Post–break-up advice: Take pain, screw up pain into ball, throw ball away.
But it’s not that simple.
I miss Finn, but more than that, I guess I’m grieving for what I’ve lost out on – the dream – the perfect life. Because that life doesn’t exist, does it? So now I feel hollow, foolish, alone.
It’s like I’ve come down with a terrible illness. A serious case of Woe-is-me. Symptoms include:
1. snot-pillow. You know what I’m talking about. Crusty-salty snot-pillow. And I don’t even change it because that would be like admitting I’m over it when clearly I will stay heartbroken for ever.
2. max-lyrical. Every song I hear is relevant. I find poignant meaning in jingles for cat litter, theme songs to Saturday-night game shows, and every ballad is CLEARLY about us.
3. sadvertising. Adverts featuring puppies/toasters/old people are now as emotional to watch as Schindler’s List.
4. pine-language. I now communicate exclusively by grunts and shoulder-shrugs.
There’s a week until half-term, then study leave and EXAMS.
One more week of Finn. Just get through it.
Let me rephrase: AAaAaaAAaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhhh!!!!! Kill me now.
In the common room, I sit with Lauren and Sienna, right back where I started this year. Across from us, Violet drapes herself over Finn. He’s not that into it, but he doesn’t seem to hate it either. She is beautiful after all. Maybe he’s hoping it’ll make me jealous. And I guess I am, just a little. OK, I am. A lot.
Finn glances at me. My stomach twists.
He passes by where Lauren, Sienna and I sit. Hesitates. Looks like he’s about to say something. I drop my gaze. Can’t do this. He walks on, out of the room, Violet trailing behind him. She stops. Turns back.
“So, Finn’s taking me to the Blitz Board Fest on Saturday. Doesn’t he look hot when he’s boarding? He’s so talented.”
I can’t help but screw up my face.
“You didn’t really think it would work out between you and him, did you? That’s cute.”
I look up. It takes all my willpower to stop myself ripping her arm off and stabbing her in the eye with her own perfectly painted nails.
I’m breaking inside.
Violet actually smiles. I’m afire. All my muscles tense. I stand up. Look her in the eye.
I say … nothing.
“Bye-bye,” she says and heads out.
Thirty seconds later I’ve got a list of witty remarks filed under “Things I Should Have Said”:
1. You didn’t think things would work out between you and that shade of eyeshadow, did you? Oh, you did.
2. Sorry, I don’t speak Twat. ME ENGLISH.
3. Piss off, you Ritalin-addled whore.
OK, 3 isn’t so witty but I wish I’d said it.
I consider telling Havelock about the Ritalin, but why bother? I’m many things but a snitch isn’t one of them.
Instead, I head to Paluk for a not-so-fun-filled Finn-and-Violet-filled Chemistry class. Someone links my arm and pulls me into the toilets.
“Tell me everything that’s happened,” Georgia says.
“We broke up. End of,” I say.
“Not end of. Maybe you’ll get back together.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, checking my make-up in the mirror. I’ve welled up more than once today.
“Well, you have to sort it before Brighton.”
“Brighton?”
“Yeah, results day. Sun, sea and seriously loud music. We’ve booked a hostel. Not that I expect we’ll be sleeping much.”
Georgia straightens her top, then reapplies her lipstick.
“Not happening,” I say.
“We’re all going. You wouldn’t have to be with him all the time… It’s not for ages yet. Maybe things will have blown over by then.”
“I doubt those guys would want me there.”
“So what? I’m asking you.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, but I’d sooner chew off my own leg than spend time with Finn and Violet.
“It’s your day, too, you know.”
I shrug. Even before the exams, I know results day will definitely not be a good day.
School is like sucking lemons. A rain shower drums on the window of A2. Biology textbooks on my left, Emily Dickinson poems on my right, I try to revise. But all I’ve amassed is a page of doodles. I tear it out and screw it up. The next page is full of drawings of ladders swirling higgledy-piggledy across one another. Chequerboards heavily shaded. Crosses. Beams of light. What do they mean?
Under the desk, I take out my phone and search online. Black is associated with seriousness and a bleak outlook. No shit, Sherlock. Anarchic doodles suggest coping issues or mental distress. On the money. Emotional people who crave love tend to draw rounded shapes, or symbols of femininity and eternity. Those who like to be in control and crave security tend to draw square shapes. I want to be in control again. Bingo.
A salmon-pink–shirted Havelock peers down at me. I stare at his brown loafers. He crouches down to my level. I die inside as twenty heads turn my way.
He scans my doodles, then taps my book. “See me after class.”
I nod.
I wait for the room to empty before facing Havelock.
I know what he’s going to say before he says it.
“You all right, Carla?”
I beg the curtains for an answer. I pray to the whiteboard. Should I be honest?
“I’m way behind, Mr Havelock.”
“There’s still time, Carla. You can do this.” I shrug. Havelock continues. “I realize you’ve been having some, er … difficulties, recently… If you need to talk to someone…”
I die again inside. Cringe. I like Havelock, but enough with the pally-pally stuff.
“I know that, but no. Really, I’m fine. What I don’t know is what the Emily Dickinson poems mean, or about gene theory or all the rest, and it’s too late now.”
Havelock can’t think what to say.
“See you later, sir.” I make for the door.
“Don’t give up, Carla,” Havelock calls.