Not My Problem

by Ciara Smyth

Transition year is the best thing about our whole education system.

She was arrogant and a know-it-all and self-righteous and a craicuum.

“Aideen, tell me, what is hysteria?” “Um, you know, when bitches be crazy?”

I badly needed a nap. Or a shower. Or a lobotomy.

Why was I mesmerised by the way the muscles in her arms tensed as she clutched the bags, though? There were only two explanations. One was that I was a cannibal. The other didn’t bear thinking about.

We locked eyes for a moment and I felt this urge to wrap her up and take all her stress away.

“What do you think we hit?” I asked. “I can’t look,” Angela said. “If it’s a cat I’m going to kill myself.

“I like your hair,” I said, and I privately congratulated myself on being smooth with the ladies. I like your hair. That was going to go down in history as one of the great lines.