Stereotype

by Claire Hennessy

  “I left you a note,” I say.

  “We were in the house, Abigail. Why didn’t you tell us you were going out?”

  “Because you wouldn’t have let me.” That’s true. They’re not a fan of last-minute arrangements. In fact, they despise them. They like to plan ahead, have time to get phone numbers and addresses and probably police records while they’re at it.

  “I’m starting to think we shouldn’t let you out if you’re going to behave like this.” Ah, parent-logic.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I say.

  “Not until you tell us where you were.”

  I sigh in exasperation. “I left you a note. I told you I was going over to Emily’s.”

  “And who is this Emily? You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  I thought I was past the stage of my parents keeping tabs on every single person I hang around with. Clearly not.

  “She’s a friend,” I say.

  “Where does she live?”

  I give them the address.

  “And you stayed at her house last night?”

  “Yes.” I honestly don’t see the point of all this.

  “Without telling us in advance?”

  How many times to I have to say it? “I left you a note!”

  “Don’t yell at us.”

  “So listen to me! I left you a note, I’m home now, and I’m going up to my room.”

  “We’d just like to know where you are. What if there was an emergency?”

  “Then call my mobile!” I yell down at them.

  “There was no answer.”

  “I had it switched on. Are you going to start blaming me for the bad coverage now, too?”

  “You need to let us know if you’re going to be going out.”

  “I did!” Are they stupid or something?

  “No address, no number . . .”

  “Well, you have them now. Good for you. Now you can keep a close eye on me at all times and make sure I never have any fun.” I go into my room and slam the door. Then I scream. I can’t remember the last time I screamed, if ever. It makes me feel a little better.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  After I shower and get changed, I go downstairs.

  “Can I go over to Sarah’s?” I ask the parents politely.

  They exchange looks. I can tell they’re thinking, Should we let her out or make her suffer?

  “Be back for dinner,” my dad finally says. I’m glad. The last thing I needed was to be grounded. Parents don’t care if you absolutely need to see your friend because she’s upset. As far as they’re concerned, it’s not important. We’re only children, after all. I hate it.

  My heart is pounding as I walk down to her house. I don’t want another fight.

  Sarah’s looking out of her bedroom window. She sees me. I freeze. She runs downstairs and opens the door to me.

  “Hey.” She half-smiles.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  She nods. “Me too.” She hugs me tightly. “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have been such a bitch to you.”

  “It’s OK. You weren’t. I was just – being me. Being horrible.”

  “You’re not, you’re not!”

  We head up to her room. “I heard about your fight with Shane,” I say quietly.

  “Ah, yes. That was fun,” she mutters sarcastically.

  “What happened, exactly?”

  “He was flirting with Caroline. I got annoyed. He said I was over-reacting, and that really pissed me off, since he gets unbelievably jealous if I so much as look at another guy.”

  “It’s pretty unreasonable,” I agree.

  “And then he left, and I left, and that was that. I haven’t talked to him since.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I don’t know. I want to, but I’m still really angry with him.” She sighs. “Anyway. Did you hear about what Roisín said to Fiona?”

  “Yeah, Roisín told me this morning.”

  “This morning? Where’d you see her?”

  “Oh, a few of us stayed the night at Emily’s.”

  “Ah. I see.” She pauses. “So, you seem to be getting pretty close to Emily . . .”

  “Oh, you noticed that too?” I grin.

  She laughs. “Got anything you want to tell me, Abi?”

  “We’re friends. That’s it,” I shrug.

  “That’s not what the guys were saying,” she grins. “I think you two made their night. What is it with guys and their obsession with seeing two girls together?”

  “I think it’s more that they want to join in,” I surmise.

  She laughs. Everything’s back to normal, we’re friends again, and all is as it should be.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Sarah and I spend the afternoon discussing other people’s love lives. We return to the subject of Fiona and Hugh.

  “I know she liked him, but I still can’t believe the fact that she went after someone else’s boyfriend.” Sarah frowns.

  “In fairness, though, he made it really obvious he was interested in her,” I point out.

  “True,” she nods. “They’re both to blame, I guess. Still – it’s really not like Fiona to do something like this.”

  “I guess you never really know some people,” I say.

  “The words ‘pot’, ‘kettle’ and ‘black’ come to mind,” she says pointedly.

  “There’s not much to know about me,” I tell her. “You know all the important things.”

  She seems doubtful. “Can I read some of your poems sometime?”

  “What?”

  “Please?”

  “If you really want to . . . but they’re horribly, horribly self-indulgent. They’re awful.”

  “Pleeeease?” she begs.

  “OK,” I smile.

  “Yay. Thank you.”

  “But you’re going to be sorry . . .” I warn her.

  She rolls her eyes. “Stop putting yourself down.”

  “It’s an addiction.”

  “So get help.”

  “I don’t think there is any.”

  “Sure there is. You’ve got me, for a start, haven’t you?” She grins.

  Yeah. I guess I do.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  As promised, I’m home for dinner. While we eat I’m thinking about Shane. I’m still a little attracted to him, still mildly infatuated with him. Even though I think he acted like an asshole towards Sarah, I still like him.

  But only a little. I can deal with it. I can fantasise about him but not be crazily madly passionately in love with him. It’s a good way to be, I guess, and yet oddly unfulfilling. I miss the craziness, even if it hurts.

  “I hate fish,” Jess complains. “Why do we have to eat it?”

  “It’s Good Friday,” my mom reminds her.

  “So?” she moans. “I don’t care.”

  “Eat your dinner. It’s good for you.”

  “You’re not making us go to Mass on Sunday, are you?”

  One look from Mom tells her that yes, yes she is making us go.

  Jess whines. Greg joins in. I leave the table and go watch The Simpsons and wonder what poems to let Sarah read.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  I don’t see Sarah until after the weekend. She comes over on Tuesday and we rent out videos and munch on popcorn.

  “Shane and I talked,” she says.

  “And?”

  “And we made up.” She beams. She’s so happy. It hurts a little, but it’s OK. I can handle it.

  I go into the kitchen to get more Coke. The knives look so tempting. I pick one up. I’m not sad or angry or depressed – I’m OK, and still I pick one up. Habit, I guess.

  The door begins to open and I put it back quickly.

  I think about it that night. Is it just a matter of picking up a bad habit and not being able to stop? Would I have used it if I hadn’t been interrupted or would I have put it back anyway?

  Do I perhaps think too much about this
little occupation of mine and blow it out of all proportions? Maybe.

  I curl up with a book that night and stay up until two reading. I haven’t done that in ages. My childhood solace, and I’ve been neglecting it, abandoning it for parties and moping. There’s something so delightfully comforting about being wrapped up in a duvet with your eyes glued to the page of an interesting book. It feels safe.

  There is a razor blade in the drawer beside my bed, and I don’t touch it once all night. It’s a start.

  Chapter Eighty

  Back into the blue monstrosity on Monday morning. I look at my reflection with disgust. What were they thinking when they designed this uniform? Were they actually trying to make us look as hideous as possible?

  I think of my school and realise that the answer is probably yes. I can picture the scene. There’s a group of teachers sitting around a conference table –or perhaps a cauldron – cackling evilly, plotting fiendishly to come up with an utterly revolting school uniform.

  I walk into my classroom and leave my bag beside my chair. The usual group is over at one side of the room chatting. I get out my books as I debate whether or not to go over there. I listen to what they’re talking about, and – oh, I don’t believe this.

  “You know Emily Keating in Fifth Year? She was at this party and kissed some girl. In front of everyone, like!” Gosh, you don’t say . . .

  “Seriously? God. I’m not homophobic or anything, but – she doesn’t need to shove it in everyone’s faces, you know?” Of course not. She should be hiding in a closet somewhere, afraid to show her face, right?

  “Yeah, I’d be freaked out by that,” Karen says.

  I feel like I’m in some kind of parody. I simply can’t believe they’re for real. It’s too much to even get me annoyed or offended or anything like that. I just can’t take any of them seriously anymore. They don’t matter.

  The bell goes to signal the start of the first class and they start moving, getting their books. I’m glad. I don’t think I could take another two minutes of their inane rambling.

  I go up to the Fifth Years at break-time. Sarah and Fiona aren’t in their classroom. I peek into Emily’s and see them in there.

  Sarah, Emily, Roisín and Fiona are sitting together. “Hey,” they greet me, almost simultaneously.

  “Hey,” I say. I look at Emily and feign shock. “I heard you were with some girl at this party over Easter.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I don’t believe this. They’re gossiping about me in Fourth Year too?”

  “The people in this school are pretty pathetic,” Sarah reminds her.

  “No kidding,” she says. She doesn’t seem that bothered by it all, though. I figured she wasn’t the type to care what other people think, but it’s still a relief to know that she isn’t upset that everybody’s talking about her.

  If everyone was talking about me – which they are in a way, I guess, only they don’t know it’s me – would I be that at ease? I find myself wondering. I tell myself I wouldn’t care, that I don’t care what those idiots think of me, but I’m not sure. It’s hard to be whispered about and not to let it affect you.

  Roisín opens up a bag of crisps and offers them around. Fiona refuses one. “No thanks, I’ve been told I’m kind of fat,” she kids.

  “Hey, I said I was sorry,” Roisín says, putting on a sad face. “Forgive me? Please?”

  Fiona grins. “Of course. But I still don’t want one.”

  “Well, on behalf of Mr Tayto, I feel very rejected.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re actually on a diet,” Sarah says.

  “Do I look crazy?” Fiona responds. “God, that’d be almost as bad as . . .”

  “Exercising,” I suggest.

  “Exactly! Insane!”

  We’re still continuing with this when the bell goes for the end of break. I don’t want to leave. “See you at lunch-time,” Sarah says. I find myself bemoaning the fact that classes are getting in the way of my socialising as I return to my own class. Hmmm . . . something’s wrong with this picture . . .

  Chapter Eighty-One

  “Abi, are you going out for lunch?” Karen asks.

  “Yeah, probably,” I respond, wondering why she’s asking. Hannah and Leanne must be busy.

  “Going to the shop?”

  “Probably.”

  “Can I walk down with you?”

  “Sure, Karen,” I say sweetly. “You can walk down with me, and Sarah, and Fiona, and Emily, and while you’re at it you can tell her that you’re freaked out by her.”

  “You’re friends with her?”

  “Yes, I’m friends with her.”

  “Sorry . . . I didn’t know.”

  “So that makes it OK?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. I saw your face this morning when Tina told you about Emily kissing a girl. You were completely disgusted.”

  “Look, it just makes me uncomfortable, OK?”

  “Why? Sounds like externalised self-hatred, if you ask me.”

  She stares at me blankly for a moment before her mind comprehends. “I’m not a lesbian,” she says with obvious distaste.

  “It’s not an insult, Karen. It’s not even a big deal.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you were there, completely comfortable with it.”

  “With what?” I feign ignorance.

  “With Emily kissing another girl!” she says in exasperation.

  “That didn’t happen,” I tell her. “She didn’t kiss the girl. The girl kissed her.”

  “How would you know?”

  I look at her for a moment. “How do you think, Karen?”

  Her jaw drops. The look on her face is absolutely priceless.

  “So you don’t want to walk down to the shop with us at lunch-time, then?” I ask innocently.

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Shane and Barry are waiting outside the school at lunch-time. When we walk out, some blonde girl (with obvious dark roots) is throwing herself at Shane.

  “Hi, Wendy,” Sarah says pointedly.

  Ah. So this is Wendy. Why am I not surprised?

  Shane puts his arm around Sarah. “Will we go?” He nods to Wendy. “Nice talking to you,” he says politely, then whispers something to Sarah. She giggles.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Emily asks as we start walking.

  “Half-day,” Barry explains. “Thought we’d come down here and rub it in your faces.”

  “How kind,” Emily says.

  We go down to the shop and hang around there. Sarah and Shane are being their usual couple-ish selves. We pretend they don’t exist and leave them to their own devices. I decide I want to buy a drink, after all, and go into the shop. Emily follows me in.

  “You OK?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I’m OK.” I smile.

  “Not too upset about seeing the two of them together?”

  “Not really,” I say honestly. “I mean, it’s not one of my favourite things to see, but it’s not that I’m jealous anymore. They’re just so wrapped up in one another.”

  “I know. Sickening, isn’t it?”

  I smile. “Yeah. Hey, I have to ask you something. You remember when we were getting the taxi back to your house, and you said something about Shane being with Sarah to make me jealous?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was that entirely made up to make me feel better?” I grin.

  “Maybe a little,” she admits. “I don’t know . . . if you hadn’t been with Graham that night and if you’d seemed interested in Shane, I think something might have happened. But I don’t think he was settling for second best with Sarah either, you know? He really likes her.”

  I nod. “Yeah.” I pay for my drink and we hover at the entrance of the shop rather than return to the others.

  “You know Declan?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yeah?”

  “You called him an attention-seeker . . .” I trail off. I’m not sure how to ask her whether she
really meant it or not.

  “Yeah, I know. He got pissed with me about that. But honestly. The guy walks around wearing short-sleeved shirts half the time. The only reason he burns himself is so that people will ask him about it and feel sorry for him.”

  “Maybe he does it because it helps him deal with . . . I don’t know, whatever he’s going through. You can’t just judge him like that.”

  “Oh, believe me, I can and I will. I’ve known the guy for years. He can be nice at times, which is why I’m still friends with him, but he spends most of his time moaning to anyone who’ll listen. Kind of like Graham, I suppose.”

  “Maybe he has a reason to moan,” I suggest.

  “Abi!” she says in exasperation. “Just trust me on this. Even if he has his reasons, that’s no excuse. He’s completely self-absorbed. You can’t talk to him about your own life because he’ll start complaining about his own. Or he starts oh-so-casually rolling up his sleeve so you’ll ask him how he got those scars. Don’t feel sorry for him.”

  “I can just understand how he feels,” I say.

  “You’re nothing like him,” she says quietly.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you keep your scars hidden. You don’t want people to worry about you. You see people like Declan and Graham and they sicken you, and you don’t want to be like that. You just want to feel better.”

  I stare at her. “How did –”

  “I noticed them at the party.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask that. I mean, how do you know all that?”

  She shrugs. “I can be perceptive from time to time.”

  “No kidding.” Maybe she’s right and maybe she isn’t. Either way, I like her interpretation better than mine.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  We return to the group. “We came up with a name for the band,” Shane announces.

  “About time!” Emily says.

  “Insert Title Here,” he says.

  “That’s . . . a total cop-out.” She laughs. “But cool. I like it.”