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.