The Budding Roses

Monkey boy

Saturday 1st November

My contemplation of the motorway, viewed from the stranded heights at the summit of the Ferris Wheel, was rudely interrupted by the juvenile screeching seeping up from the carriage which was swinging in front of me.

'Nice beanie, Simone,' Niall Horan waved.

'And nice socks too, sexy,' Harry winked.

I peered down to study my newly purchased over the knee socks, the epitome of Clueless chic, mortified.

'Are you taking the mick? Because if you are then I'll deck you.' I stared at Natasha, wide eyed and distressed, hoping to receive at least a slither of sympathy.

'Don't be getting ideas Simone, your socks aren't that nice, and what do boys know about fashion anyway?'

'Gee thanks. I told you I hate the fair. That's it, when we get down from here, if we ever get down from here, I'm going home.'

Tuesday 4th November

I'm still swirling, my head a chaos of bewildered hilarity each time I consider what happened today, for not only was it surreal but it was disturbing too.

Loitering outside the French classroom waiting for another hour of "Je ne comprends pas" to commence, I felt a tap on my left shoulder. Perhaps someone had accidently bumped in to me, or yet another ignoramosaurus thought they were being funny? Whatever the cause, it certainly wasn't significant enough to make me abandon my conversation and pursue any further investigation. Ugh, but there it was again. Reluctantly conceding that it was in fact intended to gain my attention, I at last turned around, with the full expectation that there would be nobody there. Oh what fun, a disappearing act would have been preferable to what I found; Harry Styles, and of all the vile things he was smiling at me.

'What do you want?'

'Hi Harry,' Natasha butted in.

'Okay, so Simone, I just want to tell you something.' Why was he stammering and shuffling about like he'd pooed himself?

'Go on then,' I felt for the back of my skirt, certain that it was tucked in to my underwear or something equally as embarrassing, and that Harry was about to make everyone aware of this mishap.

'I just want to tell you,' he cleared his throat, 'on behalf of all the boys, well they and I, well we think you're really fit, and will you go out with me?'

'Good one Harry, get in there!' A gaggle of young male faces bobbed up and down behind him like a pack of greedy hyenas.

So there you have it, Harry Styles has asked me out. What I can't fathom is whether or not he's actually being serious, and what does he mean by "fit"? I'm starting to tire of these immature games he insists on playing at my expense, and just how am I supposed to reply to such a statement without ending up the greater fool? Not with good grace that's for sure, because that's what he wants me to do, so then he can say something wretched like, "Ha tricked you. Do you really think we'd all fancy someone who only takes a double A cup?" And so with venom on my tongue I spat,

'Well you should have thought about that before you told the entire bus that I loved David Butterworth.'

He was rambling, no doubt trying to justify his previous erroneous behaviour. Ah the delights of hindsight, dear Harry, well you should have considered your future impulses before you went and ruined mine.

Pretending not to hear him I focused my attentions back to Natasha; a dangerous mistake this was, for with fresh wounds exposed she was already ranting,

'Is this some sort of game to you? Are you deliberately trying to attract the boys that you know I want to go out with?' In what part of her imagination is she able to create such a fantastical story?

'Yes Natasha, what can I tell you, that all this time I've been secretly pursuing a love affair with the pair of them. Michael and David were merely a cunning diversion so as not to raise your suspicions, when in fact all I ever dreamed of was to go out with the same boys as you.'

'Then why Simone, in the space of two weeks, have they both asked you out?'

'I don't know. Maybe they like me? Why is that so unbelievable?'

'Well you need to be careful that you don't get a name for yourself.'

Thursday 6th November

Ever since he asked me out last week Harry has got mightily full of himself, exuding a sort of self proclaimed charisma, walking around like he thinks he's Liam Gallagher or something. I'm sure I saw him swaggering in that strange way that boy's do, like they're carrying a roll of carpets under their arms. Well he needs to put those carpets down and start walking like a normal person again. And his hair! Oh what a mess it is hanging wild and greasy over his eyes. Doesn't he realise that he looks like a complete mork since it's so curly; it's like a dirty old mangled mop. How can his mother let him leave the house looking like that? And has he conveniently forgotten the bit where I outright rejected him in front of his friends? Any normal person would have recoiled in humiliation, but oh no, he seems to be quite the opposite, only increasing in cockiness. Perhaps he's suffering from a delusional episode where in his mind I actually said yes?

Friday 7th November

Of all the annoying things, Harry's amazingly courageous act seems to have opened up some sort of portal, an uninvited gateway, granting all of the other grubs a pass to harass me too, and as of today the sulphurous smells of Niall Horan and Louis Tomlinson have also asked me if I'll be there girlfriend. I'm outraged, why would they ever think that I'd want to be their girlfriend? I've never once shown the slightest indication of pleasantry towards any of them, yet their delusion seems contagious. It's like they're all living in a world where no means yes.

To add to the offensive they won't stop with their incessant chatter about mammary glands.

'I love your mammary glands, Miss,' Harry declared in Chemistry.

I shan't publicly admit that I remain confused as to what these even are, but they must be something terrible for Miss Lee flew wild with anger, throwing Harry out of the class and ordering him to stand outside Mr Singh's office. All the boys were cheering, their fists punching in to the air heroically as he took a bow upon his exit, but it was all I could do to put my head down and pretend to be working, keen to make sure that no one could tell I had no idea what was happening. Yet it must have been something significant, for even Mr Suave was finding it hard to resist the joke, since I caught him fighting hard not to smile.

If only I knew what they were talking about, for then at least I'd know the appropriate level of anger to respond with. Oh why must their conversations be so bewildering? It's like they're speaking a foreign language in which everyone else is fluent. Is it all a conspiracy and the entire class are in on the joke? What have I ever done to deserve this humiliation? It's not like I ever did anything to attract them, I never said a word to the lot of them except for telling Harry to bog off.

The worst part is that all this giddiness is causing a bitter taste to propagate amongst the mouths of my female peers, no longer exclusively Natasha. In fact I'm sure I heard Flora saying that I'm such a slag and that "the boys were so far up my bum that they can't see daylight". Since when does anyone care what the boys in our year do or think, especially Flora, given that she's forever bragging about the "oh so wild sex" she keeps enjoying with her much older boyfriend.

'He's 21 and we do it doggy style,' she had boasted before Assembly started, which is the most appalling thing to want to tell anyone, even your best friend, but especially the whole year group. In the meantime I've resolved to remain humble, hoping that this maelstrom will just disappear as quickly as it arrived.