A Curious Girl: The future, fathers and daughters part II

Nicky told me to go onto icq tonight but I've only just finished my homework and there's things to ramble on. Stephen is adamant that he will find this diary, but he told me all his tactics so I'm one step ahead of him already. Anyway, if it takes him as much as effort as if took me looking for Nicky's diary (on this site, that is, not by searching Google or Yahoo for her coolfactor one) he'll give up. It's pretty much impossible. I had to *ask* Nicky, shock horror.

Now, where to start? Sunday I did nothing much except read and start off an essay that was meant to be in today (surprise surprise) and go to church. I read the Big Issue I bought, and it was pretty good, but Sinead o'Connor really annoys me. I looked through the ads. One was for doing voluntary work somewhere else in the country, 16-35, and I thought "Why the hell am I still here?" What's the point of A-levels anyway? I'll have to talk to Hazel about that sometime. I don't know whether I still want to be a doctor, it seems incredibly high and mighty, and after nine long years, will it really be worth it? But it might just be fear of work etc. Still, voluntary work with a meagre Ł25 a week sounds much more fun and scary/exciting. Clive was talking about uni in the car on the way to church, and I could hardly believe he couldn't hear my thoughts saying, "I was once the farthest reaching of your children, workwise, and now I want to quit A-levels." Quit A-levels! I must be insane. But I feel I *ought* to be doing something else, even if it means leaving everything behind, bar my Asimovs and my Bible, if I get it back from Abi. That sounds very romantic, I suppose, but it's so frightening. Chris said after the service that she feels she can't dump her education. We're both confused on how to serve God. I mean, what does he want? That's why I'm going to phone Hazel. She prayed for me a few years ago on camp and I can trust her. The service was good, a couple who are missionaries in Angola talked about their life, and I was left wondering what I really want. The woman said to check up on the Sermon on the Mount, but I can't because I can't find a Bible. I will at school.

I read something Nicky wrote, a letter to her Dad. I say her Dad, because most of the things were about when he was her dad, and Stephen's, but not mine. Why did my father have to abandon me? Of course, he didn't, not quite. I don't know the story. Maybe one day I will make Mum tell me. After all, it's my story too. The story of my father and I. I can wish away my father and make myself a new one, but I can't just, morally or realistically, wish away Nicky and Stephen's Mum, much as in the long dark nights I almost feel I'd like to. Stephen saying 'my sister' and that automatically meaning Nicky, not me. Nicky, thinking about the past and past traumas, when it was her and Stephen, Clive and Yvonne. Clive, calling me 'daughter' unnecessarily, as if to make sure I'm his, calling me his little girl when I'm not really. Yvonne, just being there and being good and kind enough to not make me wish she had never existed. Me, not being able to call Clive Dad to his face...

Why do things never work out how they ought to? Who is my father anyway? Do I really have a brother and sister, or was that just a dream made manifest in reality; a big brother for advice and support, and sister for giggles in the night, did I dream all of that? Selfish wishes, but I can't hurt my brother and sister, even if they choose other names for themselves. I remember how Nicky acted when he found out we were moving in, and when Clive put my name above the room it was like he'd permanently banished one of my closest friends. And what could I say? I knew why she was reacting how she was. I knew that I was like some great cuckoo sister, pushing her out. Of course she was angry, frustrated. So would I be, but how do you say sorry when you're the one slipping the knife in?

This is all doom and gloom, but at least that fragile first period is over now and we're all fairly comfortable with each other. Still, I might be a cuckoo sister, but I have a cuckoo father, and I don't know who that is. It might be Clive, lovely, loyal, loving Clive, or my tall dark stranger who I never met, and who might be dead. I hate not knowing.

I've more to write about but I'll do that tomorrow.

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