The Manifesto on How to be Interesting (6 page)

Why?

Because I'm not interesting!

I'm boring. I'm a nobody. I don't live life. I don't embrace life. But that's all about to change. Because I am starting a project. Here. Now. For myself. And if you want to come along for the ride then you're very welcome.

What's my purpose? I'm going to become interesting. I'm going to become somebody you want to read about.

How?

I'm going to do all the things you're too scared to do. And then I'm going to tell you about it. If you're really brave, you can do it with me.

This is
The Manifesto on How to be Interesting
. I'm going to pinpoint EXACTLY what it is that makes a person worth caring about and then do it.

I'll let you know how I get on.

It's not going to be easy.

But then interesting things never are, are they?

She finished typing with a flourish and hit
Publish
. And then, without even brushing her teeth, Bree fell onto her bed and fell fast asleep. Smiling.

Bree woke up with her notepad stuck to her forehead.

Her mouth tasted of dead rats. It was so dry she was quite certain her tongue could sandpaper a piece of wood. Her head was thudding like a giant gong had been erected overnight in her brain and some mischievous kids were constantly bashing it.
Bash. Bash. BASH.

Despite all this, Bree felt just wonderful. This was the best hangover ever. Because it was a hangover with purpose. She rolled over and picked her laptop off the floor. She logged on and read back what she'd garbled out last night.

Not bad.

It wasn't great literature. But – even though she'd written it herself – Bree got excited reading it back. This was going to happen. She was going to do this.

She grabbed her toothbrush and jumped in the shower of her en-suite. She liked to brush her teeth and wash at the same time, especially when suffering a red-wine hangover of doom. The water was scalding, reviving, and she stayed in until her skin was bright red and she felt light-headed.

“Morning, dear,” her mum greeted her as she entered the kitchen. Mum was wearing a crop top. Actual real fifty-year-old midriff was on show. It was only for the gym, but still.

“I've made you a fresh fruit salad.”

Bree grunted and opened the freezer to retrieve some veggie bacon for a sandwich. Today was a carb day.

“Your father had to go into work again but he wants us to all have a proper family dinner tonight. That sounds nice, doesn't it? I was going to make a roast.”

Bree got out the frying pan.

“I've just come back from spinning. You feel so amazing afterwards. You should come with me sometime…”

Bree emptied the bacon onto the hot oil. It began to splutter and gasp and brown.

“Well, I'm off to Waitrose. What are you up to today? Got any nice plans?”

She flipped the bacon over.

“Bree, I said have you got any nice plans?”

Finally Bree spoke. Two whole words. “Watching TV.”

“Is that all?”

She nodded.

“You're not going to go outside or anything? Not even meeting up with Holdo?”

Bree tipped the slightly burned bacon onto some white bread. “I'll go outside when I walk to get the films.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“You could come to Waitrose with me. I'll let you put whatever you want in the trolley.”

Bree gave her mother her very best
You gotta be kidding me?
face.

“Suit yourself. That white bread is full of rubbish, you know. It will give you cellulite.”

And with that, her mother powered upstairs to change out of her belly top.

Bree didn't hate her mother exactly. Especially after the whole she-birthed-her-and-it-probably-hurt thing. She didn't mean to be rude, nasty, and standoffish. But – at the risk of sounding like a massive bitch – Bree had no respect for her mother. Her mum seemed so satisfied by such shallow stuff, like good wallpaper and toned thighs, rather than her husband being around, or having a purpose to her life beyond shopping. And apart from all that inconvenient unconditional love stuff getting in the way, Bree was quite sure she didn't
like
her mother either. How can you like someone you have no respect for? The sad thing was, Bree knew her mother was equally disappointed in how Bree had turned out. She'd no doubt longed for a daughter just like Jassmine Dallington. Some perfect plastic cut-out she could get pedicures with. Instead she'd got Bree. With her embarrassing stripy tights, slammed bedroom doors and sneering judgements.

Oh well. Who didn't have issues with their mother?

Bacon sandwich demolished, Bree set out on her day's challenge. She pulled on her duffel coat and marched out towards the high street. It was a crappy day – drizzle-tastic. The sort of day that made the pretty girls squeal and hold folders over their heads and then whinge about their hair frizzing like it was the worst thing in the world, when, somewhere, children were dying of Aids in Africa. But Bree was learning that people don't find Africa and Aids very interesting. Not unless some celebrity – with non-frizzy hair – goes over there with a TV crew and starts blubbing for Comic Relief. Bree was trying to be more interesting. So she put Africa to the back of her mind and powerwalked to the local DVD shop.

Change hadn't hit their sheltered, privileged town just yet. As DVD chains closed around the country, their posh independent store continued to thrive, customers still tempted in by the decorated boxes of organic chocolate buttons and gourmet popcorn to rent the latest films.

As she pushed through the shop doors, Bree felt kind of dirty, like she was walking into a sex shop or something. She'd been here eight million times before. She and Holdo came almost every weekend while everyone else their age got pissed at parties they would never be invited to. But Bree wasn't going to their usual section – the corner dedicated to foreign films and independent cinema. No. She was going to a more shameful corner. One that, until today, she wouldn't be caught dead in.

Romantic comedies.

She was immediately overwhelmed by the bubblegum pink colour. It was on every DVD case in some form, alongside giggling airbrushed actresses. Bree pulled one case out and flipped it over to read the blurb.

“Give me an L, O, V and an E.”

Angela always thought there was nothing more important than cheerleading. Until she met Kirk – star quarterback of her school's biggest rival football team. Uh-oh. Suddenly her seemingly-perfect life is turned upside down when she has to decide between her two biggest loves. But who will win her heart? Pom-poms or the Prom King?

“Oh Philip Larkin,” Bree whispered. “We're not in Kansas any more.”

Bree was almost ill with judgement. As she read the four-star review from
Teen Here
magazine, it practically oozed from every pore. Yet, despite the film's lack of original storyline and any semblance of three-dimensional characters, Bree couldn't ignore the other reviews on the case:

Blockbuster smash.

Cinema hit of the year.

And she couldn't forget overhearing girls at school raving about it in the corridors. In fact, if she remembered correctly, the film was so popular someone had started a cheerleading club. It had run for two terms.

People liked this stuff.

It was interesting.

Bree grabbed the DVD case and shoved it under her armpit. She spent a good twenty minutes picking out more – reading each blurb carefully before adding it to her bulging stash. Eventually satisfied, she dumped her bundle on the cashier's desk.

“You having a girly sleepover?” he asked, stuffing
10 Things I Hate About You
into one of the shop's specially-designed ink-black sleeves.

“Huh?” Bree looked around to check he was talking to her.

He pointed to the pile. “A sleepover? Looks like you and your mates are preparing for a chick-flick fest.”

“Umm. No. They're just for me.”

He gave her a
My, you're an even bigger loser than me
look. “Riiiiight.”

Bree had never been to a girly sleepover – not since puberty anyway. She'd never played truth or dare, never rung up the boy she fancied while her friends giggled manically in the background, and never swapped kissing tips. A whole teenage-girl rite of passage whirred past as the guy rang up the register.

“They all need to be back by seven tomorrow.”

“I know.”

She exited into the drizzle and stormed home, clutching her carrier bag like it was stuffed full of stolen goods. With the films rented, she felt even more compelled to put her plan into action. She was just turning onto her long, well-manicured road when her mobile went off. She dug in her coat pocket, retrieved it, and looked at the screen.

Holdo. Well, who else would it be?

“Morning,” he said. “I feel like absolute hell. Was it you who put that bucket next to me? If so, thanks. I very much needed it at about three o'clock this morning.”

Bree grinned. “I thought you might.”

“Who knew burgundy could be so dangerous?”

“Indeed.”

“How's your head?”

As if it had overheard the question, Bree's forehead thumped dully. “Not great. Not awful though.”

“God, I really was wasted last night, wasn't I? Were you? I can't even remember you leaving.”

Bree grimaced. His voice sounded rehearsed and she wondered if he was lying. Was this his way of bringing up the leg-grab thing (or lack of)? Did he remember? To be honest, Bree was relieved he hadn't done anything. The thought of what could've happened made her feel a bit sick. And she didn't need to have sex with Holdo any more. Not now she had her plan.

“I don't remember much.”

“Oh.”

So he did remember…awkward.

“I just woke up this morning with my notepad stuck to my face…”

Holdo laughed. “Night-time drunken writing?”

“I suppose so.”

“So…” Holdo started. “What you up to today?”

Bree looked at the carrier bag swinging alongside her, thought about lying, and decided against it. “Watching some films.”

Holdo's voice lit up over the phone. Could voices light up? Or was it only faces? Bree's head hurt. She needed her duvet. And more carbs. Soon. Very soon.

“Awesome. Hangover day of cinema. I might join you. What you watching?”

Bree gulped.

Er…what could she say? A wide selection of chick-flicks, all featuring girls being made over and discovering that life is
sooo
much better when they're pretty and thin and beautiful and swept away by the hottest boy in school. She whispered a few of their titles, noticing they spanned several decades.

Holdo went quiet.

Then: “You're kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

“Am I allowed to ask why?” His voice was angry; actually angry. Like Bree had just revealed she was planning to drown puppies or something.

“I need them for a…project I'm working on. That's all.”

“What is this project? Lobotomy by Pop Culture 101?”

“Holdo, come on. I'm probably the only girl alive who hasn't watched these movies.”

“And that's why we're friends.”

Bree arrived at her house and punched in the security code. Hard.

“Is this something to do with your book?” Holdo asked, his voice still all superior. “Are you having some kind of meltdown because it got rejected again?”

She gritted her teeth. She wasn't ready to tell Holdo about her idea just yet. She needed to iron out the kinks first. Bree had once read that the most successful people don't tell others about their projects until after they're finished. Apparently, if you boast about something you're doing, or planning to do, people go “
Oh wow, that's amazing
”. Then you get all the self-worth and congratulations too soon and have no motivation to actually get stuff done. But successful people – like, the really-made-it ones – stay quiet until it's finished. Bree didn't do failure, not well anyway. Therefore she was keeping quiet until she knew for sure that her plan was foolproof.

“You gonna join me then?” She only asked because he would say no.

Sure enough: “I'd rather go to an eighties-themed disco with pins sticking out of my eyes.”

Bree headed up her driveway. Her dad's BMW convertible wasn't there. He was still at work then.

“Suit yourself. The offer's there.”

“I think I'll work on coding my game today, and wait for your identity crisis to pass.”

“You do that then.”

“I will.”

“Well, have fun.”

“You too. If it's possible.”

“Oh it's possible.”

And Bree hung up.

The rest of the day was spent in a media-induced coma. Bree sat in bed, with her legs snuggled under the duvet and her notepad perched on her lap. She watched one film after the other after the other, obsessively making notes and adding to her list of rules, until her eyes hurt. By dinner time she had a checklist and possibly square-shaped eyeballs.

“Dinner,” her mum called up the stairs.

“Coming.”

Bree turned off the screen and John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John's flying car disappeared with a zap. She pulled on a grey hoodie and made her way down to a torturous hour of awkward conversation.

Her parents sat in silence at one end of their huge dining table, chewing their roast beef. Bree's dad, as always, looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his suit crumpled. Bree sat next to him and added roast potatoes and green beans to the Quorn fillet on her plate.

They all chewed in silence and it was Bree, unusually, who broke it.

“Mum, what are you doing tomorrow?”