The Weird Friends Fan Club Read online

  Never try to do new things or let anyone in, appears to be the lesson here. Though not according to Kiera.

  She got sick of me sighing while lying down on the lower bunk, while she was sitting at our “desk” (small plank of wood attached to the wall) colouring in some maps for her geography homework. I wasn’t even sighing that dramatically. So I don’t know why she thought that.

  “And the Oscar for most dramatic sigh while lying in a bunk bed goes to…!” Kiera did a drum roll on the plank/desk.

  “I’m not—”

  “Eriiin Browwwwn!” Kiera interrupted.

  “In the mood,” I finished.

  “Woo! Go Erin!” Kiera continued anyway. “Who would you like to thank? Besides baby Jesus?”

  “Shut up,” I said tiredly.

  “What’s that? Your sister? For being such a great inspiration, and for putting up with all your ridiculous mood swings? That’s so sweet, thanks!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Very good,” I muttered.

  “Ha,” said Kiera, pleased. Then, “You still sad about your new friend?”

  “Ex-new friend,” I reminded her. “And ex-best friend. The whole general absence of any friends thing.” I had already updated Kiera with all the dejected details. (Ha, alliteration.)

  “It sounds like she really likes you,” said Kiera, going back to her colouring. “They both do.”

  “Then you’re not listening, because she hates me,” I said. “They both do.”

  “Of course they both still like you,” said Kiera. “Who wouldn’t like you? You’re easy going and kind. Everyone wants to be friends with the gentle, easy going little poet soul of Erin Brown.”

  I couldn’t help but giggle. “What are you even talking about?” I asked her.

  “You’re not as easy going as me,” stated Kiera. “But they don’t see these mopey mood swings of yours.”

  “Ha, alliteration,” I interjected.

  “So, as well as annoying stuff like that,” said Kiera, “sometimes you’re a bit negative I suppose. But otherwise, solid friend material.”

  “I mean…” I tried to respond appropriately. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Sure. I’m nice too. We’re conflict avoiders, because of our…” Kiera cupped her hands around her mouth to sing “…parents’ divooooorce, oh yeah.”

  I really had to laugh. I just couldn’t help it. And I have no idea how singing those words transformed the effect from awful to the funniest thing ever, but there you go. My sister is a genius. God, I love my sister.

  “You are really nice,” I told her. “And funny and easy going.”

  She nodded sagely. “I know. That’s probably how we attract these highly strung people into our lives. They want to learn to chill.”

  “Is someone giving you grief?” I asked her.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” said Kiera. “The first rule of dance troupe is: Mia is not in charge of dance troupe. Any more. Everyone got sick of her excessive use of jazz hands in the end. I didn’t even have to do anything.”

  “Oh, um, OK, cool.”

  “My point is,” said Kiera, “it sounds like Nic is on the verge of initiating an apology sequence, and Grace is still just really hurting.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Yes, definitely,” responded Kiera. “She sounds like quite a prideful person who doesn’t often let people in. That kind of person takes things like what you did really badly. I mean, look at Dad.”

  “What’s it got to do with Dad?” I was bemused.

  “Remember when Mum forgot to tell him that everyone was supposed to wear a Christmas jumper to our old neighbours’ party, and he didn’t wear one and got the nickname Scroogey McScrooge Face?”

  “Yeah. Wow. Our old neighbours weren’t the best at making up nicknames, were they?” I replied.

  “No. Well that boat thing had just happened.”

  “Yeah. He thought she’d done that jumper thing on purpose and didn’t speak to any of us, for like a month. And they have since got, as you say…” I sang “…divoooorced, so I don’t see how your point stands here.”

  “My point,” Kiera pauses grandly, “is that Grace didn’t have to give you that expensive makeup. She was trying to express love the only way she’s been shown…”

  I laughed and Kiera giggled. “You’re talking such rubbish. And I have since given it back,” I said.

  “I still say she really likes you,” said Kiera. “I think you still have a shot. Like follow her to an airport or something.”

  We both giggled again.

  How am I worse at life than my eleven-year-old sister? I guess she is nearly twelve.

  GRACE

  I’d be lying if said I wasn’t a little surprised that the “sorry present” I gave Erin was returned to me (stealthily – as is Erin’s way, natch) and was waiting on my desk at the end of lunch, along with a scrawled note that said: “It seems wrong to keep this now. Erin.”

  I mean, honestly. I suppose on one level, one could interpret that as noble; but on another level – rude.

  But no matter. Because things are BACK TO NORMAL.

  I totally see why my friends had been so suspicious of Erin now. Obviously she was super weird and devious the whole time and I just couldn’t see it.

  Which is unlike me, but I guess that I am just so nice that sometimes people take advantage of it? Well, that doesn’t really sound like me either.

  I don’t have an adequate explanation yet actually. There are a few contradictory things happening.

  But I decided to try not to dwell on it too much because I was going out on Friday night! FRIDAY NIGHT BABY YEAH. Like the good old days.

  I had LOADS of fun getting dressed up, just like I always used to. I took a mirror selfie, just like I always used to, showcasing my new silver earrings and super cute jacket. I posted it online, just like I always used to. “Rocking my new threads.” #treatyourself #lovemylife #howistyle #ootd #thisgirlcan #fridaynightwoo

  Actually, it wasn’t quite as much fun as it used to be, as I felt a tiny bit self-conscious about taking so many attempts to get the perfect selfie. Like I could see Erin’s bemused face, even if she wasn’t there. And then I felt weirdly nostalgic for the theatre trip I took with Erin, when she first judged my selfie-taking.

  And then I had to remind myself that Erin sucks and I don’t like her.

  No. I refuse to let Erin ruin my fun. She’s gone from my life. So I scratch that from the record, diary. It was just as much fun as usual.

  And actually, Erin was all over selfies these days anyway. So, if she was here, she wouldn’t be looking at me with her judgey face, she’d be looking at me with her impressed face, but – ANYWAY – I’m not thinking about Erin. I’m glad she’s not here.

  Daddy’s car dropped me off outside Byron Burger, where my friends were waiting, and we squealed and hugged each other just like we always used to. And it was just as much fun.

  We took the obligatory selfies and we all looked smoking hot, and no one embarrassed themselves by saying on fleek.

  I didn’t ponder for a moment why it was weird how that’s an offence to my group of friends. And how words are transient and change their meaning, and surely it’s the intent behind them that’s more important? And I certainly didn’t think about how interesting it was that Erin made a word list, with words like halitosis and diffident on it.

  Like I said, I didn’t think that. I was having just as much fun as usual. I wasn’t lachrymose.

  We had so much fun in the restaurant. Sylvie had brought some fun party stuff because everyone wanted to celebrate that I am back to normal. (Which I might have been slightly offended by, if I stopped to think about it. So I didn’t.) Fun fun fun.

  So, she put these fun little gold letters and pictures of cakes all over the table (which was kind of messy but looked really good) and we all had party whistles that we could blow, which were great, and not “obnoxious�
�� like I think I might have heard someone at the next table saying.

  And a waiter had to tell us to keep it down a bit, and that the gold letters were making a mess. So Sylvie lied and said it was my birthday. And then the waiter had to bring me a little piece of cake and a party hat, and then the whole restaurant had to sing happy birthday to me! It was wild!

  We got so many great photos of the gold letters and everything. Some very arty shots. And everyone wanted a turn with the hat, even though it was ridiculous.

  And we even got milkshakes afterwards.

  Then we took a great photo of all of us drinking our milkshakes. Sylvie posted it with the caption, “Only ice-cold milkshakes can cool these hotties down! #youcantsitwithus #therealgirlsquad #fullonsnacks #milkshakebringsalltheboystotheyard #nofakers

  And I reposted it, obviously. With the captions #lovemylife #lovemygirls #dreamteam

  And then they all went to the loo but I stayed sitting at the table, and I accidentally contemplated whether I did love my life and my girls, and I wasn’t quite sure.

  All of my Instagram makes it look like I’m having the best time.

  It was sort of weird how I wasn’t enjoying my friends’ company quite as much now that I was back in it for the long haul. Long haul? That sounds wrong. Like I was trapped or something! I didn’t feel trapped. I was happy. Definitely. Everything was back to normal.

  Except…

  Except it was a bit like … when you are eating something and then you try another food and then you can’t go back to the first food because it tastes weird after the other one…

  Like, if you’re eating yoghurt, and then you eat a satsuma, and then you go back to the yoghurt, and the yoghurt tastes weird, because your tongue is all acidic or whatever. Or how you basically can’t eat anything after a pickled onion, for ages.

  I’m not saying Erin was a pickled onion. I’m saying she was a satsuma. And my friends were yoghurts.

  I realised I wasn’t making complete sense in my own head. But also that I wasn’t having as much fun as I had hoped.

  And then I took a serious photo of myself, looking a bit glum. I put the party hat on wonky, I blew the party whistle dejectedly and I got it in one take. I put it in black and white and posted it online with no comment.

  ERIN

  OMG. I sat up in bed and stopped scrolling on my phone.

  Kiera is right! Kiera might actually be right about something (again). God, no one tell her.

  Grace has posted a sad photo on Instagram! Not just a slightly less fun one. A properly sad, black and white, poignant, arty photo. No captions. Not even that flattering.

  She’s sad! She misses me! Maybe? I mean I still shouldn’t really overlook the fact that she’s told me to get lost in no uncertain terms.

  But maybe… This is my chance. This is my in. I could follow her to an airport now? (Maybe I really shouldn’t be taking the advice of my eleven-year-old sister that seriously? Who watches too much Netflix … but she is nearly twelve.)

  What exactly is my “airport moment”? And does Grace even deserve for me to try?

  OK. OK. How about this: I try one airport moment. And if she doesn’t go for it, I’ll know it was never meant to be. I’ll draw a line under it. Stop beating myself up and know there was nothing more I could have done. OK.

  OK.

  OK. Airport moment… Um…

  I can’t get her a present. I’m not rich like her.

  There’s nothing I have that she – oh wait there is one thing that she wanted… Hmmm.

  GRACE

  Oh. How strange – a text message from Erin!

  “I’m very sorry. Would you like to come to my house (flat) for tea and I can explain? No worries if not, I will leave you alone. Srlsy.”

  Well.

  Well, well, well.

  I was unsure what to do.

  I was very cross with Erin still. But I also missed her. But, also, I was very hurt by her betrayal. And then, of course, I was actually VERY curious to see her house.

  Curiosity won out in the end.

  Saturday 30th March

  ERIN

  I waited outside my building at 3pm for Grace to be dropped off.

  I felt calm and nervous at the same time. Which was actually better than just plain old nervous, which is how I always used to feel.

  I think I’ve made my peace with what I’m doing. If she bullies me mercilessly for how bad she thinks my flat is, then: (a) Kiera will have been wrong, so I can at least rub that in her face; (b) I’ll know where I stand and stop trying; (c) I’ll know that she actually isn’t worth being friends with.

  I like my flat. I’m (quite) happy there with my mum and my sister. I’m not ashamed of it.

  And really, what’s the worst that can happen? I get double bullied? My life can’t get doubly ruined. There is a double jeopardy indemnity clause about that. I’m pretty sure it applies to bullying too.

  Grace’s car pulled up and she stepped out. It’s a busy road, so the car couldn’t stay long and drove off with another car beeping at it.

  “Hi Grace,” I ventured. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Pleasure,” said Grace dubiously, squinting up at my building.

  “This way,” I said, and she followed me inside.

  We live in an old-fashioned block of flats with a tiny rickety elevator that only fits three people, with a sliding grate that you slide yourself and which I have enjoyed ever since we moved in.

  “Is this safe?” Grace eyed the manual grate suspiciously.

  “Oh yes,” I smiled. “For up to three people. Think of it as having a shabby chic, kind-of-paired-down-but-still-sophisticated, Parisian vibe.”

  Grace’s face lit up slightly at that. She maybe didn’t get that I was vaguely satirising the differences between the tours of our houses.

  “Yes, actually it is reminiscent of some…” she paused “…parts of Paris.”

  I think she was going to say “run down parts of Paris.” (Where the murders happen.) But still, technically Paris.

  We walked down the communal corridor to my flat. We could smell everyone’s cooking. We reached my door and I undid all three locks, while Grace raised her eyebrows.

  “So, this is my house,” I said as we entered the narrow “hallway” that all rooms lead off. We had to squeeze up against each other so I could get the door shut behind us. It doesn’t help that all our coats and shoes are in the way. (Mum keeps threatening to start running “a capsule household” but I don’t think even she really knows what that means.)

  “So, this is the living room and kitchen,” I lead her one step to the left.

  “Oh! Does it go on? No. Oh I see, yes. It’s a kitchen-come-lounge. Lovely!” said Grace.

  “Bathroom,” I continued. We poked our heads in there.

  “No way!” cried Grace. Then, “cuuute,” in a vaguely apologetic way.

  “That’s Mum’s room. And this is my bedroom. Mine and Kiera’s.”

  We fully entered my bedroom. It was a tight squeeze.

  “Hi, I’m Kiera,” said my sister, standing up and proffering her hand, which Grace duly shook. “Would you like to sit on the chair?” Kiera waved at the tiny swivel stool that we usually kept stuffed under the plank (desk).

  “Um. Where will you sit?” asked Grace.

  “We can just sit on the lower bunk,” said Kiera. “Guests get the fancy chair.” She grinned to show she knew it wasn’t really fancy, but Grace seemed unsure whether Kiera really thought this bent, squeaky thing was great. “I’m kidding, it’s a wreck – come sit on our threadbare throne,” added Kiera.

  “Ha, alliteration,” said Grace and I at the same time.

  “Wow, you’re both so different,” remarked Kiera, dryly. I frowned at her. “Tea?” she offered.

  “Thank you,” said Grace benevolently. She sat down stiffly, and the chair squeaked.

  “Brilliant, cheers,” I said.

  Kiera has been allowed to use the kettle by herse
lf since she was ten and is still very proud of her tea-making skills.

  “And biscuits?” she continued. “Me and Mum made some earlier. Not for you,” she added hastily (and a bit rudely) to Grace. “Because she’d promised me we’d do baking.”

  “Sounds lovely,” said Grace, politely.

  Kiera left, and I sat down on the lower bunk.

  “So,” I said.

  “So,” echoed Grace.

  I took a deep breath. “Look,” I said, “I’m really sorry I told you the wrong deadline for the competition. I was very angry and upset that you threw me out of your party, and I wanted to get you back. I didn’t expect you to apologise to me, and I should have come clean when you did. I can’t get you a sorry present like you did for me, because I don’t have any money, but you said you wanted to see my house, so here it is.”

  Graced stared at me, her expression unreadable. Then she reached out and clasped my arm, and said earnestly, “I’m really sorry too.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Grace seemed on the verge of some kind of emotion. “Um. That’s cool. Um. Yay? Do we forgive each other then?”

  “Yes!” Grace beamed. “And I’m sorry for what you would call bullying again in English.”

  “Because it is called bullying,” I said.

  “Yay, friends again!” Grace sidestepped this and gave my arm another squeeze.

  “Yay!” I tried to join in the level of excitement but found it a bit awkward.

  The moment passed. Grace let go of my arm and sat up a bit more stiffly. “Thank you for showing me your home. It’s lovely. How did you know I wanted to see it so much?”

  “Because you kept going on about it, and I get the feeling you don’t like being told no.”

  Grace smiled, trying to compose herself, then theatrically clasped her hand in front of her heart. “I feel seen,” she giggled, and I laughed.

  “Your family seems nice,” said Grace.

  Just then the front door slammed.

  We could hear someone muttering, “Idiots!” Then, “What have I told you about leaving shoes everywhere? This is a trip hazard. One of these days there’ll be an injury!”