I don’t feel well. Understatement of the year, the decade, the century. After exactly zero hour’s sleep, Sunday is just an extension of Saturday. I lie in bed for ages, waiting for my stomach to stop churning and for my thoughts to switch off. I can’t relax. I repeat, Lights off, nobody home, vainly trying to convince myself I’m done thinking for today. But … although the ecstatic feeling is long gone, the crazy thought process and wide-awakeness persist. Stop this ride! I want to get off!
I’m in conflict. Body wants to shut down; brain wants to talk. Right now, it’s chattering pretty damn loudly.
What if Isaac never accepts me as Finn’s girlfriend? Or he makes Finn choose between us? Finn won’t stop talking to his brother… And does Isaac really fancy me, like Finn said?
Isaacgate is coming. I can feel it.
And besides all that churning around in my head, this:
HOLY CRAP, I TOOK DRUGS.
THEY WERE AMAZING.
THANK FUCK, I’M STILL ALIVE.
OHMYGOD, I FEEL AWFUL.
Was it worth it? Now it’s over, feeling the pain of the comedown, the epic hangover, I’m not so sure.
I confide in Dad that I had a bit to drink on Saturday night. I can’t really hide that I’m a wreck, so I have to say something. He laughs. “That’ll learn ya.”
I fall asleep mid-afternoon, but wake at one thirty a.m., six hours ahead of schedule. Not good. I try to get back to sleep but my body refuses. I shift under the sheets, fluff my pillow, take some painkillers. Still awake. Then BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP… Siren of doom, most hated sound in the known universe. Why is it that now, at seven thirty a.m., when I actually have to get up and resemble a human being, I feel compelled to hibernate for ever? OH GOD. I have to go to school, and if they ask me what I did this weekend I’ll just crumble and cry because I am a sleep-deprived-shell-of-my-former-self wreck of a person today.
7.37 a.m.: Dad calls, “Carla, are you up?”
7.42 a.m.: He shouts again. No answer.
What do I do?
1. Lie: Pull a sickie, which, in the current circumstances, won’t exactly be a stretch of my acting talent.
2. Tell the truth: I have a two-day hangover.
Um, obviously I’m going with Option 1.
Did I hear that someone was off school with a stomach bug? A virus? No, too specific. Nausea and sore throat? Headache?
7.46 a.m.: Dad taps on my door.
I pull the duvet around my neck. It smells like dust and shampoo. I straighten my pyjama top over my stomach and rub my feet together in an attempt to get comfortable. I don’t want to lie to Dad, but … it’s not technically lying because I feel like death, yet it is my doing. I am, just a smidgen, in the wrong.
Suck it up. Go to school.
I sit up in bed. The walls spin. I’m not going anywhere.
Lights off, nobody home. Go away, conscience.
I made this happen, but to be honest, the guilt card is totally trumped by the grim death card. I can’t go to school like this. I don’t want to show my face in the mirror, let alone a classroom.
“Carla, you’ll be late if you don’t get up now.”
I rummage in my portfolio of physical abilities for “constructing sentences and speaking aloud”. I swear it’s like I have to switch a skill off to allow another one to switch on. Honestly: turn off “balance and spatial awareness”, turn on “listen and assimilate information”. Multi-tasking is a no-go after no sleep.
“Not feeling well, think I should stay home,” I croak.
“What’s up? Can I come in?” he asks, brimming with concern.
No, don’t come in.
“Yeah, come in,” I say. “Feel sick. Bit of a headache.”
Dad hesitates, weighing up what’s best to do on his invisible parenting scales. A cough, forlorn expression and “Dad, please” tip them in my favour, but he isn’t stupid.
“Carla,” he says accusingly. Yet he feels my forehead and adds, “You are a bit warm.” His eyebrows rise like helium balloons. “I’m such a bloody pushover. Don’t tell your mother I let you stay home. And no more boozing. Even at the weekend.”
Dad disappears downstairs. Five minutes later, he’s back. “I rang school. If you’re up to it later, you can get your assignments online.”
“OK,” I say.
He gets my laptop from the desk. “Don’t download too many movies.”
He kisses me on the forehead, then exits with a gust that whips my door shut.
I screw up that last atom of guilt like a receipt for a top I couldn’t afford.
Lights off, nobody home…