The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (14 page)

It wasn't so bad really. Her third kiss. With her eyes closed, she couldn't really tell it was Holdo. He could be just about anybody. In fact, in her imagination, he was Hugo for a while. And then Mr Fellows. And then Al Pacino had a turn. Why not?

Bored of kissing, she decided to move things up a notch.

She grabbed Holdo's hand and pushed it up under her cashmere jumper so he was cupping her boob. He groaned – a sort of puppy-like yelp of pleasure – and squeezed it so hard it hurt a bit.

It was actually okay. Having Holdo cup her boob. Again, with her eyes closed, he could be just about anyone.

With new confidence, Holdo moved his other hand up to her other boob all on his own. Bree analysed the sensation with detached interest. She decided it felt a bit like her boobs were two stress balls and Holdo had had a really hard day at the office.

Well, that's a new metaphor. See? This “make your life interesting thing” is turning out to be fruitful after all.

But she needed more. The stress-ball boob-grabbing and sloppy tongue-kissing weren't absolving her guilt fast enough.

She leaned back on the sofa and pulled Holdo's body weight on top of her. They fell on each other clumsily but he kept his mouth on hers. Wiggling to adjust her position so she didn't get squashed, she ran her hands down the front of his scrawny chest, the way she'd seen people do it in movies. Then she moved her hand so it was stroking Holdo's groin.

He jumped away from her, eyes wide. The kiss broken. “What are you doing?”

Bree pretended she didn't feel complete and utter humiliation. “I was just, you know…?”

Fear raced all over Holdo's face; the blood drained from it.

“What? You want us to have sex?”

“Sure? Why not?”

It was a bad choice of wording.

“It's not a big deal for you?” He looked confused now as well as scared. And maybe a bit hurt. She thought back on what had happened in the last two minutes and tried to work out why. But she couldn't get her brain to make any sense.

“It's just sex, isn't it? It's what people do. It's what everyone else our age does. Why shouldn't we do it?” She ran her hand through her new blonde hairdo and it stayed slicked back with sweat. She could still taste Holdo's tongue in her mouth. Mixed with cranberry juice. And a little bit of vodka.

Holdo's face was going through an extraordinary range of emotions very quickly. “Erm…Bree? What did that kiss just mean to you?”

Think, brain
, she thought.
Say something clever.

“I thought it would be a nice gift. To make up for being such a dick recently.”

His expression turned into just plain hurt. “You mean…you didn't want to kiss me?”

“No…I mean…yes. You're my best friend.”

“But you didn't want to kiss me?”

“Well…‘want' is a confusing word.”

“No it's not, Bree. It's a simple verb.”

“It can also be a noun, you know?”

“That's beside the point. Why were you just about to have sex with me, Bree? Why? Because lust apparently hasn't come into it.” His voice was choking. Tears? No. Boys didn't cry, did they? This had gone so horribly wrong. She had to make him understand.

“Because I wanted to make it up to you. It's what everyone does, isn't it? And, well, I know you won't really get the chance unless I do it with you. And I wanted to make it up to you…”

Sense that was. Perfect sense.
So why is he almost crying?

He didn't speak. Bree used the time to pull herself upright on the sofa.

“Holdo?”

He wouldn't look at her. His hands were in his hair and he stared vacantly at a nondescript bit of carpet.

“Holdo? I'm sorry…”

He said something, but his voice was so quiet she could barely hear him.

“What was that?”

“I think you should leave,” he repeated.

Her eyes widened. Never ever in the history of their friendship had Holdo ever asked her to leave his company. Not even when she said she thought the
Lord of the Rings
trilogy was a bit overrated.

“Holdo? Come on…” She tried to laugh it off.

“Please, Bree. I don't know who you are any more. Whatever it is you're doing, whoever it is you're trying to be, I don't wanna know her. Please leave.”

Stunned and sobered up (almost), Bree stood. She hovered for a moment, waiting for him to say something that made it better.

There was nothing but silence.

Silence and a bit of wheezing – Holdo wheezed when he got emotional. She knew that because they were best friends.

Were…

She stumbled out of his room and the door swung shut behind her.

The urge started in her fingertips as she ran the short distance home. She clenched and unclenched her fists, hoping to contain the feeling there. But it spread up her arms and down through her chest. Her heart hurt. It was suffocating in the negative energy building around it. The feeling spread round her body like an infection.

She needed to get it out somehow.

Bree never cried. She didn't know how. She was broken somehow. She
wanted
to cry – because how brilliant it would be if she could cry right then. If she could let all the poison out with healthy, scar-free tears. She tripped over her feet and let out a yelp. She tried to turn it into a sob, trying to teach herself to cry, like a child shakily learning the alphabet. But she was emotionally dyslexic.

The poison hurt worse and worse. As she stamped in the security code on the gates to her home, it had settled in her stomach like an unlit bomb. With every step, another awful memory of that night flashbulbed into her brain.

Left step.
The look on Holdo's face just now.

Right step.
Laughing about him with the perfect posse.

Left step.
Sucking up to Jass and feeling sick about it.

Right step.
Deliberately not letting Jessica borrow the lipstick.

Bad person. Bad person. You're a horrible useless awful bad person.

By the time she let herself into the kitchen to get a glass of water, the decision had been made. She floated up the stairs and quietly let herself into her room. The urgency built and built.

Bree walked into the bathroom and locked the door.

Half an hour passed, maybe an hour, before the bathroom door reopened. A calmer teenager emerged, who winced when she sat at her desk and opened her laptop.

Bree began to type.

Rule number two: One must make friends with other attractive people

So I'm attractive, therefore you now care about me.

Therefore it only makes logical sense that I'm to befriend other attractive people so we can trade exploits like Pokémon cards.

I've thrown myself into the lion pit. And the lions have perfectly kept, highlighted manes, straightened with GHDs.

Here's the thing. “Interesting” has another meaning: “popular”. Because one isn't popular without being interesting and one isn't interesting without being popular.

I've been told that we'll all grow out of this, of course. When we “mature” and all that bollocks. Soon, one beautiful day, we'll all grow the hell up and emerge into the real world, rubbing our eyes and realizing that the quiet computer geek is actually much more interesting than the popular people at school.

But this is puberty, folks. And the most interesting people are the ones you wish you could be.

Come on. You all have them. That group of people who have grown into their faces five years before the rest of us. The ones who wouldn't know a real problem if it Cossack-danced right in front of them. The teenagers who know how to work people, who ooze confidence, and have this seemingly perfect and exciting life that you'll never have an admission ticket to. I bet you can name them. Right now. There'll be at least four names you can list immediately. Four people you know all about, and yet, to them, your existence isn't something they've given any thought to. Unless it's while they're torturing you.

Got that list of four names?

Good. Because those four – I've infiltrated them for you. I'm your mole. Your heavily-made-up mole. I'll report back everything you want to know about these people. What do they really do? What are they really like? And, most importantly, what are their flaws?

It doesn't matter that my gang isn't your gang. My list of four isn't your list of four. Because here's the really depressing thing – they're all exactly the same. Secondary school is just a bunch of clichés repeated over and over, day after day, all over the world. There are, everywhere, in every corridor, popular people strutting about, flaunting their perfect lives to make you feel more miserable.

And I'm going to expose them for the fakes they really are.

The weekend passed and the cuts scabbed over. By the next week, Bree was fully immersed in her new double life.

She and Jassmine met at the corner every morning and gossiped on the way in.

School was different. Walking through the corridors used to be a nightmare. She would get bashed into, and would have to dodge and weave her way into safe tributaries, taking the odd nasty comment. Now people parted when she walked to class. And it wasn't just there either. Bree could enter any toilet and suddenly one of the mirrors – prime school real-estate – would become free so she could reapply her make-up.

There was no queuing in the canteen either. Although it wasn't like the perfect posse ate much anyway. So far acceptable food consisted of chips, salt and vinegar crisps, gum, mineral water, and apples. Bree began to realize that her previous tuna sandwich binges may have been part of her original downfall. When they weren't sharing a bag of crisps (between FIVE – so hungry!), they would bitch about anyone who wasn't sitting at the same table. It was odd really, how many different ways Jassmine and her friends could be offended by other students' behaviour. Especially as those other girls spent all their time trying to please the posse.

“Like, oh my God, did you see the size of Rachel's skirt today? It's like, love, I'm not your gynaecologist. Put your flaps away.”

“Tanya's voice annoys me so much. It's just so screechy. I swear she does it on purpose to get attention. Especially as no one cares about her any more now her dad won't let her throw those insane house parties.”

“I heard Kimmy let Russell's big brother touch her up at Abi's seventeenth birthday party at Pizza Express. UNDER THE TABLE. I don't know if that makes her a slut. Or him a raving paedo.”

Their hatred for others was what gave them their power. Disdain won them cool points. And they were all protected because they had something to offer. Bree vaguely remembered Tanya had used to be pretty friendly with them. But apparently not after her dad's party prevention inadvertently expelled her from the popular gang.

Luckily, Bree's mum kept up a steady supply of must-have beauty products, so her current account with the perfect posse was well in the black. She hoped she was in favour for more reasons than that…though she wasn't sure. She struggled to keep up the levels of enthusiasm needed to partake in their false exchanges, and occasionally let out the odd eye-roll or snort of contempt. At first she tried to cover them up, until she noticed her judgemental behaviour stopped Jassmine and the girls in their tracks. They would look at her nervously, waiting for her to join in again.

Perhaps, because Bree had such universal disdain for everyone – including them – she was the strongest of them all.

Either way, time with the posse was invaluable. She'd already learned that…

1) Everybody, yes, every single person had a nickname

Jass and the girls had an incredible ability to create harshly accurate names for everyone in their school year. They had brought Bree up to speed while queuing for chips in the school's five-star cafeteria. There was Aaron Brown, aka “Spunk Fingers”, a football obsessive who was once caught wanking in school over an issue of
Nuts
magazine. Poor Rebecca Knightly, a shy but lovely hockey girl, was known as “Hell Face”. Okay, so she had spots…but she had a really nice personality.

“Anyone who is described as having a ‘nice personality' is minging,” Jassmine informed Bree when she pointed this out. “It's linguistic spin. Like everyone fat in the world gets described as ‘bubbly'.”

Chuck from Bree's English class was called “Personality Hair”. A whole girly gang who Bree had thought were on good terms with the perfect posse were called the “Pleaselikemes”.

Bree put a vitamin water on her tray. “So what was my nickname? You know, before you realized I'm actually amazing?”

Jassmine looked down and Jessica giggled nervously. Gemma, however, wasn't embarrassed.

“I told you at Jass's. You were ‘Twatty McGeek'.”

“Right… Er, why?”

“Cos you were a twat…and a geek.”

It was surprising how much hearing it hurt her feelings.

Brazen it out. Keep them scared.

“Fair enough. Well, I'd rather be known as a geek than ‘Bitch in the Ditch'.”

Gemma furrowed her eyebrows. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Bree shrugged, like it was nothing. “You guys aren't the only ones who come up with nicknames. Us underclass ‘twats' can
make things up too.”

Gemma looked a bit scared by that. “Okay. I get the bitch part. But what does the ditch part mean?”

Bree reached the till and handed a tenner over to the canteen lady. “It's where the rest of the school wishes your dead body would be found.”

The others cracked up while Gemma looked temporarily terrified. “No way.”

“Yes way.” She was lying of course. But Gemma didn't need to know that.