Primperfect (17 page)

Fintan called. He said that he is sorry he was so harsh. And that he should have taken my pregnancy hormones into account. But that I should try to keep them in check and remember that there are two of us in it. That he is there as well. And that he didn't ask for this. It started out well, his apology. But by the end, I felt like I was the one who should be saying sorry.

Quote from Prim's mum's diary

olphin Laura called. She is going to Syzmon's party and wanted to know if I was going too, because it has been ages. It has been ages for a reason. I really like Dolphin Laura, but her boyfriend is the son of the dude who killed my mum, so I kind of get a bit itchy around her. A bit thinky.

Isn't thinking weird? Sometimes it's pure lovely, you get to wonder things like what life would be like if you were in a band on a world tour and what sort of music you would make and how you would answer questions in interviews. Or you can think about places to visit when you are older. And you can think about your friends and how awesome they are and how lucky you are to have them, but all of a sudden it can swoop and it's like, If you were in a band, Prim, you would develop a drug problem and not a classy one where no-one has any idea for ages, but a messy one where you're wetting yourself onstage and saying outrageous things just to make people notice you and then you offend the wrong person and all of a sudden you're out of the band and they have a new lead singer/guitarist who is infinitely cooler and more popular than you (maybe Dolphin Laura or, in my worst moments, Karen) and none of them talk to you though you always swore you'd be friends for ever. Also, rehab is, like, super expensive, almost as expensive as maintaining a drug habit, so you're in a lot of debt and have to get a job as a janitor at your old secondary school and everyone looks at you and says things like ‘How are the mighty fallen!' and ‘You look ridiculous.' And places I'd like to visit can so easily swoop into places I will never get to visit with Mum. Or how will I support myself when I'm older now that Fintan has accustomed me to the finer things in life, like personal space and cheeses and little pots of pâté bought from cheesemongers?

And the friends thing is probably the most dangerous of all because you're, like, I'm so lucky to have such awesome friends, I'm so glad they like me for who I am and then you remember that who you are is dreadful and start analysing ridiculous things you have said and ultimately deciding that they are either friends with you as a cruel bet, which is unlikely because they are good people, and it would have to have been a long-running bet. Or they are too kind not to be friendly towards you. Because who else would have you and it sucks to be lonely. And they are kind, you know that they are kind. So out of pity.

Whenever someone is in a bad mood, I always find myself wondering if it is because of me, if it is something I have done, if there is a way for me to make it up to them. But sometimes people are just tired or bereaved or grumpy or whatever. I mean, it's really egotistical isn't it, to think that everything that happens to the people you love is, to some degree, because of you? But thinks are linked, woven together like crochet, singled and doubled and tripled in and out on top of each other and you don't know what your actions will mean, the things they can result in. All your actions loop around a hoop and then it pulls through other people's actions. There was a poem we did on a past paper about how no-one is an island, we are all interlinked, and I believe it but it doesn't comfort me. Because if we were islands, we could run our own island and do our best and sometimes maybe there would be ferries or even bridges, but we'd be far enough apart not to hurt each other so much every day. You know? Everything hurts. And certain thoughts are dangerous and so are certain tastes and smells and sounds that take you back to happier times that now are sad in retrospect. Or times that were just sad all by themselves. I never tell Dad what I get on tests. Because I got an A the day Mum died and I came home all proud. I don't want that to happen ever again.

I wonder do other people think like this? Dad and Ciara and Joel and Syzmon and Sorrel and everyone else in the world. Do they think like me? No wonder they're sometimes tired if they do. Being a human being is exhausting. And that's just the internal stuff. And there's so much outside stuff to do as well. Just being in the world takes up so much and most of it is 'cause of other people. Other people looping into the granny square of you, too strongly to unravel. I don't know whether to try to limit that or not. Sometimes all those loops inside your square are lovely and it feels like the cosiest rightest blanket in the world, and other times it feels loaded, like those influenza blankets the pilgrims in America used to swap with the Native Americans back in the day. Cosy, but ultimately fatal.

If I can survive losing Mum, I can pretty much survive losing anyone, I think. Thing is, I'm not sure I entirely survived it. I mean, I coped, but I amn't the same person that I was before it happened. I had been sheltered and loved all my life and I knew that the world was a bad place. I mean, I had seen the news and knew about war and death and cancer and all the other things that lurk in corners waiting for their moment but I didn't have firsthand knowledge. I wasn't a primary source.

On the plus side, sometimes there are parties.

Fintan forgot my birthday. He better not forget the baby's birthday, once it arrives. It's pretty exciting being 19. I am officially the oldest sort of teenage mother you can be. Sorrel says Fintan isn't worth it. What she doesn't understand is that he has to be. Because if he's not worth it then what do I have left? A baby I'm not qualified to care for. And nothing.

Quote from Prim's mum's diary

evin is coming, so I texted Syzmon and asked if it was cool if I brought my new friend, Robb with two bees, to the party. He said that it was and asked if he should let Kevin know that I was bringing a boyfriend. Robb with two bees is not my official boyfriend, nor do I want him to be, so I said it wasn't necessary. If he were my boyfriend, I would have it tattooed on Kevin's face in mirror writing.
I found someone as well. Look. I'm good enough for someone else. A proper boy with arms and legs and everything.

I also said that I was sorry to hear about him and Ciara. He said that maybe she would change her mind. Which, in fairness, maybe she will. I wouldn't hold my breath for it at this house party, though. I'm thinking that debs time might be a key re-kindler for them. Because princess dresses and true love seem to dance around together a lot in Ciara's brain, even if she is determined to focus on her millinery studies and not be in love with anyone for a while. I wonder who I'll bring to my debs. I'll probably go stag. Or can you only do that if you're a guy? Going doe isn't a thing at all. I think it's probably called going alone. Which sounds so much more desperate than going stag. I mean, stags get magnificent antlers. Alone people just get lonely. Well, I don't really get lonely by myself because of my incredibly busy head, but when I am by myself in crowds of people, or at a social gathering where there are loads of people who know each other better than I know them, then the lonely hits and I feel like a sore thumb. The dodgy uncle of the wedding party.

I wonder if it'd be OK to wear a costume to your debs? A girl this year wore a tux instead of a dress, and it looked quite cool. She wore red lipstick with it. But everyone was murmuring about her sexuality. As if trousers indicated anything at all about the shape of person you're attracted to. They're for covering legs, after all. I think I would like to wear a crown. Like, a big fat medieval crown, like the kind a girl would wear in her father's feasting hall before a Viking (with honourable intentions and a rippling set of abs) kidnapped her. As princess dresses and true love are to Ciara, so are crowns and Sexy Viking Kidnappers to Prim. I wonder if there was ever an earl who was also a Viking? I bet there was in a book. Books are so much more full of possibility than real life is. It is wondrous and frustrating at the same time.

Sorrel was up half the night puking her guts up. She was at a thing where some one had brewed his own mead with terrifying results. I asked her why she would drink that and she said that it smelt of danger-honey. At least, that's what I think she said. There was a whole lot of retching. I was up being pregnant and overly warm, so I got to mind her. At one point, she turned to me and said, ‘Bláth, you're going to be such a good mother. You have no idea how lucky …' I think she was trying to be comforting or reassuring or something, but all she did was scare the hell out of me. I am not going to be a good mother. I am having trouble coming to terms with the idea of being any sort of a mother at all.

Quote from Prim's mum's diary

is how a lot of fairy tales start.
Once upon a time there was a girl.
You don't have to suspend much disbelief to be on board with that. Always there is time and always there are girls. But one in particular who stands out makes you wonder why and that's why you keep listening. Boys in fairy tales normally come in threes. The first one, who gets it wrong. The middle one, who also gets it wrong, and then the last, who nails it and gets to marry the princess or inherit the kingdom or whatever. No-one ever expects the youngest son to amount to much in fairy-tales. But he always does. The older ones are stupid.

Girls in fairy tales don't come in threes. Except for Cinderella – the two ugly, the one beautiful. The two bad, the one good. But were they bad? Is it bad to listen to your mother, learn from her and do what you are told? And why not just call them mean? Why do people harp on at the ugly like it is a stick to measure women by? I always shine a little brighter when someone tells me I am pretty. That's because I know it isn't true. I have fooled them by being clever or being funny or being kind to them or something. That is how I get you and your eye adjusts and likes my face much more once it is the face of someone who has pleased you. People always think their friends are gorgeous. They think that because they are. Friendship is a gorgeous, gorgeous thing. And having it is lovely. And it is something you should really treasure. Because there are other people who aren't your friends. Those people owe you nothing and they see you with the eyes of cold observers.

In fairy tales there rarely is a girl with friends at first. Maybe she encounters helpful people on her path, her hero's journey. But almost always, always and at first she'll be alone. And there will be a bad thing coming. Bad things take many forms. There are monsters; there are wicked witches. Mothers die and kids are left alone.

I wonder if there's something dangerous in keeping a diary, making a story of your own life. Rewriting it a bit. Memories are never completely accurate, are they? And what's immediate can't be transcribed. Stories rarely middle happily, do they? They can begin that way and end that way, but there's always conflict necessary for the narrative to progress. And the middling. Well, that's the biggest part. One thing after another and another and another till the end. A series of climaxes and disappointments. When you write about yourself, do you make things worse or better? And if I think like this, why do I still do that? Am I so important, so worth writing about? Or is it just a filing cabinet, an external hard-drive for my brain?

Once upon a time there was a girl. And her mother died and she moved into a big house with her absent father. Seasons came and seasons went, and still the girl was sad about her mother. But as well as being sad she was growing up, shifting and changing into more of a woman shape than a girl shape. The things she worried about altered as well, some became bigger and others became smaller. Some of them were too big for her to fix all by herself and so her father paid a fairy doctor to sort her out and make her into the kind of girl who doesn't go in stories. The kind of girl who's happy all the time and everyone is friends with.