Later on, as we’re walking home from school, Lauren checks her phone.
“You’re on Mr. Style Shame, Mills. But that was pretty inevitable, really. Anyone in the cafeteria could have sent him that photo. And it’s not got THAT many likes.”
I don’t really know how I feel about this. “Check Erin’s account, Loz.”
“Millie! She’s got over nine thousand followers now. And there are loads of photos of her and Danny. They do look really good together.”
This feels a bit much. I death-stare Lauren. “I know. I’ve seen them.”
“Oh! She’s also posted a photo of all your spilled chips and the smashed plate! But the caption is actually really nice. Look! Why would she do that?”
I read what Erin has written.
Don’t you just love that feeling you get when you see two people who are just meant to be together? Today at school a girl fell over and dropped her lunch tray, and a lovely boy helped her up #ChipRomance #GeekLove I heart seeing people who might not be lucky enough to have loads of friends being kind to other people who really do need #Help #Heartwarming
“You see,” Lauren says. “That’s actually really lovely.”
Lauren has completely missed the evil point. “So it’s kind to say someone really needs help and is less fortunate than you?”
“I’ve heard you say things sort of like that,” Lauren snaps back.
And Lauren has, but this is different. Erin is a genius of horrible. She can make it sound nice, but I know this is just a really clever way to have a dig at me. I know I’m right because underneath people have commented with a whole load of crying-with-laughter emojis and TRAGIC!s. But there’s no way to respond—if I have a go at her, it’s ME who looks like a cow.
Lauren can see that I’m flat, but she’s acting all hard and odd. “Why don’t you vlog about how falling over isn’t the worst thing in the world, even though, at the moment, it feels like that. You do need to get over yourself a bit, Mills. It really could have been worse.”
Lauren has completely failed to grasp that I am having a total life disaster. All I can think of and all I can hear is the amount of people who are either laughing at me or feeling sorry for me all over the world.
“Bye, Millie. Hope you feel better.”
You’d think your BFF would be able to make you feel better. But Lauren just slinks off into the sunlight.
When I get back to Granddad’s, I slam my bag on the sofa and sort of collapse like a massive splat of pasta sauce that’s jumped off Teresa’s plate. She’s the world’s messiest eater.
UNBELIEVABLY, Dad is home AND he actually notices that I am down. “What’s up, Lady Mills?”
He says it like he thinks it’s something minor. He’s missed out on loads. There’s no point telling him about what Erin has done. He won’t get it and will just say something sweet but useless. So I tell him that I fell over in the cafeteria and my chips went everywhere.
Dad doesn’t laugh or say I’m being stupid. He just says, “You must have felt very embarrassed by that.”
Which I did and I do, but, in a way, I want him to say, “Don’t be silly, Millie! It’s just a fall,” or “Pick yourself up and get on with it!” like Mum would. But Dad is not Mum. He is sweet in a different way. In an understanding way. I can’t believe I do not want understanding. What is happening to me?!
But now that I’ve got Dad, I might as well talk to him.
“It’s just that I remember you telling me about Nicholas Clarkson, Dad, and the time he lost his trunks—and that was twenty years ago. Even I can sing the song about him—”
Dad interrupts me. “Yes, I did tease him, Millie. But do you know what Nicholas Clarkson is doing now? He develops apps and software, drives a Porsche, and goes to Barbados twice a year. I think he’s got over the fact that he was naked in a swimming pool decades ago. He probably swims naked out of choice in his own private swimming pool now. No one is laughing at him. He’s laughing at us. Life is a marathon, Mills—not a sprint. And in the marathon, he’s at the finish line getting his medal and bar of chocolate, and I’m at mile two with a stitch in my side. I’m racing around trying to make money. I’m missing out on you growing up, even though you’re here. I’m making a mess of it all, Millie.…”
Dad looks gutted. The thing is, he is sort of right; he still lives with his dad and sister and I haven’t seen him for quite a long time. But then I remember what Granddad told me: Dad’s funny and kind. He’s sweet to me. He still gets on with Mum.
“You’re not making a mess of things. I think you’re brilliant,” I say, and I give him a hug.
Dad has brought out my sensible, problem-sorter side again. I feel better.
“Oh, ignore your old dad. You make things very excellent being here, and I’m very proud of you. You won’t end up like me. You, Millie, have BRAINS. Your dad’s handsome looks”—and he winks—“but your mother’s brain. If I were you, I would just forget about tripping. It’s a momentary lapse in a life that is otherwise fairly glorious, wouldn’t you say?”
Dad pats me on the back and says, “Right, lady. What would you like for tea? Chips? CHIPS! CHIPS! Let’s have chips, Millie. Let’s reestablish chips as lovely things in your mind. LET US REHABILITATE THE MIGHTY CHIP-O AND REMIND YOU THAT FRIED FOOD IS YOUR FRIEND!”
Dad shouting brings Granddad in. “What on earth is going on?” he grumbles. “Why are we shouting about chips? Is that what it’s come to? Excitement about potatoes?”
Dad laughs and starts dancing around Granddad. “Yes! Yes! It has. Chips! Chips! FRIED BROWN CRISPY LOVELY CHIIIIIPSSSSSS!”
“Daft fool!” Granddad eventually says. This makes both Dad and me giggle a lot.
I feel better and brave again.
“Can I borrow your shed, Granddad?”
“Well, I was going to escape from this house of nutters to do some potting, but go on then. I can’t be saved from them, but perhaps you can.”
Dad’s chat has left me feeling a bit better. Why do these little things matter? They shouldn’t. It’s like everything gets completely blown out of proportion. And I want to tell everyone that they shouldn’t and that you can lose your pants and still end up having amazing foreign holidays. I won’t say that, but I will tell people that TINY MISTAKES JUST DON’T MATTER. And Erin and her brilliant frayed-in-just-the-right-places jeans and her totally amazing way of being horrible while pretending to be nice can just go and CRASH in an I’ve-lost-my-Wi-Fi-and-nothing-is-downloading way.
I don’t want her to actually crash.