Diary of a Confused Feminist

Tuesday, September 4

Ways that I, Kat Evans, am going to be an excellent feminist this term:

1. I will organize a *small* bit of activism on the first day—tiny—just to ease us in. A bit of red spray paint never hurt anyone, right?

2. I will make the switch to a menstrual cup henceforthly becoming a model eco-friendly feminist.

3. I will definitely ask Miss Mills about writing a weekly feminist column on the school blog called Feminist Friday, and not just spend the whole term thinking about it and doing nothing.

4. I will also keep this diary EVERY DAY because all the top journalists and writers say this is a Good Thing and definitely not something I will look back on and cringe about in approximately five minutes’ time.

5. I will thusly become a BETTER FEMINIST and a PATRIARCHY-SMASHING JOURNALIST. Think Emmeline Pankhurst with a smartphone.

Wednesday, September 5

8:45 a.m.

The main playground, where Krishna Comedy Krish Anand once made Dave Edwards snort a sherbet fountain and he had to go to the hospital because they couldn’t stop the sherbet bubbles coming out of his nose

Who the BLOODY HELL is TIM?

Mr. Clarke, our principal, roars at us, striding across the gray tarmac like an angry bald buffalo. We all scuttle into a line and try to look like brave and intrepid feminists.

Me and my two best friends, Sam and Millie, are dressed head to toe in black. Each of us has a small black veil covering half our faces, film-noir-style, and a slick of red lipstick.

Although it’s a bit of a departure from our usual maroon uniform, the outfits are clearly not what Mr. Clarke is referring to. The thing he’s pointing to and appears to be most upset about is the giant, bright red #Tim painted on the playground.

It was obviously supposed to be #TimesUp but he’s caught us before we’ve finished, so it’s stuck at #Tim. Something creepy Tim Matthews in our year will definitely enjoy. I don’t know anyone who’s ever believed his The more you feel them, the bigger they get spiel, and yet he still rolls it out at every house party.

We decided to be feminists a few weeks ago after an incident with a staunch feminist, some hummus, and a very expressive carrot (more on this later). Feminism’s basically equality for men and women, and an end to all the patriarchy bullshit (I think—the carrot was a little vague here). Anyway, it felt apt for our first point of business to be something supporting #MeToo and the TIME’S UP movement.

The plan was to look just like the glitzy celebs arriving on the red carpet dressed in black at the Golden Globes to announce time’s up. Though in the picture we posted on Insta this morning, I looked more like a goth who’d been drinking red wine. Already an old lush at fifteen.

We’re protesting in solidarity with the #MeToo and TIME’S UP movements, sir, Millie says with authority. We want men to know that time’s up and we won’t stay silent any longer.

And yet I’ve never known you three to be particularly silent! Mr. Clarke rages.

Millie doesn’t look like a lush—she looks glamorous and poised like the Hollywood celebs, fitting for someone who wants to be an actress. And Sam, she looks like an actual catwalk model. The lipstick color suits her perfectly and seems not to have fallen off her beautiful full lips the way it has with mine. But now that I think of it, are feminists allowed to look nice? Isn’t the thing that we no longer conform to the idea of looking pretty and girly? Surely I’m a better feminist because I look a bit weathered? Like I’ve been actually protesting (with wine)?

Or maybe that’s unfeminist of me and women should be allowed to be pretty if they want to be pretty? Being a feminist seems to be quite confusing, actually.

I tune back in to the conversation just in time to hear Mr. Clarke tell us to clean off our lipstick. In my case it won’t be hard as it’s mostly on my teeth and chin by now anyway.

It’s an artistic representation of menstrual blood, sir. A symbol of the struggle women go through every day, all over the world. We bleed and yet we carry on. We can’t clean it off unless you’re against women menstruating, sir. Are you? Sam stares at him questioningly while his face goes bright red. He looks confused and like his head might implode. I guess he wasn’t expecting to talk about the female reproductive system before 9 a.m. on the first day back at school.

G-g-g-girls… Mr. Clarke is spluttering, trying to regain control of himself. It’s not pretty. I think we’ve lost sight of the point here. You cannot go around defacing school property, no matter what the cause. You’ll be cleaning it off in after-school detention.

You can’t silence us, sir. We’re fighting years of this kind of oppression and control from men. You’re the patriarchy and we’re going to take you down! I rage.

Wonderful, I’ll be sure to tell the department of education of your plans to bring down principals. I must have missed that part of the TIME’S UP movement when I read about it in the news. I’ll see you back here at three-thirty for detention.

This is a dictatorship, Sam huffs.

Yes. Welcome back to my dictatorship, ladies. Have a great day.

I kind of knew this would happen as soon as I saw the red paint, but you can’t go at feminist activism half-heartedly. When you think about it, a detention isn’t quite as bad as what the suffragettes went through. Although it is really hot today and I haven’t brought sunscreen.

10:30 a.m.

The science block toilets—our toilets

No one else really uses them as they’re so old and out of the way. And smell of decades-old urine. Lovely.

Sam, Millie, and I have been best friends since our first day of nursery, when we all showed up to school with the same weary expression, completely unconvinced that whatever was waiting for us here would be better than what’s on the CBeebies channel at home. We were right, and the shared experience of being betrayed by our parents has bonded us ever since.

Today’s the first day of Year Eleven, which means we’ve been together now for twelve blissful years. And, as of today, eight detentions.

The three of us stand at the three sinks, staring into three mucky, old, cracked mirrors in a pink toilet block which was painted in the nineties—the last time it was acceptable to do the whole pink for a girl, blue for a boy thing.

Sorry about that, guys… I mutter as I try to sort out my smeared lipstick in the equally smeared mirror. I’m a bit sheepish because this was my idea, but I think we all knew it would end in detention.… I hope we all knew that, anyway.

Oh, pssh! Millie says, swatting a hand at me while brushing her hair with the other at the sink to the left of mine. We all knew that was going to happen. Didn’t we, Sam?

Phew.

We did! But it was worth it.… Well, almost… if we’d have gotten the whole thing on the playground… or if we’d have Snapchatted it… or done any kind of social media… to show what we were trying to do… Sam says, looking at Millie from her spot to my right at the third sink, where she’s putting on mascara without even doing that open-mouth concentration face.

Oooh, that would have been a great idea! Millie says, turning away from the mirror and blinking to look at us both excitedly.

I’m staring at Millie. Sam’s staring at Millie. Millie has not remembered that social media was supposed to be her job.

I did post this really cute selfie on the ’gram, though. Do you think you can tell what you two are doing in the background there behind me? She thrusts her faux-fur-covered phone in our faces. On occasion I have mistaken this cover for a rodent and screamed.

You can literally only see my hand and one of Sam’s feet behind her beaming filtered face.

"Millie, do you remember how I was the artistic director, Kat was the operations director, and you were the social media director for this little feminist adventure?" Sam says, half laughing.

Oooohhhhhhhhhhhhh. Millie looks at us, hand in front of her mouth. I just… there’s a new Snapchat filter that turns you into a llama and I… sort of got distracted.

That’s okay. Probably for the best that we didn’t immortalize the bit where we wrote #Tim on the playground, really, isn’t it? I say, turning back to the mirror to make sure I haven’t still got lipstick on my teeth.

Yeah. Definitely, Sam agrees.

And at least it’s distracting me from having to wait to find out whether I’ve got Juliet, says Millie, scrolling through Instagram absentmindedly. They’re releasing the cast list at lunchtime. FINALLY.

When she found out that she would have to wait until the new school year to see if she got the part in our school’s production of Romeo and Juliet, I thought we were going to have to get an exorcist in. She went full head-spinny, possessed by rage and stress.

Millie really wants to be an actor and she’s good at it too. Of course, as a staunch feminist (as of nearly a whole month now) I’m a hundred percent sure that wanting to be Juliet is in no way affected by her lifelong crush on Nick Deans in the year above. The boy who will, without a shadow of a doubt, be cast to play Romeo. That definitely has nothing to do with it, even though she’s on record as having said that the nurse was the best character and WHY would anyone want to play simpering, spineless Juliet. But it’s completely, absolutely, got nothing to do with Nick D. Sure.

How do you feel? Sam asks.

Confident! Millie sings, which is good because it’s been swinging one way or the other all summer.

Attagirl! says Sam, walking over and patting her on the back.

Who else would they give it to, anyway? No one else is half as good as you, I say, and I mean it—she’s amazing.

And if they do give it to someone else… an accident can be arranged… Sam says, flexing her hands.

She’s joking, by the way. We’re not bad people. There are some in our school, but we’re not them.

Sam’s phone buzzes in her hand and her face lights up. Dave says that he really enjoyed our disruption this morning. Says we looked great!

Looking great is SO NOT the point! I groan, ignoring the fact that I’ve been staring in the mirror for the past ten minutes.

But we do look pretty fantastic. HAVE YOU SEEN US? What’s happening with Dave, now? Millie asks. Dave is THE Dave Edwards I mentioned earlier, snorter of sherbet, but also fancier of Sam.

I don’t know. We talk a lot, I guess, Sam says.

Yeah! He likes you! How come you don’t just get together? Millie asks.

I dunno. I think he’s just messing around. Don’t think he likes me that much, Sam says shyly.

He does. We all know he does.

11 a.m.

History class

I can’t believe I’m back in this hellhole so soon. School is the only place where you can sit next to a huge open window and still feel claustrophobic. I find myself leaning more and more toward the window because someone in here appears to have really discovered aftershave over the summer and it’s combined with the general… agricultural smell to make the school atmosphere even more oppressive than usual.

The whole room is tinged with an air of disappointment. Even Mr. Crick doesn’t look like he’s really come to terms with us being back as he drones on about 1800s America.

I’m not even in the same classes as Millie and Sam this morning, which is just torture. I hate it when they’re in classes without me. I worry that they’re going to become better friends and start leaving me out of things and eventually forget about me altogether. I mean, they’ll both definitely be working on the play together—Millie will obviously get Juliet and Sam’s going to be working backstage to build the set.

Sam’s amazing at art and anything creative. Her mum once took her to a life-drawing class and she came back with something so realistic it was borderline pornographic. Even though Sam said the guy was so old his danglies looked like pug faces.

It makes me uneasy that there’ll be a whole huge part of their lives I’m not going to be involved in. But I worry a lot about stuff like this.

I also worry that no one else worries quite as much as I do. I don’t think my friends do, and I don’t know why I worry so much more than everyone else.

Sometimes I worry that worrying is my greatest talent.

12:30 p.m.

The bench outside the drama block bulletin board, anxiously waiting to FINALLY find out if Millie has the part

Millie’s notably less calm than she was earlier and keeps twitching every time someone walks past. I get it, though—she’s been waiting to find out for so long, it feels cruel that they’re dragging it out even longer. The suspense is ridiculous.

Our school is kind of a mishmash with one main playground and other little hidey-holes between blocks where different groups hang out/hide out. So, the music kids hang out by the music block, mathletes by the math block, athletes by the sports field (also frequented by anyone looking to get frisky, although I personally have NEVER been very athletic)—and the drama block is where the smokers hang so they can sneak out to the alleyway next to it and make an absolute holy mess of their lungs. You can tell as much. It’s really smoky over here and we’re all struggling to stay cool.

Oh my god, there she is! Millie squeaks, grabbing our hands as the head of drama appears around the corner.

Congratulations, Millie, Ms. Withers says, pinning the list to the board and then walking away.

Oh my god, I can’t look! Millie says dramatically.

She has LITERALLY just told you that you’ve got it, I say as Sam and I both roll our eyes.

OH MY GOD, I GOT IT! Millie says, reading the list with a theatrical gasp.

Congrats! Sam and I say together, grabbing her in a group hug and jumping up and down. Millie’s taken it to the next level, though, and started dancing, except calling it dancing is really a bit of a stretch. It mostly looks like she’s trying to be a chicken, only less coordinated. I guess she’s excited.

I’m sure that as a feminist she’s still absolutely not even a little bit bothered that Nick Deans is playing Romeo, but I can see him approaching, watching her dance, and I feel like I need to find a way to warn her that she may look SLIGHTLY ridiculous right now.

Ahem! Romeo, I mutter, hoping for subtlety and trying to make her stop being so dramatic before she hits mortification levels.

Oh my god! Yes! Nick is playing Romeo! Finally, he’ll have to notice me! Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, HOT SEXY ROMEO! she says, dropping down to one knee before pretending to faint with her hand across her forehead.

You must be my Juliet, then! Nick Deans says from behind her.

Millie falls the short distance left to the floor with shame.

12:45 p.m.

Emergency toilet debrief

DID HE HEAR ME? Millie is crying at us in such despair that a lost Year Seven girl has just scuttled out in fear. What’s he even doing here? The Sixth Form don’t start until next week!

He definitely heard you, but it might not be that bad? Sam says.

I’ve made a complete twat of myself already, haven’t I? Millie asks.

I’ve done worse! I say cheerfully. I’m kind of a walking disaster for this stuff and I don’t mind saying it if it makes her feel better.

She has! Sam says even more cheerfully.

Rude. But it’s made Millie smile.

3:30 p.m.

The hottest detention known to man

It’s so hot out here that I can feel my skin burning—it’s more or less bubbling—as I’m cleaning. Thanks, climate change, for this hideous and unseasonal heat wave! What if I’m permanently disfigured from the sunburn I get during this detention? I do feel intrepid and bold, though, like a proper suffragette.

Although, thinking about it, I bet the suffragettes never had to deal with creepy #Tim Matthews. As predicted, he’s absolutely overjoyed with it all.

Ladies, if you wanted my attention, all you had to do was talk to me. Such an extreme romantic gesture was not necessary. Not when you’re as fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine as you three. His elongation of the word fine unleashes some excess spit all over the place.

Urgh. I am definitely going to throw my sponge at him if he doesn’t leave soon.

3:35 p.m.

Oh god, as if this wasn’t all awful enough, here comes Terrible Trudy sauntering past with her crew. I was hoping she just hadn’t come back this year, that maybe her family got stuck on a superyacht somewhere forever or, better still, kidnapped by pirates. I’m not normally this mean about people, by the way, but Trudy’s the exception. She’s the most popular girl in school (she reigns only through terror) and she’s my archnemesis.

The conflict between Trudy and me started on my second day of nursery. She tried to take away my favorite bunny because it was better than hers. I didn’t let her have it (it was MINE!) and thusly I made an ENEMY FOR LIFE. It was one bunny, but boy, can she hold a grudge. Though to be fair, I’ve NEVER tried to be as accommodating of her as everyone else is. And why should I be? She treats her friends like crap, let alone everyone else.

Over the years, Trudy’s taken her grudge out on me in many different ways, such as sticking a tampon to my back with a note that said I’m on my period! (period shaming AND completely unfeminist, AND I REFUSE to be embarrassed by being on my period, actually!) and trying to tell people that I wasn’t wearing any knickers one time even though I WAS and it meant that boys spent the whole day trying to look up my skirt. Perverts. And that’s without even mentioning all the times she’s tripped me up or pushed me over.

Part of the reason she gets away with so much stuff (apart from being terrifying) is that her mum’s a big record producer, so allegedly there are always celebrities at her house and people want in on that. She comes back from holidays with the most completely unbelievable stories about who she’s hung out with. She claims to have once gone on a date with Harry Styles. Common sense suggests this is a COMPLETE LIE but apparently I’m the only one who gets that.

Even if you didn’t believe her, before you ever got to tell her that she was chatting utter nonsense you’d have to get through her crew. The Bitches—or, as I like to call them, TB, the name of a terrible, disgusting Victorian illness—are around her twenty-four seven. One of the rules for joining TB is apparently that Trudy Must Never Be Left Alone—diva. Another rule is that if Trudy doesn’t have a boyfriend, then you can’t have one either—ridiculous.

The Bitches consists of:

• Amelie—Second Bitch in Command, who follows Head Bitch around like she’s leeching oxygen off her

• Tiffany—really wants to be Second Bitch in Command. Must suffer daily being Third Bitch in Command

• Nia—Fourth Bitch in Command. Resigned to carrying bags and standing in Amelie and Tiffany’s shadows, not to mention Trudy’s

• Tia—doesn’t seem to understand hierarchies so lives in blissful ignorance

Although, now that I think about it, is calling them all The Bitches actually unfeminist? I don’t think you’re supposed to call another woman names at all, really. Maybe I should try a bit harder this year to get along with them all?

Losers think they’re feminists now, says Trudy. As if they’re anything like Hollywood stars. Silly little cows. You’re only in the school play, Camilla—you’re not Jennifer bloody Lawrence.

Maybe not, then, actually. Maybe feminism doesn’t count when the woman in question is a complete MONSTER. Like with Margaret Thatcher… maybe Trudy is the Margaret Thatcher of our time?

3:40 p.m.

Still scrubbing at the playground like a Tudor kitchen wench.

Oh god. Hot Josh is walking toward us. Everything’s gone a bit blurry.… Arms and legs suddenly… weak… and I can actually hear my heartbeat in my head.

This always happens when I see HIM.

Hot Josh is amazing. I don’t say that lightly. He’s the absolute sexiest boy in school and possibly the entire county, if not the country.

Definitely in our town.

He’s done modeling for ASOS and only started at the school at the end of last year after his family moved from London. He’s really cosmopolitan. I can count the conversations we’ve had on one hand. They usually consist of one word from him and, only once, a bit of dribble from me. As he approaches, I swear I can hear an actual choir of angels heralding his arrival.

Suddenly, I remember that I am currently on all fours, scrubbing creepy Tim’s name off the playground. Great.

I do a sort of sideways crab movement on all fours to move closer to Millie and Sam, seeking the safety of my pack like a baby lion.

What are you doing, crabby? You look weird, Mills says. Helpful.

Oh, I see! Sam nudges her. Hot Josh, dead ahead.

Ooooohhhhhhh! Millie and Sam look delighted. They love watching me get all fluttery and red in the face.

Your face matches your lipstick now. Sam can be such a cow sometimes. I never do this when she’s flirting with Dave.

Hot Josh appears to be heading straight for me. Or us? Oh god, it’s me.

Hey, he says.

I seem to have continued being crouched down on all fours, staring up at him. Paralyzed. I worry I may look like a cat caught going to the toilet. The other two have obviously, sensibly, jumped up to normal standing