Bunny

When it came to applying to university, I said to Dad – ‘The thing is, Dad, I care, but I don’t really really care,’ and Dad was like – ‘What does that even mean?’ And I said that I just didn’t think – I thought it would probably be quite pointless. Anyway, we actually ended up taking it quite seriously. Dad got really into it. He’d been, Mum hadn’t, and nor had his sister – so he was all ‘First woman in the family to go to university, that’ll be quite something’. So we make lists and more lists, and we go to open days and do ratings and it’s quite fun and Dad eventually decides we’ll go London School of Economics, we’ll go Manchester, we’ll go Bristol and then for back-up we’ll go Essex and we’ll go Southampton. And I’m all – okay – and I – we – spent ages filling in forms – and a few had me up for interviews, and Dad came with me for them too.
The rejections came in one by one. One after the other. Tipping through the box.
Essex took me. The rest… didn’t.
And Dad – Dad just said – ‘Well, good to have tried, isn’t it?’ And Essex? Essex.
I scratched his car the night I got the last rejection, from Bristol, three weeks – three weeks that must have been – ago. I went out in the middle of the night with a hair grip and scratched ‘cunt’ in big letters.
He was really funny the next day. ‘Who did this? Who did this?’ And Abe, coming to walk me to school, stood with my dad and talked about who could have done it… ‘Who could have done it, sir?’ He sometimes calls my dad ‘sir’. Abe does. And both of them discussed in loud voices who could have written ‘cunt’ on my dad’s car… I’ve never met Abe’s parents – I don’t know why

single one of the twenty-five I invited – and all were important – but also everyone left my birthday party – every single one of the twenty-five – at 10.30 p.m.
Which is not a normal time to leave any birthday party, I know. And that’s what I mean about…
But they were bored and it was quite shit and they thought it’d be quite funny to leave, and it sort of was, you know? Funny. Still quite an embarrassing one to explain to your parents. Where are all your friends? Um. Hiding. No. They’ve gone. Obviously. Where have they gone? Um. Home. Probably. Why? Why have they gone? Turn. Look parents in the eye. Because this was pointless. I basically turned it all on them. Which was fair enough. They’d made some effort. But the wrong effort. And so had I. I mean, it was mostly my fault. There was booze – but there were too many snacks and not enough Ann Summers’ toys or something. I don’t know.

I used to have a fat friend. Sheridan. Named after a Sheffield Wednesday footballer – and they wondered why she ate? Bulimia in the end. She got hospitalised once she turned yellow. Then they moved her from the school – when she got out – of hospital – because they wanted to ‘change her routine’ and they weren’t sure our school was a ‘healthy environment’. Like any school is a healthy environment. But I did like watching her eat. With every mouthful you just saw this look of pure gratitude crossing her face – like – I can’t believe I’m getting to eat this… this is awesome.
I say ‘friend’. She wasn’t really. My friends are different. I’m – difficult to explain without sounding thick – but me and her don’t fit like that. Not that I fit anywhere. I’m the unfit fitter. I don’t fit. But not in a bad way. Just in a – way. To give an instance – and this is true – and very very illustrative – everyone came to my eighteenth-birthday party – I mean, ever