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dying. Far from being a psycho, I’d never actually thought about HOW it would happen, or that I’d be the one to do it—only that when it did I’d be left to get on with things without wondering if she’d follow through with the promise of bashing my head against the science-block wall. I hated being a wimp about it, but not being part of the coolestcrowd meant minimal back-up and a good chance of a kicking. Far from ignoring her, I made sure I put up a good-enough front by calmly telling her to “just buzz off” while pushing past and almost swallowing my chest in the process. To be honest I was kind of doubtful this piece of advice would work in the real world.
    I read on.
    I loved Phys Ed.
    PE’s one of those things you either love or hate. And yes, I was one of those morons who couldn’t wait for Wednesday afternoon and a good session, rain or shine. Don’t worry, Lowey, if sport isn’t for you. Just remember it’s rather pointless playing sick each week as you will have to go through PE eventually, anyway. So—and you’re not going to like this—just get through it. Doing so will make you stronger, independent, a leader…or a shivering wreck. If, of course, you really are sick, that’s different. By the way, your dad’s not saying don’t pull the odd sick day, just be smart and spread them out a bit—like twice a term—because teachers aren’t that stupid.
    I flicked back to the miscellaneous section of The Manual and soon arrived at a new and surprising heading. Why are boys such asses? I giggled at Dad’s use of the word “ass” while hoping he’d have the power to at last shed some light on the opposite sex for me. An image of Corey in his big British Knight sneakers sprang into my head, basically because he was the only boy I spent time with—as Mom had put me in a girls’ school.
    Boys can be such asses, right?
    Idiots, cretins, morons, this list goes on, I hear you cry.
    But that age-old question has baffled scientists for centuries—and you want ME to explain this further?
    At your age now, males are at their most ass-tastic (okay, that’s not actually a real word). They run around in packs, tease you for no good reason, they’re lazy, moany and their feet smell like slabs of moldy cheese.
    How do I know this?
    Because I am one. A guy, that is.
    Okay, seriously, Lowey, males do get slightly better as they age—a bit like a fine wine—but you’ll have to wait until they receive that telegram from the queen (or, by your time, King Charles) to see any significant changes.
    I giggled nervously at Dad’s sense of humor, never realizing he could be so funny. In fact, Mom never mentioned anything about Dad these days, so obsessed was she with washing her new husband’s graying jockeys, laughing at his unfunny jokes, kissing him full on the mouth—and right in front of me, as if I enjoyed bringing up my dinner. My mood, as always, lifted with joy at the thought of getting to know my dad, but was quickly replaced by a stab of sadness at the thought of the following week. My thirteenth birthday, and I’d yet to think of anything memorable to do while I was twelve. I searched my memory bank for something and then it came to me…Dad’s manual. Hadn’t my life changed since it had appeared? I no longer had an excuse to feel like a kid any more. I was on the brink of becoming a woman, and Dad knew that too. Butmost of all I didn’t feel alone. And that had to be the best bit of all, no longer feeling lonely.
    I reopened The Manual, pleased I hadn’t let my dad down and thankful a new memory had been planted.
    One I’d never, ever forget.

teabags bursting with hormones
    Did you know…? While England won the World Cup, Kevin scored (kissed) a girl for the very first time.
     
    T he morning of the Saturday before my thirteenth birthday, I peered out of the window to see the Bingo Caller helping Mom into the back seat of his car, her hand on her tummy. I went back to sleep and awoke to