Love Is for Losers Page 5

  I told them I’d never been to Sprinkles, and Emma was like: “I’m not sure we can be friends with her, Alex, what do you think?” and Alex was like: “I don’t know.” And then Emma was like: “We normally only let fun people into the inner circle.” Alex laughed, but Emma just smiled and looked at me like she knows something I don’t, and I swear I forgot what we were even talking about.

  I suddenly couldn’t read the menu like a normal person and ended up ordering a banana split because it was the only thing I recognized.

  Emma (who ordered Butter Popcorn Extreme) was like: “Banana split. Classic choice.”

  Does she think I’m boring? What does “classic” actually mean, anyway? So, of course now I’m thinking that instead of researching Down syndrome, I probably should have looked up the Sprinkles menu online.

  And then Alex was like: “The banana split was invented in 1904.”

  Emma and I just looked at each other, and he went: “You can check,” and Emma was like: “No, I believe you, I’m just fascinated by your knowledge.”

  As am I. Plus, I love people who know random shit.

  Emma was like: “Have you opened your birthday presents yet, Alex?” And Alex was like: “Yes, I got a KitchenAid,” which apparently is a big deal, because he’s majorly into baking, and when he’s not at the thrift shop, he goes to a college where he’s learning how to do it professionally.

  Emma: Lucky us. Now you can make us cake every week.

  Alex: Not every week. I’m busy.

  Emma: Just putting it out there.

  Alex: I’ll make a coconut cake.

  Emma: I can’t wait.

  Alex: Phoebe, do you like coconut?

  Me: Yes, thanks. My mum likes to bake. When she’s at home. Which is never.

  Alex: Where’s your mum?

  Me: Working in Syria.

  Alex: Do you miss her?

  Me: Not really.

  Alex: I would miss my mum.

  Emma: I think what she does is so cool.

  Me (shrugging):…

  Emma: Really? You don’t think that?

  Me: I hate that I think she’s dead every time the phone rings.

  Emma: Yeah, I get that.

  Me: No one gets it. Not really.

  Emma: No, I absolutely get it.

  Me (thinking: But you don’t.):…

  Alex: Where’s your dad?

  Emma: Alex—

  Me: No, don’t worry about it, it’s fine. My dad’s dead.

  Alex: Sorry.

  Emma: I’m very sorry.

  Me: It’s honestly fine. I never met him.

  Awkward silence, everyone eating for a minute.

  Emma: Do you know much about him?

  Me: Not really. My parents weren’t, like, together together. Mum only found out about me after he’d died.

  Alex: That’s cool. He died, and you were born. Death is not the end.

  Me: Well, it was for him.

  Alex: I don’t think so.

  Me: I do.

  Alex (to Emma): What do you think?

  Emma: I think you should tell us more about your KitchenAid. Because it’s your birthday, and today is about you.

  Alex: I’m going to make ice cream in it.

  Emma: That’s cool.

  Alex: Did you know that Neapolitan ice cream should actually be green, white, and red? Because that’s the Italian flag.

  We sat at Sprinkles for almost two hours. Partly because talking, and ordering, and Alex takes his time ordering and eating, but mainly because we had a really nice time.

  Afterwards I walked them back to the thrift shop, and guess who we ran into outside Tesco?

  Miriam Patel.

  And Mrs. Patel, who must’ve had a facelift since I last saw her, because no one could possibly be that surprised to see me.

  Miriam: Oh, hi, Phoebe.

  Me: Oh, hi, Miriam.

  Miriam: I’m out shopping with my mum. What are you doing here?

  Me: I’m just out with my friends.

  Miriam (looking at Emma and Alex, clearly judging): Oh, hi, I’m Miriam.

  Me: Miriam; Emma, Alex. Emma, Alex; Miriam.

  Emma and Alex: Hi.

  Me: Anyway, we’ve got to go.

  Miriam: Yeah, we have to go, too. Bye, Phoebe, see you next week.

  Me: Yes, bye, see you next week.

  And then I dragged Emma and Alex away, and I was just like: “Oh my God, that was Miriam Patel. She’s in my year, and she’s horrendous. She’s always really nice to your face, but as soon as you’ve turned your back, she’ll slag you off.” And then Alex went: “Takes one to know one,” totally suggesting I was doing the same thing, so I was like: “Oh, shut up, Alex,” and then Emma started laughing, and she ended up laughing so hard that she literally cried.

  Thing is: Of course he’s right. I was doing a Miriam Patel on Miriam Patel, which means I can sink no lower.

  And now I’m really worried that Emma thinks I’m actually like that, because I’m not. I’m the least two-faced person I know. Fine, I often say things, and people are like: OMG, Phoebe, you can’t say that, but nine times out of ten they were thinking it, too.

  11:44 P.M.

  Found this, written by a person called Thomas Moore: “Eyes of most unholy blue.”

  Friday, February 23 #SocialMediaHell

  Yes!!! Instagram follow request from Emma. She doesn’t hate me. But I obviously can’t accept straightaway, because that’ll make me look proper desperate.

  I’ll wait until midnight.

  I’ll finally be able to stalk her.

  Four hours to go.

  Why is this so stressful?

  8:59 P.M.

  Bored.com.

  Three hours to go.

  11:10 P.M.

  Watched crap telly with Kate and already fell asleep once.

  Fifty minutes to go. I can do it!

  Saturday, February 24 #LukeSkywalker

  4:15 A.M.

  I can’t believe I fell asleep. Emma’s gonna be like: Why has she accepted my follow request at 2 A.M.? Anyway, I did, and now I can’t go back, and apparently I can’t go back to sleep, either.

  The last time I went to such lengths to Insta-stalk someone was with Polly when she needed to know every last detail of Training Wheels’s life.

  Thing is, after spending all that time I’ll never get back looking at Tristan’s Instagram, I knew everything about him.

  Miriam Patel’s the same; nothing’s secret, nothing’s sacred, nothing’s even slightly intriguing anymore, because she has visually and verbally vomited her entire being onto the page.

  Emma is the exact opposite. There’s nothing there. She only has one hundred seventy-five followers, which is way below average, and her last post is a picture of a Christmas tree from December 25. I mean, I never really post anything, either, but I’ve got five hundred and three followers, and I don’t even like people, nor do I ever follow request anyone myself, because it stresses me out.

  In order to find out who Luke Skywalker is, I went through all her followers and everyone she follows, but I can’t see anyone who looks even remotely like him. Unless, of course, he’s an ex and she’s unfollowed him, but then she wouldn’t have that picture up anymore, would she? It’s also the first ever picture she posted, but he’s not tagged in it. Lots of people have commented, but it’s all like: “Lovely picture of you two,” or “Love, love, love.” So, that’s not really telling, either.

  I’m giving up Insta-stalking for Lent, because the stress of not accidentally liking a picture from months ago (at three in the morning) or follow requesting someone’s random cousin twice removed is just too much. I mean, I love social media, but my God, I’m losing my mind.

  And seriously, who’s Luke Skywalker?

  Sunday, February 25 #GetMeOffInstagram

  I Insta-stalked Emma again.

  I think I need help. Social media addiction is an actual thing.

  According to the internet, it a
ffects two hundred and ten million people. That’s 3.2 times the population of the UK!

  But I swear, as soon as I know what Emma’s all about, I’ll stop.

  Here are the updates: Emma’s got three more followers since I last looked, all of them old, like forty, and there’s more comments on the Luke and Leia picture, but again, nothing that gives me a single clue as to who that boy is or when the picture was taken.

  And still no posts.

  WHY?

  Where does she go, and what does she do?

  And then there are people like Miriam Patel, and I can give you a detailed account of every single mundane thought they’ve had over the past twenty-four hours, as well as the nutritional value of their breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  Monday, February 26 #TheEndOfABeautifulFriendship

  Miriam Patel and I are over.

  When I got to school, Polly was waiting for me by the gate, and she was like: “Miriam Patel is telling everyone you’re dating someone with Down syndrome.”

  Me: Did she actually say that?

  Polly: She was like: “Isn’t it sweet that Phoebe is dating a guy who is suffering from Down syndrome?”

  Me (thinking: This is too good.):…

  Polly: Tristan knows someone with Down syndrome.

  OMG! Why do people always have to say things like that? “Yeah, like, I know someone who’s, like, disabled, too, like…” Shut up!

  So, here’s what I did: I waited. Until lunch, when I sat down at Miriam Patel’s table.

  Miriam: Oh, hi, Phoebe.

  Me: Oh, hi, Miriam. Just FYI, Alex isn’t my boyfriend.

  Miriam (clearly regretting her life choices):…

  Me: He’s a friend I know from Kate’s thrift shop. And also, people don’t “suffer” (I actually drew speech marks in the air at that point) from Down syndrome, they have Down syndrome, which basically means they have an extra chromosome. The only thing they suffer are ignorant fuckwits like yourself.

  God, she’s such a dick.

  Tuesday, February 27 #TheNewestRecruit

  Tonight when Kate asked me to sit down with her in the kitchen, I was like: “Who died?”

  Kate: No one died, don’t be daft. It’s about your job hunt.

  Me: I know it’s not going well, but—

  Kate: No, no, I’m not having a go. I wanted to make a suggestion.

  Me:…

  Kate: Your mother told me that you think you need to get a job because of me.

  Me: Not because of you, but because of me. Because the cat is pregnant with illegitimate kittens, and my research has shown this means a financial loss of up to £2,000 for you.

  Kate (super Scottish): Och, don’t be ridiculous. I’d never expect you to pay me anything because the bloody cat got out.

  Me:…

  Kate: But, if you feel like you need to make it up to me, which you really don’t, and besides, you need to be focusing on your GCSEs, why don’t you come and volunteer at the shop? I can’t pay you, but I suppose we could always pretend.

  Me:…

  Kate: Look. You want a job, and I’m short-staffed.

  Me: How many days would you need me?

  Kate: Six, of course.

  Me:…

  Kate: Joking, you idiot. One or two afternoons. But only if it doesn’t interfere with school.

  Me: What days?

  Kate: Any days you like. You can do Thursdays and Saturdays, if you want to hang out with Emma and Alex.

  Me:…

  Kate: We can even pretend I give you £10 an hour.

  Me: If I work every Thursday afternoon and Saturday all day, that would mean, like, twelve hours a week.

  Kate (clutching her chest): Which would be tremendously helpful.

  Me: That means I have to work for you for 16.7 weeks in order to make up the money I owe you.

  Kate: Is that a rough estimate, or did you just work that out?

  Me:…

  Kate: All right, clever clogs, but please don’t think you owe me money.

  Me: But I do.

  Kate: Phoebe, you owe me nothing. Look, it’s just an idea. You really don’t—

  Me: I’m not doing the till.

  Kate (snapping to attention): Back of house only.

  Me: I don’t want to talk to customers.

  Kate: Naturally.

  Me: Or Pat.

  Kate:…

  Me: Or any of the other old people.

  Kate: What’s wrong with talking to old people? You’ve met Melanie. She’s a hoot.

  Me (because, let’s face it, I’m proper out of options): Okay.

  Kate (clapping her hands, then kissing my face): I love you! I love you! I love you!

  Me: Get off.

  9:15 P.M.

  I’m regretting my hasty decision already, and here’s why:

  CONS OF WORKING AT THE THRIFT SHOP:

  Pat

  other hateful/crazy old people

  rummaging through the clothes of the dead

  rummaging through general household goods of the dead

  alphabetizing the books of the dead

  wee smell

  PROS OF WORKING AT THE THRIFT SHOP:

  Emma

  Alex

  repaying Kate the kitten money at an imaginary £10 an hour rather than slaving away for actual minimum wage in a job I hate

  Six to three I shouldn’t do it.

  How do I go back and tell Kate no?

  Wednesday, February 28 #KittenAlert

  Both designer cats are preggers.

  Kate texted me when she got back from the vet.

  Congratulations, you’ll be an auntie.

  Fuck off.

  In other news, Miriam Patel’s still ignoring me. Turns out she didn’t like being called a fuckwit.

  She can go to hell.

  And Polly can go to hell, too, because today she actually said to me: “You know, Phoebe, I think it’s really cool you’re hanging out with people from the thrift shop.”

  What are you even talking about?

  Mum sent an email saying they’re still in Turkey. I swear by the time they get to Syria, there’ll be no one left who needs saving.

  PS: I’m going to the thrift shop after school tomorrow.

  Thursday, March 1 #HNY

  Polly still hasn’t wished me a happy new year. It’s now March.

  This afternoon I had my first official shift at the thrift shop, despite the six to three majority against the endeavor.

  When I got there, Emma was already working. She goes to Wimbledon High, and it only takes her ten minutes to walk there.

  Kate was like: “I’m so glad you’re here. We had our Easter card delivery this morning, and we need to get it out ASAP.”

  There were ten huge boxes of cards containing approximately twenty-five thousand different variations on the Easter theme:

  photograph of daffodils

  daffodils in watercolor

  daffodils in oil

  daffodils featuring a tree

  daffodils featuring a lamb

  daffodils featuring the Easter Bunny

  daffodils featuring daffodils

  daffodils featuring daffodils featuring daffodils

  I had to fill three spinners with cards, and I couldn’t shove them in just anywhere (even though who actually cares?), because I had to follow a plan they’d sent from the cancer charity’s head office, and it took me, like, three hours.

  So at one point I was like: “How is it there’s six of us, and yet I’m the only one dealing with this?”

  Emma said that she did Christmas cards and had told Kate that if she ever made her do cards again, she’d never come back. And Alex doesn’t ever do cards because, according to him, he’s a “customer service specialist” and therefore must be on the till.

  Melanie and her husband, Bill, who FYI is 100 percent hilarious and wears brightly colored corduroy trousers, were also there, and Melanie was like: “Oh, no, darling, I’m not here for that.” And t
hen Bill said: “And I’ve got bad eyes, so they all look the same to me.” Funny, because he could see the tiny price labels just fine that he

  a) wrote on in tiny writing and

  b) gingerly attached to the equally as tiny tie labels on the back of the ties.

  Pat was off sick, which initially made me happy, but I quickly realized that she blatantly called in sick because she didn’t want to do Easter cards, either.

  It turned out to be the worst job on the planet ever.

  I’m not being funny, but maybe communism is a good idea after all. There’s a lot to be said for people not having a choice.

  Kate was so happy I was there to do the shit job nobody wanted to do that she got us all Starbucks. I had a vanilla latte as usual, and Emma was like: “I didn’t take you for a vanilla latte kind of woman.” And then she winked at me.

  Is the vanilla latte a stupid drink?

  Emma got a chai latte with soy milk. Maybe I’ll get that next time.

  On the way home, I asked Kate why Emma volunteers at the shop, and Kate was just like: “Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’m sure she’ll tell you.”

  Yes, well, I’m sure she’ll tell me, too, because I’m sure it’s not actually a very interesting story, except it is now that Kate’s made a drama out of it.

  I really wish life was a lot more straightforward.

  What’s Emma all about?

  9:08 P.M.

  And just one more thing about Emma: I’ve never known anyone with bigger, more beautiful eyeballs.

  According to the internet, blue eyes are a mutation that occurred six thousand to ten thousand years ago. Until then all humans had brown eyes. Also, only 8 percent of the world’s population have blue eyes, and there actually is no blue pigment in blue irises, and they only look blue the same way the sky looks blue but isn’t.

  Friday, March 2 #Cringe

  When Kate got home tonight, she was like: “James came to the shop today.” And I was like: “Who’s James?”

  Kate: You know James.

  Me:…

  Kate: James James. Beautiful James. From the Goat.

  Turned out Gastroporn James visited the thrift shop and was casually browsing the nonfiction book section when Kate recognized him.

  Apparently working at the Goat isn’t his life. He’s at Wimbledon College of Arts, where he’s doing a BA in fine art, and he’s twenty-three. Kate said she asked him to volunteer for her, because she’s got chronic volunteer shortage, and he said he’d think about it. I swear, if he starts working at the thrift shop, I’m never setting foot in there again, because Kate would be so gross, as she clearly fancies him, and I don’t need to be subjected to another couple being all cringe, kissy, and couple-y right in my face.