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

GCSE tomorrow, and zut alors, did I have to cram in last-minute studying.

PPPS: Emma texted to say she’s going to the shop tomorrow, because she’s not got exams, and she’s feeling much better, and she needs to get out of the house, and so I’m going, too.

Friday, May 18 #Caught

Emma would say: Today will not be remembered for having taken French 4 but for having taken down a thief.

I was on the shop floor putting out bric-a-brac this afternoon, because Pat couldn’t possibly walk the ten steps from the stockroom herself, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw this little old lady reach into the size-ten rack, pull out a handful of blouses on hangers, and stuff them into her little-old-lady shopping trolley.

Then she turned around and casually shuffled out of the shop.

I was like: “No, you don’t!”

Because you don’t steal from charity.

I mean, you don’t steal at all, but you definitely don’t steal from charity.

You don’t nick shit and sabotage the effort of all those people who give up their free time rummaging through dead peoples’ clothes and other crap in order to make a quid here and there so there’s enough money for people who want to find ways to stop people like Emma’s brother from dying.

No word of a lie, it was like an epiphany, and I ran after her like a woman possessed.

Outside I was like: Right, left, right, left, and then I spotted her walking up towards Morrison’s.

It was raining, and I was soaked before I even passed Starbucks, and because the sidewalk was umbrella central, I ran on the road, dodging buses.

When I caught up with her, I grabbed hold of her trolley, but suddenly I was proper hydroplaning in my stupid school shoes.

I went arse over tit and skidded on said arse all the way to the entrance of the cinema, little-old-lady shopping trolley in hand.

She came hobbling across to me, her face all like: I’m going to kill you. But I was quicker.

I reached into her trolley, pulled out the blouses, and held them proper in her face.

Me: I saw you take these from the thrift shop without paying for them.

Her: Oh, I didn’t mean to—

Me: No! You meant to. I saw you. We’ve got you on CCTV (lie). You’re stealing from cancer children. You, madam, can sink no lower. And I’m having these back.

Then I just marched off.

I mean, of course I didn’t march; I sort of hobbled, because at that point I was like: Okay, so I’ve broken my hip.

Back at the shop, Alex, Kate, Emma, and Pat were all like: OMG!

Because I was drenched, Kate made me change into something dry, and I ended up wearing a pair of boot-cut Levi’s jeans and a brown and orange V-neck tank top.

Pat was like: “You look just like me when I was young.”

Whatever, Pat, you were never young.

At first Kate was like: “I’m saying this to everyone now: We do not confront shoplifters. It ended well today, but your health and safety are what’s most important here.”

But right after her speech, she hugged me and kissed my face the way she knows I hate, and I was a proper hero for a minute.

I think Emma was impressed, but because she’s Emma, she was like: “How sad, though. Having to steal. Or wanting to steal.”

I watched Alex contemplate this for a moment, and when he reached his conclusion, he was like: “But she was very brave.” Then he high-fived me. And Kate got Starbucks for everyone.

Now I can’t sit down, because my arse cheek is honestly so sore, but at dinner I realized that it had made me forget all about my stomachache.

Apparently if there are multiple simultaneous painful stimuli, the mind will only feel the sensation of pain from the most severe injury.

9:00 P.M.

Update: My butt cheek is black and blue.

I’m so glad we don’t have exams tomorrow or Sunday, because I don’t think I’d be able to sit. They’d have to get me a special table you can stand at.

Maybe I can do it all lying on my front, because let’s face it, that’s the only way I’m going to be able to recline for the foreseeable future.

9:15 P.M.

Kate just put arnica lotion on it, and she was laughing the whole time. I could’ve totally done it myself, but she said it was her duty as a certified (ex-) nurse and my guardian to make sure I hadn’t actually broken anything.

She gave the all clear, but she said that as far as bruises go, mine was a particularly impressive one.

I may take a picture.

Saturday, May 19 #StillNotSittingDown

I didn’t have a stomachache all day, which basically means the bruise pain is still suppressing every other pain receptor in my brain.

I even had to wear my school skirt to the thrift shop, because my skinny jeans press right on the bruise.

When Emma looked at me like: Why are you wearing that on a Saturday? I was like: “My bruise is enormous, and this is the only thing I can wear, so let’s not talk about it.”

Emma: Is it really sore?

Me: You have no idea.

Emma: Can you sit down?

Me: No.

Emma: Can I see it?

Me: No!

That was literally all she kept saying to me all day: Can I see it? Can I see it? Can I see it?

And then Kate was like: “You should see Phoebe’s bruise.”

And Emma was like: “Why, has everyone seen it?”

And I was like: “No one’s seen it. Kate’s seen it. But she’s a nurse.”

And then Kate said: “Go and show Emma the bruise, Phoebs. It’s such a good one.”

I looked at Emma, who was smiling, and then my brain went: It’s okay, the underwear you’re wearing is pretty standard, and so I was like: “Fine.”

I obviously wasn’t going to pull my skirt down in front of everyone, and so I went into the changing room, and Emma closed the curtain from the outside and peeked in through a tiny hole she’d left