Love Is for Losers Read online

  Can you still be in love when you’re both dead?

  Wednesday, April 25 #Plans

  We got yet another courtesy email this morning, and I literally felt so sick that I couldn’t go to school.

  I searched the internet for the most popular funeral poems.

  The first one Google found is called “Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep.”

  How stupid is that? People aren’t exactly going to be like: YAY!!

  The whole poem is like: Don’t cry at my funeral, because I’m not even there, but I am the sunshine, and the wind, and this and that, and something else as well, blah blah blah, so really, I’m with you all the time.

  That’s the kind of made-up shit people tell other people when they want them to feel better. In fact, Mum’s been saying this to me for years. She’s always like: “Whenever you think of me, I’m already thinking of you.”

  That stupid poem actually made me proper upset for a minute. Not because it’s supposedly deep and meaningful, but because I realized that if Mum were dead, our relationship would be exactly as it is right now, except without the WhatsApping.

  I don’t understand why she decided to have me.

  * * *

  Polly texted me at lunchtime to ask if I was okay, but I didn’t reply.

  When Kate got home from work, I was still in bed, staring at the wall. She opened the curtains, pulled the duvet off of me, and went: “Right, little missy. Fresh air and exercise are good for the body and the soul, so chop-chop, let’s go.”

  She told me she’d choose my outfit and put it on me if I wasn’t ready in five minutes. Then she dragged me up the hill to Wimbledon Common without saying another word.

  After twenty minutes of Kate marching along like a proper soldier and me sulking like a proper dick, Kate was finally like: “Phoebe. Talk to me.”

  Me: If Mum’s dead, will I live with you?

  Kate: She’s not dead. But yes, of course you would. That’s all been worked out years ago already, though, so your concerns are a bit late to the party.

  Me: Worked out when?

  Kate: When you were a baby and Amelia decided she couldn’t sit on her skinny arse for more than five minutes and had to go and try to heal the sick and lead the blind, etc., etc.

  Me: How did you know you’d be best friends forever?

  Kate: We didn’t know that. We still don’t. But I’d say the chances are good. Twenty years and counting.

  Me: But how did you know you’d want to look after me?

  Kate (cackling, pushing me towards a ditch): Phoebe. I personally pulled you from your mother’s vagina. I was the first person who held you. I couldn’t love you any more than if you were my own child. In fact, I probably love you a lot more because you’re not, because let me tell you, you pretty much ruined your mum’s vag.

  Me: Oh my God, stop talking.

  Kate (insanely Scottish): Oh, try not to think about it, pet. She’s all right now. They sewed her back up straightaway.

  Me (gagging):…

  Kate: Anyway, so of course you would live with me should anything ever happen to her, but right now she’s fine.

  Me: Okay.

  Kate: Good. And keep reminding yerself of that.

  When we got back, Kate made us cheese toasties, and we sat with the cats and kittens on the floor. It was like a picnic in a petting zoo.

  PS: I can’t believe I broke Mum’s vagina. I wonder if she’s reminded of it every time she looks at me. No wonder she’s away a lot.

  PPS: I had three missed calls from Polly, and she left a voice mail, but it only said: “Are you alive or what? Call me.”

  I didn’t.

  I only texted her to say I’m back at school tomorrow.

  PPPS: Kate’s been on the phone ever since we got back, calling friends who still work at Médecins Internationale to see if they know something more than what we’re being told, but apparently nobody knows anything. How’s that possible? People don’t just disappear.

  PPPPS: I feel sick.

  Thursday, April 26 #NearDeath

  People only get called out of lessons when someone’s dead. Right?

  So today when Miss Curtis called me out of French, my stomach literally dropped.

  Everything was suddenly happening in slow motion, and I couldn’t hear properly, like when you’re underwater.

  I sort of stumbled over my own feet and the straps of my backpack, and Miss Curtis actually took me by the arm and led me out of the classroom.

  In the hallway, I dropped my bag, and all my books spilled out, and my knees just went, and all I could think was: Why am I shocked? I already knew Mum’s dead.

  Miss Curtis was talking to me, and I could see her lips moving, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying until she took my face between both her hands and told me to breathe.

  Miss Curtis: Phoebe.

  Me:…

  Miss Curtis: Phoebe. Can you hear me?

  Me:…

  Miss Curtis: Miss Anderson’s here to collect you.

  Me: Oh my God.

  Miss Curtis: It’s about your mum. They are setting up a phone call.

  Me: She’s dead.

  Miss Curtis: She’s fine. Go, talk to her. Miss Anderson is waiting in my office. Can you get up?

  Me (picking myself and my things off the floor, stumbling): I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m going. Thanks.

  And then I bolted all the way down the stairs, past the old building, across the courtyard, into the main building where Kate was waiting. She was grinning from ear to ear, but I was like: “Are they calling the shop?” and when Kate nodded, I kept running, and I was like: “Let’s go!!!!!”

  She’d parked on a double yellow line, and Alex was in the car, and I was just like WTF?

  Kate (fastening her seat belt): Yeah, Pat’s called in sick, and I know I could have left Alex in charge of the shop, but the last time we received too many letters congratulating us on his excellent customer service.

  Alex (laughing in the back): That didn’t happen.

  Me: Drive!

  Then, because the world hates me, every light was red, old people were taking, like, an hour to shuffle across zebra crossings, and Wimbledon was gridlocked.

  Me: When did they say they’d call?

  Kate (checking her watch): Well, they called an hour ago to say that they were setting up a satellite call within the hour.

  Me: Shit.

  Kate (pulling the shop keys from her pocket and shoving them into my hand): Go.

  I got out of the car and ran all the way from outside Sainsbury’s to the thrift shop.

  Emma was waiting outside, and she was like: “Where is everyone? What’s going on?” but I couldn’t even speak because my lungs felt like they were about to explode.

  I unlocked the door and bolted into the stockroom.

  Emma: You okay?

  Me (shaking my head, trying not to suffocate):…

  Emma: Where’s Kate?

  Me: (coughing up phlegm):…

  Emma:…

  Me: Mum was missing.

  Emma: No.

  Me: But she’s okay.

  Emma: Thank God.

  Me: They called me out of class. Have you ever been called out of class? So stressful. I thought she was dead.

  Emma (smiling the most unusual smile): I’m glad she’s okay.

  Me (staring at the phone): I hope they haven’t called.

  Emma: I’ll put the kettle on.

  Kate and Alex came in ten minutes later.

  Kate: Hello, team. That was all a bit exciting, wasn’t it? Let’s open up again, then, shall we?

  Alex: Has she called?

  Me (shaking my head):…

  Kate: Right. Alex, till. Emma, there’s clothes to steam, and, Phoebe, sit down, because you look like you’re about to pass out.

  Me: I’m fine.

  Emma (putting down a cup in front of me): I’ve put extra sugar in your tea.

  Me: I’m okay.

  Kat
e: Sit down, Phoebe. You do look a bit peaky.

  I swear I just stared at the phone while everyone was going about their business for like an hour.

  Emma made more tea and gave me five Hobnobs to eat.

  When the phone finally rang, I literally jumped out of my skin, and everyone sort of froze and looked at it.

  Kate (answering it): Kate Anderson speaking. Yes. Thank you, I’ll hold.

  She winked and passed it to me.

  There was a lot of nothing for a few seconds, but then something clicked.

  Mum: Hello?

  I swear my heart actually stopped beating again for a second before pounding back into action so hard I almost vommed.

  Me: Mum?

  Mum: Phoebe! How are you, baby?

  Me: I’m fine. Great. How are you? Where are you?

  Mum: I’m fine, everything’s fine. We’re still out here.

  Me: Where were you?

  Mum: Long and boring story, I’ll tell you when I get back. Are you okay?

  Me: Everyone was really worried.

  Mum: I’m so sorry, baby. It’s been pretty bad, and we got cut off for a few days, but we were so busy that I couldn’t send smoke signals.

  Me: Ha ha, you’re funny.

  Mum: I’m sorry we had you all worried. How’s Kate?

  Me: She’s great, she’s here. She’s blowing a kiss.

  Mum: How are things with Polly?

  Me: Great. Polly’s great. Everything’s back to normal. (Total lie, obvs.)

  Mum: I’m glad. Tell her I said hello. We’ll hopefully have internet again by the end of the week, so I’ll call you as soon as I can.

  Me: Great.

  Mum: I have to go now, baby. There’s more people here who need to call their families.

  Me: No, wait, don’t go.

  Mum: I’m sorry, darling, I have to go, but I love you, Phoebe.

  Me: Okay. Talk to you soon.

  And then the line went dead.

  I looked down, and my hand that was holding the phone was shaking, and I just thought: Why can’t Mum be at home like normal parents? And why couldn’t she even talk to me for five minutes? I know her less and less every day, which is probably why I had such trouble imagining planning her funeral.

  I felt a hand squeeze my upper arm, and then Kate knelt down in front of me and was like: “Phoebe, are you okay?”

  I looked at her, and suddenly this huge sob traveled up from all the way somewhere down in my innards, and I couldn’t not cry. I’ve never had that before. It was completely out of my control, you know, like projectile vomiting.

  Kate hugged me and told me it was okay to be upset, and then Emma came over, too, and suddenly we had a group hug going on, and my face got accidentally buried in Emma’s hair, and my nose touched her neck, and then the steamer, which hadn’t been filled up with water, because Emma had been too busy listening to my phone conversation, made that horrendous raaaaaaaaaaaahhhh noise, and we all flinched, jumped apart, and Kate swore, which made us all laugh.

  Then Kate got Starbucks for everyone.

  I was like: “Can I have a shot of vodka in mine?” Kate was like: “Single or double? Not really.”

  I sorted greeting cards for the rest of the afternoon, and when a customer asked if I worked there, I was like: “No.”

  I don’t understand how I feel about Mum. I don’t understand it like I don’t understand Japanese. I can see it written down, but I can’t decipher it.

  11:15 P.M.

  There are two reasons I’m happy I lied to Mum about Polly:

  a) She’ll finally stop going on about it.

  b) She can tick the “make sure teenage daughter is maintaining positive relationships with her peers” box.

  And on that note, I had ten missed calls from Polly, and at ten, the landline rang, and I know it was Polly because Kate was like: “How nice to speak to you. Let me just see if she’s awake.”

  I pretended to be asleep, so Kate was like: “I’m sorry, you’ll have to catch up with her tomorrow.”

  I bet everyone this afternoon was like: OMG, what happened with Phoebe?

  11:55 P.M.

  I can still feel Emma’s neck on the tip of my nose.

  Friday, April 27 #Tears

  I wanted to stay at home today just so Polly would be worried, and yes, I know how massively immature that sounds.

  When she saw me, she physically grabbed both my arms and was like: “What’s going on with you? Are you okay?”

  I was just like: “Yeah, fine. We thought Mum was dead, but turns out she’s not.”

  Her face …

  10:00 P.M.

  After my minor breakdown yesterday, I researched the mechanics of crying, and according to the internet, there are three different types of tears.

  The constant tears that keep your eyeball moist.

  The tears that come when you have something in your eye, and your brain is like: Get it out!

  The tears that happen to you as an emotional response to something.

  Apparently the chemical compound is different in every one of them, and the emotional tears actually contain a natural painkiller.

  It’s like your brain is trying to stop your body from hurting by producing these tears.

  Which explains my tearfest yesterday. My brain must have been like: Okay, enough of that dull ache you’re feeling about your mother, here are tears to numb it, so you can get on with life.

  And today I actually do feel so much better.

  PS: Miriam Patel is walking around school like she’s Little Miss Studious.

  She now wears glasses, not actual ones, but the nonprescription ones you get from Topshop. And she keeps going on about how “the future starts here.”

  I’m not being funny, but GCSEs aren’t exactly Oxford entrance exams.

  Last year Rachel Griffin said that she memorized her entire oral French exam, and that she had no idea what any of it actually meant, and that she got an excellent mark. I mean, obviously she’s an actor-y type, but she was just like: “Darling, it’s all about the performance.” She reckons our teachers are actually so shit that they don’t understand what we’re saying, either, so as long as you babble some rubbish but mention key words like: dans, sous, devant, and derrière, they’re like: Oh yes, it’s all there.

  Math is easier. It’s basically the same shit but with different numbers.

  But of course Miriam Patel has to make a drama out of absolutely everything.

  What’s with the glasses?

  Seriously, she always thinks she has to dress for whatever part she’s playing. It’s school, not a fancy dress party.

  Saturday, April 28 #LukeSkywalker

  It’s still really warm and sunny, so we hardly had any customers in the shop all day.

  Emma and I got ice cream this afternoon. We ate it sitting in the sunshine on the hot concrete ground, just outside the back door.

  Emma: I’m really glad your mum’s all right.

  Me: Me too.

  Emma: It’s scary when you think you’ll never see someone again.

  Me: To be fair, I never see her anyway.

  Emma: Phoebe.

  Me:…

  Emma:…

  Me: Sorry, that wasn’t great.

  Then Emma pulled her legs up and rested her head on her knees and looked at me.

  Just looked at me, light blue eyes, thinking, licking her ice cream.

  Me: What?

  Emma (quietly): I want to tell you something.

  Me (feeling shaky, fearing sunstroke): Okay.

  Emma: But you have to promise me something first.

  Me: Anything.

  Emma: Promise me you won’t change.

  Me: Why would I change?

  Emma: Because people always do. And I hate it.

  Me:…

  Emma (licking her ice cream, looking at me, smiling, not smiling): I had a brother.

  Me (thinking: WTF?):…

  Emma: His name was Bradley.
r />   Me (thinking: Fuck!):…

  Emma: He died. On July 17 last year.

  Me:…

  Emma: He had leukemia, and then he died. He was seventeen. He was brilliant.

  Me: Emma. Why didn’t you ever say?

  Emma: Because since he died, everyone around me has been acting differently. And I was scared that if you knew, you’d treat me differently, too. And I’m sorry that everyone here knew apart from you. I asked people not to say anything, because …

  Me:…

  Emma: I like that you never knew me with him and that you never knew me when he was sick, and with you I can be normal, you know, just me, just Emma. Not Emma with the dead brother or Emma with the parents who lost the plot afterwards.

  Me: I …

  Emma: I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you.

  Me: I … You don’t have to apologize.

  Emma:…

  Me: I’m sorry.

  Emma: Thanks.

  Me: No, I really, really am so sorry.

  Emma (smiling): I know.

  Me: I wouldn’t have treated you differently.

  Emma (smiling more): You’re such a natural bitch, I almost believe it.

  Me: I’m not a natural bitch. I’m actually quite a people person.

  The sentence kind of hummed in the afternoon heat for a moment, and then Emma and I both burst out laughing, because, really, what bullshit. I literally hate everyone.

  Then she pushed her ice cream into my face and went: “Strawberry?” and I licked it.

  I haven’t even ever done that with Polly, because licking someone else’s spit is normally disgusting.

  Me: Is Bradley Luke Skywalker?

  Emma:…

  Me: Your picture on Instagram. Is that you and Bradley?

  Emma: Yeah. It’s actually from a long time ago when he wasn’t sick yet.

  Me: I thought he was your boyfriend.

  Emma: Ew. Why would my boyfriend and I dress as brother and sister?

  Me: That’s what I thought.

  Emma:…

  Me:…

  Emma:…

  Me: Have you got a boyfriend?

  Emma (looking at me like I’ve lost my mind): No. You?

  Me: No.

  Emma: And for your information, I don’t have a girlfriend, either.