Felix is calling.
‘What?’ I snap into my phone.
‘Hello, to you too.’
I roll my eyes at nobody. Felix loves pointing out my social shortcomings. I’m like his own personal fix-it project. ‘Did you want something?’
‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Why? Do you want me to come over and kick your blind ass?’
‘You know you don’t stand a chance.’
He’s right, so I ignore him.
‘Anyway, I’m not talking about chess,’ he continues. ‘Come out. With me and Wallace.’
‘I’d rather pierce my ears with a staple gun.’
‘But you never come out with me!’
‘Then you should be used to it,’ I say and hang up.
I drop the phone on the bed beside me. Felix is right. I never go out with him. But get a grip buddy, there are a million things I never do, and going out with Felix (and his nauseatingly sweet girlfriend) is quite possibly number five thousand and eleven on my ‘to-do’ list. Number one?
Kiss.
I don’t know what would be better—to kiss or be kissed. There is a difference you know. Something about being wanted and wanting, a definite difference. Both smacking fantastic as far as I can see. Yes, I’m aware that I’ve put way too much thought into this. And yes, I’m aware that at seventeen, it’s pathetic that I haven’t even managed the slimiest of snogs. But what can you do? My limp and ragged heart hangs on a nail waiting to be found by pretty much anyone.
But anyone is a strong word.
An aromatherapy candle light flickers across my bedroom ceiling. It’s supposed to make me serene, but it’s not working. I’m as anxious and irritable as ever. The cerebral pathways of my brain are choked up like they’re lined with yoghurt.
I need to do something. Something fun.
Maybe I could do something with Rose. My sister is the poster girl for tedious, but anything is better than lying here. I stand up and catch sight of the empty mirror. Blagh. Seventeen and never been kissed. For me it’s not just a cliché—it’s a terminal condition.
Out in the living room, Mal has his feet on the table like his big hairy back owns the place. I don’t know how Rose stands him but here she is, still in her nurse’s uniform after a nine-hour shift, bringing him a drink. I half expect her to be wearing an apron, à la Stepford Wife. I snort loudly in disgust. She glances my way, panic-stricken, so I snort again and stalk back to my room, slamming the door. I hear her muttering the usual explanations to Mal before she follows me. It makes me sick.
‘He won’t be here long, Olive,’ she says, closing the door behind her. ‘Do you want to watch Model Life when he goes?’
The window squeals as I haul it open. I really need to oil it. It totally screws up any stealth I try to achieve when I’m bailing this dump.
‘Whatever,’ I say, dipping through the window. I slide down the wall, the rubber soles of my boots burning. Thank god we’re ground floor.
Rose pokes her head out of the window. ‘Where are you going?’
‘For a hit of the city. I despise the oppressive monotony of the sprawl.’
‘Are you talking Virginia Woolf?’
‘Of course I’m talking Virginia Woolf!’ I yell back at her.