My Dating Disasters Diary Page 4

  ‘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!’

  WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 3RD

  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.

  THURSDAY FEBRUARY 4TH

  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.

  FRIDAY FEBRUARY 5TH

  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 page
s 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.

  Can’t get what Liz said about my parents out of my mind. Unfortunately. I was watching and listening to them arguing at dinner time tonight.

  DAD: Pass the salt, love.

  MUM (bad temperedly): It’s right at your flaming elbow.

  DAD: OK, keep your hair on, I didn’t see it.

  MUM (annoyed): Maybe if you took your eyes off the sports page of the paper and looked, it would help.

  DAD (pissed off): There’s no need to jump down my throat.

  MUM (totally annoyed now): Sorry, you’re right. Look, you go on reading your paper and I’ll cut up your dinner and feed it to you so you don’t have to make any bloody effort at all. It’s the least I can do after cooking it for you. Then you just lie down and I’ll fan you while I hook you up to an intravenous drip so you won’t have to bother drinking your cup of tea afterwards.

  Dad sprinkled the salt on his dinner and then calmly went on reading his paper, ignoring her.

  No, I just can’t believe they’ve ever done what Liz says. It doesn’t seem possible, even a long time ago.

  Maybe I’m adopted.

  SATURDAY FEBRUARY 6TH

  Actually, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Fact is, for quite a while now I’ve felt that I can’t possibly really belong to this family. I mean, I have absolutely nothing in common with any of them. Specially not Angela. But my parents haven’t even hinted never mind told me that I’m adopted, so I suppose it’s unlikely. Though it seems more believable than them doing what they would have to do to have me naturally.

  Hmm … but then maybe they didn’t want to tell me I’m adopted in case I got upset. Yeah, that could be it. Although I’m not their real daughter they probably still love me and want to spare me any pain or psychological damage.

  I’d have been totally cool about it. They really should have told me.

  SUNDAY FEBRUARY 7TH

  If I am adopted I wonder who my real parents are. Maybe like Romeo and Juliet they were totally in love with one another but their families disapproved, so they made my mum put me up for adoption then she probably killed herself because of a broken heart.

  Or maybe my real mum is a foreign princess who fell in love with a commoner. They wouldn’t let her marry my dad because though he was … erm, yeah, a famous footballer, he was still a commoner, so they made her give me up so she could marry a royal. Since that day she’s thought of nothing else but me and lives for the time I’ll come looking for her.

  OK, I suppose the foreign princess bit isn’t very likely – don’t think there are that many of them around now – but my dad might have been a footballer. After all, I’m pretty good, even if our sexist PE teacher won’t let me join the school team.

  THURSDAY FEBRUARY 11TH

  Have been thinking about this all week and I’ve become more and more convinced that it’s at least possible I might be adopted. It could explain so much. I have nothing in common with the family I’m living with. And anyway, Mum and Dad hardly look at each other, never mind anything else. I’ve never seen them so much as snog (thank God!) and can’t imagine they ever did. As for doing it with each other? No, it’s totally impossible. I must be adopted.

  Decided to tell my adoptive mum that I’m old enough to know the truth now.

  I waited until she was in a good mood – that is, after watching EastEnders and drinking a mug of tea while puffing on her fourth fag in an hour. I decided to come straight to the point.

  ‘Mum, am I adopted?’

  She was obviously shocked as she choked on her tea and dropped her fag on her lap but quickly found it again before it got a chance to burn her. Poor Mum.

  ‘Don’t be upset, Mum,’ I said kindly. ‘You see, I’ve suspected the truth for quite a while now and I’m old enough to cope with it. And while of course I want to find my birth mum, I won’t stop loving you, and I’ll always be grateful to you for looking after me as I grew up. I’ll never forget my humble beginnings.’

  All this time my adoptive mother had been staring at me literally openmouthed, but now she seemed to have recovered enough to speak and I waited bravely to hear the truth about my real background at last. But I was wrong. She didn’t say anything. Just screeched with laughter. At first I thought she might be hysterical at the suddenness of my confrontation but I was wrong again because when she did manage to speak, it wasn’t what I expected to hear.

  ‘You, adopted? You must be bloody joking. I suppose you think your sister’s adopted as well. My arse. Like I’d actually go choose the pair of you.’ Here she broke off to laugh again. ‘Aye, that will be right. I’ll just have these two, thanks. Yeah, that’s right, the boring one who couldn’t crack a joke if her life depended on it, and, yeah, the wee skinny one who’s always moaning about something or other. Aye, that’s the one.’

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘I’m, erm, not adopted then?’

  ‘Duh. No, you eejit. You’re not adopted and I’ve got the droopy boobs, blancmange abs and stitches in places you don’t want to see to prove it. The pair of you ruined my body and put me through bloody hours of agony, and what thanks do I get for it? Now go and bring your birth mother another cup of tea from your humble beginnings kitchen. Adopted. That’s a laugh.’

  Feeling a bit stupid now, I did as she asked. When I got back she was still on about it. ‘Wait till I tell your dad about this one. And yes, before you ask, he�
�s your real dad as well.’ She laughed. ‘Or that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’

  FRIDAY FEBRUARY 12TH

  Just two days until Valentine’s, and of course every shop is full of hearts and flowers to remind anyone who might possibly have forgotten that if you don’t have a boyfriend then you are a sad, unloved loser.

  I’ve never had a Valentine card unless you count the one from my Aunt Kate last year (I recognized her very badly disguised handwriting) or the one the year before from my mum (I found it in a kitchen drawer the week before Valentine’s) – which I don’t of course. I suppose it was nice of them to bother so I pretended to be surprised and excited but really it just made me feel pathetic.

  I suppose as I’ve never actually wanted a boyfriend before, I shouldn’t complain, but it’s always nice to know I could get one if I did, and a Valentine card is definite proof of that. And it just seems so unfair that some people always get loads of Valentines when other people never get any. Like me for instance.

  At school people seemed to talk of nothing else, which was depressing. Shelly was behind me in the lunch queue, showing off two early Valentines to anyone who’d listen to her. She even tried me.

  ‘Want to see my Valentines?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Too jealous? Oh, never mind, Kelly Ann,’ she said, in an annoyingly pitying tone. ‘Maybe you’ll get one tomorrow. There’s still time.’ She laughed. ‘And maybe my granny will take up break dancing and run off with a rapper. Or perhaps my pet goldfish will win the hundred metres hurdles at sports day. About as likely.’

  I flushed. ‘So? I hope I don’t get any Valentines. The whole thing is just commercialized rubbish.’

  Shelly sneered. ‘Funny, that’s what people who haven’t a hope of getting one always say.’

  I stomped off with my lunch tray and looked round for Liz, who’d been kept behind by Miss McElwee for eating in class, but she still wasn’t there so I sat at an empty table and waited for her.

  Was scanning the dinner hall again for Liz or one of my other friends when I spotted Michael looking for a table. As usual, he was being stalked by a group of goodlooking fourth-year girls and even a couple of fifth years. Michael has jet-black hair, green eyes and (God knows how in Glasgow) an all-year tan. He’s so good looking, he seems almost fake and is definitely seen by everyone as the hottest boy in the fourth year. Maybe even the whole school.