come on, tell me more about it.”
“You sure? I don’t want to bore you to death.”
I don’t want her to bore me to death either, but she has this gigantic smile on her face and is bubbling with energy and excitement. I hope it’s not infectious.
“Just tell me,” I say.
“Well, I ran into Shane yesterday. You know Shane, right?”
I shrug. “I don’t think so.”
“You do . . . he remembers you, anyway. I used to work with him in Superquinn. He came over here a couple of times.”
While I am still musing over whether I can recall Shane or not, Sarah continues.
“Well, he’s still there, and I saw him yesterday, and we started talking about music and stuff. He called around when he finished work and we decided – we’re going to start a band.”
“I hear he’s a guitar player, huh?”
“Yep. And he writes songs, and sings, and – he’s just so talented, Abi, you would not believe it.”
I grin. “You like him, don’t you?”
She shrugs sheepishly. “Maybe a little. I don’t know. But it’s more just . . . oh, I don’t know. He likes all the same bands that I do, and we just – see music the same way. It’s amazing.”
I can’t remember the last time she sounded this happy. I mean, she’s normally cheerful, but this – this I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.
“That’s great,” I say honestly.
“Yeah . . . it is.” She beams again and twirls around the room. “I can’t wait until we get started. Shane has a couple of friends who might be interested. And I’ve been writing new songs all day. It’s like – now I have a reason for writing them. It’s just – incredible.” She laughs. “So, any news with you?”
Well, Sarah, although I’m delighted that you’ve found a purpose to your life, I’m just a teeny bit jealous of your happiness and will probably go home after this and play with sharp objects.
I shrug. “Not really, no.”
Chapter Eleven
This year at school has been full of irrelevant, pointless activities. I suppose if I had thrown myself into it I would have gotten more out of it, but as you know, I’m lazy. It was a nice idea back in September, the thought of me enthusiastically Getting Involved in as much as possible, but I never put it into practice.
It’s almost over, though. I mean, it’s mid-March. We get our Easter holidays in a couple of weeks and then it’s just a matter of biding our time until the summer holidays. I can’t wait.
Then, Fifth Year. Actual work. I’m not sure how I’ll cope, but I have a feeling it’ll involve a lot of chanting to myself, “Just another two years and you’re out of here.”
It is Tuesday and we all have a morning of Irish dancing. Apparently some nutcase in the staff-room thought it would be a good idea to subject our year to this torture. Tragically, my tracksuit and runners are at home. I try to look distraught as I explain the situation to the teacher. I am sent off to be supervised along with assorted others, including Caroline, a fellow survivor of Junior Cert German. I sat beside her for three years and we bonded in hatred for the subject. Needless to say, we’re not planning on continuing with it for the Leaving.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down beside her.
“Hey. Not doing Irish dancing, huh?”
“No.”
“You must be heartbroken.”
“I am.” I grin, pretending to wipe away a tear. “But I’ll cope.”
“I bet. Have a good weekend?”
“It was OK. How about you?”
“Same. I was working all day Saturday.”
“Fun.”
“Oh yeah. There was one girl who came in looking for the Mandy Moore album and threw a fit when she realised we didn’t have it. She actually started screaming at me because it wasn’t in the shop.”
“Oh my God. How old was she?”
“About ten.” Caroline rolls her eyes. “I almost felt like yelling right back at her for having such crappy taste in music.”
I laugh. OK, so I’m against judging people by what kind of music they listen to – but come on! No sane person would yell over Mandy Moore.
“Did we all have such bad taste when we were kids?” she sighs.
I nod. “Hate to tell you, but . . . yeah.”
She smiles. “At least we recovered.”
“True.”
Pause. “I still listen to Britney, though,” she confesses sheepishly.
“I bought the latest Westlife album,” I admit.
We laugh.
“This conversation never happened,” I say.
“What conversation?” she asks innocently.
Chapter Twelve
I’d love to be pretty. I wonder what it feels like, to be able to look in the mirror and beam at your reflection. Sure, I have my good days, the days when I feel that I don’t need to put a paper bag over my head. But there’s no way that I’m pretty.
For starters, I am not tall and willowy and graceful, or petite and cute and delicate. I’m somewhere in between. Same with my figure – I’m not thin or fat, just average. I h
ave freckles, but not too many of them. And my hair – oh, my hair.
Ever read Anne of Green Gables? You know the way she’s completely distraught over the fact that her hair is red? Well, that’s me. I like to call it “auburn”. It’s grown darker in recent years, which can only be a good thing, but it’s still most definitely not brown.
If I could look like any one of my friends, I’d have to pick Sarah. Fiona is actually prettier than she is, but Sarah has one of those perpetually happy faces. Even if she’s depressed, she finds something to smile about, and that makes all the difference.
Karen would never win a beauty pageant. OK, I wouldn’t either, I know. She’s not ugly or plain – she’s just average. Maybe it’s just that she’s been getting on my nerves lately. People always seem more attractive when you’re in a good mood with them. When you’re not, you project your irritation with them onto your perception of them. That’s my theory, anyway.
It certainly would explain why I think the bleached-blonde look doesn’t work for so many of the bitches in our year. Then again, maybe it really is just absolutely hideous.
Chapter Thirteen
Lunch. Tina is talking about what she’s going to wear out this weekend. Leanne is planning how she’s going to get drink. Niamh is showing everyone the text messages from her boyfriend. Karen is participating in the fascinating discussion. I am not.
I am Silent Abi. I sit. I observe. I get extremely bored. I leave.
Caroline’s sitting in her classroom with her group. If I knew them better I’d go in, but I’m not the most socially adept person on the planet. I venture up to the Fifth-Year classrooms.
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