My heart thumps in the heat. I haven’t put enough deodorant on. I’m going to smell awful by the time I get to the party. If I make it. My legs are covered with grey dust and my ankle already stings where I clipped it, stumbling off that stupid yellow autobus.
Katya hasn’t messaged the final directions. I was an idiot to think she would. To agree to the dare in the first place. To think it meant something. It was just a chance conversation after all. For a moment, talking to her in the bar, I felt like a warrior. I’m only a child, in her eyes. Everyone here treats me like a child.
I hate Berlin and Mum’s latest stupid Summer job. I want to be back home with my friends, having a normal weekend, pretending to be happy on Instagram. The tarmac hurts through these rubbish plimsols. I’m wearing the wrong clothes. Everything about me is wrong.
It always has been.
Viccy Adams 