Love Is for Losers by Wibke Brueggemann (ebook pc reader .txt) 📗

myself in the back. When we were leaving, I asked Emma if she wants to do anything on Monday since it’s a bank holiday, but she was like: “I’m so sorry, I can’t. I have to study this weekend.”

On the way home, I asked Kate if she thought Emma was being unusual, but Kate was just like: “What do you mean?”

Me: I asked her if she wants to do something on Monday, and she said she has to study.

Kate: Maybe she has to study.

Me: She’s never had to study before.

Kate: Maybe you should study.

Maybe. But I can’t concentrate at the moment. My brain feels like a sieve.

Maybe I need sleep. I know I look tired, and I definitely should be tired, but I don’t really feel tired.

At times I can feel pure adrenaline running through me. There’s a constant tingling in my arteries.

I’m awake all night, and my brain is just like: How about this, how about that, and I don’t think Emma tried to hold your hand, because why would she do that, and today she basically told you to go away. And have you noticed your persistent stomachache?

On that note, I’m too scared to look at the medical book, just in case I’m actually dying. And I’m most certainly not Googling it, because the internet’s always like: Cancer, stroke, heart attack, DEATH!!!!!!!!

3:14 A.M.

Oh my God, I slept for, like, three hours, but now I’m wide awake, and my stomach hurts again. It’s a dull pain that gets worse every time I breathe in.

Maybe I shouldn’t breathe in.

This is seriously horrendous.

Maybe I should reread Romeo and Juliet. It usually puts me to sleep.

Or I could watch some idiots on YouTube or just the news, because the more I watch stupid people, the less I fear death.

Friday, May 4 #HappyStarWarsDay

Today I had to go on a mission no fifteen-year-old would ever have to go on if they

a)  didn’t have a dead father,

b)  didn’t have an absent mother,

c)  weren’t living with an insane Scottish woman who’s now even more insane and who only knows other insane people.

I’d just gotten home from school when Kate called me from the thrift shop.

Kate: You need to do something for me, but no one can ever know about it.

Me: I’m not buying drugs.

Kate: Don’t be ridiculous. Can you come to the shop?

Me: I’ll be there in ten minutes.

When I got there, Kate pulled me behind the till.

Kate (whispering): I need you to go to the Goat.

Me (thinking: This is a made-up James-related mission.): No.

Kate (giving me a look):…

Me: Sorry, go on.

Kate: It’s about Pat.

Me (looking around, noticing she’s not in):…

Kate: You need to go to the Goat and collect her and then take her home. I can’t close the shop. And no one can know about this. Ever.

Me: Why is she there?

Kate: Apparently she’s been drinking. Look, Phoebe, can you just do this for me now? We can talk about it later.

Me: Okay, okay, fine. Where does she live?

Kate gave me a piece of till roll she’d written the address on, and twenty pounds so I could take a taxi there and back.

Kate: Don’t just drop her off, though, Phoebe. Make sure she gets into her house.

Looking back, I should have realized at that point what was going on, but I didn’t. Probably because I tend to only see the best in people.

At the Goat, James was like: “Hi, Phoebs.”

(I was thinking: Just because you’re having sex with Kate doesn’t mean I’m now Phoebs to you.)

James: Thank you so much. I’d take her home myself, but my manager wants her gone now, and I don’t finish until ten, so I called Kate.

Me: I don’t understand.

James (pointing to one of the booths, where Pat was asleep with her head on the table): She’s had one too many.

Me: Oh my God.

Pat: Zzhhhhhhhhhhhh.

James was like: “Come on, Pat, my darling, let’s get you home.” He hoisted her up, and together we dragged her to the taxi rank out front.

The whole time Pat was holding on to her little-old-lady shopping trolley, and when she wouldn’t let go, we had to push it into the back seat on top of her. I ended up sitting in the front with the driver, who was like: “Your nan?” And I was like: “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Why do I say these things?

The driver didn’t speak to me again until we arrived at Pat’s.

She lives in a ground floor flat in a really ugly building just by Haydons Road station.

I tried to get her out of the taxi by myself, but turns out even smallish people weigh an absolute ton when they’re smashed. And then her trolley got its wheel wedged under one of the seats, and in the end the driver had to help, and together we managed to get Pat inside and plop her onto the sofa.

The flat was in an absolute state. I was embarrassed even though it’s got nothing to do with me.

It smelled of damp and cold baked beans, and I knew the driver was judging.

At one point she looked at me like: How can you let her live in such a total shithole?

I didn’t say anything about the flat or Pat, but I must have thanked the driver, like, a million times, which probably made me look guilty.

Back in the taxi, I texted Kate:

Mission accomplished. She was totally drunk.

Kate was just like:

Thank you. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At home I took a long shower, but I swear I can still smell Pat’s flat on me.

I’m trying to study, but I can’t get over it all.

I made a study timetable, but because it took me forty minutes longer than anticipated to make it, I’m already behind.

Fuck off, Miriam.

And I know Pat is horrendous, and opinionated, and probably racist, and I hate her, but no one should have to live like that.

7:40 P.M.

According to the internet, six thousand deadly accidents occur in the home every year, and having seen how Pat lives, I can totally see why.

a)  Sink overflowing with dishes: risk