It's not doing wonders for my mental health.
Photo by Bob B. Brown
Remember how much schoolwork I got done last week? Well, forget it, that tiny window of (relative) productivity has been barricaded shut to the world, because this week I had to deal with the sixth form erupting in a maelstrom of ripped weaves, snide BBMs and hurled sweets. All that adolescent tension finally reached a head – like a big, oozy spot on a fat girl’s chin. Horrid.
I don’t know what brought it on, I really don’t, but in a sudden inexplicable bid to seize control, the Year 12s decided to stage a coup on the Year 13 sofas. Let me set the scene: after a particularly arduous history lesson we arrived in the common room to find them all sprawled on our sofas, their crusty faux creepers smearing dried mud on our sodding seats, their fucking tongue piercings wantonly oozing pus. My friend Penel, naturally, led us into battle; all that time she's spent throwing javelin and sneaking boys out of dorm room windows has left her with the toned arms of an Adonis, and the "take no prisoners" attitude of a drugs baron.
It was a bloodbath of lipgloss and salt and vinegar crisps, but eventually we re-captured our lost territory. Weirdly enough, my military-minded pal Brettski was conspicuously absent during our squabble. Where is he? What is up with him? Crazed, slightly autistic xenophobe he may be, I still care about him a little bit. You know, in the way you care about an unruly pet, or that girl who always pukes at a party. Not that heartfelt or sincere, but still; you don’t want to wake up and find them semi-conscious, groaning in a pool of their own urine and barf.
In other, even more dramatic news, I think Rebecca Knadwell is channeling psychic power from her weave. Like, she looks at me, and I can see it in her eyes that she knows something. And it’s not just because she went mega-OTT with the Rimmel again. Maybe she's stumbled upon a secret so dark, even I don’t know it yet. Obviously having appointed herself Queen Bee means she already knows several embarrassing truths of mine (snogged best friend’s brother, didn’t find out what a urethra was ‘till Year 12, etc), but I’m starting to worry it’s become a full-scale invasion. She seems to be collecting vast amounts of information about every member of my girl-gang, perhaps with the intention of emotionally crippling us with blackmail, and leaving us sobbing and ashen-faced in the library. Whenever we cross paths with her in the corridor she fixes us with her best Tilda Swinton stare, smoulderingly flipping her expensive Russian hair as she struts past. Scary. Minnie has this theory that she’s sold her soul to the devil (for black magic, in return for the hearts of teenage boys) and that her weave is actually a familiar (probably a rat, if we’re honest) to watch over her evil deeds. Personally, I think this is evidence that Minnie’s watched Rosemary’s Baby a zillion times too many, but everyone else is convinced that this is plausible, so IDK.
Anyway, I knew we'd find out whether Bexy's hair was a nefarious demon creature soon enough, because incessant rain has turned the sixth form girls' toilets into a cluster-fuck of mini hairdryers and balls of excess extension. Due to pretty much every self-respecting/self-loathing teen girl having the obligatory seven yards of carefully tousled mane, all you can hear in there is the moist squelch of hair being wrung and torn out, after chain smoking ciggies in a torrential downpour. Ah! Knadders has lovingly bundled her "weave" up into a head-scarf. Okay, Minnie was right. It’s definitely a twitching demon. What black magic will she perform next? Will she disrupt the Children In Need dress-up fundraiser on Friday? A fiver says Brett comes as Stalin and blows this dump to kingdom come.