In this zany town.
Sitting on my bed
looking for ten differences between Daisy Miller and myself. Exhausting. And still
better than Jo who is at the moment (I’m guessing) painting her fingernails
with every colour of the acid rainbow. Pathetic.
Downstairs, my dad is
screaming. Maybe not. Maybe he is just talking to someone on the phone. Maybe
that someone is Emily.
These days, it feels
like I’m pregnant. Like I’m going to burst open and something is going to come
out. Maybe I am pregnant, though that
would mean I did it with Charlie. And, girls, remember: you never do it with
guys named Charlie. That’s pretty much the worst mistake you could make. You
can even do it with a Patrick (Huh? Imagine doing it with a Patrick), but
Charlie is a no. Having said that, being pregnant wouldn’t be the worst idea in
the world. At least I would not have to go to school and fake it. Mr. Atkinson
says my dresses make him think of Jane Austen. He even called me ‘Emma’ one or
two times, which means that I had to stay after class and explain about Marie.
Many girls want to do it with Mr. Atkinson. I don’t know, have you seen his
fingernails? Girls are dumb.
These days, I hate to
even go outside and buy paper tissues or beer or cigarettes. We live in a small
town in the north of England. Everybody knows each other so well we do not even
have to say ‘hello’. People here are depressing rather than depressed, which
makes for a sorry sight in the bleak midwinter. And yet and still – I’d rather
be outside. Because…
These days, the house
is just so empty. Awfully, devastatingly empty. We do not even have a dog. My
parents’ house is like a black hole that is actually completely white. Walking
along the halls, I see myself as some abandoned ghost from an old detective
story. When I was small, I used to ride a bike here – like Danny from The Shining. In these halls, you can
think yourself into anything. Into murder, maybe.
Speaking of which.
Mom spoke over breakfast about her latest nightmares. My dad kept buttering his
toast. She said she had some nasty feeling about this year’s Christmas.
Oh. Don’t we all. Don’t
we all.
Eric wrote today to
say he was looking forward to seeing me this year and that he had something
important to tell me. If that is what I think it is, then Eric is the prey and
I’m the hunter. In other words, Eric is the victim and I’m the murderer.
Hopefully, though…
Okay! Daisy and me.
Me and Daisy. Eight differences. Not bad.
In the meantime, the
clock is ticking. You know what a clock ticks like? It ticks like the heart of
a headless chicken.
P.S. 15 days.
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