Young Writers Society

The sound of Isla’s phone ringing didn’t phase her as she continued to stare at her bedroom ceiling. It had been Dawn’s seventh failed attempt of contact that day and Isla wasn’t planning on letting her win anytime soon. She was hoping that if she ignored her borderline alcoholic best friend for long enough, the chances of being dragged along to Alexander Finlayson’s seventeenth birthday party (and third house party of that year) would promptly dwindle down to zero.

It’s not that Isla didn’t enjoy a drink, or a party. She could down vodka shots almost as quickly as Dawn (which was truly saying something), and was popular enough to not be completely alone at any one time within a party environment, unless she specifically requested, which only tended to happen when she had her head down a toilet bowl.

However, the birthday boy himself was none other than the cousin of George Finlayson, who would definitely be attending the party. Now, if one were to let slip this information to Isla a year ago, her little besotted heart would’ve done a somersault, or whatever it is hearts do when the brain is otherwise occupied with thoughts of romance and excitement. How naïve. But now, three weeks after their breakup, she could think of nothing worse to do than spending the night getting way too intoxicated for her own good whilst simultaneously avoiding the boy who broke her heart like the plague.

Sighing, Isla let her phone ring out before kicking off her bedsheets and made her way across her bedroom to where the device was sitting, perched upright against a pile of old CDs on her dressing table that were too nostalgic to throw away. She had tactfully placed her phone somewhere that was too far away from the comfort of her bed to constantly check in the hopes that George had seen the errors in his ways and wanted her back; but also a place that was close enough to visibly check whenever a notification or call came through.

Isla considered this to be a ‘cleanse’ of sorts, as she would usually spend a ridiculous amount of her time on her phone and social media, but was now dedicating more of her time towards reading and drawing, previous passions that she had swayed away from since puberty and other passions had came along. She wanted to be the smart and cultured young woman that men dreamed of, that George dreamed of. Admittedly, she had no idea how old Anne Rice novels and hours of sketching mountain landscapes was going to help her become such a woman, but it was a start.

Isla took one last look at her phone’s lock screen for any notifications other than the seven missed calls from Dawn (a couple of Facebook friend requests and thirteen new likes on a recent Instagram post) before holding in the power button and watching the screen go completely blank. There was no way she could be talked into going to some daft party if she was unreachable. No, today was Saturday: the beginning of Isla’s self-care weekend. No alcohol. No drugs. And no crying over George fucking Finlayson.

Firing up her laptop, she quickly clicked on her Spotify page and selecting a playlist consisting completely of songs by The Strokes, a band her older brother, Rory, had got her tuned into (although she’d never admit it). Bopping her head along to You Only Live Once, she stretched and exhaled a sigh of relief that could only come from choosing to take a step back from the outside world, even if it was just for a moment. Isla picked out her favourite pyjama set and headed to the bathroom, which she knew would be spotless as Rory had spent the entirety of the past two days scrubbing and reorganising the entire house. Not that he had a choice. It turns out, bringing home thirteen fellow drunken university students after a night out could lead to some pretty serious consequences in the Kingham household.

A strong smell of lemon-scented cleaning products filled the bathroom, and Isla made herself comfortable lining up her favourite skincare and haircare products before switching on the shower. Fortunately, her room was close enough to the bathroom that the Bluetooth speakers connected to her laptop were loud enough to be heard over the sound of the rapid stream of water coming from the shower head, and Isla spent the next fifteen minutes scrubbing herself head to toe and wishing she was old enough to considered wife material by Julian Casablancas.

After a long post-shower routine that consisted of smothering herself in so much body butter that her skin was almost reflective, combing through her notoriously curly hair before tying it up in a bun, and popping on one of those infamous charcoal face masques, she returned to her room feeling like a new woman. Well, as much of a woman any seventeen-year-old who still needed her mum’s assistance when making doctors’ appointments could be.

“You look cute.”

Isla’s heart missed more than a couple beats as she spun around, wide eyes popping through a masque-covered face. Hand on her chest, the let out the biggest sigh of relief to find Dawn perched on her bedroom windowsill, looking quite the picture nursing a bottle of cheap vodka whilst she puffed on a cigarette. She chucked the bottle at Isla, who had no choice but to catch it for fear that it would fall and smash. Not that anyone else was home to hear the potential calamity, but she wasn’t particularly in the mood for cleaning.

“Get ready, bitch!” exclaimed Dawn as if it was the greatest term of endearment she knew. “Tonight’s the night we find you a rebound!”