“I think we need to think about it,” Dad says. He looks just as upset as she does.
I feel terrible. I think about telling them the truth: that just the thought of having a panic attack trapped in a plane miles up in the sky is bringing me out in a cold sweat, but I can’t. I don’t want to worry them. There’s no way they’d leave me if they knew what’s been happening and then they’d miss out on the much-needed money. Them going to America and me staying here is definitely the best solution, but I can’t help feeling sad inside. As my fear of the panic attacks gets bigger and bigger it seems to be making my world feel smaller and smaller.
17 December
Can You Outgrow Your Best Friend?
Hey, guys!
First of all, thank you SO much for all your lovely comments and tips on my blog about my panicky moments. Knowing they might be panic attacks weirdly makes me feel better. You guys are the best!
Now, I know I said I’d blog about something a bit more lighthearted this time but something has happened that I really need to share with you . . .
When I was little I had a coat that I absolutely adored.
It was bright red and had shiny black buttons that were shaped like little roses.
It also had a furry collar and furry cuffs.
When I wore it I felt like a beautiful princess from a really cold faraway land like Russia or Norway (it’s cold in Norway, right?).
I loved that coat so much I wore it everywhere, even when the weather started getting warmer.
And when the weather got too hot I refused to put the coat away in my cupboard. Instead, I kept it hanging on the back of my chair all summer so that I could still see it every day.
The second winter I had the coat it started to feel a little tight. But I didn’t care because I couldn’t bear the thought of life without it.
But by the third winter I’d grown so big I couldn’t do the buttons up anymore.
When my mum told me I’d have to have a new winter coat I was heartbroken. But after a while I grew to love my new coat. Although it didn’t have rose-shaped buttons or a furry collar, it was a beautiful shade of bluey green just like the sea. And after a while, when I looked at my old coat, the furry collar seemed a bit silly and it didn’t really feel as if it was mine anymore, so I let my mum take it to the charity shop.
At the moment, when I’m with one of my best friends, it’s like we don’t fit anymore.
Everything she says feels mean and hurtful. Everything she does feels selfish and immature.
At first I blamed myself. I thought that maybe I was saying or doing something wrong.
But then I wondered if sometimes our friendships are a bit like clothes and when they start feeling uncomfortable it’s not because we’ve done anything wrong. It just means that we’ve outgrown them.
I’ve decided that I’m not going to try to squeeze myself into a friendship that hurts me anymore. I’m going to let her go and just be friends with people who make me feel good about myself.
What about you?
Do you have any friends you think you might have outgrown?
I’d love to hear about it in the comments below . . .
Girl Online, going offline xxx
Chapter Nine
Normally, I like Mondays. I know, I know, I’m a freak! But I can’t help it—I’ve always found the beginning of a whole new week kind of exciting. It’s a chance to start all over again with seven fresh new days spread out in front of you—like a fun-sized New Year. But this Monday is different. This Monday is terrible and filling me with dread for FOUR reasons:
1. I’ve realized I’ve outgrown/hate my best (girl) friend.
2. I have to spend all day with this outgrown/hated friend, preparing for the play.
3. I also have to spend all day with the boy I’ve spent the entire weekend embarrassing myself in front of, preparing for the play.
4. It’s the day of the play.
By the time I get into school, my heart has sunk so low I think I can actually feel it beating in my feet.
“Pen! So glad you’re here!” Mr. Beaconsfield cries as soon as I walk into the hall. He’s looking really flustered—he hasn’t even remembered to put gel in his hair. His fringe is hanging limply over his forehead.
“Where are the others?” I ask, looking around the empty hall.
“They’ve gone up to the drama studio to do a final run-through while we—you—sort out the set.”
I look up at the stage. “What’s wrong with the set?”
“I’m afraid my graffiti-artist friend has let me down, so I need your help.”
For weeks now Mr. Beaconsfield has been making a big song and dance about how he’s got this street-artist friend who was going to come in and decorate our set to make it look more “ghetto.” I should have known nothing would come of it. The closest Mr. Beaconsfield probably gets to the street is watching Corrie.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask as he hands me a carrier bag.
“Do some graffiti on the trailer and the back wall,” Mr. Beaconsfield says as casually as if he’s just asked me to sweep the floor. “I’ve got to get back to the others. Poor Megan is having terrible trouble remembering her final speech.”
“Do some graffiti on them?” I look inside the bag. It’s full of cans of spray paint. “What kind of graffiti?”
Mr. Beaconsfield looks even more stressed. “I don’t know. Just do a few tags or something. You are supposed to be the set design assistant.”
I frown. It’s true that I’m supposed to be helping with the set design as well as be the official photographer but I never would have volunteered if I’d known it meant becoming some kind of Banksy. I mean, I did write I LUV 1 D on a park bench three years ago . . . but I don’t think that really counts.