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

Great, because Alex is coming, too, and now the three of us are going to Sprinkles before, and one half of my brain is going: Remember the list, Phoebe, but the other half is just like: List? What list?

PS: Tomorrow we’ve got English Language 2 and History 2.

I honestly want to sleep for a week. My whole body aches. And speaking of aches, my bruise currently looks like a love bite.

Friday, June 8 #AndTheWinnerIs

It was so hot today.

I was literally melting during English, and even though they’d opened all the doors and windows over lunch to air out the room, it was absolutely boiling in the afternoon, and instead of history, all I could think about was the future and how much I wanted to get out of that room alive. The Jew in me kept groaning: Oy vey! the whole way through.

Afterwards I rushed home, because I wanted to have a shower before meeting Emma and Alex, and after spending half an hour trying on all sorts of outfits, I ended up back in my black skinny jeans, and by the time I got to Sprinkles, I was sweating again.

I once read somewhere that you know exactly how you feel about someone when you see them again after a prolonged period of absence.

When we met outside Sprinkles, it had been ninety-three hours since I’d last seen Emma, which isn’t all that prolonged, but I couldn’t stop looking at her, and it took me, like, five minutes before I could form a full sentence, which basically means I don’t just fancy her the way I fancy cake, and can therefore take it or leave it, but that I’m actually completely in love with her.

Me: Hi.

Emma: Hi, how are you?

Me: Fine.

Emma (smiling):…

Me (possibly not smiling):…

Emma (smiling more):…

Me (possibly still not smiling):…

Emma: How did today go for you?

Me: It was hell.

Emma: Same. So hot.

Me: If I fail, I’m not retaking anything.

Emma (nodding): I think we all feel like that.

Me: I’m not joking, either.

Emma (smiling at me like it was funny):…

Me:…

Emma: Any sign of Alex?

Me: Not yet.

Emma: He’s the one who didn’t have exams today, and he’s late. Such a diva.

Me: Totally.

And then I finally dragged my eyes away from Emma’s face, and I realized that she was wearing a cute little pastel-y summer dress and Vans, and that her hair was down, and that she’d put on some lip gloss that didn’t turn her lips into a different color, but made them look naturally juicy delicious.

Me: I should have made an effort.

Emma: What do you mean?

Me: I look like a vagrant.

Emma (laughing): You don’t look like a vagrant. You look like … you.

Then Alex appeared, and even he’d put a dress shirt on, and even though it was proper hot outside, he was wearing his smart coat. Both Emma and I watched him walk up to us, and I was just like: “Nope, I definitely should have made some sort of effort,” and Emma laughed and was just like: “Just wear something from the shop, then,” but I was like: “Please don’t mock.”

I had Peanut Butter Extreme, and all the sugar and protein made me feel light-headed. We sat in one of the booths, and I was sitting next to Emma, and Alex was sitting opposite us, and halfway through my meal (I say meal, but it wasn’t really, it was basically a whole week’s worth of calories in one bowl of ice cream), I felt Emma’s leg against mine, but instead of shifting and repositioning myself, I just stayed, and I even pressed against hers.

What is wrong with me? This is not helping me. Maybe I’m a masochist.

And the thing is, I don’t even think Emma noticed it, because she didn’t say anything or look at me in any sort of way that would suggest it could have been deliberate, and then I reminded myself of her pyramid of priorities, and I was like: Of course it doesn’t mean anything.

Luckily we had to be at the thrift shop at half past six, so I didn’t really have time to think about it too much, except I was thinking about it too much. Like a computer running background checks while letting you write an essay.

The rest of the evening ended up being quite hilarious because of the old people.

Pat looked like the queen was coming. She’d put on this most bizarre two-piece flowy skirt and blouse combo, and when the charity guy shook her hand, she curtsied.

We had to take the team picture, like, three million times, because Bill kept telling jokes, making us all laugh.

Melanie was just shaking her head, going: “Goodness, Bill, you’re such a child.”

At one point Emma pulled me further into the frame by my wrist, and I literally fell into her, and then she flung her arm around my shoulder, and I felt awkward in my own body.

Emma and I stayed until the end, and when Kate was locking up, we were standing on the sidewalk, and I looked at her, and she smiled, and all I could think was: You’re everything.

Saturday, June 9 #Speechless

This morning Kate knocked on my door at seven.

Me: Mum’s dead.

Kate (sitting down on my bed, hand reaching for my leg): No, pet. Your mum is fine. But Melanie had a stroke.

Me: What?

Kate: Melanie had a stroke. She’s at the hospital, but it doesn’t look like she’s going to recover.

Me: What?

Kate (rubbing my leg): Pat just called me to say that she’s at the hospital with them.

Me: Okay.

Kate: She says it’s not looking good for Melanie.

Me: What do you mean?

Kate: She probably won’t survive.

Me: But she was okay yesterday.

Kate: I know, pet, but a stroke can occur suddenly, and very unexpectedly. It’s important to get to the hospital quickly to save as much of the brain as possible. Bill didn’t realize something was wrong until he found her in bed early this morning, and she wasn’t able to get up.

Me: And now?

Kate: I’m going to go to the shop and