The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 27

Louise and I soon discovered our relationship was akin to a toy you get at Christmas. In the beginning, it never leaves your hands, and you daren't let it out of your sight. After the initial novelty has worn off, it's under your feet and tripping you up.

Constant striving to be interesting and amusing became a chore. Louise found pretending to find what I said funny an effort, I could tell. She no longer wanted me to pick a film to watch, wasn't keen on movies at all. She had reached the point where she was comfortable telling me I was weird. Or too nice. When someone says you are too nice; they mean you are trying too hard. If you struggle to play a role, it is not a role you were born to play.

Louise was not a fan of hanging out at Keith's house. I got that. Instead, I would follow her around to her pal's house, conveniently ignoring the questioning voice in my head. Never convinced she wanted me there. To begin with, I believe she did. I was like a new bracelet, flashed under her friend's noses. Her companions passed judgments and compliments, as though I were an inanimate object.

I learned some interesting differences between girls and guys. Whereas guys relish telling others how great they are, girls can't wait to tell you what a bitch somebody else is. And with insults, guys tended toward the sledgehammer approach. "The state of that shirt—you tubby prick." By contrast, girls barbs came wrapped in the guise of a compliment. "Oh, I love those new pants. But shouldn't you have gone for black instead of white? It's much more flattering for someone your size."

Subtle differences aside, it was almost like being at Keith's house. The same hierarchies existed, the same stories got regurgitated daily.

"Jenny Simmons is a right slut."

"Yeah?"

"She's been riding Paul Douglas the whole time he was going out with Sheena Walker."

"Did youse hear about Denise Fitzgerald?"

"Up the pole. She hasn't a clue who the da is."

"I heard it's Whackers kid. She done him in the back field."

"How could you let that hairy bastard near yeh?"

"She was pissed off her tits."

"Sure you'd have to be to let that gorilla on top of yeh."

"Mind you, she's no oil-painting. State of that bandy eye on her."

"That's gonna be one god-awful lookin' baby."

"Cross between Mr Magoo and a werewolf."

"Good Jesus."

"Aisling Fogarty takes it up the hole."

"Go away outta that."

"Why'd yeh think she walks all funny?"

"She's a right slapper, that one."

"At least she won't be getting preggers."

"She never heard of the pill?"

"I'd be scarlet going into a chemist... Can yeh imagine?"

"Especially with that smelly bitch working there. Looks she gave me when I went in for cream, I nearly died. Like she's never had thrush. Great big sweaty fanny on her, she probably has all sorts hibernating up there."

"Stop, will yeh, 'fore I puke."

"Bet that's what your fella says."

"Haha."

The group dynamics were similar, too. The quiet girls laughed on cue when the louder members made a smutty remark or delivered a scathing verdict and kept what interesting opinions they might have to themselves. Fiona McGrath, the resident beauty queen, spent most of the time filing her nails and throwing disdainful glances around the room. Everyone received a 'what are you looking at?' icy glare, followed by a haughty toss of the head, blonde ponytail whipping behind her.