Stereotype by Claire Hennessy Page A

writer, á la Emily Dickinson. Spend the rest of my days hiding from the world, living behind a legacy of beautiful poems. Preferably not as morbid as her, though. Less funerals in brains; more fluffy bunnies and odes to chocolate.
    With maybe a couple of angst-ridden, depressing rants thrown in for good measure, because we all know that I’m not exactly Little Miss Sunshine.
    Ciara is asking about law, veterinary medicine, physiotherapy. All those courses that are designed for over-achievers, requiring so many points that it makes your head hurt just thinking about how many As you’d need.
    Already you can see the different attitudes towards the Leaving developing. There are the over-achievers, who are determined to put in the work and get the points for what they want. There are the under-achievers, who have decided that they’re not going to do that well, and that’s that, they can’t do the course they want. There are the indifferents, who figure that it doesn’t mean anything anyway. There are the unrealistics, the ones who want to do the same courses as the overachievers and think that somehow the points will miraculously appear. There are the in-denials, who are refusing to think about their future.
    I’m semi-ambitious. I want an A in English. Just because. And then I want enough points to get into Arts. That’s it.
    Two years, three months, and it’ll be over. I can leave. I can get away from everyone.
    And find people exactly like that at college.
    Depressing thought. Going through life and having it all be just a repeat of your schooldays.
    It gets better, right?
    The bell goes. “Abi, are you walking?” Karen asks.
    “Yeah,” I say, unable to help adding, “like I usually do.”
    “Wait for me, will you?”
    “Sure,” I shrug.
    Karen usually gets a lift. And when she doesn’t, she and Hannah hang around and smoke before going home. She only walks home with us when we have something planned for the evening.
    It’s probably an attempt at making sure she doesn’t fall out of the me/Sarah/Fiona group, just in case Leanne decides to stop being friends with her. After refusing to come to Sarah’s party because she was going into town with them , I mean.
    You were wondering why she wasn’t there, huh? Too busy with her real friends, I suppose. Sarah was all, “Oh, sure, that’s fine” since her party was an impromptu thing anyway. I happen to know that they’d only arranged to go into town that day, and that she could have easily gotten out of it. Most of them weren’t sure whether they could go or not. But I guess she made her choice.
    I’m not really bitter about it or anything. I just don’t like being the second choice, the runner-up, the back-up friend.
    But I guess maybe I’ve been treating her like that as well sometimes. Staying friends with her so that I won’t be such a total outcast in our class.
    It’s primary school all over again.
    “Heya,” Sarah greets us both when we leave the classroom.
    “Hey,” Karen says. “How was the party?”
    “It was . . . good.” She shrugs. Smiles.
    “How’s what’s-his-face? The one you’re pretending not to fancy?”
    “Shane?” She laughs. “He’s fine.” Another laugh. “He’s really fine.”
    Karen grins. “I see. Anything happen between the two of you?”
    “Not yet,” she says, “but – give it time!”
    She’s gone from denying it, to half-admitting she likes him, to completely infatuated and delighted at the thought that he likes her. Meanwhile I’ve gone from not sure that I like him, to insane jealousy at the thought of him liking Sarah, to planning out my life as a reclusive poetry-writing spinster. Which one of us got the better deal here?
     
     

Chapter Forty-Three
     
    I am not going to hurt myself. I am not going to hurt myself. I am – oh, why do I care? I want to, OK? So I’m going to do it.
    There. Did it.
    And I’m screwed-up girl again. Start taking me seriously, stop thinking it’s just part of