Saturday 10 April

I hate Connor O'Neill. I have hated Connor O'Neill for approximately seventeen years now. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

What in hell possessed the Morrisons to give him a job? I can't even relax in my own street now. Every time I pass their house I'm looking out for him. The idiots even have him babysitting their horrible little brats. Who in their right minds would trust Connor O'Neill to take care of their kids? He can't even comb his own hair. He was pretty easy to avoid, before my previously sensible neighbors did the completely insane and thoughtless thing of employing him. He doesn't live in my neighborhood after all. I've no idea where he does live – probably in some divey little shack on the other side of town with his chain-smoking mom.

And wouldn't you know it –today was the one day I wasn't paying attention and I hadn't plugged in my music (very loud music, so I would have an excuse to ignore him) and there he was, mowing the lawn and he had the bare faced cheek to say "hi". It was a cheery little 'Hi!" and a wave, as if we hadn't been mortal enemies since kindergarten. He was wearing one of his stupid 'ironic' T-shirts. This one says 'Resistance is Futile (if1 ohm)' Whatever the fuck that means. I guess it's meant to make anyone who doesn't understand it feel stupid, which is so Connor. I can't even be bothered to Google it. That's how much I care.

He switched off the mower and studied me through his nerdy glasses. "Morning Madison," he said. Lately he has taken to saying my name in this lazy drawl as if there is something ridiculous about it, when really – it's not that different from his. They're both surnames aren't they? They are names that our parents clearly thought were pretty cool in 1997. Although, I doubt our parents have the same taste in anything else. Mine don't shop at Walmart or buy ugly shit from the shopping channel, that's for sure.

"Connor," I say in a deliberately clipped way, as if I am a teacher who has just caught him sneaking into class late. For some reason, he brings this out of me. He makes me all uptight and patrician like some middle aged country club bore.

He looks me up and down and curls his top lip, which has my blood instantly boiling. What is it with that snarky look he always gives me? Who is he to look down on me? No one looks down on me! I'm the girl that all the other girls want to be and the one the boys want to be with. I've worked very very hard to be that girl but that means jack shit to Mr Holier-than-thou-and-oh-so-cleverly-ironic Connor O'Neill. God, I hate him.

But I won't give him the satisfaction of telling him so, not today anyway. So instead I flick my long hair over my shoulder and stick my tits out. I'm wearing a sports bra and cropped leggings because I'm on my way to the tennis club, and I know for a fact that I look good. I was wearing this exact same outfit last week when Nick Reyes – yes, Nick Reyes! – called across the street, "Hey girl, looking hot!" Now, I wouldn't normally be all fluttery about such an uncivilized chauvinist comment bellowed across a public street, but it came from Nick Reyes and Nick Reyes can say anything he likes to me. In fact, I would happily let Nick Reyes do anything he likes to me. But I digress … It's pretty hot in here all of a sudden. Anyway … where was I? Oh yes, Connor O'Neill. Now there's a downer.

So I flick my hair back and I stick my tits out and I say, "I see you're emulating your father and becoming a handy man. Nothing too big or …" and my eyes rest on the crotch of his low-slung jeans, "... too small." That was a stroke of genius though I say it myself.

The mention of his useless bum of a father always hacks him off big time, but much to my annoyance he managed to cover it up today. I noticed that he briefly clenched his jaw and his fingers tightened on the handle of the mower, but then he slowly smiled, his big shady shit eating grin.

"Just earning an honest buck. We can't all be spoilt little princesses flashing around Daddy's credit card."

"No we can't all be that," I said, giving him another toss of my hair. "But luckily I am so I can't hang around all day talking to you. I have shopping to do," and I spun round and continued on my way down the street, wiggling my ass deliberately, hoping his eyes got stuck on it.

I was still fuming after a two-hour tennis lesson. I was still fuming after a shower, and dinner and now I am tucked up in bed and I am still fuming. God, I hate him. Why can't he just keep to his dead- beat side of town and stop polluting my air space with his gigantic jackass brain?