Thinking about it, she nice-freaked all over me at dinner the other night, after the cellar thing. Trying way too hard. I watched her: super-nervy. She cut the pasta using her knife for a few bites, then remembered and picked up the spoon. I pretended not to see, but Dad saw and he saw me not noticing and told me later that I have great manners. I really do.
If she turns up again she’ll get 100 per cent The Lovely Daughter and fuck-all of me.
I can’t wait. I literally can’t wait for things to get back to how they should be again.
Dad reckons I’m impatient, but in some great way. I know the truth: it’s not that I’m actually patient, I’m not, I’m impatient, but it isn’t all so uncomplicated and great, it’s more of a juicy flaw, a fat complicated spot that I enjoy squeezing. As soon as I see a dress online I want it not only delivered now, I want to be wearing it while I look for the next one I want. I actually do! I might eat a GoGo bar all nice and slow when my friends are around, but on my own it’s all over before the wrapper’s hit the bin. What? Just the way it is. If by any miracle I ace my GCSEs then I want the results today, I can’t wait weeks, I’ve earned now. Tiring, but I’ve come to appreciate it – patience is the most over-rated virtue, as Mum used to say, apparently. That must be why Dad likes me not having it.
It’s like with Will. Why should I wait for him to come to his senses and realise that his decision to let Caro Francis anywhere near him was just horrible? I mean, she’s all lumpy hips and boobage and no brains and she doesn’t even get his jokes so it’s not as if they can have a proper laugh together. And why would he be interested in someone who – let’s face it – he’s much better looking than? Like putting a 10 with a 5 ½ (the half is because boys seem to like obese chests, the five is basically for showing up and breathing); it won’t work. Seriously, she’s got these weird eyes, all puffy and glassy, clueless. Dead walrus eyes, I swear. He must have been so wasted. I’ll be doing him a massive favour by exposing their whole stupid human hubbly bubbly scenario. How tacky? He’ll thank me one day. Even if he won’t, I don’t think I can stop myself.
No, I don’t like waiting, not for anything. But I have waited for Will Benton for over nine months.
And for the record, I’ve always thought my own impatience started out as a rebellion against my stupid surname (any thoughts, AT?). Whenever someone says my name in full, I just think ‘Why the fuck should I?’
Mission accomplished! I yelled to Anna about the whole ridiculous hot-tub thing, she shrieked back and there you go – if Will goes near that sket again he will be torn to pieces by all his piss-taking mates (btw I’d never heard of a ‘nob-gobbler’ until Martin Howe shouted it mega-loud, then the staff asked us to please move away from all the Happy Meal eaters). Now I feel calm again. So that’s where the hell my white and silence went after the Year 11 (Group A) Modern Dance Prizegiving rehearsals yesterday – all sucked up by Caro Francis, never mind that bloody Darling.
When I’m furious in the morning and sunny at night, Dad tries to hug me into submission and says I’m a funny old mix, and don’t I just know it?
Sure do, Pops, sure do.
Can’t sleep again.
Was going to bin this crappy book as I can’t, to be honest, be arsed with yet more writing after weeks – literally gazillions of seconds I will never get back – spent in exam hell #smothermenow. But making this sad sacrifice to the great god AT is better than trying to lie still until I have another one of those dreams where I run and run and get nowhere. Maybe it is good to keep track of what I’ve done. Especially during the summer – I need structure, apparently. AT might say that’s linked to my impatience issues but I can’t hang around to find out (ha!). Gotta get the DONEs done.
So. End of term tomorrow. End of Harbrooke House too, forever – one final dull-as-fuck Prizegiving but Dad’s not bringing her, so that’s good. Time for the mums to get all teared up again (not mine, lol) and the dads to snort a term’s fees’ worth of champagne and canapés. Our parent-pleasing (rated U, no twerking) dance, then a trillion+ hours of the annual Year 13 tears and snot festival, bring wellies – ohlikemyGodIcantbelieveIllneverseeyouagaaain. Then I’ll dance my lil white mighty-fine booty off! Sorry, must stop doing that. I’m really not a racist.
All this to come, tomorrow. Will might even get dragged along to the evening – Georgie Benton wins everything in her year, always. That would keep me awake at least. After that it will finally be the start of my actual, proper life. No more Harbrooke House, no more rules to do my head in, just a crazy-long summer, then college and my time at last. End of.
Achievements
1 Started a FB group (no Caro Francis) for everyone going to the Mungojaxx festival which is actually going to be on Josh’s cousin’s farm, some fields near Henley. Have kept the Caro/Will cumfest offline for now (the screaming plan worked big time).
2 Added ten extra squats and twists to my morning workout. Roxie will cream her pants when she sees my insane leaps tomorrow. Get the fuck into the back row, Jane Forte!
3 Bought my first ever packet of Golden Kings using my fake ID. Sweated it, but Delhi Deli don’t give a toss. They’re not even a proper deli (no salami, no pastrami, no scotch eggs #grossguiltypleasure). No meat at all, people, bad for you or religiously impure or whatever … but go ahead, smoke yourself silly! (Don’t do it, kids, ever.)
4 Lost Thursday’s lunch. Mistake.
5 Practised in my head being nice to Dad’s date. Did not tell her she was totally not his type. Did tell him, of course. Did not ask her, ‘And who in Mcfuck’s name is even called “Darling”?’
SATURDAY, 23 JULY
It was time. My baby had been brought along to meet everybody, but he decided to show the world his tonsils at high volume when I tried to get him out of the car.
‘Come on, Stevie, sweetheart, they want to see you!’
‘No, Mum!’
‘Please, baby, come on, I’ll help you. My little Wonderboy …’
Just like that: the cheekster smile. My son took an inordinate, lips-pulled-wide pride in his name, especially when we played ‘Fingertips’, turned right up. He would not have to sing or perform, ever. But from the moment my future mathematician or philosopher or astronaut had first been flopped on to my chest, I knew he was Stevie (never Steven) Marcus White. My little star, my baby emperor.
‘Please, my love, for Mummy.’
In the distance a train shrieked its passage through the town into the fast-rolling fields.
‘Choo-choo!’ said Stevie.
‘Yes, sweetness, that’s right,’ I said. ‘Now … please?’
