The Quarterback Dilemma

Tuesday 6 February

Woke up this morning on my back, paralysed and panting. I think I had just had a wet dream but wasn’t sure. At least when you’re a guy you have evidence. When I looked in the mirror, a strange face stared back; same brown hair and green eyes and too full mouth, but less innocent than two days ago with a gaunt haunted look. I watched my dad drinking his coffee and dripping it onto his tie like he does every morning and wanted to burst into tears, have him stroke my hair and tell me everything would be OK. But how could I tell him his little girl has no moral compass?

Of course, I was immediately confronted with my crimes when I got to school. I feel like I am the star of some morality play. The Quarterback was lounging around on the steps with two of his fellow morons. I am waiting for him to say something incredibly gross to me, in front of everyone. It’s bound to happen. In fact, it’s inevitable. I know the Douche too well. But apparently he is going to play with me, like a sleek long-lashed cat. He is just going to fix me with steamy, knowing looks and make my insides crawl – with pleasure or pain, I’m not sure which. I can hardly tell the difference any more.

When Stu bounded up to me in the hall I nearly burst into tears for the second time that morning. His shining face was so trusting and unchanged. I’d managed to avoid him the day before but now I had to face up to him and lie like a disgraced Beauty Queen.

“Hey,” I said in a noncommittal way and tried to keep walking.

“Hey Girlfriend – and where have you been hiding?”

“Oh, nowhere, just been feeling unsociable.”

“I’ve been dying to know if you had it out with the Douche.”

“Nah, chickened out in the end.”

I hate myself.