The Love Hypothesis. Laura Steven

and weird and an all-round awesome human. You deserve better, okay?’

      ‘Exactly!’ Gabriela agrees, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear. ‘Plus you’re sweet, and loyal, and generous, and a way, way faster runner than us. Not that it’s hard. So yup. Screw him.’

      A pang of dejection stabs at my gut. I know they’re trying to make me feel better. And yet it stings that neither of them included the word ‘beautiful’ or ‘pretty’ or even ‘cute’ in their compliments. Is it so beyond the realms of reality that they couldn’t even bring themselves to lie about it?

      Maybe those pills weren’t such a bad idea.

5

      When I get home from school, I’m weirdly not in the mood to study. Usually homework gives me a lady boner, and I have to ration it out lest I accidentally OD on that sweet, sweet ecstasy. I wish I was exaggerating in some way, but it’s true. Homework is my jam, my butter, and my toast. But tonight I’m just not feeling it.

      After I help Dad make lasagne and mountains of garlic bread for dinner, it’s still warm out, so I decide to help Vati with the ‘gardening’. I use the term very loosely. When I came home from school, I found half a dozen gnomes pegged to the washing line by their ears, because he’d given them all a bath. In the actual bath tub.

      Once Vati has changed back into his denim overalls, we tend to the vegetable garden, which is essentially a selection of grossly deformed and entirely inedible zucchini. Vati had a limited run of success growing basil in the early summer, and got a little cocky thereafter. Tonight we’re digging up carrots to see whether any of them are actually safe for human consumption. Sirius lies beside us, panting and blinking against the low sun.

      Elbow deep in dirt, Vati rummages around and yanks out a single carrot which looks alarmingly like a cock and balls. A bendy, bulbous cock and balls. With strange little hairs sprouting from the tip.

      Vati nods approvingly. ‘I am very, very aroused right now.’

      It is not an exaggeration to say something inside me dies at this statement. ‘Vati, bitte.’

      ‘No, Bärchen, it is important that we have an environment in which you are comfortable talking about sex. You don’t have that? Well, that is the number-one cause of herpes in America.’

      I stare down at the dirt I’m kneeling in. An earthworm squirms and wriggles in a very pathos-y kind of way. ‘Ugh. It’s just weird. Talking about that stuff with you. You’re both dudes.’

      ‘That is very sexist and rude.’

      ‘You know what I mean, though. Remember when you tried to talk to me about my period?’

      Vati guffaws. ‘In hindsight, the visual aid was not wise.’

      ‘You put barbecue sauce in a diaper. So you can see why I don’t want to discuss the birds and the bees with you.’

      Vati frowns and wipes his forehead on his forearm, leaving behind a giant smear of mud. ‘What does wildlife have to do with anything?’

      ‘Never mind.’

      Snapping off his gardening gloves, Vati roots around in the pocket on the front of his overalls. ‘Forgive me.’

      ‘For what . . . oh god. Nein. Vati!’

      He’s pulled out a condom. An honest-to-god condom. And he’s already tearing through the wrapper. Sirius barks in confusion.

      ‘You pinch the tip, like this.’ He grabs the deformed carrot and shoves the condom on the sprouty end. ‘And you roll down, see?’

      I groan and drop my head into my hands. ‘For god’s sake. This was premeditated. You actually thought, oh, I will convince my teenage daughter to tend to the carrots with me, and I’ll take a condom just in case any impromptu sex-ed opportunities arise.’

      ‘I think you mean “arouse”.’ Vati laughs hysterically at his own terrible joke. ‘Anyway, hopefully any Schwanz you encounter will be less bulbous than this carrot.’

      I flop backwards into the dirt with a thud, crushing the yellowing cilantro under my back. ‘I want to die.’

      ‘At least it won’t be from herpes.’ He hands me another condom, and a deformed zucchini to practice on. ‘Be safe, Bärchen.’

      Disgusted though I may be, I take the props just to shut him up. ‘You have ruined that nickname forever. And also carrots.’

      ‘My apologies.’ Vati stuffs the old condom back into his overalls and pulls out something else – a postage slip. ‘Oh, I forgot. There’s a package for you in the house.’

      Despite my lack of core muscles, excitement causes me to sit bolt upright. ‘Where?’

      ‘I put it on your bed. You know, I –’

      Grabbing the zucchini and the condom, I clamber to my feet, wipe my muddy hands on Vati’s overalls, then dash towards the porch doors. ‘I gotta go. Try not to molest any more vegetables.’

      Breathless after the sprint upstairs, I skid into my bedroom and see the package resting nonchalantly on the bedspread. The brown paper wrapping is discreet and doesn’t hint at what’s inside – not even so much as a university logo. I prod at it with the deformed zucchini just to be sure it’s not on the brink of detonation.

      I know I should wait until my dads go to bed before I open it, because I don’t want to risk either of them walking in and catching me with a box of murky internet pills in my hands. But something inside me burns to open it. My hands itch, and I can’t think of anything else but tearing through the packaging. Is this how chain smokers feel about their next cigarette? Like they’ll combust if they don’t get it in the next 0.2 milliseconds?

      Sticking my head into the corridor, I listen for my dads. Vati’s voice drifts through the open hall window. It sounds like he’s performing some kind of Punch & Judy show with a family of malformed potatoes, and Dad is watching from the kitchen window, laughing politely at the extremely slapstick performance. I slip back into my bedroom and close the door quietly.

      Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I use a pointy nail file to slice through the package seal, and slip my fingers inside. They close around a cool, smooth cardboard box which rattles when I pull it out. All of the information on the packet, including the leaflet explaining potential side effects, is in Portuguese. The pills themselves are small – 10mg at most – and vivid purple. My heart thuds in my chest.

      So here it is. The potential solution to all my worldly problems. And I feel . . . I don’t know how I feel, exactly.

      The overriding emotion is curiosity. Will they actually work? How will it feel if they do? Will I notice an immediate difference, or will they take time to get into my bloodstream? What will it be like to have hordes of admiring fans lusting after me in the cafeteria? Will I suddenly become some kind of egomaniac? Will I start seeing myself differently? Will I be able to look in the mirror without the sinking disappointment that I haven’t magically turned into a Hadid sister overnight? Maybe I’ll finally be able to accept myself as I am.

      My belly flutters with excitement. My veins fizz with the potential.

      Beneath the curiosity, though, there’s a curdling sensation. Like nerves, or dread. Something fear-shaped. What if something goes wrong? What if I have an allergic reaction to the pills? Sure, my regular life is dull and often humiliating, but I still want to keep living it. How much would I hate myself if I woke up in the hospital with a shaved head and a scar down my cranium from emergency brain surgery? What if I lost the power of speech, or the ability to walk, or, god forbid, something happened to my tastebuds? A life without ever tasting Dad’s brisket again would not be worth enduring.

      Oh god, my dads. What if the pills did work – too well? Would my dads be attracted