Loveless. Alice Oseman

back up the hill, past the castle, then the cathedral, and then I could see the stone steps of St John’s College.

      ‘There’s something wrong with you,’ I said under my breath. Then I shook my head, trying to get the thought out. That was a bad thought. There was nothing wrong with me. This was just who I was. Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about any of it.

      I could message Pip and – what would I even tell her? That I was terrible at clubbing? That I could have tried to kiss someone but decided not to? That I was utterly failing at my new start? Pathetic. There was nothing to even tell her.

      I could talk about it with Jason, but he’d probably just tell me I was being silly. Because I was. I knew this whole thing was ridiculous.

      So I just walked. I kept my head down. I didn’t even know what was wrong. Everything. Myself. I didn’t know. How come everyone else could function and I couldn’t? How could everyone live properly yet I had some sort of error in my programming?

      I thought about all the people I’d met in the past few days. Hundreds of people my age, all genders, appearances, personalities.

      I couldn’t think of a single one I was attracted to.

      I opened the door to college so loudly that the man in the little office gave me a stern look. I suppose he thought I was a drunk fresher. God, I wished I was. I looked down at my dress, the one Mum had seen in River Island and said, Oh, isn’t that perfect? And I’d agreed, and she’d bought it for me, so I could look nice and feel nice during Freshers’ Week. I started to well up. God, not yet, please not yet.

      My room was empty – of course it was. Rooney was out there living her life and having experiences. I grabbed my washbag and pyjamas, went straight to the bathroom, got in the shower and had a cry.

      

      ‘So you have very high standards,’ Rooney said to me the next morning while I was eating a bagel in bed and she was doing her make-up in front of her mirror.

      We would have talked about it last night, but I fell asleep in the middle of reading a Steve/Bucky Regency Era AU fic, only to wake up a few hours later to find Rooney returned, fast asleep, her make-up still on and her boots discarded in the middle of the aqua rug.

      ‘That’s … accurate,’ I confirmed. I did have high standards. I wasn’t sure what exactly my standards were, but they were undoubtedly very high.

      ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, seemingly unfazed. ‘We’ve got loads more chances to find you someone. It won’t be that hard.’

      ‘Won’t it?’

      ‘Nope.’ Her mouth dropped open as she did her mascara. ‘Loads of people are looking to hook up this week. There are so many opportunities for you to meet people. It won’t take us that long to find you someone you like.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘You’ll see.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘What’s your type?’ Rooney asked at lunch.

      Lunch at college was just like lunch at school – cafeteria food and sitting round tables and benches – but ten times worse due to the added pressure of socialising with a bunch of people I didn’t know very well. As irritating as I found Rooney’s effortless ability to thrive at university, I was actually very glad to have her in situations like this.

      Thankfully, however, this was the first meal that Rooney and I had showed up to in which we didn’t spot anyone Rooney knew, so we were able to sit just us.

      ‘Type?’ I asked, my mind immediately going to Pokémon types, and then wondering whether it was a food question of some sort and looked down at my pasta.

      ‘Type of guy,’ said Rooney, mouth full.

      ‘Oh.’ I shrugged and speared a piece of pasta. ‘I don’t really know.’

      ‘Come on. You must have some idea. Like, what sort of guys do you find yourself liking?’

      None of them, is what I probably should have said. I never like anyone.

      ‘No type in particular,’ is what I actually said.

      ‘Tall? Nerdy? Sporty? Musicians? Tattoos? Long hair? Boys who look like pirates?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Hm.’ Rooney chewed slowly, looking at me. ‘Girls?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘D’you prefer girls?’

      ‘Um.’ I blinked. ‘Well … I don’t think so? Not really.’

      ‘Hm.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘It’s just interesting.’

      ‘What is?’

      Rooney swallowed, smirking. ‘You, I guess.’

      I was about eighty per cent sure she was using ‘interesting’ as a synonym for ‘weird’, but, oh well.

      ‘I had an idea,’ Rooney said to me in a very earnest tone that evening. I would have taken her seriously were she not dressed as a sexy fried egg in preparation for the John’s college bar fancy-dress party. This comprised a body piece in the shape of a fried egg, but with thigh-high socks and giant heels. I was actually quite impressed – it was an incredible way to say ‘I want to look good, but also let you know that I have a sense of humour’.

      I was not going to the fancy-dress party. I’d told Rooney I needed a night to just be on my own and watch About Time swiftly followed by La La Land, and, to my surprise, she’d said that was fair enough.

      ‘An idea?’ I said from my bed. ‘About …?’

      Rooney walked over and flopped down next to me on my bed. I shuffled up so the fried-egg body piece wasn’t literally crushing my torso.

      ‘Your no-romo situation.’

      ‘I’m really not that bothered,’ I said, which was obviously a lie. I was extremely and consistently bothered, but after yesterday’s fiasco I was ready to give up rather than put myself through that again.

      Rooney held up her phone. ‘Have you tried any dating apps?’

      I looked at the phone. I’d never met anyone our age who used a dating app. I hesitated. ‘Do people our age use dating apps?’

      ‘I’ve used Tinder since I turned eighteen.’

      I knew what Tinder was, at least. ‘I don’t really think Tinder is for me.’

      ‘But how will you know if you don’t try?’

      ‘I don’t think I need to try everything to know I don’t like it.’

      Rooney sighed. ‘Look, OK. This is just an idea, but Tinder is a really good way to just have a look at what guys are actually out there, like, in the vicinity. You don’t actually have to talk to them, but, like, it might at least help you get an idea of what sort of guy you want to go for.’

      She opened Tinder on her phone and immediately showed me a picture of the first guy who popped up. ‘Kieran, 21, Student’.

      I looked at Kieran. He looked a bit like a tall rat. Which, you know. That sort of look does it for some people.

      ‘I don’t think this is my thing,’ I said.

      Rooney rolled off my bed with a sigh, her egg costume nearly knocking over the glass of water on my bedside table. ‘It’s just an idea. Do it if you get bored tonight.’