My Dating Disasters Diary (4 page)

Fortunately for him, none of the information was
remotely interesting so people soon got fed up and left.
Within half an hour I was the only person left in the
house, not counting Angela and her dull new boyfriend.
Yeah, somehow my sister has managed to do the impossible
and find a boyfriend who's even more boring
than her. Honestly, he's about as exciting as a boiled rice
sandwich and I was dreading a night spent with the pair
of them.

They had settled down on the living-room sofa and
had put on some insufferably tedious film when Chris
called me to say Rangers were playing Hearts tonight and
did I want to come over. Was reluctantly telling Chris I
couldn't as I'd been grounded when Angela interrupted
me: 'Oh, just go on over, Kelly Ann – there's no point in
you staying here tonight.'

I gawped at her. 'But I'm grounded.'

She flushed. 'Yes, well, erm, who's to know? I won't
tell. Rules are, well, erm, made to be broken sometimes.
Occasionally, anyway. Just this once.'

Graham handed me a fiver. 'Here. Treat yourself to a
DVD or something.'

I grabbed the money and left. Who said miracles never
happen?

Back at school and actually quite pleased. It's pretty
boring during the day without your friends, and anyway,
Mum made me do all the housework.

Told Liz about Angela and Graham's weirdly nice
behaviour last night, saying I couldn't understand what
had come over them – Angela bending rules and some
guy I'd never met before giving me a fiver.

Liz said, 'Well, maybe they needed some privacy. You
know, for, erm, sex. They've been going out for a while
already.'

'Don't be stupid. Angela would never have sex with
anyone. She's too neat and tidy. And someone like
Graham wouldn't want to do it either. He's just so
nerdish.'

'Hmm, I don't know,' Liz continued. 'The sex drive is
very powerful, you know. It can make people do stuff
they usually wouldn't.'

'Like what?'

'Well, like taking off their clothes in front of other
people for a start. Or normally super-tidy people like
your sister doing things that might make a mess. Or her
boyfriend giving you a fiver even though he doesn't
know you.'

I was sceptical. 'No, nothing is that powerful.'

But Liz was adamant. 'Did you know that when a male
praying mantis has sex, the female sometimes bites off his
head and eats it? And, get this, he just goes right on doing
it.'

'Jesus, without a head?'

'Yeah,' Liz said. She dropped her voice to a whisper.
'He goes right on shagging. Headless.'

'Bloody hell, that's keen.'

Thought about it. If what Liz says is true and the sex
drive is
that
powerful, it might explain their weird
behaviour last night, I suppose. Maybe Angela and
Graham are having sex. Gross.

Mr Smith has told me I've got detention for latecoming.
Apparently someone (and I can guess who) informed him
that I was not present at registration on Monday.

Told him that I couldn't go to detention as I was
grounded but he wouldn't listen. Just said I'd to be there
or else.

I suppose it hardly matters anyway whether I'm
imprisoned at school or under house arrest at home. And
this is supposed to be a free country. Yeah, right.

Saw Shelly and her scavengers smirking as I made for
the detention room at four o'clock. Not that I let this
bother me in the slightest, so standing on her foot as I
passed was completely accidental and my apology totally
sincere. Naturally.

Was gobsmacked to see Diane buy a Tampax from the
machine in the girls' toilets today.

Her nickname is Dopey Di because she is so uncoordinated
she still has to wear Velcro trainers as she
can't tie her laces yet. Also her mum has to write L and R
in large felt-tip on the back of each hand every morning
so she knows left from right. One day her mum just put
the R on one hand, hoping that Diane would be able to
work things out, but she got lost on her way to school. Yet
she can obviously manage tampons.

Right, if Dopey Di can do it, so can I. It will be so much
better for sports than wearing sanitary towels – and
probably better for the environment since they are
smaller. I draw the line at recycling sanitary towels.

'Borrowed' a Tampax from Angela's underwear drawer
and went off to the toilet.

After trying several contorted squatting positions and
becoming more familiar with certain bits of me than I
ever wanted to be, I eventually managed to be kind of
half successful (don't ask) with inserting the thing. Dad
chose this moment to start hammering on the bathroom
door for the third time.

'For Christ's sake, Kelly Ann, what are you doing in
there? You've been at least half an hour. Open the bloody
door. I need in. Now.'

I mean, what was I supposed to say? There should be
a law against asking what anyone is doing in a toilet.
Decided to give up on tampons. Especially as Liz
says Dopey Di is just pretending to use them and
she's seen her secretly dispose of used towels in the waste
bin.

Went to the toilets at lunch time today. Shelly and her
coven were looking at something on the wall behind the
sink and cackling. When I came over to wash my hands
they pushed off pretty sharpish, still sniggering nastily.

Someone, and I know who, had scrawled KELLYANN
IS GAY in red ink over the middle sink.

So totally childish. There was no way I was going to let
Shelly's stupid actions bother me. Definitely not.

Georgiana, otherwise known as George, who is an incredibly
butch built-like-a-tank lesbian, has invited me back
to her place to try out her new PlayStation game. Love the
game, but remembering that her console is in her bedroom
I politely declined.

That's it. I'll have to get a boyfriend quick. Don't care
what he looks like as long as he's not female.

There was a disgusting smell in the corridor today, and
not just the bit outside the boys' toilets. Suspected it was
the work of that moron Terry Docherty, the carrot-haired
first year with sticky-out ears and buck teeth who was the
front half of my pantomime cow at Christmas. Nearly
every other week he lets off stink bombs somewhere
around the school, which he seems to find hilarious.

Sure enough, spotted him giggling like a demented
hyena with his pals at the bottom of the stairs. Ignored
them, but one of his friends came up to me and said,
'Haw, Kelly Ann, ma pal Terry pure fancies ye, so he
does.'

At the same time Terry looked over at me and grinned
like a corpse's skull.

OK, last week when I said
any
boyfriend, I didn't
actually mean any boyfriend. Thinking about it, if there
was a nuclear holocaust and I had a choice between a
relationship with that obnoxious little gnome Terry or
Georgiana, then it would have to be Georgiana. Even if
the human race had to die out.

Was relieved that the cleaners have managed to get rid of
the graffiti on the toilet walls, including the bit about me
being a lesbian, but the rumour that I'm gay still hasn't
died away and quite a few people have asked me to my
face if it's true. Even people I know quite well.

That's it. I really will have to get a boyfriend.

Liz said she'd help and invited me over to her place
after school to 'discuss tactics'.

Had been hoping for some practical advice but when
we got to her house she told me she had devised battery
of psychological profiling tests which she wanted me to
try.

'How does this help me get a boyfriend?' I asked.

'How can you possibly have a mature relationship
with someone else until you know your true inner self?'
Liz countered.

'Don't want a mature relationship. Just want a
boyfriend to stop the stupid rumours.'

But Liz was adamant and eventually, just to shut her
up, I gave in.

'So,' Liz said, showing me pictures of fruits on
separate cards, 'if you could be one of these four fruits –
an apple, a pear, a grape or a banana – which would you
rather be?'

'Don't want to be a fruit.'

'But if you
had
to choose, which fruit would you be?'
Liz persisted.

'OK, um, a date, I think.'

'That's not one of the choices,' Liz complained crossly.
But then added curiously, 'But, erm, why a date?'

'Most people don't like them so I probably wouldn't
get eaten.'

Liz sighed and explained with exaggerated patience,
'Look, you idiot, fruits don't know they're fruits: they're
not aware of existing, so they've absolutely no fruity
consciousness. Therefore they don't care about being
eaten. OK?'

'So what does it matter what kind of fruit I am then?' I
asked reasonably.

Liz screamed, 'Just choose, OK! An apple. A pear. A
grape. Or a
banana
!'

'All right, all right. A banana.'

Liz wrote down my answer and moved on to the next
test. 'So if you could be one of these shapes, which would
you be? A circle, a square, a star or a triangle.'

I didn't argue. 'A triangle.'

'Good.' Liz noted my response again, then handed me
a piece of paper with an ink stain on it. 'Look carefully
and tell me what you see.'

'Hmm – an ink stain?'

Liz sighed. 'I know it's an ink stain – you're supposed
to say what it looks like.'

'Doesn't look like anything.'

'But if it
did
, what would it look like? Use your
imagination. Only people with serious personality
problems have no imagination,' Liz warned.

I looked more closely at it. There was a long spiky bit
and what looked like smoke curling out the bottom. 'OK,
a rocket then.'

Liz smiled happily and noted my answer down. 'I
think a pattern is beginning to emerge.'

'What pattern?' I asked suspiciously.

'Well,' she said, 'maybe I shouldn't tell you.'

'And maybe you should. It's
my
personality after all.'

'OK then, I suppose you
do
have a right to know,' Liz
agreed. 'The thing is, you, erm, seem to have an obsession
with boys and sex.'

'Don't be stupid. Of course I don't.'

'Well, you're probably not
consciously
aware of it, but
deep down,
unconsciously
, you're thinking about boys'
penises all the time.'

'I so do not. Yuck. I don't think about them at all,' I
protested.

'Do too,' Liz said. 'The tests don't lie the way people
can. Every single thing you chose – the banana, the
triangle and the rocket – is a phallic symbol.'

'Phallic symbol?'

'Shaped like a boy's penis,' Liz explained.

This was mental. Probably something dreamed up by
that nutcase Freud again. 'That's totally mad, Liz. How is
a banana like a penis? It's nothing like it.'

'Well, it's long and kind of tube-shaped. Unlike, say, an
apple, which you
didn't
choose – although you could
have.'

'Bananas are also bendy and yellow,' I pointed out
incredulously. 'I think boys might be a bit worried if they
had a penis like that. Anyway, what about the triangle? A
triangle is definitely, totally, no way like a penis.'

'More like a penis than a square, or any of the other
shapes though, isn't it?' Liz said. 'I mean, OK, if you'd
chosen a square, then fair enough, I'd have to say that's
not shaped like a penis, but—'

'Finally you're talking sense—'

'But you didn't,' Liz went on, ignoring my sarcasm.
'And then there's the rocket. Rockets are a lot like penises
if, OK, maybe a bit bigger than most.'

'A bit bigger! And what about the smoke? Anyway, the
ink blob didn't look like anything else other than a
rocket.' I passed it to her. 'So what does it look like to
you?'

Liz stared at it for a moment. 'Honestly?'

I nodded.

'A penis!'

Liz has offered me psychological counselling to prepare
me for dating but I've turned her down. I mean, how difficult
can it be? Have decided to ask Osman to go out
with me. I like him and he's a fantastic footballer.
Although he's skinny like me he's got nice black skin and
white teeth. Don't like his dreadlocks much but maybe I
could persuade him to get a number two cut. He'd look
good like that.

Cornered Osman at lunch time today and told him I
needed to speak to him in private. He looked a bit
nervous, probably because he still remembers the time
when I punched him for saying there was no way girls
could play football as well as boys, but that was way back
in first year when I wasn't the mature and controlled
teenager I am today. However, he agreed anyway, so as
soon as we'd found a quiet spot behind the large school
bins I decided to get right to the point.

'I really like you, Osman, and we've got so much in
common. Like we both support Man U and hate cricket.
Would you like to be my boyfriend?'

Osman said, 'Bloody hell, Kelly Ann.'

This wasn't really the response I was hoping for but he
hadn't said definitely no so I tried again. 'Look, Osman,
the bell's about to go and these bins stink anyway, so I
can't hang about for ever while you make up your mind.

Do you want to be my boyfriend or not?'

Osman looked down at his toes. Shoving his hands in
his pockets, he kicked a discarded Coke can against the
bin before mumbling, 'I'm really sorry, Kelly Ann. Don't
get mad at me. I mean, I like you and everything and, um,
respect you.' He glanced up at me. 'You're better at football
than any girl I know and you've a mean right hook,
but I just don't think of you in that way.' His gaze slipped
away from my face again. 'You know, the, um, chemistry
isn't quite—'

'You mean you don't fancy me? Why not?'

'Well, um, honestly? You won't hit me or anything?'

I shook my head, depressed.

'You're just not really my type.'

'What is your type then?'

'Well, a bit curvier, I suppose, and, um, blonde. No
offence.'

It was hopeless. There was no way I could possibly be
described as either. Liz was lucky.

Then he added, 'Like Shelly.'

'Shelly! But she's horrible.'

He shrugged. 'Seems OK to me – and anyway, she's
hot.'

Boys are really so stupid. Just because a girl looks nice
doesn't mean she
is
nice. Why can't they see that?

The bell rang so I made my way over to maths. Osman
had PE next, which is in the opposite direction, so we left
it at that. He looked relieved.

Met George on the way back. She invited me over to
her place again but added, 'Look, I like you, Kelly Ann,
but don't worry – I'm not gonna try and snog you. I don't
fancy you or anything. You're not my type.'

'What is your type then?' I asked curiously.

'Well, kinda curvier and, er, blonde.'

I suppose I should have felt relieved that George
wasn't going to stalk me or anything, and I was, kind of,
but couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed too. It's
depressing that even if I were lesbian I might still have
trouble getting someone to go out with. Wonder if that's
why some people are bi and date anyone. I suppose it sort
of doubles your chances. Seems a bit desperate though.

Moaned to Liz about Osman yesterday. She said I'd look
stupid as a blonde but why didn't I just stuff toilet paper
down my bra to look curvier. Loads of girls did it.

Told Liz I'd feel stupid with toilet paper down my bra
but eventually agreed to try it. Just once anyway.

Didn't notice any boys drooling over me like Liz had
promised but had to admit I did look more girl-shaped
and everything was OK until last period, waiting outside
maths, when Shelly said suspiciously, 'You look different
today, Kelly Ann.'

Oh God. But I managed a careless shrug. 'Do I?'

Her eyes narrowed as she looked me over, then
smirked and said loudly, 'You've stuffed toilet paper
down your bra, haven't you?'

I blushed but said casually, 'Yeah, like I'd bother to do
something that pathetic.'

Since most people know I'm not into girly stuff I got
away with it, but later I told Liz, 'Right, that's the last
time I try that. It's stupid.'

But Liz was horrified. 'Kelly Ann, you'll have to keep
it up now. Every day. If people see you flat again they'll
know you were lying. You'll be a laughing stock.'

Brilliant.

Mrs Conner, our English teacher, was wittering on about
Valentine's Day today. She says that as this is the most
romantic month of the year we're going to focus on the
two great themes of literature: love and passion. So for
the next four weeks we'll be discussing poems, short
stories, novels and plays that focus on these themes.

Sounds boring. Especially as we've already been doing
lots of stuff like that in English. Especially novels. Why
can't we read interesting stories for a change? Like ones
that have plots where stuff actually happens without a
hundred pages of description just to tell you it's raining.
And then another hundred to tell you how the character
feels about the fact that it's raining.

Oh well. There's no arguing with Mrs Conner though
– she's not a teacher to cross. She might go on about
how she believes in interactive education and involving
students in every step of the learning process but you do
what she tells you or else.

Still, for most of the period we talked about the story
of Romeo and Juliet, which was quite interesting if a bit
depressing at the end. Was gobsmacked when Mrs
Conner told us that Romeo and Juliet were only about our
age. Bloody hell. OK, I understand fancying people and
wanting to snog them and stuff, but topping yourself
over some guy? It's a bit much.

Maybe teenagers in those days didn't have enough to
do to take their mind off things. I mean, if Romeo and
Juliet had had PlayStations, DVDs and chocolate Creme
Eggs to cheer themselves up, they mightn't have got their
knickers in such a twist when things got a bit iffy on the
romance front.

And let's face it – PlayStations and DVDs are a lot
more interesting than some idiot singing to you outside
your house.

We packed up early and I was hoping we'd just get to
chat but Mrs Conner used the last ten minutes to talk
about her own experience of romantic love and passion.

Wish she hadn't bothered.

She told us that she and her husband were 'soul mates'
– as much in love now as the day many years ago when
they took their marriage vows.

Pass the sick bag. This was bad enough but it got
worse. She went on to say that every day their love
got deeper and their passion for each other was as fresh and
alive as the first day they met. Emotionally
and physically
.

I mean, she as good as announced to everyone that she
was still having sex with him. Gross. She can't be that
much younger than my mum – definitely well past thirty.

Might not have been so bad if her husband was OK but
we've seen him come to pick her up after school sometimes.
Though he is a successful businessman and drives
a really nice Mercedes, he's short, fat, almost totally bald
and looks a bit like Danny DeVito.

Thinking about teachers like Mrs Conner having sex
with people like that is almost as bad as imagining your
parents doing it. Hope she shuts up about her soul mate
– at least until next Valentine's.

I was talking to Liz about it at break. She agreed but
then pointed out, 'They must have done it though,
mustn't they? Parents, I mean. In your parents' case, at
least twice.'

Gross. But I suppose they must have. It's difficult to believe,
even if it did happen a long time ago when they were young.