The Niamh Chronicles - The Pizza Episode

The various small adventures in the life of university student, Niamh. Told from her perspective, first person

We had pizza last night, and I was looking forward to having the leftovers for lunch today. I am so not ready to be a grown up.
            I can’t help but feel a little smug that I’m the only one with leftover pizza to enjoy; the others all pigged out yesterday. I don’t know how they do it; I can barely eat four slices before my stomach goes on strike. Still, I can’t complain about my limits. It means that I have pizza today.
            Usually, I drag my feet when getting ready for the day. I don’t get out of bed until past eleven, and showering, getting dressed, blow drying my main of hair then working up the will to walk out of my bedroom takes about an hour. Lunch is my breakfast. But I was so eager for pizza that now I’m ready at half eleven and have to spend an hour making faces at myself in the mirror. I feel like it’s unacceptable to eat pizza as a mid-morning snack.
            I should cut my hair. It’s still damp, as always; I’d have to spend all day attacking it with the hair dryer to get it completely dry. It’s thick, tangles at the slightest cough from a passing midge, and tries to strangle me when I sleep. I should get it cut. It reaches my waist now. I gather it up in both hands to sweep it over one shoulder to see if I can look sultry. Nah, now I look like a cavewoman. I wish I could dye it, bright res or blonde. Everyone else in this house is blonde; I am the black sheep here. The metaphor applies in so many areas. But I’d have to bleach it first, and I’m scared of ending up bald.

            Screw it, if I’m having leftover pizza for lunch then I can’t fall much further by eating it now. I’m already a typical student anyway.
            So I weave as much of my hair as I can into a plait, and jump up from the floor to go to the kitchen. The sound that my bedroom door makes when I open it always begins my day.      I only have to turn a corner to end up in the living room, as my room’s on the ground floor. The sofa is the first place I look to, and sure enough Dee is sitting there with her boyfriend, Harry, both watching a rerun of The Simpsons. “Hello,” I literally give them a passing smile, not stopping on my way to the kitchen. Because pizza.
            “Hi,” Dee calls as I grab a plate and jump back to the fridge. “How are you?”
            “I’m good,” I open the fridge door and behold the withered slices of pizza sitting on my shelf. It occurs to me that I might be too excited about this. I lean back and poke my head around to look back at Dee. “You?”
            “Yeah, I’m alright.” Her attention’s already turned back to the TV, but living with someone for a while creates this kind of conversation. It’s like we’re reading from a script. True to form, Harry doesn’t pay me that much attention.
            I turn back to my pizza. I still can’t eat it all, there’s five slices here. But that means I can leave two for dinner! And just like that, one pizza becomes three meals. I’m really not ready to be an adult. “It’s pizza time!” I say to be funny as I transfer three slices onto the new plate. As is usual when I try to be funny, no one laughs. When I nudge the fridge closed with my shoulder as I turn around, I catch a look exchanged between Dee and Harry. What? Was that weirder than I thought it would be? Maybe I should tone it down.
            As I wait for the microwave to revive my fridge-dried pizza, Dee walks through the kitchen towards the bathroom just behind me. For some reason, it’s attached to the kitchen. Because those are two things you want in close proximity. “Ugh, Kev didn’t open the window in there!” she screws up her face and pulls her pink hoodie up over nose, until she’s just a head of straight blonde hair, eyes peeking out from beneath her fringe. I give her a look that’s meant to be wry and sympathetic, because Kev’s s***s are legendary, but I don’t care that much because the microwave dings as Dee closes herself in with the smog.
            “Good luck with that!” Harry calls before the lock clicks.
            It’s time to salt the hell out of my pizza without Harry seeing, and before Dee comes out of the bathroom to judge my salt intake. I have to be quick; Dee pees at an Olympic speed. Hey! That was almost poetry! I manage it in time, and try to look innocent when Dee emerges, having peed, flushed the toilet and washed her hands in less than twenty seconds.
            Kev appears in the living room doorway, shrugging on a jumper. “Stinky a*****e!” Dee fires at him, and he grins as she fusses around at the sink behind me.
            “Sorry!” he doesn’t bother to try to sound genuine before he turns his attention to me. “Morning!” he says brightly. The source of my paranoia points out that I seem like an afterthought, and that he’s already looking away from me when I reply with another ‘Hello!’ Shut up, paranoia, I want to enjoy my pizza. I assume his comment is a dig at my late rising, as Dee snorts in amusement, still doing something behind me, but I ignore it. Because I want to enjoy my pizza.
            A rustling sound tells me that Dee is grabbing shopping bags from under the sink, and it dawns on me that they’re getting ready to go out. When I look up to the living room, I see that Harry has moved to put his converse on and is checking his pockets for the usual: keys, wallet, phone. If he’s going then they’re driving up to the big Tesco, which is our equivalent to Disneyland. I think I can feel something dying in my stomach. I keep my gaze fixed on the pizza as Dee walks out of the kitchen, as they all move out of the living room and down the hallway. Are they serious?
            The heavy sound of the front door opening and closing tells me yes. I am left in the vacuumed silence of an empty house.
            Well…
            I guess I wasn’t invited then.
            “Yeah, bye guys!” I call. “Nah, I don’t feel like a big Tesco shop, I’ve still got half a pepper and an onion to get through! You have fun though! You f*****g wankers!”
            I look down at my three slices of pizza, suddenly not as keen on them anymore. I feel like I’ve been slapped " the numbness of shock followed by a slow build of hurt that I try to ignore. I have pizza, after all. Soggy, microwave heated pizza. I carry it back to my room and close the door with my foot before I sit on the floor by the power sockets so I can play games on my charging tablet. It makes me feel more pathetic, like I’m a dog sulking in its basket.
            I doesn’t take me long to get angry. Am I a goddamn dog? Did I not deserve so much as a: “Hey Niamh, we’re going on a big shop, see ya later!”
            I could make a thing of it when they get back.
            “What the f**k?” I’d say. “You couldn’t be bothered to even tell me you were going? Just f*****g off out the door like I’m not worth your precious time?” My Dublin accent might make it difficult for them to take my anger seriously; it has done in the past. I’ve ranted about cyclists, slow walkers, rude shoppers, my mother’s constant text messages " it’s all ended with them sniggering at how thick my accent gets when I’m pissed off. I did consider slowly turning it into a Northern Irish accent over the three years I’ve lived with Kev and Dee, at least. I’d be unintelligible, but at least I’d sound intimidating.
            But I’m getting off topic, another reason why I’m so bad at being angry with people.
            Dee might try to argue, “You were having your pizza!” and I’d huff in disbelief.
            “You sat there and watched as I got pizza out! You could have stopped me " ‘Oh, Niamh we’re going to big Tesco if you want to come with!’” If I was feeling particularly cruel, I might imitate her farmer’s accent. Sorry, Gloucestershire. No wait, she’s not here. Farmer. “If you’re going to lie, at least make it a good one!”
            Then, I’d leave them all feeling like the s***s they are, and go out for the rest of the day. Maybe I’ll go out for a walk, to the park, or go clothes shopping. No, it’s them I want to punish, not myself.
            The front door opens, letting in the noise of the outside again. I listen to the rustling of shopping bags, the front door being sealed shut again, and watch the three shadows pass by the crack underneath my bedroom door as they walk down the hall towards the kitchen.
            That wasn’t long. I was expecting a good hour of stewing resentment before they got back. Dee and Harry are the worst with food shopping; they spend a lifetime debating what to buy, usually leaving me and Kev to trail along with them as we lose the will to live. What was so important that they had to make a run to the big Tesco when there’s a Co-op down the road? A sudden urge for fancy cheese?
            Oh yeah, I have pizza. I look doubtfully down at the plate nestled in my lap; the grease has pooled over the cheese, and the jalapenos have seen better days. Namely yesterday, when the pizza was fresh. They look like tiny, deflated rubber rings, the kind I used to cling to when my mum tried and fail to teach me to swim. I decide to risk it; I have a student’s constitution after all. We’re like dogs, we can stomach food that would make a normal human being gag…
            Jesus, that’s disgusting. The consistency makes me think of flesh, rotting, decaying flesh that’s been dead for a few days. I just about manage to swallow the bite I’ve taken, and put the rest of the pizza aside. I think I’ll pass on lunch today.

I could confront them now, as they laugh and joke around in the kitchen. But it’s three against one, and if I feel like I’m losing the argument I’ll revert to fat jokes about Dee and Kev that will destroy our friendship forever. As much as my friendship clearly means to them, the wankers. But I don’t want to alienate them forever; neither of them is technically fat, but they both veer on the chubby side and I’m bitchy when I panic.
            I need a damn food shop as well; I’m out of cheese. They couldn’t have at least asked me if I needed them to pick up anything for me. The thought triggers an idea that’s frankly the most brilliant example of passive aggression that I’ve ever come up with. I’m terrible at confronting people. I did it to our second year housemate when he made Dee cry, an act of female solidarity that I’m regretting today, and almost hyperventilated. But, I can be underhanded and bitchy; I learned that from my dad.
            Plus, I have to go on that walk I promised myself five minutes ago. So I pull on an extra pair of socks for my slightly-too-big walking boots, plug myself into my iPod, and grab my bag and keys.
            The living room door is pulled to when I peek out into the hallway, but I make sure to exude a cold atmosphere of betrayal that they’ll be able to sense as I leave. Take that, you exclusive b******s; I can go out without saying anything too.
            I bet they’re saying to each other " “What’s up with Niamh? I swear I just felt someone walk over my grave.”
            “Oh my God! We forgot to invite her to big Tesco!”
            “Gasp! We are such dicks!”
            I nearly walk into the front door, engrossed in my dark thoughts, and glance behind to check that no one saw before I quickly open it and duck outside.

            Why must it be so bright out here? It’s like the sun is trying to make up for its recent absence; my retinas are burning. I should buy sunglasses, but I never remember at the right time and have lost them all in the past anyway. I just have to squint and look really angry to passers-by as I walk up the road to the Co-op. It’s appropriate today.
            Every cashier in this shop knows me, a fact I find immensely disturbing. I can’t help but think that it’s because I buy my vodka here, and the thought’s not a comforting one. A glance up to the checkout as I walk in confirms that I know the person there; Rashida, who lights up when she sees me.
            “Hello, little girl!” she calls, giving me a wave and a smile. I return both.
            “Hey, Rashida!” I have to really remind myself not to call her ‘Rash’. I walk out of her sight towards the milk section at the back of the store. While I’m here, I may as well grab a block of cheese and a sandwich, as my stomach growlingly reminds me that I passed on my pizza lunch. I prepare myself for the inevitable challenge of small talk with Rashida as I walk up to the checkout counter. I can’t deal with the self-service things; buttons make me nervous.
            Rashida is a little Indian woman, almost smaller than I am, in her mid-fifties; we bonded over our mutual size woes. She smiles at me again, showing her disturbingly long and crooked teeth that never fail to pull at my attention. I make sure to ignore them as I smile back; I don’t want to make her feel self-conscious.
            “Niamh, how are you, little girl?” she briefly puts her hand on my arm, and her cold fingers make me jump a little at the unexpected contact.
            “I’m fine, little woman. How are you?” If there’s one thing that the people here have taught me, it’s the basics of small talk.
            “I am very well, thank you,” she says as she scans the milk through. “How’s that mother of yours?”
            “Still texting every hour. I have to put my phone on vibrate or silent all the time because I get so sick of the ringtone.”
            Rashida wags a dissenting finger at me, defending from a mother’s viewpoint. She has three sons and two daughters, all of them teenagers, and I don’t know how I know that. “She only worries. You’re so far away from her.”
            “I know. How is your daughter? Wasn’t she applying to university?” I have to root around in the dusty depths of my memory for the information, but I’m fairly sure it’s right.
            “She’s been accepted to Reading and…University of London?” Rashida gives me a questioning look.
            “UCL?” I ask, and her expression clears as she nods and scans the cheese through. “Snap, that’s impressive.” I could mention that I didn’t get so much as an interview at UCL, but my supplies of social energy are running low. It’s not that I don’t like talking to her, I’ve just never been comfortable in conversations; they’re not my natural environment. I’m a creature of dark, dank corners, like a spider. Or a woodlouse. “Well, tell her congratulations from me,” I say, throwing the cheese and sandwich into my bag and hauling up the six pint carton of milk I’ve just bought. I think it weighs more than I do.
            “I will. Goodbye, Niamh!” Rashida waves as I turn towards the shop entrance.
            “Bye!”
            My hand is small enough to fit through the handle of the milk carton, and I dangle it from my wrist. It hurts, as my wrist is only just thicker than a twig, but I’m impressed all the same. It’s breezy again today, strands of hair that escaped the plaiting wave around my head and slap across my face. I swear that some are actually trying to work their way up my nose. No matter how violently I swipe them away, they instantly return, fluttering across my eyeballs and getting trapped when I blink. Maybe this is why the ghost in The Grudge is so murderous; she was driven mad by her hair trying to eat her. That’s it, I’m definitely getting it all cut off. A buzz cut. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.
            My wrist is really complaining by the time I reach my house, but I can’t relieve it yet. The front door takes two hands to open " one to keep the key turned in the lock, and the other to wrench down the handle. There’s got to be a better design out there; every time I leave the house I’m terrified that I won’t get back in.
            I clatter inside with my usual grace, pausing to work the key loose before kicking the door shut and pushing up the handle to lock it. I nearly gore my eye out as I brush away the strands of hair from my face, forgetting that I’m still holding my keys in that hand.
            When I’m sorted, I look up to see Kev standing in the living room doorway at the end of the hall. His eyes fall on the milk that I slip down and over my hand as I walk towards him. “Oh,” he says. “I guess we’re the milk house now.”
            Milk house? Really? I say nothing, which is a struggle in the face of that comment.
            “Christ,” Dee adds when I walk through the living room, her and Harry sitting on the sofa again like they never left. I ignore her too, and open the fridge door to see that two six pinters of milk are already in here. “Yeah, that’s why I said ‘Christ’” Dee calls, all jovial and friendly like she and Kev and Harry didn’t figuratively spit in my face. I feel much angrier than I thought I would.
            I clear a space on the bottom shelf, which doesn’t take much doing because it’s my shelf and I only have two slices of pizza and a new block of cheese. Once my carton of milk is wedged in, I successfully shut the fridge again. I’m just that good at tessellating.
            “Yeah,” I keep my voice light. “I wonder how that could’ve been avoided.” I walk back through the living room, towards my bedroom and isolation I really, really need. But Kev has the worst timing and judgement of anyone I’ve ever met, and when I pass by him with a chill of displeasure that’s impossible to miss, he speaks before I can get away.
            “What’s that supposed to mean?”
            Of all the days to pick a fight…
            This is exactly why people used to believe in demon possession, because sometimes anger can have the same effect. “It means f**k you!” I whip round and glare at him. “F**k. You.” I slam the bedroom door, shutting them all out, and leave them to think about what they’ve done.