Love Is for Losers Wibke Brueggemann (unputdownable books .TXT) 📖

Me:…

Mum: Phoebe, talk to me.

Me: What about? You’ve already decided you’re going, so go. Bye.

Mum: Phoebe, I … The people in Syria need help, and … I’m a doctor. I help.

Me: When do I have to be packed?

Mum: I’m flying to Ankara tomorrow.

Me (leaving the room):…

Mum: Phoebe—

Me: What? I said it’s fine, so it’s fine.

Mum: I’m sorry, Phoebe.

Sorry? Oh, LOL.

We’re way past sorry.

When I tell people Mum works for Médecins Internationale, they’re always like: Wow, that’s so amazing, you must be so proud, but no one’s ever like: That must really suck when your mum goes away for MONTHS at a time ALL THE TIME to places where BOMBS ARE DROPPING and EVERYONE’S DYING.

No one cares about what it’s like for me.

I grew up literally without a mother or a father, although Dad’s dead, which is a much better excuse for being absent than Mum’s constant Mother Teresa complex.

Why have a child if you don’t want to spend time with it?

It totally runs in the family, too. Nan and Granddad moved back to Hong Kong where they grew up when Mum started university because: “We’ll always be expats, toodle-oo, and God save the Queen.”

I’m never having children.

I wish I could call Polly, but I’m definitely not speaking to her after last night.

And she still hasn’t wished me a happy new year.

Wednesday, January 3 #SeeYouOrNot

Mum dropped me off at Kate’s this morning.

In the car she was all like: “Phoebe, I know the timing of this is terrible. I know you’ve got GCSEs coming up, and I know how stressful that is, and please, if you need me to stay, I’ll stay. Please, can you just talk to me?” But I was just like: “I don’t need you to stay. In fact, I don’t need anyone to do anything,” and then I pretended to be doing something important on my phone.

At Kate’s I took my things up to my room (I’m the only person I’ve ever known to have their own room at their godmother’s house) and shut the door behind me.

I didn’t even say goodbye to Mum, but she clearly didn’t care, because she never

a)  knocked or

b)  tried to kick the door in.

Mum’s a doctor first and a mum second.

I’ve always known that.

And I stopped doing goodbyes a long time ago.

Thursday, January 4 #FurballCentral

I don’t actually mind staying at Kate’s house. The positives outweigh the negatives as follows:

Positive things about staying at Kate’s house:

Unlike Mum, Kate no longer works for Médecins Internationale, and is therefore able to provide me with food, shelter, and emotional support.

She treats me like a flatmate, not like a five-year-old.

When she goes off on me, I struggle to be offended because she turns so Scottish that I basically can’t understand what she’s saying.

Negative things about staying at Kate’s:

I have to take the bus to school.

The designer cats.

How is it possible that I’ve known those cats forever, but I still can’t tell which is which? I can only ever tell them apart when they’re sitting right next to each other. Just like Kayleigh and Melody Sessions (school uniforms do nothing for identical twins).

The designer cats are going to be a bigger pain in the arse than usual, too, because they are currently

a)  in heat and

b)  under strict house arrest (and therefore going nuts) because Kate has scheduled a shagfest in High Barnet for them so they can have designer kittens at the same time.

And because the cats think my room is actually their room, they’re continuously scratching the door trying to get in now and whining because they can’t.

This place is like a mental asylum run by a bonkers Scottish woman.

Cat 1: Meow, meow, whine, whine, scratch, scratch.

Kate: Mimi, Mimi, leave Phoebe alone. Mimi, Mimi, good girl. Who’s a good girl?

Cat 2: Meow, hiss, scratch, whine.

Kate: Sassy, Sassy, come to Mama. Good girl, Sassy. Who’s a good girl?

Cat 1 (throws massive tantrum, knocking over everything that’s not glued to a surface):…

Kate: Fer goodness’ sake, ye total crazy fuckwit, do I need to put ye in yer carrier?

Me:…

Mum always jokes about Kate ending up as a crazy cat lady, but hello, newsflash, it’s already happened.

Who drives their cats all the way to High Barnet to get shagged?

There’s a designer boy cat up there (also Persian, obvs) who’s going to shag the designer cats all weekend, and then Kate is going to sell the designer kittens for like £500 each.

Imagine there are eight of them. That’s £4,000.

This place is going to be furball central.

Oh, and FYI, the creepiest thing is that the cats are mother and daughter. Imagine a sex orgy with your mother, and then think about this: If you had a baby with your mum’s boyfriend, and your mum had a baby with him, too, then your child would have the same dad as your brother/sister, and basically, how gross is that?

Friday, January 5 #Family

Mum sent an email from Ankara telling me about all the fabulous people on her team. How nice for her to be surrounded by such a great bunch. And how equally wonderful for them to be spending so much time with my mother. Maybe they can tell me everything about her one day.

Still nothing from Polly.

This is the longest we’ve gone without speaking to each other. Maybe I should check if Training Wheels is holding her against her will.

Saturday, January 6 #HormonalCocktailFromHell

I never texted Polly.

I was thinking of asking her to go to Starbucks, but then I thought I’d feel even worse if she was like: Oh, sorry, Phoebe, I’m already going to Starbucks with Tristan, because Tristan’s my boyfriend now, which means life’s all about Tristan.

4:00 P.M.

Get this:

I found Kate’s old medical books, and they’re changing my life.

Turns out Polly is the victim of a chemical shitstorm in her brain.

Out-of-control levels of phenylethylamine are basically giving her a personality change. Before her brain chemicals started boiling over, she was a normal person who saw someone like Tristan for what he was/is: a sixteen-year-old loser who can’t ride a bike.

But suddenly: