Can I talk to you?
I eschewed the pull of him and carried on with a new pitch to Gina since none of the others had been good enough. When I felt ready, I printed my pitch and made my way to Gina’s office. I walked in quietly and closed the door behind me.
“What have you got for me?” Gina asked without looking away from her screen.
I took a deep breath to steel myself before I started. “It’s called ‘Trigger Thumbs.’?”
“What?” Gina asked, turning to face me.
“It’s a piece about liberals who tweet traumatic content.”
“And what’s the content of the piece, once we get beyond your wordplay?”
“Well, basically, it’s about how people post all of these horrifying stories about rape, sexual abuse, kidnapping, bombings, school shootings, basically everything bad that has happened, without thinking about how it will affect anyone who sees.”
“Who are these people who are posting?” Gina asked, going back to her screen.
“Well, mainly all of these liberal white journalists who can afford to work in journalism because their ric—”
“Careful.”
“Okay, well, how about—” I tried to change tack.
“You need more of a hook, either way.”
“Right. Well, what if the hook is the Me Too movement? Loads of people were posting their stories of sexual assault without thinking about how women who didn’t feel like they could spe—”
“Way too long ago now.”
“Um, okay.” I floundered. “How about—”
“How about for the blog you look back at, say, ten of the best black dresses Me Too movement supporters have worn at awards ceremonies?”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yes,” Gina said. “It’s Christmas season and people need chic party dresses. Good to attach some moral standing to it.”
“But, I—” I started. What was the point?
“By Friday morning, please.”
* * *
After work I headed to my grandparents’ house to meet my little cousin, Diana, for babysitting duties despite telling Aunt Maggie that Diana was mature enough to look after me.
I only agreed to it because Maggie needed someone to hang out with Diana while she went on her first date since the divorce five hundred years ago, and I felt like I should support that in any way I could, even if it meant spending an entire evening being berated by a teenager I was a bit scared of.
When I got there, the front door was open and Diana was sitting on the stairs while Maggie held a finger a millimeter away from her face and spoke to her through gritted teeth.
“Diana.” My aunt placed emphasis on the first syllable of my cousin’s name as she always did when Diana was in trouble. “You need to pay attention to things, and not just think about how to answer back. I’ve spoken to your teachers about it, and even they tell me that all you do is sit on your phone. You think that’s why I bought it for you, so you can spend all day at school looking at people doing makeup? You have to learn.”
“I am learning!” Diana said. “I watch makeup tutorials, and now I know how to do makeup looks? I did your makeup for your date, Mum.” Diana rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I mean!” Maggie turned to face me. She looked nice, don’t get me wrong, but she didn’t look like her. That’s what five layers of foundation and two sets of fake eyelashes will do.
“Queenie, Mum has a headache, so you can’t stay here.” Maggie walked to the door and pushed her feet into a pair of leopard-print boots with heels at least six inches high.
“Can you walk in those?” I asked.
“I’m going to have to try.” She winked as she walked through the door. “Behave for your cousin. Don’t spend all your time on your phone, and don’t have chicken and chips from Morley’s for dinner again,” Maggie directed at her daughter. “Bye, both, wish me luck.”
“What would our Lord and Father say about you going on dates, Maggie?” I asked.
“Don’t be so blasphemous!” Maggie said. “Besides, he’s a pastor.”
I turned to look at Diana and shouted into the ether: “Grandma, is it okay if me and Diana stay he—”
“No!” our grandmother shouted back from the kitchen. We left, and as we walked down the road, I asked Diana if she wanted to walk or get the bus. She stopped and looked at me with tightened lips, a face I hadn’t realized every woman in my family could master, and from such a young age. We got the bus.
“And are you hungry?” I asked, taking my duties seriously.
“No, I had Morley’s earlier, some sweets on the way to Grandma’s, and four Crunchies.”
“That’s not dinner, though, is it? You’ll need something more filling than sugar. I don’t have anything at home, so we’ll have to go to the supermarket. I’ll get you an oven pizza or something?” I suggested, not sure how to talk to her.
“I’ll be fine,” Diana replied, unlocking her phone. She sucked in her cheeks and took a selfie.
“I really think we should get you something, You can’t just live off sweets. You’ll turn into one,” I said, realizing how old I sounded.
“. . . what? Why are you talking to me like I’m some baby? Hello? I’m fifteen, Queenie. Anyway, I don’t eat things like pizza. It’s just too much of one thing. Can’t you cook proper food?” she asked, not taking her eyes off her reflection on the phone’s screen.
* * *
The next few hours were filled with Diana picking up and putting down every single thing in my room. Mainly snickering, but also taking pictures of things to show her friends on Snapchat with the caption “LOOOOL.” Diana tried out my small range of makeup and told me that it wasn’t good enough to create a “look.” She went through my wardrobe and informed me that all of my clothes were too “granny” for me. She knocked over my jewelry stand and sent rings, necklaces, and earrings flying everywhere, then knocked my lamp off of my bedside table, smashing the bulb.
“What is this?” Diana said, picking up a film camera of our granddad’s that I’d found in his shed and had used for a bit when I was in my photographer phase. “Because this can’t be a camera, I can’t even see what I’m looking at.”
“That’s because you’re not looking in the viewfinder,” I huffed.
“What’s that, though?”
“The viewfinder,” I said, pointing at it. “Look, here, look in that. Wait, don’t take a pic—” Click. “Don’t worry, I guess I needed to finish that film anyway.” Is this what being a parent is like? I thought briefly, a thought of mine and Tom’s once-upon-a-baby creeping in.
“Where’s the picture?” Diana stared at me.
“I’ll give it to you when I get the film developed,” I reassured her, taking the camera away.
“The what?” I’d never seen her look more confused.
“Look, do you want to watch something on my laptop?” I said, opening it up and putting it in front of her.
She pretended to be watching Fresh Prince, but actually tweeted: “Queenie is SO boring that spending time with her feels like this,” accompanied by a picture of a skeleton, from the official Daily Read Twitter account, which was the final straw. I took the laptop away and password-protected it when she was in the bathroom.
In an attempt to get her to stay still and not touch anything or critique me any further, I cooked her a pizza. As predicted, she finished it all. When it got to nine, I called Maggie, but her phone was off. I tried again at nine-thirty, still nothing. I gave Diana one of my favorite books to read, promising her that she’d love it, then arguing about why Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging was worth reading despite the confusing title. She started reading it while I stared at her, smiling encouragingly; satisfied when she started laughing, I checked my work e-mail.
On Tuesday, 11th December, Noman, Ted <[email protected]> wrote at 21:40:
I think you need to let yourself be happy. You’re waiting for some guy who should respect you enough to at least contact you. But look, I’m here telling you how I feel.