Page 32 of Sad Girl Hours
Jenna pauses in stealing a chunk of apple. “What prize?”
Nell flails around a bit on the floor, digging her hand into the pocket of the jeans I also lent her, before sticking her arm up in the air, holding the pencil aloft.
“You won a pencil.”
“Not just any pencil,” Nell says, getting up. “Afootballpencil.”
This does not invoke the impressed reaction that Nell clearly thinks it warrants.
“Hey, we worked hard for this pencil – show some respect. We were in that maze for two hours, it rained so hard that I had toget changed to look like a mini version of Saffron when we got home and we only cheated a tiny bit.”
“I’m very sorry. Also, what the fuck is wrong with this apple?” Jenna grimaces.
“They’re cooking apples – they’re not meant to be eaten raw,” I explain.
“They’re fucking disgusting.”
“Once again, show some respect. We stole these apples with our own fair hands, and we’re baking them into pies with our own fair hands. Pies that we were going to share, but if you don’t respect the game then maybe you don’t deserve pie.” Nell makes another attempt at cutting something out of her rolled pastry. “Hey! This looks like a leaf! A perfectly normal, well-shaped leaf.”
“It really does,” I say. “Well done.” I put my hand up for a high five, which Nell smacks with vigour. “Do you feel a bit better now? Maybe the muses were just trying to guide you towards your true pastry calling of leaves.”
“Maybe they were.”
“Well, I’m glad the day has turned out to be a success,” Jenna says, and I know she’s probably being snarky, but I really think it has. I glance sideways at Nell whose tongue is poking out slightly from the corner of her mouth as she focuses on cutting out leaves. She feels my gaze on her and looks across at me with a smile.
“You could say that,” I say in reply to Jenna.
I’ve enjoyed myself today. I’ve not felt low at all. I’ve submitted to the impish whims of Nell. I’ve let myself justbeand enjoy my time. I was determined that things would be different this year, and now I think that maybe they really will. I’ll keep working at it, keep trying my hardest not to let myself sink.
I need to be OK. Today’s just been one day, sure, but it’s proof that if I really want to, if I really try, I can be.
“Ta-da!” Nell lifts up her pie to show me, deformed pumpkin – sorry,apple– in the middle, a wreath of leaves now around the edge.
“Beautiful!” I say. “You’ve really pulled it back from the brink of your artistic crisis there.”
“Why, thank you.”
I start carefully trimming the offcuts round the edge of the pie dish so that the edges are all neat.
I can do this.
Chapter Fourteen
Nell
I’ve been scribbling nonsense words into my notebook for most of my lecture. Freida, the lecturer, is lovely. I usually enjoy her lectures more than anyone else’s, but this year she’s taking us for our Love Poetry of the Twentieth Century – Passion in a Changing World module, and I’m just not feeling it today.
I’m happy with my poems for the collection so far. I’ve shown Saffron and Jenna a couple and they’ve been suitably complimentary. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that they’re not going to win me the publishing contract. They’refine. They’re not magical.
And I’m not just being humble. I know they’re missing that spark, that insight into some previously uncharted, unstanza-ed waters. They’re missing emotion. Because I’m missing mine.
“All right, I think we’re done delving into our poets’ lovestruck psyches for the day,” Freida announces at the front of the hall. “I hope that was of use to you all. Remember that your tutors will be wanting to see a draft of your first ten poems for your collections by the end of next week, so get fine-tuning – or writing,” she adds wryly, “now.”
I let out a quiet groan.
Saffron said she’d meet me outside after her lecture – honestly, very rude that we both had morning lectures on our birthday – but she’s not messaged me to say she’s done yet, so I decide to hang out here for a couple more minutes. Fuelledmostly by spite towards my AWOL poetry muses, I flip to a new page in my notebook and begin to write.
I fall with the leaves eyes closed
