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

I should help Miriam Patel with math, because Polly literally can’t work out five plus five.

I was going to say no, but I do feel a bit sorry for Miriam, because nobody deserves to have shit parents. Also, if we have a study session together, I don’t have to have one on my own, and I can be like: #StudiedAllAfternoon.

PS: I have French tomorrow, and I seriously need to brush up on my fruits and vegetables.

Did you know that the word pineapple is pretty much “ananas” in every other language but English? Even in Hebrew it’s “ananas,” but of course it’s spelled like: so you’d never know.

I also have to study “under,” “over,” “in front” and “behind,” also, “to the right,” “to the left,” because, apparently, when traveling to France, no one has access to Google maps and needs to solely rely on getting directions from non-English-speaking locals.

Yawn.

Emma isn’t taking French, she’s taking Spanish, which makes so much more sense, because apparently 570 million people in the world speak it.

Only, like, 220 million speak French.

What was I thinking?

Tuesday, May 15 #ContemplatingDeath

This morning I had French 1 and 3, and this afternoon I had Biology 1.

Matilda Hollingsworth had a crying fit during Biology 1, because she had to really, really go to the toilet, but she didn’t want to go, because she thought she was behind on time.

Mr. Kane was really nice about it, though. He went over to her desk and was all like: “Look, Matilda, go to the toilet, and I promise you’ll be able to concentrate much better.”

I went to the thrift shop afterwards, which was a big mistake, because I’m now almost certain that I have stomach cancer.

Pat caught me stretching and rubbing my tummy, and she was like: “Stomachache?” And I was like: “It’s okay.”

And then she told me how her husband died from stomach cancer.

Why would you be like that?

Someone: I have a really annoying stomachache.

You: My husband died of stomach cancer.

OMG.

So when I got home, instead of studying for this week’s biggies, French and chemistry, I just Googled “stomach cancer survival rates,” and Google reckons that if it’s discovered in the early stages, the five-year survival rate is 65 percent. That means that thirty-five out of one hundred people die. It obviously also means that sixty-five people live, but still.

If the cancer has spread to other areas, the five-year survival rate is about 30 percent. That means that seventy people out of one hundred die, and only thirty live.

Maybe I should go to the GP.

If it’s cancer, I hope that it hasn’t spread.

Kate didn’t seem particularly worried when I told her about my stomachache the other night, and I did feel a bit better after the soup and the cheese toasty. Maybe I’m not intolerant to dairy after all?

I wish it would just go away, because I don’t want to die of stomach cancer.

I don’t want to die of any cancer.

In fact, I don’t know how I want to die.

I wonder if Emma would come to my funeral.

I don’t think black would suit her.

Maybe I should insist everyone wear bright colors “to celebrate my life.” Blech!

PS: I have no exam in the morning, and Religious Studies 2 in the afternoon, but I refuse to study for it, because nobody is ever going to give a shit about how I did in that subject.

PPS: Actually, maybe I should try to do well, because I read that if you want to convert to Judaism, you have to seriously impress the rabbi.

PPPS: Polly just texted to say we’re going to meet with Miriam Patel at Starbucks tomorrow morning to do math. I’m only going because I miss the Polly that’s all independent and no-nonsense and “this is what we’re doing.”

Wednesday, May 16 #Lessons

When I sat down at the table with Miriam Patel, I literally felt the universe twitch.

Miriam wasn’t her usual self (at first!), because she wasn’t at all bitchy (at first!).

We did a few problems, and turns out the thing with Miriam Patel is that she really knows the answer, but she thinks she doesn’t, and so she confuses everything. It’s not like with Polly, who actually really doesn’t get it, and even if you tell her the answer, she’s still like: “Eh? Sorry, but my brain doesn’t do any of this, but that’s fine, because you don’t have to be good at everything. If we were all good at everything, we’d have no geniuses, and the world would be without wonder.”

OMG, I love that about Polly so much. She’s good at finding wonder. Maybe that’s her superpower. She sees things other people don’t see. Maybe that’s why she’s with Tristan.

Anyway, at the end of our pointless extracurricular math lesson, I was just like: “Don’t waste my time, Miriam. You know how to do this, so don’t be an idiot.” And she was like: “That’s easy for you to say. Your mum’s not here, so she probably doesn’t give a shit about your results.”

I could feel Polly flinch, and Miriam looked like she maybe hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but then she was all like: “Whatever, I said it, and it’s true.”

I just went: “Get out of my sight.”

After she’d gone, Polly tried to be all: “She didn’t mean it,” but I was like: “Of course she meant it. She always means it, only she usually doesn’t say it to my face.”

Polly: Thank you for offering to help her, though.

Me: I hate Miriam Patel. I can’t believe I fell for her sad story.

Polly: It is a sad story, Phoebe. Apparently her dad gets really arsy.

Me: And apparently my mum doesn’t give a shit.

Polly: She’s just jealous that your mum trusts you to become a responsible adult without her monitoring your every move.

Me: You think that’s what she’s doing?

Polly: Who? Miriam?

Me: No, Mum.

Polly: Phoebe, hello. Do you think she’d go gallivanting around the planet if you were a mess?

Me: I hadn’t really thought about it from that angle.

Polly: