|Arrows| Emily. 4 o'Clock Snickers.

12^th of January. Wednesday.

Lunch.

Teachers are still on about this term. Even the lovely Social Studies teacher Ms. Tibbs had to remind us of the importance the end of years exams will be to our final marks. It's still so tedious.

Luckily I have Giselle in Bio with me now. So I'm not completely alone.

When we were in Biology together, Giselle saw a picture of a penis and said it looked like a pendulum. I've no idea.

I don't know whether I like her or not yet. New girls are confusing. She's a strange one, that's for sure. She seems really unaware of what's around her. Like she focuses on one thing and leaves out the rest.

I'm surprised the Chanels haven't picked her up yet.

She asked about the Bishop's prick from the coffee shop. I told her everything. All of it. Only to her. I don't know why. Now she has a theory that through his thoughtless, overwhelmingly rude, pricky, git ways...the Bishop's Bastard boy may in fact fancy me.

Boys don't fancy girls taller than them. Or tall girls all together. Unless they're Elle Macpherson or whatever.

11:43pm.

Fab.

Dad's friends are coming to stay for the weekend, coming up from Cornwall. Why they want to holiday some place other than Cornwall is a mystery to me. I've seen their coastal home, right near Truro. I've seen their back garden with little ducks waddling by the stream. I've seen the chalk cliffs by the beach.

Jim and Annie. They get Georgie's old room. Oscar will have to be pried out when they come, buried in like the little tick he is. He just loves it under Georgie's old bed.

Dad's really excited for this. He always gets frantic when friends come over. Everything must be perfect.

That means that Rhys and I are forced to clean up every spec of dust in this house, and wait on them hand and foot.

The fun just never stops round here.

13^th of January. Thursday.

4:51pm.

Oscar hurled straight into the glass back door today. He was pawing around in the back garden, saw I'd come home and became overwhelmed.

I was just chatting to Mum about how much I despised Ms. Fopp when WHAM! goes his little self into the glass. We were stunned into silence when he managed to claw his way back onto his feet.

Poor little mite.

15^th of January. Saturday.

8:01pm.

Dad's friends came today. Jim and Annie.

Jim and Dad go way back, when they both worked as builders. Dad was rubbish, apparently, and could only mix the cement.

We all had the dinner Mum and I slaved over for the afternoon. Mum tried being exotic, and went for the Delia Smith book instead. Cranberry sources galore; with the chicken, in the stuffing, in the salad, as the dressing. Even a few bloody cranberries sprinkled over the plates. Insanity.

But still, Mum looked pleased with herself. Was so tempted to say her apron made her look batty, but controlled my vicious self.

Anyway, we all sat around the dinner table, feasting and smacking our lips. Even Rhys made an appearance. Oscar seemed to get jealous of all the food and decided to lay himself out under the table to give us misery. Little bastard.

Anyway, Mum gave me some background after dinner.

Jim was born in Ireland, raised in London and was packed off to Australia when he was 16 as a jackaroo in the 60's. When he found out he ran the risk of being conscripted into Vietnam, he took the next ship back to England. And guess who he met! Annie! They were married a few years later and are now celebrating their 40th anniversary.

Annie is the sweetest thing. Ever. How have I not met her before?

Jim was telling all of these old stories of their times as builders and Dad's incompetence even as a cement mixer.

He was saying in his fabulous cockney accent, "And so I'm scraping this tiny amount of the scarce cement we had, onto the bricks, and I was just finishing up when Ian here comes out with a whole new load of mixed cement as says, "Where should I put this, James?" The bloody bastard. Couldn't even lift a sack of cement!"

He made me laugh. Uncontrollably. At one point I had chicken sauce splintering it's way out of my mouth I was trying so hard to keep closed. It began running down my arms as I had to cover my face. I don't think anyone noticed, thank God.

Annie asked me, "What are you going to do when you're older? Apart from become a model?"

I tried laughing, and then Mum decided to answer the question for me, like she always does with guests. She said, "Oh we're not sure yet. We'll just have to see."

Are we not? When did We come into the equation? Bloody hell, Mum.

I had to show them their bedroom for the night. I'd cleaned out Georgie's room and made sure the smell of Oscar didn't linger. I'll have to keep him in with me tonight.

I think Jim reckons I'm a tad thick. He may be right there.

16^th of January. Sunday.

12:32pm.

Mum and Dad took Jim and Annie up to see Stonehenge before they move on this afternoon. Of course, I was forced to come as it appeared I wasn't up to much and needed some fresh air.

So I got to be crammed in the backseat with Jim and Annie, the lovebirds themselves. They're still so in love, you can tell. Even after their 40 years together.

Anyhow, I saw Stonehenge for the billionth time - oh, all the endless school excursions! - and we all rattled home.

I was staring out my window hard, because Jim was putting his arm around his "gorgeous girl," as he'd lovingly say. I was sort of embarrassed, and so would look away.

Annie was a bit tired, but Jim, still lively as ever, was being playful and started nudging her softly. She would grumble, he'd laugh and do it again. She'd grumble and he'd nudge her again. And nudge her again. And again. Until finally he took her cheek in his hand, turned her face to his and kissed her.

Even I found that romantic for people of their age and decline. Very romantic.

10:24pm.

Jim and Annie left around 2ish. I was sad to see them go, they provided so much entertainment for us.

Annie said to me, "If you ever come down to Cornwall…" and my Mum somehow nudged her way in and smiled, "Oh we surely will!"

We all waved them off as they reversed out of the driveway and roared off down the road.

I'll miss Annie, she was lovely.

Mum came in to say goodnight. She said Annie thought I was beautiful and should take up modelling. I said I wasn't supermodel material, I'm too fat. She says she thinks the supermodel skinny look is beginning to phase out anyway.

I think she was calling me fat there.

Even so, it was a kind but unrealistic suggestion. Cameras and I do not mix. No.

Midnight.

Having a good long stare in the mirror. Left side is best. Looks good if I tilt my head.

18^th of January. Tuesday.

4:something.

Oh. My. Lord. Lordy, lordy, lordy.

The prick of Bishop Wordsworth's bastard boys thinks he can befriend me!

I was walking home after another extremely uneventful day. It was starting to rain, and so, obviously just to shelter from the rain, obviously, I ducked into Tesco's and bought a Snickers. Just to pass the time, obviously.

God. No wonder I'm so chunky.

Anyway, I was just leaving when I found him blocking the aisle I wanted. He was alone, staring at the biscuit selection carefully. So I slipped away, popping behind the pastry section till he'd left.

Saw the 'all clear', bought my Snickers, got out the doors with a big sigh of relief and, with a tap on the shoulder,

"Hello again!" he appeared beside me, his hair glinting in the scarce sunshine. It was all floppy and St Martinsy. Little shit.

I wasn't hesitant nor tactful in showing my pure annoyance. I stopped mid-walk, closing my eyes and sighing heavily. I hoped he'd get the picture. He did. That didn't stop him though.

"I get the feeling that you aren't terribly fond of me," he said matter-of-factly, so I laughed. Bitterly. "Have I done something mean or wrong? Apparently I offend people who don't understand my flamboyant wit and charm."

He sounded like a naive little boy wondering if stealing a friends lollipop was the right thing to do. I wanted to slap him.

"So!" he said. "Judging by that sour look smothered on your face, I'm supposing I've done or said something wrong. Hey! Do you like Snickers? Me too! I was just going to get one but I haven't enough money. Can I have some?"

His hand dove into my wrapper, as if he were just going to snatch the chocolate out. That was when he pulled the last straw and snapped it into little pieces. No one gets between me and my 4 o'clock Snickers.

"Honestly, why don't you fuck off?" I said sternly and as calmly as I dared, then marched across the street, away from the prick.

I was proud of myself at the time. Now I just feel a bit guilty for being so harsh.

Why?

9:01pm.

My Mum is watching Life Is Beautiful.

Sometimes when I'm sitting on the kitchen counter like I am now, I'll turn and look to see her expression. She's covering her face with her hands at the moment, so I'll laugh to myself.

I don't hate her.

10:13pm.

Dad's come in, wanting to see what I'm writing. I'll hit him with the cereal box if he comes any closer.

How do I explain my Dad. What is he?

To be honest, I don't really know. He's this friendly character who lives in this house and apparently fathered me. We aren't that close. He gets pleased when he feeds me well so I think he's very generous and likes seeing people eat. Apart from that, I couldn't say.

His daughter can't say.

It could be a lot worse. My Mum often asks me, "Do you think you're lucky with a father like that?" after I've been fed chocolate croissants for breakfast, grilled chicken for lunch and Butter Chicken Curry for dinner.

"Do you think I am?" I'll ask her.

"I think you are," she'll say. "My father would never have done that."

She is right, I suppose.

The movie is over now, and she's rubbing her face with her hands. She looks tired. She yawns loudly and stretches her back out. Now is her queue to turn to me, frown at me scribbling into this here notebook and say…

Yep. "What are you thinking?" comes the question.

"Nothing much," I say back. "Just Dad."

"Yeah? Why, what for?"

"No reason," I say plainly and there will be an end to this.

Sometimes I'd like a hug from her like I use to ask for. Is it pathetic to still ask for hugs?

19^th of January. Wednesday.

1:12pm.

Lunch. The bliss of it!

Giselle's come to sit with me in my small mossy alcove. She said it was an "insane" spot. Which is nice. She's stretched out on the freezing cold stones. She's so unbelievably skinny! She complains about having such a fast metabolism, so is just one of these girls who's never had to struggle with their weight.

I can see her hipbones. Fucking hell.

I think I'm going to tell her about the prick reappearance yesterday. It's semi-interesting.

"Fuck," she's just wriggled about. "These goddamn blazers are so goddamn bulky, goddamn it."

An old man was going past as she had her outburst. He shook his head as if despairing for our generation. Giselle doesn't care.

I'll just tell her.

5:23pm.

My giddy God. The prick is bloody well hunting me down. And he actually has a name aside from "Fucking Bishop Wordsworth's Bastard Prick Boy."

It's Oliver. I know this because he told me. He told me a lot of things. In fact, it was difficult for him to keep his trap shut.

I was walking home through town again, passing the bicycle store. I was looking in, thinking how much I would like a new bike as some form of exercise, and how much I liked the plain old light purple one. The old fashioned type with big thin wheels and an uncomfortable seat. I liked the look of it.

Anyway, I hear a few thumps of footsteps, the mayhem of a bag being mercilessly flung about on someone's shoulder and his voice chiming in my ear. "Hello, I'm Oliver, by the way. But it wasn't by the way. My name had nothing to do with the way, it wasn't anywhere near the way. In fact, there wasn't a way at all. So I should've just said, "Hello, I'm Oliver." I'll remember that next time."

I don't know how he managed to find me, perhaps it was just a coincidence. Either way, there is no swerving this guy.

I didn't say anything in return, merely pretended to still be immersed in that bike I want. I wasn't responsive so he added, "Oliver Blackwell. Stupid name isn't it? Oliver Blackwell. My initials are O.B. Excluding my middle name. That's Bernard by the way. Can you believe that? Bernard. What a poncy name, Oliver Bernard Blackwell. Still, it has a nice ring to it, and at least it doesn't end with another 'er' like Hader or Maurer. Because I'd be Oliver Maurer. Actually that doesn't sound too bad. Blackwell is a very poncy name, so I usually just shorten it and say my name is Oliver Black, which I reckon sounds better. One syllable. Snappy. So I usually say, "Hey my name is Oliver Black!" But you know what? I told you my real name, my full name - the poncy one and all- without thinking. And that's because I trust you to keep it to yourself. So what's your name?"

What a bloody mouthful. I don't think he took breath between each sentence. He'll go on and on without a care. There's no stopping him, I swear.

I tried to give him a meaningful stare to get him to piss off, but he just asked, "Is it really poncy too?"

So I said very deadpan, "Emily."

"Emily what?"

I grumbled, "Waters," so, so desperate to tell him to fuck off without the guilt.

"Waters, no way!" he cried. "So I'm the Black Well, and you're the Waters that fill it! You know that's really cool, and you get that a lot around here. Names that come from natur-"

I decided to stop him there, before he went off on another bloody rant. I said, "What are you on about? Waters that fill it? Really? Is this one of these things where some sleazy fat man says to you and your Mum, "Are you two sisters?" even though it's so blatantly obvious until it stamps out your eyes that your Mum is 30 years older than you are? Do you want something? Do you want Snickers because you're shit out of luck, I have none."

"That's fine," he said, and ripped his school bag around to dig through it. He had this annoying smile on his face as he scrambled through it and got out a duo Snickers. He held it up, "Want one?"

I was still suspicious. "Is this a bribe?"

"Might be," he shrugged. "If I give you one Snickers, do you promise to try and like me?"

I said straight out, "No."

"Ah well, worth a try. Here you go," and he gave me one of the Snicker bars. "Ramones are pretty cool," he pointed to the badge on my blazer.

I looked down at my badge dumbfounded.

"Laters, Emily Waters," he waved and off he went back down the street to meet some more Bishops friends by the car park, chewing into his chocolate.

Couldn't eat my Snickers till I was safe inside at home, with Oscar yapping at me.

20^th of January. Thursday.

1:27pm.

Lunch. Alone.

Spilled the beans about yesterday to Giselle during Biology this morning. We're becoming quite frequent friends now. She was very calm about it.

She's certain he likes me after she remembered noticing him near the mossy alcove's canal yesterday. "Probably spying on you," she winked.

She thinks that besides his strange over-confident tendencies in the coffee shop last week, he "hot." To her maybe. That silky hair just irritates me.

So. She thinks Oliver fancies. My suspicions are raised. And I'm inclined to agree with her now.

Home.

No, it's bollocks. Look at me. Besides, I'm still two centimetres taller.

Dad's taking me to complete some more driving hours in time for my birthday in May. I can get my red P's soon. Unbelievable. I'll be able to drive wherever I fancy. Alone.

It's all coming together.