My boyfriend came down from university this weekend, which put an end to last week’s brief foray into homosexuality faster than you can say, "my parents are out". It also did wonders to remind me that staying in bed past 11 will result in emails from teachers getting all up in my personal space, intruding the sanctity of my bedroom to ask me why I skipped their idiotic fucking practice exam. Like, CHILL OUT, guys! I’m ashing into the teacup I took from my mum’s best crockery cabinet to make my man coffee in. I’m a full-grown lady now, which means I also have a condom to dispose of. There are worse kinds of late than not being on time to yet another lecture about Thomas Robert Malthus (though evidently we share some opinions on population control).
Another factor keeping me firmly between the sheets is that school is rubbish at the moment. Break times are becoming the only periods of rest I’m getting in between tearfully snogging my soon-to-depart boyfriend and ploughing through Bronte. Though if Brett has his way I’ll never sleep peacefully through a lunch-hour again.
For some reason my boggle-eyed, calculator-toting Brettski is attempting some kind of fascist coup in the fucking canteen. I always knew he was born different (most members of my generation were at least five before they learned to hack into the Pentagon) but I literally had no idea he was this bat-shit insane. I thought braniacs were meant to be the rational ones who don’t buy into crazy ideologies or whatever, till the other day when I was happily dozing and Brett sidled over and jabbed me in the forearm.
“Greetings, Berlinder.” It could have been because his boy-crush, the scarily clever and sallow-skinned Ashley, was sat to my right, but Brett appeared to be inordinately cheerful. Like, he didn’t even seem remotely fussed that he’d sloshed Yop all down his Microsoft T-shirt, and he was baring his teeth in what I presumed was a friendly grimace. A little disconcerting. Scary, even.
Swaying gently on his heels, Brett gleefully dismissed my book as “worthless, and infinitely inferior to the sciences”, before launching into a tirade about the state of the country. He started whispering that his “fascist movement” has 400 members in the UK, and that the manifesto (“Which I co-wrote, Berlinder! Twenty percent! A fifth!”) had been “very well-received in Hungary and Greece”.
After briefly entertaining the idea that Brett might be BFFs with the Golden Dawn, I politely declined the invitation to join his burgeoning gang of xenophobes. Brett took this very personally. “You wouldn’t fit in anyway,” he spat. “I bet you’re a Hufflepuff – well let me tell you Shephard, I’m Slytherin to my very core!” The rest of the conversation was a whirlwind of snarls. I tuned out after a while; when someone’s so angry that talking makes them launch globules of saliva onto your face there’s, like, no point in arguing with them. (JUST LIKE DAD’S EX-EX WIFE, LULZ.)
Midway through Brett’s follow-up soliloquy on the benefits of nationalised banks, I started to crumble, finally gritting my teeth and growling, “I hate to break this to you babe, but you really lack the charisma to become, like, Stalin Reloaded. I mean, you’re puce-faced, and you do tend to yank big ole’ handfuls of people’s hair out when they vex you. You also have a staring problem.” Disappointingly unruffled, he immediately launched into a speech about his “comrade” in Birmingham. So I did what any bored, provocative, self-righteous 17-year-old would do in my position: I lied and told him I was a bit Jewish.
Brett stopped ranting. He squinted at me.
“Oh. Interesting. Exactly how Jewish are you?”
My days of cafeteria dreaming are over, and I so don’t wanna go into school tomorrow. Brett’s probably carved the star of David into my locker, and put a load of snuff porn on my iPhone with his mad hacking skills. Uuuurgh. The 9-3 grind is almost definitely going to kill me. How do grown-ups tolerate shit like his?