Not My Problem

by Ciara Smyth

“Wow, gossiping about me with the English teacher. I would have thought you were above that kind of thing.” Ms Devlin turned red, ready to explode. “I am your English teacher, you ninny.” “Oh right, I thought you looked familiar.”

The most likely scenario here was the disturbed spirit of some girl who had died while undergoing an aggressive exorcism. Probably because she had unnatural feelings (a gay) or disturbing thoughts (an opinion) or had been possessed by Satan (was horny?).

Have you met my wife, Kristen Stewart? We’re flying on a private jet to Maui tonight to have lots of sex and lip biting. Fuckity bye, arseholes.

This is what you get for being a Good Samaritan. You die in a girls’ changing room at the hands of a deranged overachiever.

I took the opportunity to fill it with Taylor Swift. I know it’s basic to love Tay, but the girl knows how to write a bop. I’ve never even had a girlfriend, yet somehow I listen to one of her albums and I end up thinking wistfully of all my lost loves and feeling hope that I’ll find love again somehow.

The bottom drawer was where Mr K kept confiscated items. I knew this from when he took my phone. And the time he took my vagina embroidery that I’d made for Home Ec. And the time he took my plastic ruler that I’d spent ages filing down into a point because he said it was now a weapon and “shivs are against school rules.”

“All right, come on, then. We find the hole, we fill it up.” “Yeo,” I said. “Fill the hole in your knowledge, you degenerate.” “With the fingers of information?”

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.

I didn’t want to feel like a pest, like people didn’t want me around. Which was stupid because I didn’t need anyone to be my friend either. There was something safe about not needing anyone to like me. As long as they didn’t have any reason to dislike me.

I knew it would take a lot to distract her from work. But Ms Devlin had often called me “a lot” so I was more than capable.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you. I wish you would tell me, but I respect that maybe you have a good reason not to. But I am not disposable. I’m not a toy you can play with when it suits you and then ignore when you have other stuff to do. If you want to be my friend, you have to stop treating me like I don’t exist if you’re not looking directly at me.”

If you accept that there’s a problem, then you have to do something about it.

“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.