Love Is for Losers Read online

  I’m not being funny, but unless once upon a time Jesus laid a chocolate egg, I really don’t know what that woman was even talking about.

  I wish I’d said something clever, but because I was so shocked by her casual racism, I ended up not saying anything.

  * * *

  Gastroporn James came to the shop this afternoon, and here’s my question:

  Do people think they look good when they’re flirting?

  Because Kate looked like she had nits, forever running her fingers through her hair.

  Emma and I were watching them for ages, and then Emma went: “He is very good-looking, isn’t he?”

  I was going to ask her about Luke Skywalker then, but I didn’t.

  Now I feel physically weighed down by all the words I didn’t say today.

  My life would be so much easier if I wasn’t this awkward.

  Friday, March 9 #ItsAMadWorld

  I just spent an hour looking at Emma’s Instagram, trying to figure her out.

  Maybe I should Google her.

  11:55 P.M.

  Googled her. Nothing.

  Saturday, March 10 #LifeSucks

  I wonder what Polly is doing. How is she not missing me? Half of the time I can’t work out if I’m sad or just offended. How can ten years of friendship have been this inconsequential?

  It’s not even that I feel the need to tell her all about Dad, but it would be nice to just go and get Starbucks together. Thing with Polly is, she always has something to say, and sometimes, when I don’t feel like talking, which I admit is often, she’ll just read me something boring from the Metro. Or she’ll pretend to be doing the sudoku, but because she hates it and doesn’t understand how numbers work, I end up doing it all for her.

  I hate that my life’s so shit.

  And I know that I have sort of made new friends, but I can’t exactly ask Emma if I can sit with her in Starbucks in silence and do a sudoku.

  I reckon I could ask Alex, though.

  But he’s got the busiest social life out of everyone I know, plus I don’t want to force myself onto people.

  It’s Mother’s Day tomorrow.

  Emma says they’re driving down to Brighton for the day to go shopping and have lunch. Mum and I have never done anything like that. I mean, not that I want to, I’m just saying.

  Sunday, March 11 #HappyMothersDay

  I never really thought about it before, but Mother’s Day is actually totally offensive to people who haven’t got mothers. Like Valentine’s Day is offensive to single people.

  Every Happy Mother’s Day card/bouquet/selection of pralines is literally laughing in your face, going: You’ve got no one to give me to.

  I suppose I should have gotten Kate something.

  Nature was all in my face, too, with daffodils and birds and so much sunshine that my retinas ached.

  Kate and I went out to have a pretend Mother’s Day dinner at the Goat, and because Gastroporn James wasn’t working, Kate was like: “Well, they’ve just lost five stars on their TripAdvisor rating.”

  PS: Not looking forward to school tomorrow.

  It’s all about GCSEs now, which is so stressful because:

  a) The teachers are losing their minds over it.

  b) The parents are losing their minds over it.

  c) Everyone else is consequently also losing their minds over it.

  And I know GCSE stands for General Certificate of Secondary Education, but it really should mean Great Compulsory Scholarly Evil, because how is it not evil to make us take up to two exams a day for, like, six weeks?

  Magda Jennings said that her cousin, who’s Italian and lives in Italy, doesn’t have to do GCSEs at all. Apparently they have quizzes and three main exams in every subject, but spread over the year, and the average is your overall grade. Which is so much fairer. Because what if you happen to have a really bad week in life and all the important GCSEs happen to be in that exact week? Like: What if you’re 100 percent hormonally challenged because you’re on your period, or you feel like shit because you’ve got a cold or a headache that won’t go away? All exams that week could potentially be ruined, indicating that you suck, which isn’t true.

  PPS: I hadn’t actually really thought about it, but I just worked out that I’ll be taking twenty-seven exams over six weeks.

  And yes, they may be idiotic, because you mainly have to just learn things off by heart without needing to understand what they actually mean, but twenty-seven exams over six weeks?

  It’s cruel.

  Monday, March 12 #Polly

  Interesting development with Polly today.

  She asked me if I wanted to go to Starbucks with her after school tomorrow.

  I was like: “Yes, sure, why not, I’m not working tomorrow,” and she was like: “I didn’t know you got a job,” and I was like: “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” (Obviously, I hadn’t.) “I work at Kate’s thrift shop.”

  I can’t wait to see what she wants. Does she finally miss me, or is she feeling super guilty for being such a shit friend?

  I’m sure all will be revealed.

  Tuesday, March 13 #TotalTwat

  I don’t know what I was thinking, but I honestly thought Polly wanted to see me because she missed me, but it turned out she wanted to see me because of her.

  I suppose I should at least be a little bit flattered, because Tristan wasn’t there and literally hanging off of her.

  When we got to Starbucks, Polly ordered her usual, and I was like: “Soy chai latte for here, please.”

  Polly was like: “Since when do you drink that?” and I was like: “Since always,” which was obviously a massive lie.

  We sat on our favorite brown leather sofa, and for like a millisecond of a moment, things weren’t even awkward at all but more like we’d been teleported back to a year ago when we were still perfect.

  Then this happened:

  Polly: It’s about Tristan.

  Me (thinking: Are you fucking kidding me?):…

  Polly: The sex isn’t working.

  Me: Are you fucking kidding me?

  Polly: I know! How’s that possible? We’ve got so much chemistry, and I really, really want it, but when we’re doing it, nothing, like … happens.

  Me: No. I mean, are you fucking kidding me, wanting to talk to me about this? You don’t call or text or speak to me unless in passing for, like, three months—you never even wished me a happy new year, FYI—and now you ask to spend time with me so you can tell me your boyfriend is shit in bed? What did you expect from a guy who doesn’t know how to ride a bike?

  Polly: Phoebe—

  Me: No! I’m leaving. I don’t have the brain capacity to deal with your crap sex life right now. Why don’t you talk to Tristan? You talk to him about everything else.

  And then I left.

  Kate made us baked potatoes with baked beans for dinner, but I felt literally sick. She tried to feed me two forkfuls, but I told her I’d vomit if she made me eat more.

  I can’t deal.

  11:47 P.M.

  I think it’s great Tristan has no clue what to do with his penis/mouth/fingers.

  I think I’d actually hate him more if he was orgasm central.

  Wednesday, March 14 #TalkToTheHand

  I’m still so irritated.

  This morning Polly was like: “Phoebe, I’m sorry about yesterday, it’s just tha—”

  Me: I literally don’t want to know.

  And then I walked away from her.

  Because her drama is so irrelevant.

  There’s war, famine, social injustice, climate change, and all everyone wants to talk about is sex. And then when they’re finally having it, they don’t shut up about it, either, because apparently it’s not actually as brilliant or life changing as they thought it would be.

  Yawn.

  And another thing: Polly can do something about that. She can talk to Tristan, but she doesn’t, and if people don’t even fix the things they can fix, how are we ever goi
ng to fix the big things?

  Rant over.

  Thursday, March 15 #DonationOfTheWeek

  Today Emma suggested we should get more creative with the good/shit donations. She was like: “Why don’t we choose an item to be the donation of the week every week?”

  Kate: Elaborate.

  Emma: Something either cool, crap, or cringe. And we all have to upsell it.

  Me: Like the picture frames with Mickey Mouse man?

  Emma: Exactly.

  Kate: Who doesn’t need one of those in their life?

  Emma: Exactly.

  Kate: I think it’s a brilliant idea, pet.

  Emma and I then chose the chocolate fondue set as our first official donation of the week. Alex is 100 percent on board with it, too, and I swear he spent the rest of the afternoon asking every customer who came to the till: “Can we also tempt you with a chocolate fondue set?”

  Apparently we could not.

  Friday, March 16 #Puke

  The cat threw up on my shoes.

  I left it for a while, hoping the other cat would eat it, but it didn’t, and because Kate wasn’t home yet, I had to clean it up myself.

  Blech.

  It’s such a good metaphor for my life at the moment. Everyone’s literally vomiting all over it.

  PS: I’m even looking forward to going to the thrift shop tomorrow.

  Saturday, March 17 #TheWalkingDead

  Today I overheard Pat trying to bitch to Emma about me.

  I was about to walk into the stockroom when I heard them whispering, and so I stood outside the half-open door and tried to listen, and what do you know, not three seconds later, I heard Pat say my name.

  Pat: Why does she have to dress like that? All black and skulls and spooky. It’s like … the walking dead.

  Emma (LOLing): The Walking Dead is a TV show about zombies, Pat.

  Pat: A witch, then.

  Emma: Pat!

  Pat: You know what I mean?

  Emma: No, not really. Everyone’s got a different fashion sense.

  Pat: I’m sorry, but I think that girl is odd. She’s always been like that, even when she was little. Quiet. But in an odd way, you know what I mean?

  Emma: No, still no, but maybe you only think that because she’s put a witchy spell on you?

  Pat:…

  Emma (LOLing again): I think she’s very nice. Maybe she’s just a bit sad at the moment because her mum’s all the way in Syria.

  Pat: Yes, well, that can’t be easy. Regardless—

  At that point I was like: I don’t need to hear another word out of that awful woman’s mouth, and so I walked in all like: “Good morning!” (But extra chirpy.)

  And, on the subject of everybody having a different fashion sense, some of the girls in my class must be under the impression they get more attractive the less they wear, which is just untrue. Emma was wearing a massively-too-big-for-her multicolored jumper and skinny jeans, and her hair was tied up in two buns that were totally askew, and she looked beautiful.

  I wish I was naturally pretty. Maybe if I were, I wouldn’t want to constantly brush my hair into my face. And then maybe I wouldn’t look so “spooky,” either.

  God, I hate Pat.

  Blech!

  I swear if I could put a spell on her, I would, which is what I spent the rest of the day imagining.

  It was nice of Emma to stand up for me, though. Some people always agree with what other people are saying, even when someone’s talking shit. Miriam Patel is a prime example. She’s so desperate to be liked, she’d slag off anyone.

  Maybe that’s why she doesn’t have a BFF.

  I mean, I don’t have a BFF anymore, either, but even though I hate Polly and the way the synapses in her brain seem to be backfiring at the moment, I’d never slag her off behind her back.

  I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: Compared to everyone else, Emma is pure class.

  Sunday, March 18 #TheBirdsAndTheBeesAndThenSome

  This afternoon Kate and I decided to binge watch all the original Star Wars movies.

  Halfway through, she put one of the preggers designer cats on me.

  Kate: Stroke her.

  Me: Ew.

  Kate: And now talk to me about Polly.

  Me: No.

  Kate: I still haven’t seen her. Why?

  Me: She’s being a total dick, and I’ve had enough.

  Kate: But she’s your friend. Whatever happened to bros before hos?

  Me: Bros before hos? How old are you?

  Kate (speaking in that stupid, high-pitched, and slightly deranged-sounding voice that moves across three octaves): Very. And that’s why I know everything and must give you advice.

  Me: You seriously don’t want to know.

  Kate (still in that voice, batting her eyelashes with ridiculous speed): But I doooooo.

  Me: She asked me to meet at Starbucks, and instead of doing us things, she told me that her boyfriend is bad in bed.

  Kate (eyebrows hitting hairline): Och, that’s terrible. The poor thing.

  Me: No, not the poor thing. Poor me. She doesn’t talk to me in, like, forever, and when she does, that’s what she says?

  Kate: Phoebe. Who else would she go to with that? Her mum? You should feel honored that she trusts you with something so personal.

  Me: She should go to her boyfriend and speak to him.

  Kate: Obviously. But she’s probably embarrassed.

  Me: How is talking about it any more embarrassing than actually having someone’s penis in your vagina?

  Kate: I bet you he doesn’t even know that she isn’t enjoying it. She’s probably pretending it’s good, because she doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  Me: Oh my God, that’s so gross.

  Kate: A lot of boys, and men, don’t really know where things are and how they work.

  Me: Things.

  Kate: A woman’s bits, Phoebe, do keep up.

  Me: How difficult can it be?

  Kate: Very. Apparently. Trust me, I know. I’ve been Polly.

  Me: Ew!

  Kate: A lot of people think sex means a woman making all the right noises while a man is mindlessly thrusting into her from all angles for three minutes, but let me tell you, no woman’s ever had an orgasm as a result of that.

  Me (holding the designer cat in front of my face): Stop talking.

  Kate: I’m telling you this so you can tell Polly that she needs to show her boyfriend around.

  And when she said “show around,” she actually made a presentation-like gesture in front of her vagina area.

  Me: Please stop talking.

  Kate: None of your lesbian friends will ever come to you with this, because women know where things are.

  Me: I don’t have any lesbian friends.

  Kate: You sure about that?

  Me:…

  Kate: Help Polly. She’s having a crisis.

  Me: You help her.

  Kate: Nobody wants to speak to an adult about this, and besides, you’re her best friend.

  Me: Was.

  Kate: Phoebe. Come on, you’re better than that. Call her right now and save her from a terrible sex life. Especially because she’s so in love. She needs to at least talk to that boy about the clitoris.

  Me (letting go of the designer cat and literally sticking my fingers into my ears, because have you ever heard a Glaswegian say “clitoris”?): Oh my God. I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation.

  Kate: Oh, pet, if I don’t tell you, who’s gonna tell you? And the same goes for you, by the way. You need to find a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever with whom you’re comfortable discussing these things.

  Me: I swear if you don’t stop talking right now, I’m leaving and I’m never coming back.

  Kate (pulling the dumbest grimace ever, all cross-eyed and cheeks sucked in):…

  Me: Thank you.

  I totally couldn’t concentrate on Star Wars after that.

  Also, when Leia
and Luke kissed, I thought of Emma, and then I couldn’t look at Carrie Fisher without thinking about Emma, and suddenly Star Wars became the Emma show, and it was all very confusing.

  I know what Kate’s saying about Polly and vaginas, but none of that has got anything to do with me.

  Tristan was Polly’s choice. She chased him for months. She wanted him more than anything she’s ever wanted, including the tickets to One Direction when we were six.

  She made her bed and, as far as I’m concerned, she can now lie in it (in the missionary position, wondering what is life).

  Monday, March 19 #PresentingTheClitoris

  I had a dream that Miriam Patel was giving a presentation on the clitoris.

  No word of a lie. There was a chart and everything.

  The sex talk with Kate has clearly left me scarred for life.

  However, my brain may be sending me subliminal messages, because I reckon Miriam Patel would have no problem showing someone around her vagina, and now I’m wondering if I should send Tristan to her for a quick lesson.

  It’s funny really, isn’t it? Everyone’s so desperate to have sex, and it turns out to be the most anticlimactic activity ever.

  I’m so glad I’m not obsessed.

  Also, the thought of being naked with someone and needing to nakedly show them around my naked vagina to point out my clitoris is absolutely horrendous.

  Tuesday, March 20 #Diagrams

  I’m still not obsessed, but I can’t stop thinking about the clitoris. (This sounds weirder than it should.)

  The Illustrated Medical Dictionary describes the clitoris as “a small, erectile organ.” How grim does that make it sound? I reckon Tristan isn’t ignorant, just afraid of it, because a “small, erectile organ” doesn’t sound fun at all. But that’s all I’m saying in his defense, because if he’d looked at a diagram, he’d know that it really is nowhere near where the penis goes.

  Maybe I’ll talk to Polly after all.

  PS: Mum sent an email. They’re finally where they need to be.

  PPS: Alex sold the chocolate fondue set. Turns out offering people random shit at the till does work.