February 2002, North West England.

Today, my skanky ho-bag sister comes up to me and says, "I've got a skanky ho-bag boyfriend and you haven't! Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah!"

Well, it doesn't quite happen like that. Partly because I'm the only one in this household who uses the phrase "skanky ho-bag" - the others despair of it; partly because she never talks to me. Seriously, at the dinner table it's, "Mummy, can you ask Helen to pass the salt?" - on the rare occasion that she eats anything, that is. I don't even know why she hates me, other than the fact that I'm like, totally unkeweliez, and I can get my Rammstein to go louder than her Craig David. How we are related is a mystery to me. We don't look even remotely alike, although I can see that I inherited most of my characteristics from Charlotte while she takes after Gregory. (I don't do the whole 'Mum and Dad' thing, not when they're only thirty-two.) But our parents' have similar personalities - how ours end up so radically different?

What actually happens is that after school, I'm sitting in the lounge, watching the video for 'Black And White" by Static-X on Kerrang Interactive for the 837924th time. It was ace to start with, but I'm fucking fed up with it now. But there's nothing on any of the other channels, and I can't be arsed doing anything more energetic.

Then my skanky ho-bag sister comes in with this little shithead from her year at school - the sort that yell sexist comments at all the girls. I'm three years older than him and about twice his size (not that I'm proud of this) but it doesn't stop him harassing me. I could thump him, no trouble, if I thought he was worth the effort.

He's got his arm round her, and she's giggling the moronic high-pitched giggle she's perfected the art of. They sit down in one of the armchairs. My sister hates metal, but she doesn't even reach for the remote control. She's getting enough pleasure out of the amount her sheer presence is surely bugging me.

I try not to look at them, but it's hard not to. Her skanky ho-bag boyfriend sticks his tongue in her ear. Ugh. "Get a room," I mutter audibly.

They smooch for a bit. Then he whispers something to her, and she giggles, and they head up to her room. At least, I presume they go to her room. If she goes in mine, I'm going to kill her.

Ugh. I'm not jealous; I wouldn't want to go out with a twelve year old who's four foot ten, missing half his teeth and only knows five words, all of them four letters long. But I do think it's pretty unfair. Why does my moronic slutty bitchy skanky sister have a boyfriend, when I'm three years older and more likeable in every way and I haven't had one yet?

That's all I want. Well, that and a ticket to the Leeds festival, cause we don't get any decent bands round here, and it's not worth travelling to Newcastle, never mind any further afield, just to see one band. But Leeds is definitely worth it, loads of cool bands'll probably be there, and since Sharon's brother's going to drive us - I hope so anyway, cause if he's still with his girlfriend then, or any girlfriend, someone's not going to be able to fit into his Mini. But I'll travel in the boot, or be strapped to the roof, just as long as I get there.

But that's not happening until August, so in the meantime, I'd like a boyfriend. I don't care about getting good exam results or finding any clothes besides extra large hoodies and jeans that fit me, as long as I can have a bloke.

My mates don't understand it, after all the horror stories they've told me about the blokes they've been out with. Amy even says she's lesbian, cause men are such pigs, and Sharon and Tracy say they're bi. I do too, although I'm not. It's not that I don't find girls attractive, because I do, but it's in the "I wish I looked like that" rather than the "I want her" sense of the word. Tracy kissed a girl she saw at The Anchorage a couple of weeks back - just went up and asked, "Can I kiss you?" - and she claims it was much better than with a boy, but I think she's just saying that. That's what she wants to believe.

Anyway, frankly the idea of having sex with a girl revolts me. Kissing one would be ok, I guess, but the whole fingering thing? Ugh. Fingers, have, like, nails, and joints, and rings, ugh, and nail polish! What if it came off inside, and your doctor telling you, "Well, this is most strange. You appear to have a nail polish infection." As for fists, don't make me cringe. And oral sex . . . I mean, the prospect of doing it with a guy is bad enough, but at least their genitals are external and you can see if they're clean or not. And it's a fairly natural thing to do, putting a stick-shaped thing in your mouth - everyone's done it, with dummies and thumbs and lollies and fags. But what sort of sick idea is cramming your tongue into a smelly little hole that discharges blood every now and again?

And with all practicalities aside, it's bad enough being friends with other girls, having to support them through their traumas while I try to survive my own. Boys seem to be less afflicted - or at least they act less afflicted - and therefore seem infinitely easier to deal with.

But that's just why I don't fancy girls, not why I want a bloke. It's mainly because, well everyone else, including my thirteen-year-old sister's, at least got off with someone of the opposite sex, and I haven't. I just want to know what it's like. And I want some assurance there's nothing wrong with me. Oh, my friends all tell me I'm pretty, I'm just big-boned (thanks for those genes Charlotte), and that I'm nice and funny and stuff, but they have to say that, they're my friends. I need to know I'm attractive to guys, and I'm beginning to have my doubts. I mean, Amy, who's my age and goes out no more often than I do, has been with so many blokes she's sick of them, and I haven't even held hands? Yeah, she's more confident and flirtatious and smaller than me, but that shouldn't account for such a difference in our success rates. Should it?

Even my Charlotte, utterly uncool, a swot and not particularly attractive, had a boyfriend when she was fifteen! Not that I'd want to go out with Gregory, even if he wasn't thirty two or my Dad. Ew.

Oh well, as per usual, me and me mates are going to The Wankerage tonight (so called, because there's always some wankers there, who smash glasses and throw themselves around so violently that even that scary bloke who always wears his trench coat gets off the dance floor), I can but hope there'll be someone there who likes me.

My sister's skanky ho-bag boyfriend leaves at five twenty, just before Charlotte gets home. My sister follows him to the door, and they smooch in my view. I think public displays of affection should be made illegal, unless I'm involved in them. When he's gone, my sister looks around for the remote control, but even thought I'm sick to death of Kerrang - they're playing "Black And White" again - I'm holding on to it tightly. "Bitch," she mutters, going up to her room to watch the telly in there. She only wants to watch "Neighbours" anyway, don't see why she needs the big screen for terrestrial channels.

Charlotte gets home, says, "Hi honey" breezily (honey? What nationality are we?) then goes to start dinner. Gregory gets home a bit later, also says, "Hi honey" (he copies all of Charlotte's mannerisms, no matter how idiotic) and goes to play the piano. He plays the same piece he always plays, the one that wakes me up every morning, so I press the volume up button several times so he doesn't interfere with my music.

Charlotte summons us all to the dining room when dinner's ready, and we drift in; me when "Shinobi Vs. Dragon Ninja" comes to an end, Dad when he's messed up that same passage for the 290135th time, my sister when she finishes texting her bratty friends on her Barbie Doll themed mobile ("Barbie's sooooo retro and cutiez!!!" Gack, how can something be retro that they've never stopped making? How is Barbie even retro for my sister, when she's still got seven dolls?) Naturally, about how her skanky ho-bag boyfriend is, like, soooooo hottiez!!!

"Have you all had a good day?" Charlotte asks.

"I've got a boyfriend!" my sister squeals.

"That's nice, dear," Gregory says. He says that so often that I've often contemplated saying, "By the way, there's a nuclear missile heading straight at us" to see if I get the same reaction.

"He's really nice!" she enthuses. "He bought Love Hearts and gave me all the pink ones! Except the one that said 'Dead loss' on it." She giggles.

Charlotte laughs. Gregory says, "Ah, young love." I think, how original, although to be honest, I wouldn't object if someone gave me Love Hearts. Well, my friends do sometimes, although for all their supposed lesbianess and bisexuality, they don't fancy me (I know it would be awkward if they did, but I'd be flattered all the same) and one time, this boy in my class, Paul, managed to get hold of a variant called "Hate Hearts", with stuff like "Bitch" and "Fuck off" and "I'd rather fuck my grandmother than you" (which was in really small letters) on them. They were mint (well, they were fizzy, ha ha), but to be honest, I'd like some romance. Although not from Paul, ugh.

I'm not sure whether to eat quickly, so I can get away from my sister as soon as possible, or to eat slowly because I'm likely to be sick as it is. In the end, I stick around for all her torpid declarations of love (they're likely to break up on Monday) because her idiocy is addictive.

Which is the reason that when I finally go upstairs to get changed, the first thing I do is switch on my computer, so I can check her Livejournal, which is a load of misspelled sappy tripe. For the last five days it's had a Barbie layout, since Barbie's her latest craze, but it's likely to change over the weekend, to something equally puke-inducing, because she's fickle and has to keep up with the trends. Her HTML's pretty flash though, because she's a sad little geek deep down. Indeed, she's babbled about her skanky-ho boyfriend. "hes sooooooo sweeeeeeet!!!" I really should ask if we can get toilet bowls installed in all the rooms of the house. Gregory would probably agree as well.

Next door, I can heard Charlotte talking to my sister. She's probably saying, "Now, while I'm really glad you've found a boyfriend, please be careful. Have you had, um, the talk in Biology or Social Development or whatever that subject's called yet?" "Yes," my sister says, although she's known it all since she was eight anyway. "Well, keep it in mind. I can't stop you from having sex, but please, use condoms or get on the pill or both." My sister's probably cringing at this, Charlotte being so proud of her ability to talk frankly about 'teenage life'. Charlotte's obviously didn't want to get pregnant with me when she was only fifteen, but hey, she gets to be Matey Mum! Gack, perhaps there are some advantages in being single, namely avoiding her talks. Now for her favourite line: "I don't want you ending up like me." "Don't worry, Mum," I can imagine my sister saying, "I just suck his dick." Or maybe even "dickiez!!!"

Although she'll be preggers when she's fourteen, you just watch.

My imagination is pissing me off, it's time to drown it out with some music. I check to see which song's stuck in my head - "Black And White" by Static-X, typically enough, but I put it on anyway. Then I open my wardrobe and drawers, in the hope that I've miraculously managed to acquire some magic sexy clothes that make me look like I'm a size 8. Even a 12 would be nice. Fishnet tights, PVC hot pants, a corset . . . actually, all me mates reckon I should get a corset, seriously. It would give me an hourglass figure, and hey, I've got 40D breasts, everyone would be drooling themselves to dehydration. But even if I had got the patience to save up for one, I'd never have the confidence to wear it. And desperate as I am for a boyfriend, I do have principles, and winning people over just by showing your boobs off strikes me as demeaning. Besides, how are you supposed to headbang without exposing yourself?

I feel a tap on my back and turn round with a start. It's Charlotte. "Sorry," she yells. "I knocked, but you didn't hear over the music."

I turn it down, wondering what she wants with me.

"Listen," she says. "Could you turn it off?" I sigh and comply. "I know it must be hard to cope with your sister getting a boyfriend, when you haven't had one yet." Oh, here we go, it's Amateur Psychologist Mother!

"Uh, yeah, like I'd want to go out with that skank-"

"-y ho-bag," she finishes. "But I'm sure it must bother you a bit. When I was fifteen-" It's "I Can Relate!" Mum again! "-I felt exactly the same way. I tried not to think about it, because I was afraid to think about the possibility that there was something seriously wrong with me."

Oh yeah, like you had people you wanted to keep up with. Your only friend still hasn't had a proper relationship, has she? "But I had to keep quiet about it, because my friends were going through much worse shit than I was." Ooh, trying to sound younger by using a rude word! "What I want to say is that you'll find someone sooner or later-" Like Gregory? I can't wait! "-probably when you least expect it, so don't fret too much. By all means go after blokes yourself, but don't just jump into bed-" Charlotte demonstrates she's up to date with the patterns of teenage dating "-with the first one who's willing." Here it comes. "You don't want to end up like me."

Well, she's got one thing right. "Yeah," I say, desperate to get back to my music and deciding what to wear.

"Ok," she says. "I just wanted to say that. I'll go now."

I know I should be more grateful. All my friends would kill to have my mother. Their mothers aren't of the opinion, "Go ahead, have sex underage as long as you're careful." But they've all been taught by Mr Davis and they all cringe at his attempts to convince us that he's cool, that he's one of us. Well, imagine living with that sort of person.

I try on a few different things, clothes I haven't worn for a long time, but I soon realise there's good reasons I stopped wearing them. Eventually, I end up as I usually am - in wide-legged blue jeans, avec wallet chain, and a hoodie. It's Fear Factory's turn to be displayed on my chest.

Sharon gets here as I'm doing up my shoelaces. We walk to The Wankerage together, since we live in the same neck o' the woods. She's wearing a black skirt and a somewhat see-through lacy black top and fishnets and her killer boots (so called because they kill her feet, as well as looking ace). I want killer boots too, but would there be a point if my jeans always cover them? I make her wait for about five minutes, while I brush my hair and put on black lipstick. I wear it, not so much because it looks good, but because it'll be horrible for any bloke who might kiss me and bearing in mind Sod's Law, if I didn't wear it, I'd have no chance of one-on-one tonsil hockey. I ask whether I should attempt to wear eyeliner again. I've only considered using it recently and I've got such horribly shaky hands that it ends up all over my face. She assures me no, I should practice putting it on when I've got some free time, not now. "I always forget," I protest. So she writes a note on my mirror, in the lipstick, saying "Practice with the eyeliner" and we set off.

"My sister's got a skanky ho-bag boyfriend," I say.

"Oh, who?"

"You know that little blond twat that always yells, 'Tits!' when I walk past? Looks a bit like Draco from 'Harry Potter'?"

"Oh, yeah. I think he's quite cute actually."

"Cute! He's a fucking wanker! His Mum most have spoiled him rotten, and I bet he thinks all the girls fancy him."

"Well, your sister does."

"Don't remind me. I had to put up with her going on about how lovely and sweet he is over dinner. Completely ruined my appetite."

"Oh well, you'll get pissed quicker on an empty stomach."

"Oh, I ate everything anyway. It was just nauseating."

"I'm sure I was just as bad when I started going out with Daz." Daz was a little git she saw a couple of years back. Come to think of it, she did go totally soppy over him, but it was all right because she was generally cool.

"Yeah, but it's my sister. Does she deserve to have a boyfriend, brat or otherwise?"

"You're just jealous."

"Don't you start. Charlotte The Harlot's been 'Oh, I felt just the same way about all my friends when I was fifteen.' Shit! I forgot to do my nails." I stop walking and look behind me - we're at the end of my road. Is it worth going back? I stare down at my unacceptable flesh-coloured nails. I'm tempted.

"Come on. Amy'll probably have some nail polish with her."

"She probably won't lend it to me unless I agree to paint my pinkies blue." This apparently means you're lesbian; even if I didn't claim to be bisexual, Amy would probably be trying to convert me. She's always scaring random girls in the toilets, trying to get them to embrace their inner lesbians. And you thought only conversations in blokes' toilets were scary.

"Yeah, but it's dark there. Who's going to notice?"

"Oh, all right. You're responsible if I'm forced into having kinky lesbian group sex."

"Deal."

We banter and bitch for the rest of the journey. When we arrive, Amy does indeed have nail polish with her. She agrees to let me use it, as long as she applies it for me. I don't mind in principle, because with my shaky hands, when I try and put it on, it usually ends up all over the place, generally staining my clothes. But as predicted, she does my little fingers blue. "I don't mind the whole lesbianess of it all," I say, "but it'll so asymmetrical. Isn't it Tracy?" Tracy's nails are alternately black and pink.

"Yeah," she says, although she doesn't bother to take up my cause. She's too busy watching her ex, Tim, chatting up some girl. They split up ages ago - well, it feels like ages ago, although it was just before Christmas - and it was before she got off with that girl, but she still fancies the pants off him. The main problem is that he dumped her because she wouldn't sleep with him, and ever since then, she's been wondering if she should have done, even though we repetitively assure her that if that was his attitude, he definitely isn't worth going out with, never mind losing her virginity to.

"Drink?" I suggest. Everyone agrees, so we approach Rob, Amy's first boyfriend. They won't serve us in here, as we don't look eighteen, so we ask him to get us drinks, since he's old enough. He loves it, 'cause he's a complete prick who thinks he's irresistible to women and has his ego stroked by four approaching him at once, even though we're blatantly not interested. We should find someone else to buy us drinks, really, but although we know a few other over-eighteens, not really well enough to say anything but "Hi, how's it going?", without really expecting an answer, to.

We talk for a while, mostly about Tracy's woe, and dance a bit although Vince is DJing and playing his usual selection of shite unrecognisable thrash metal. We see people we know and split up to talk to them. But I'm a bit depressed, as usual. There are so many couples here and they're all being so goddamn affectionate. Is it just me, or are goths and metallers more soppy than trendies? It seems illogical since goths are angsty and metallers angry - perhaps when they fall in love, they're worse than everyone else because they're happy for a change? Sharon's chatting to Pete, and although she denies it, I know she fancies him, the way she smiles every time anyone mentions his name, and he blatantly fancies her: it's just a matter of time before they get together and I think it's going to be long-term, at least five months. Tracy's talking to Gemma, who I can tell she desperately wants to opportunity to get off with, although I'm pretty sure she's just trying to get Tim out of her head. And Amy's chatting to some long-haired guy, who probably fancies her. Even if she doesn't like him back, she's admired, goddamnit and I'm not! And he's quite tasty too.

I know it's sexist and unenlightened to hang around waiting for someone to chat me up; I should go after blokes myself. But I don't have the confidence, since I've no evidence that people find me attractive. And a lot of people here are older than me, at the local university: why would they want to go out with a Year 11? Besides, I'm absolutely hopeless at working out whether people are single or not. For some couples, the intimate jealousy-inducing ones, it's obvious. Others ignore each other all night, whereas some pairs of boys and girls talk all night and they're just friends. And I really don't need the embarrassment of finding out someone's already involved should I try to make a move.

Eventually, Amy returns to me and says, "Hey, in a few minutes' time this guy should come over and start chatting you up. He was trying it on with me earlier, but I told him I was lesbo, but that you were looking. He said, 'Yeah, I could go for her' all enthusiastic and stuff when I pointed you out, so you're definitely in with a chance."

"Cool!" I can hardly believe it! "That guy you were talking to before, with the long hair?"

"What? Oh, you mean James. No, this is Ren."

"Ren? What? As in, 'And Stimpy'?"

"I guess so. Maybe it's short for Reynold or something dorky like that. But it's just a name, no big deal. Anyway, he's wearing a Marilyn Manson shirt. He's-"

"Excuse me? You expect me to go out with someone in a Marilyn Manson shirt? You except me to even talk to someone in a Marilyn Manson shirt? You must be joking!" As far as I'm concerned, Brian Warner's music is mostly good, so by all means download MP3s, or buy the albums if you've got too much money. Go to his concerts, if you like, since that's just about experiencing the music live and meeting other fans. Read his autobiography, if you're interested in that sort of thing. Sharon lent it to me, and it's a good read, if most likely a load of bollocks. But, for God's sake, don't wear his t-shirts! That's a sign that you actually like the twat!

"I know, I know, but he's really nice. Really sweet, really funny-"

I'm looking around for a guy in a Marilyn Manson shirt. I spot heading towards our table from the bar and my hopes fade. "Is that him?"

She picks up on my tone of voice. "Well, yes, but-"

"Really short, you mean! How old is he, twelve?"

"Fifteen. Now give him a chance. You'll like him, honest." She scoots, as he draws closer.

He is not what I'd describe as heart-throb material. He's at least six inches shorter and probably six stones lighter than me. He looks younger than my sister. He's got short blond hair (Amy knows I favour men with long dark hair) and, of course, he's wearing a Marilyn Manson t-shirt. Do I really look desperate enough to make him believe he's got a chance?

"Hi," he says, sitting down next to me. "Having a good night?" He sounds confident, which I'm not sure is a good thing or a bad thing. It's an attractive trait for the right person, but otherwise it just indicates thick skin.

"It's all right. Same as usual."

"Ah, this is my first time here. Is the music usually like this?"

"Depends on who's DJing and what CDs people bring along. Sometimes there's more goth stuff, sometimes there's classic stuff. The last hour's usually exactly the same though: Deftones, Rammstein, Disturbed, Marilyn Manson, Static X, Lost Prophets, System Of A Down, Korn, The Offspring, Rage Against The Machine, Soulfly, Limp Bizkit even though no one dances to them, and then some oldies like Guns N Roses, Alice Cooper, that 'I Hate Everything About You' song, or, for some bizarre reason, 'View To A Kill' by Duran Duran."

"Sounds good," he says. "Except perhaps the Duran Duran."

"It gets old fast though," I say.

"What bands are you into, then?"

We talk about bands for a while. He's got pretty much the same taste as me, and he thinks Marilyn Manson is a twat too, he just liked the t-shirt design. We ask each other if we've been to any concerts. He hasn't either, except Jethro Tull when he was about nine because his parents dragged him along, but he wants to go to Leeds as well. I tell him about my friends. He tells me about the people he's come here with, who both sound completely nuts. I ask what Ren's short for. Reynard, it turns out. Apparently it means fox, which I suppose is quite cool, although he's not exactly foxy. More of a . . . stoat, although I'm not quite sure what a stoat is. Then we talk about our various schools - he's at the posh all-boys school that Gregory went to - and how shite they are. It's not the most interesting range of subjects, but he listens intently, laughs at the right moments, and has plenty to say for himself, and says it quite amusingly at that. I like him, but not in that way. He's not boyfriend material, although when I occasionally look up, I always see some friend or other giving me the thumbs up or winking. No, sorry, I do have some standards.

When 'Du Hast' comes on, he says, "Shall we dance?"

"Yes," I say, so we get up and join the throng on the dance floor, and chant, 'Du. Du hast. Du hast mich', pointing at each other. He accentuates the gutteral 'h' sound as much as I do. It's fun.

At the end of the song, he says, "I don't hate you really." Duh. "I, uh, really like you."

Oh God. He's trying to get me to snog him. (And it would have to be me that initiated it, since he only comes up to my chest.) I take a deep breath. "I like you too," I say. "But, um, not like that."

"Oh."

"Sorry," I add hastily. "No offence or anything. You're cool, but you're not my type." I'm just making it worse, aren't I? I look around desperately for my friends to rescue me. There's Amy. "Um, I'm just going to talk to Amy. I'll be back soon."

I dash over to her. "Ah," she says, sounding pleased. "How's things going with lover boy?"

"He's not lover boy. He tried to make a move just then, but I told him I wasn't interested."

"What? I go to all this trouble to set you guys up, and you say you're not interested. Thanks a bunch!"

"He's not my type! You know that."

"Yeah, but your type is the unavailable type. Look, you've never had a boyfriend, why do you want Mr Perfect to start with? And Ren is one of the nicest guys I've met here. Met anywhere, for that matter. You talked for ages, so you must have something in common-"

"There's no chemistry, though," I plead.

"Well, if that's what you're looking for, I can't help you there. You're on your own."

She turns away and goes to talk to Henry, who goes to the university and is always inviting us to the rock nights they have there, which we always forget about for some reason. She sounds pissed off with me, which is somewhat unfair. I didn't ask her to try and set me up with someone . . . well, I guess I do moan about being single quite a bit. Well, all the time. No wonder she's fed up with me.

Should I try and pull someone? Just to prove that nobody remotely good looking fancies me? So my friends will continue to support me?

But who is there? I look around, and spot the attractive guy Amy was talking to earlier, standing on his own, cigarette in hand. What's his name - James, that's it. Well, maybe. If he fancied Amy, he must be single. What can I say to him though? What did Ren say to me? Oh, "Having a good night?" Yeah. That'll do.

So I go up to him and say, "Hey. Having a good night?"

He looks up. "Same as usual," he mutters, giving me an appraisal. It's very nerve-wracking: I suck my stomach in instinctively. Why is it that girls can take one glance at a bloke and think, "Ooh, fit" or "Yeah, he's all right" or "Nah", whereas blokes have to go through the whole, "Ooh, big knockers. Bit big all over, though. God knows what's she's hiding under those baggy clothes. She likes Fear Factory, though, that's good. Quite nice hair, nice eyes but could do with some make up, probably quite nice lips beneath that horrible lipstick. Hmm. 4/10" routine.

I struggle for something to say. "What's the betting it's 'Disposable Teens' next?"

"Could be 'Beautiful People', but something by Marilyn fucking Manson anyway."

"Don't you like him?"

"Can't stand the guy."

"What about his music?"

"Hate that too."

"What sort of music are you into then?"

"Black metal, mostly."

"Do you like Cradle Of Filth?" I don't, but they're the only black metal band I know anything about. Hey, up until recently I thought black metal was metal by black musicians. Well, you've got "white rap".

"Can't stand the pretentious bastards."

"So, what bands do you like?"

He lists all these bands, some of whom I've heard of, but none of whom I know any songs by. "Do they ever get played here?" I ask, because I don't usually know most of the stuff played earlier on.

"As if," he says. He probably thinks I'm really ignorant too.

'Disposable Teens' starts. I love that song, all my friends do and they're all going mad to it. So is Ren, who's purposefully looking away from me. What to do: forego all hope of getting together with James by dancing or carry on this rather one-way conversation? I decide for the latter route. This is, after all, the opportunity of a lifetime.

We're not getting anywhere with music talk. He's concentrating on puffing at his fag, and although he's not blowing smoke into my face, he's not making an effort to blow it elsewhere, either. So I think of something else. He looks a bit older than me. "So, what to you do? Go to school, or work, or . . . ?"

"College."

"What are you studying?"

"Computing."

A subject I know next to nothing about. What else is there to say? "I saw you talking to my friend Amy earlier on. How do you know her? I know I should ask her, but she's buggered off."

"From here. She just started talking to me a couple of weeks ago."

Now what? We're clearly not destined to be the romance of the century, but maybe I could have my first kiss with him anyway? What did Tracy say to that girl? Oh yes, "Can I kiss you?" Nah, I can't say that, he'll think I'm completely nuts. Maybe I can guide the conversation in that direction a bit.

"Do you fancy her?"

"She's all right, but she likes shit music and she's a lesbian, isn't she?"

"Yeah." I'm suddenly aware of my blue fingernails, and stuff my hands in the flap at the front of my hoodie. Most people don't seem to know what the blue nail polish signifies, but maybe Amy's told him.

Oh, fuck it. It's not like I'm going to be friends with him afterwards, whether I snog him or not. What does it matter if I sound really stupid? "I'm not, though," I continue. "In spite of the blue nail polish." In case he's already noticed. "Can, I, er, kiss you?"

"All right then." He sounds a bit confused and not particularly enthusiastic, but suddenly he's snogging me.

It feels sort of . . . weird. Not like I expected it to. He tastes of beer and fags, not a particularly pleasant combination, and his tongue - it's sort of rough and dry. So are his lips. It's a bit suffocating. I remember Sharon bemoaning a guy who really liked her; she liked him too until she discovered he was a horribly slobbery kisser and then had terrible trouble breaking it to him. But some moisture would be good. My arms are around him, although we're standing a bit apart, and he's got one hand on my lower back, but his other one's still holding the fag. Can't he drop it and stamp it out? His eyes are shut. I look over his shoulder, and see Ren. He's looking at us.

"We're disposable teens! We're disposable teens! We're disposable teens! We're disposable!" It's playing, but even if it wasn't, I feel the words would be going round in my head anyway.

Do I have any interests besides boys, metal, clothes, my friends and bitching? Are looks infinitely more important to me more than personality? Am I actually any better than my skanky ho-bag sister?

James pulls away as 'Black And White' by Static-X starts playing. I look to where Ren was dancing and see him heading for the door. I doubt he'll ever speak to me again, if he even comes back.

Despite the fact that this is now the 837927th time I've heard the song, I excuse myself to dance.

It's myself I'm sick of.