beast . . .
T hat’s all I have. It just came to me this morning, while I was doing my homework on the computer in the IT room. It repeats in my head, along a rhythm, but no other words come. I love writing poetry, but it comes slow sometimes. I often write a bit while I do my homework in the IT room in the morning, or at lunchtime. I’ve noticed it’s the place where all the kids without friends go.
Let’s face it: I do not have friends. It’s not by choice. I don’t know why. I used to have one in primary school. We were tight, we used to make up all sorts of stories together and play imaginary games all the time. We had imaginary dogs and cats. Mine was a kitten called Tabby and she had a puppy called Max. I don’t like to be arrogant, but I was a good friend. We used to swap presents we made for each other all the time. I always made a big deal out of birthdays. But then when we were twelve I moved away, here, to Hemingway. We lived in Islington in North London. Then my mum and dad moved jobs to ones in Oxford and we moved here.
I never see my old friend now. It’s OK. It’s been four years. I never really met anyone at this school who was like me. There were a few near hits, and a lot of misses. I don’t mind it being just me now. I’m used to it, I guess, but I do miss knowing there’s someone out there who can stand me, who maybe thinks I’m funny, and is funny back. I miss having someone to be ridiculous and piss myself for ages with; I miss having someone who makes me feel like I’m not weird, or maybe that, no matter how weird I am, there’s someone out there who is just as weird as me. Sometimes I panic about that, but then that’s crazy. I’m only sixteen. I’ll meet someone cool.
After I’ve done my homework, I go to the common room. I sit alone as usual. Emma, Laura and Fay are nearby. They are halfway girls. Halfway pretty, halfway popular, halfway mean and halfway nice. Sometimes I hang out with them when I’m bored.
‘OMG,’ says Emma. ‘Did he really? He’s so hot.’
‘Oh my god, yeah, totally.’ Laura nods.
‘But his girlfriend is such a slaaaaag,’ Fay chimes in.
‘Right, Sylvie?’ says Emma, looking at me.
‘Right.’ I nod. I don’t know who they’re talking about. I don’t know why they talk to me. My guess is that I make a good audience. Everyone here bitches about each other and talks about boys all day. I don’t get it. I thought they were joking when I first came here, because who bitches so much about their friends behind their backs? And who would make boys like the ones at Hemingway the centre of their universe? Blah people. Small town blah people. So I don’t say anything. I just listen.
Not that the boys are so bad, but . . . they’re just people. In fact, the only people I’ve had fun hanging out with here have been boys. But here it is weird for boys to hang out with girls. In Hemingway, the boys hang out with the boys (‘boy’ = footballer who plays video games, drinks beer, wears blue, listens to rock music, likes tits, and will likely one day become a politician/work in finance and have a mild coke habit) and the girls hang out with the girls (‘girl’ = would-be accountant/footballer’s wife/housewife who dyes her hair blonde, drinks wine, wears pink clothes and orange make-up, dances to light RnB, likes pretty-boys and will likely one day have a mild coke habit).
So mostly I just hang out by myself, and sometimes Emma Best will come over with Laura, Fay and a few other people and talk to me. She blatantly digs for dirt all the time. On anyone. I can only take so much of them. I’m just not built for it. It’s not like I’m not incredibly observant and witty (and cocky); it’s just I’m not interested in bitching about or to people. But for some reason, Emma, Fay and Laura always come up to and sit right next to me. This morning I stuck my headphones in as soon as they arrived, to indicate I was busy.
If I’m not in the IT room,
T hat’s all I have. It just came to me this morning, while I was doing my homework on the computer in the IT room. It repeats in my head, along a rhythm, but no other words come. I love writing poetry, but it comes slow sometimes. I often write a bit while I do my homework in the IT room in the morning, or at lunchtime. I’ve noticed it’s the place where all the kids without friends go.
Let’s face it: I do not have friends. It’s not by choice. I don’t know why. I used to have one in primary school. We were tight, we used to make up all sorts of stories together and play imaginary games all the time. We had imaginary dogs and cats. Mine was a kitten called Tabby and she had a puppy called Max. I don’t like to be arrogant, but I was a good friend. We used to swap presents we made for each other all the time. I always made a big deal out of birthdays. But then when we were twelve I moved away, here, to Hemingway. We lived in Islington in North London. Then my mum and dad moved jobs to ones in Oxford and we moved here.
I never see my old friend now. It’s OK. It’s been four years. I never really met anyone at this school who was like me. There were a few near hits, and a lot of misses. I don’t mind it being just me now. I’m used to it, I guess, but I do miss knowing there’s someone out there who can stand me, who maybe thinks I’m funny, and is funny back. I miss having someone to be ridiculous and piss myself for ages with; I miss having someone who makes me feel like I’m not weird, or maybe that, no matter how weird I am, there’s someone out there who is just as weird as me. Sometimes I panic about that, but then that’s crazy. I’m only sixteen. I’ll meet someone cool.
After I’ve done my homework, I go to the common room. I sit alone as usual. Emma, Laura and Fay are nearby. They are halfway girls. Halfway pretty, halfway popular, halfway mean and halfway nice. Sometimes I hang out with them when I’m bored.
‘OMG,’ says Emma. ‘Did he really? He’s so hot.’
‘Oh my god, yeah, totally.’ Laura nods.
‘But his girlfriend is such a slaaaaag,’ Fay chimes in.
‘Right, Sylvie?’ says Emma, looking at me.
‘Right.’ I nod. I don’t know who they’re talking about. I don’t know why they talk to me. My guess is that I make a good audience. Everyone here bitches about each other and talks about boys all day. I don’t get it. I thought they were joking when I first came here, because who bitches so much about their friends behind their backs? And who would make boys like the ones at Hemingway the centre of their universe? Blah people. Small town blah people. So I don’t say anything. I just listen.
Not that the boys are so bad, but . . . they’re just people. In fact, the only people I’ve had fun hanging out with here have been boys. But here it is weird for boys to hang out with girls. In Hemingway, the boys hang out with the boys (‘boy’ = footballer who plays video games, drinks beer, wears blue, listens to rock music, likes tits, and will likely one day become a politician/work in finance and have a mild coke habit) and the girls hang out with the girls (‘girl’ = would-be accountant/footballer’s wife/housewife who dyes her hair blonde, drinks wine, wears pink clothes and orange make-up, dances to light RnB, likes pretty-boys and will likely one day have a mild coke habit).
So mostly I just hang out by myself, and sometimes Emma Best will come over with Laura, Fay and a few other people and talk to me. She blatantly digs for dirt all the time. On anyone. I can only take so much of them. I’m just not built for it. It’s not like I’m not incredibly observant and witty (and cocky); it’s just I’m not interested in bitching about or to people. But for some reason, Emma, Fay and Laura always come up to and sit right next to me. This morning I stuck my headphones in as soon as they arrived, to indicate I was busy.
If I’m not in the IT room,
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