Skinny Jeans Have No Place On These Thighs
Wannabe Witch
The walk home from Madingley Park is long but not uneventful.
After Izzie’s outburst, I decide that the best thing I can do is be by myself. I know Mum will start to get concerned about where I’ve got to but I just can’t go home right now. She and William Birch will be talking on the phone or he might even be at the house and they’re the last people I want to see.
You know what it’s like with parents. They just don’t realise that sometimes the last thing you want to do is sit on the sofa with them watching TV because...if your mind’s somewhere else, you just want your body to be the same. As in, somewhere else. You get a train of thought going and then there’s a conversation about leaving mugs on surfaces without coasters or asking about how your coursework is going. Parents and thinking just don’t mix very well.
Also, there’s the even worse scenario that Mum might twig that something’s not quite right with me and she’ll badger me until I tell her what’s wrong. Either that or tell me to stop sulking.
Thing is, this doesn’t really feel like sulking, it feels awful. Sulking is when things don’t go your way and you get frustrated by it.
Actually, maybe that is what this is. But if this is sulking, then I want to just continue doing so until it goes away organically.
And for a real teenage sulk, you need tools.
Which is how I find myself in Riddley’s on the corner of the road just outside the park buying Redbull and cigarettes. Well, actually just Redbull. I got IDed quicker than you can say...well, ID.
The Asian lady behind the counter was hiding her giggles behind her hand as me and my red face made a hasty retreat from the shop. I swear she overcharged me for the Redbull, how can it cost 1.50 for a small can??
As I wait for the green light, I can’t help noticing on the other side of the road there’s a blonde boy walking hand in hand with a tall blonde girl. My heart catapults onto my tongue – but it’s not Marcus.
I satisfy myself with the observation that Marcus is better looking but when I see the blonde boy take the shopping bags for the blonde girl, I feel a short, sharp sting of jealousy. Why can’t someone be that considerate towards me?
The blonde girl smiles and I see her thank him. When I walk by them, the blonde boy swings the bags out of the way so I don’t have to alter my path and the feeling gets worse because he’s not just nice to her, he’s obviously a nice person.
I mean, obviously, he could write hate-mail to his ex-girlfriends or bully people at his part time job but somehow this doesn’t seem likely. I hear the girl say something to him and he laughs and says, “Hope you can.”
I don’t know their conversation but I want it for my own. I want to have conversations with Marcus. I want to know about his family, where he likes to buy his clothes, if he thinks his band will actually go anywhere, what he thinks about cruelty to animals or recycling, whether he believes in God, what he wanted to be when he was five, what the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him is.
I want him to be fleshed out form in my mind and not just my heart. Because there, of course, he can do no wrong. Yes, he does drugs and has casual sex but that’s probably what attracted me to him in the first place. Well, not the drugs part but the sexual side to him...he’s older and mysterious and I know he can be caring and considerate. I want him to be these things to me so much it’s almost like there’s a snake inside my chest, constricting my organs and making it hard to breathe.
My phone rings then. For the second time in one day, it’s the wrong person on the phone. Bridget.
“Hey,” she says when I pick up, “where are you? I just called your house phone but your Mum said you went to meet Izzie.”
“Yeah, I did but she’s gone now,” I say, trying to sound more flustered because then Bridget can’t be huffy about not being invited. It doesn’t really work.
“Well, thanks for inviting me,” replies Bridget in a strange tone. “Is there something going on that you’re not telling me?”
“No, of course not!” I say. I’m too indignant though.
“Really?” I can practically hear her voice raise her eyebrows. “Look, I’m not stupid, OK? I know that there’s something going on. You’re being weird with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Will you stop lying? It’s bad for your brain.”
How does she know stuff like that?! I can barely figure out what the difference between osmosis and the other one is and Bridget’s practically a neurosurgeon.
“You honestly expect me to believe that Marcus came round yours to watch a nature programme?” Bridget continues sarcastically. “Come on, Ella, give me a break. Is there something going on between you?”
“Oh yeah, like hell,” I retort, truthfully. There isn’t anything going on. “I wish.”
“Listen, can I come and meet you? I’m in town but I could meet you in the park or something?”
I agree because there doesn’t seem to be any reason why not. I can distract Bridget by informing her of what a witch Izzie is.
Being a real witch would be great. Not necessarily like the ones in The Wizard Of Oz or Willow and Tara from Buffy but somewhere in between. Powerful but not all modern like Willow. I want to be a witch like the ones from medieval fairy tales, with flowing dresses and forests and fairies.
Yes, I’m aware that it’s incredibly dorky to want to be a witch but it would certainly be a major step up from the fat frog I am now.
Also, I’m fairly certain that if I was a witch, Izzie would never treat me like I’m...well, just some girl she knows. We’re supposed to be best friends but she’s acting like we’ve only been friends for a month.
I know if you want a friend that you have to be a friend. But I just don’t think Izzie wants me as a friend anymore. I’m like a Barbie pink dress that she had when she was twelve that doesn’t really fit anymore and doesn’t go with any of her new stuff.
She’s going to dispose of me, send me to Oxfam and then go down to Topshop and get hotter, trendier garments. Oh, how easy it is to forget the importance of an old pink dress.
After Izzie’s outburst, I decide that the best thing I can do is be by myself. I know Mum will start to get concerned about where I’ve got to but I just can’t go home right now. She and William Birch will be talking on the phone or he might even be at the house and they’re the last people I want to see.
You know what it’s like with parents. They just don’t realise that sometimes the last thing you want to do is sit on the sofa with them watching TV because...if your mind’s somewhere else, you just want your body to be the same. As in, somewhere else. You get a train of thought going and then there’s a conversation about leaving mugs on surfaces without coasters or asking about how your coursework is going. Parents and thinking just don’t mix very well.
Also, there’s the even worse scenario that Mum might twig that something’s not quite right with me and she’ll badger me until I tell her what’s wrong. Either that or tell me to stop sulking.
Thing is, this doesn’t really feel like sulking, it feels awful. Sulking is when things don’t go your way and you get frustrated by it.
Actually, maybe that is what this is. But if this is sulking, then I want to just continue doing so until it goes away organically.
And for a real teenage sulk, you need tools.
Which is how I find myself in Riddley’s on the corner of the road just outside the park buying Redbull and cigarettes. Well, actually just Redbull. I got IDed quicker than you can say...well, ID.
The Asian lady behind the counter was hiding her giggles behind her hand as me and my red face made a hasty retreat from the shop. I swear she overcharged me for the Redbull, how can it cost 1.50 for a small can??
As I wait for the green light, I can’t help noticing on the other side of the road there’s a blonde boy walking hand in hand with a tall blonde girl. My heart catapults onto my tongue – but it’s not Marcus.
I satisfy myself with the observation that Marcus is better looking but when I see the blonde boy take the shopping bags for the blonde girl, I feel a short, sharp sting of jealousy. Why can’t someone be that considerate towards me?
The blonde girl smiles and I see her thank him. When I walk by them, the blonde boy swings the bags out of the way so I don’t have to alter my path and the feeling gets worse because he’s not just nice to her, he’s obviously a nice person.
I mean, obviously, he could write hate-mail to his ex-girlfriends or bully people at his part time job but somehow this doesn’t seem likely. I hear the girl say something to him and he laughs and says, “Hope you can.”
I don’t know their conversation but I want it for my own. I want to have conversations with Marcus. I want to know about his family, where he likes to buy his clothes, if he thinks his band will actually go anywhere, what he thinks about cruelty to animals or recycling, whether he believes in God, what he wanted to be when he was five, what the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him is.
I want him to be fleshed out form in my mind and not just my heart. Because there, of course, he can do no wrong. Yes, he does drugs and has casual sex but that’s probably what attracted me to him in the first place. Well, not the drugs part but the sexual side to him...he’s older and mysterious and I know he can be caring and considerate. I want him to be these things to me so much it’s almost like there’s a snake inside my chest, constricting my organs and making it hard to breathe.
My phone rings then. For the second time in one day, it’s the wrong person on the phone. Bridget.
“Hey,” she says when I pick up, “where are you? I just called your house phone but your Mum said you went to meet Izzie.”
“Yeah, I did but she’s gone now,” I say, trying to sound more flustered because then Bridget can’t be huffy about not being invited. It doesn’t really work.
“Well, thanks for inviting me,” replies Bridget in a strange tone. “Is there something going on that you’re not telling me?”
“No, of course not!” I say. I’m too indignant though.
“Really?” I can practically hear her voice raise her eyebrows. “Look, I’m not stupid, OK? I know that there’s something going on. You’re being weird with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Will you stop lying? It’s bad for your brain.”
How does she know stuff like that?! I can barely figure out what the difference between osmosis and the other one is and Bridget’s practically a neurosurgeon.
“You honestly expect me to believe that Marcus came round yours to watch a nature programme?” Bridget continues sarcastically. “Come on, Ella, give me a break. Is there something going on between you?”
“Oh yeah, like hell,” I retort, truthfully. There isn’t anything going on. “I wish.”
“Listen, can I come and meet you? I’m in town but I could meet you in the park or something?”
I agree because there doesn’t seem to be any reason why not. I can distract Bridget by informing her of what a witch Izzie is.
Being a real witch would be great. Not necessarily like the ones in The Wizard Of Oz or Willow and Tara from Buffy but somewhere in between. Powerful but not all modern like Willow. I want to be a witch like the ones from medieval fairy tales, with flowing dresses and forests and fairies.
Yes, I’m aware that it’s incredibly dorky to want to be a witch but it would certainly be a major step up from the fat frog I am now.
Also, I’m fairly certain that if I was a witch, Izzie would never treat me like I’m...well, just some girl she knows. We’re supposed to be best friends but she’s acting like we’ve only been friends for a month.
I know if you want a friend that you have to be a friend. But I just don’t think Izzie wants me as a friend anymore. I’m like a Barbie pink dress that she had when she was twelve that doesn’t really fit anymore and doesn’t go with any of her new stuff.
She’s going to dispose of me, send me to Oxfam and then go down to Topshop and get hotter, trendier garments. Oh, how easy it is to forget the importance of an old pink dress.
♠ ♠ ♠
If being a witch means having power and influence over people, then Izzie Valentine certainly has learned her lessons well. She wants to be the centre of attention at all times.Ella Sparks has never heard of the TV show W.I.T.C.H