Misanthrope

When I walked into form Niamh Connors was weeping in the corner, her hand on her forehead. Her friends were stroking her hair and saying soothing words to her.

‘What’s happened, Niamh?’ Mr Rodgers said as he walked in. ‘Broken up with your boyfriend?’

‘No,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s not why I’m crying.’

‘Oh, so what’s the problem?’

Niamh’s face scrunched up more and tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘My eyebrow lady. My eyebrow lady. Sir, she ruined my face!’

Mr Rodgers looked amused as more girls went up to Niamh and comforted her.

‘Aw, girl, I’m sure its not that bad.’

‘Ah, eyebrow ladies are such demons, I swear.’

Veronica wasn’t having it. ‘Remove your hand, man! Let’s see the damage.’

Slowly Niamh removed her hand and indeed, her eyebrow lady had messed up. Her eyebrows were so thin and the tails of her brows were completely gone. She looked like a 90s pornstar.

‘Sadting madting.’

‘Tense.’

‘Political.’

‘Did you trash the shop?’

‘I look like a dickhead! Look at my face.’ Niamh put her hand back on her forehead.

‘Just draw them on. Why you making noise?’

‘I go swimming in the morning, I don’t have time! This week is so shit!’

‘Niamh, you’re beautiful as you are.’ Mr Rodgers said this half-heartedly, like it was just his mere duty to give compliments.

Everyone stopped, looked blankly at Mr Rodgers and turned back to Niamh.

‘Isn’t it a shame that we have to go through so much just to fulfil the petty fantasies of the white patriarchal world we live in?’

‘Shut up, Amelia.’

‘This week is such a travesty. First, Trevor dumps me. Then my eyebrows. My eyebrows, man! I should just cancel Saturday.’

Niamh’s parents were going to Ireland for the weekend so she was throwing a house party. My heart leapt when she mentioned cancellation – it meant I could stay home and not interact with people.

‘You need to get wasted.’

‘Is that talk of alcohol I hear from a group of underage girls?’ Mr Rodgers said without looking away from his computer.

Again, everyone turned to him, stared blankly and turned back.

“Proper wasted.”

‘I know, right?’ Niamh sat up then. “I’m gonna have the party on Saturday!”

‘Am I invited?’ Mr Rodgers joked.

Everyone turned to him, stared blankly and left for lessons.

Sitting in the back of a cab wedged between Amelia and Veronica I realised I hated my friends so much. Veronica, tall and thin, sat in her usual effortless gorgeousness. As per usual, she had on ripped jeans, a crop top and a khaki bomber jacket. However, she was being experimental: her lipstick was jet black and the ends of her waist-length wig were burgundy-red. Amelia had on just a BLACK LIVES MATTER T-shirt, over-the-knee suede boots and a choker. As usual, she was also dripping in silver jewellery. And then there was me. Short and dumpy in the middle in my red turtleneck and black denim skirt and my hair in two puffs. To make matters worse my eyeliner had been misbehaving so the only make-up I had on was lipstick. Every time I caught my reflection in the mirror it looked like my eyes were being sucked – red and watering – into my head.

When the taxi parked outside Niamh’s house she was smoking a cigarette and taking swigs from a 2litre bottle of Coke. She looked so serious and alone. Her ginger hair was piled on top of her head and her hoops brushed her shoulders. Her dress was short, silver and sparkly and held up by straps as thin as toothpicks. Her eyebrows were neatly drawn on and her winged eyeliner reached her temples. When we got out she broke into her megawatts smile and hugged each of us.

‘Girls, look! Look! I have eyebrows!’ She pointed to them with her blood-red acrylics and laughed till her eyes watered. ‘Isn’t it a miracle?’

When we entered the house Veronica did her usual beeline to Priti. They immediately started giggling and moved to a corner to talk. A boy in Malcolm X glasses got up off the sofa and went to Amelia. He completely blocked me off.

”Scuse me, I like your shirt.’

And immediately they started rattling off statistics about police violence and prison numbers and American politics and moved to the garden.

I spent the next half an hour on the stairs scrolling through my phone. People just walked past me up and down the stairs. Everyone was dancing or talking or kissing someone and I was just invisible. I considered getting drunk like at Priti’s party but that had ended with me in the empty bathtub, miserable and depressed whilst people hammered on the door.

I was about to do the same thing again when I thought, “Why am I punishing myself?”

I walked out of the house and took the bus home. I showered, put on my pyjamas and headscarf, made popcorn and hot chocolate with whipped cream. I found a wonderful murder mystery documentary and, curled on the sofa wrapped around a duvet, felt the happiest I had ever felt in my life.

The next morning trawling through Snapchat I discovered the party had ended badly. Trevor had showed up and a shouting match between him and Niamh had taken place in the corridor in which she placed the blame for her savaged eyebrows on him. She had tried to attack him, he had simply moved back and she had fallen flat on her face. Much more crying and screaming ensued and then she told everyone to fuck off out of her house. This was at 10:30pm.

But despite the pure joy of just staying in and watching documentaries, it still struck me as sad that no-one seemed to have noticed that I had left the party early.