Asking for It

by Louise O'Neill

  ‘I don’t feel well.’

  ‘Yes, your mother was just telling me about your trip to SouthDoc.’ Sheila shakes her head, the misshapen beaded earrings she made in her jewellery design class banging against her neck. ‘What on earth were you doing?’

  ‘I told you, Sheila,’ Mam says. ‘She was doing a bit of sunbathing and fell asleep outside.’ She gestures at the cake. ‘Have some, Emma. Freshly baked this morning.’

  I turn away, breathing deeply. Mam will never speak to me again if I vomit on the kitchen floor in front of Sheila. ‘Or there’s your granola in the Cath Kidston tin.’ She smiles at Sheila. ‘Home-made, of course.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Now, now, Emma.’ Sheila wags a finger at me. ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I know all you young girls are watching your figures, although thankfully I don’t have that problem with my Caroline, she has always been as thin as a whippet, takes after—’

  ‘Oh, Emma has never had any problems with her weight,’ Mam interrupts, looking in my direction, although her gaze seems to be focused an inch above my head. ‘She’s naturally slim, like the rest of us, thank God.’ Sheila, another forkful of cake halfway to her mouth, pauses, and slowly drops it back on the plate.

  ‘We should be leaving, Nora,’ she says pulling at her turquoise tunic. ‘The class starts in twenty minutes, and I’m so sick of Bernadette Quirke hogging the front row. And – did I tell you? – when I rang her last week to say I didn’t have time to do the church flowers, she was very sour with me. And after me explaining about Aidan’s flu. I was run off my feet.’

  ‘I know, Sheila, you’ve been so busy.’

  ‘I don’t think I can go to school,’ I say. ‘I really don’t feel well.’

  ‘You’re going to school,’ Mam says, her left eye starting to quiver almost imperceptibly. ‘Where’s Maggie? She should be here by now.’

  I check my phone again, but there’s nothing. I step away, standing in the kitchen doorway with my back to the room. I try Maggie, then Ali, then, as a last resort, Jamie. I try Maggie again, Ali, and then Maggie again, and again, and again, but there is still no answer.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Sheila has crept up right behind me.

  ‘I think there’s something wrong with the phone network,’ I lie, taking a step back from her.

  ‘Oh.’ She peers at her ancient Nokia. ‘I have all five bars.’

  ‘Mam –’ I turn to her – ‘please. I don’t feel well. Can I stay at home?’

  ‘Why are we still having this conversation?’ Her lips have gotten so thin it looks like she’s swallowed them. She forces a smile at Sheila, gesturing at her to walk ahead of us into the corridor. ‘The car door should be open, we’ll be there in a second.’ Mam waits until she’s out of sight before hissing at me, ‘And where is Maggie, I’d like to know?’

  ‘She’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘She’s probably disgusted with you for your behaviour on Saturday night, and I wouldn’t blame her.’

  ‘Please, Mam, I’m begging you, I really don’t feel—’

  ‘You have two minutes to change into your school uniform and get in the car. Now, Emma.’

  *

  There’s a collective intake of breath when I open the door into my Irish class. There are three rows of tables on each side of the room, a narrow gap in between so the teacher can walk around and keep an eye on us, and every girl on every row is staring at me. I put my hands out, laughing, and say, ‘Hey, third-degree burns are so hot right now,’ holding my sunburnt face in my hands like I’m on the cover of Vogue, but no one laughs. Aisling Leahy nudges Catherine Whyte, sticking her tongue against the inside of her mouth as if she’s giving a blow job, and the two of them start snickering.

  ‘Bi ciuin!’ Mr O’Leary snaps at them. I stare at the worn-out carpet, waiting for my punishment.

  ‘And what time do you call this?’ O’Leary sits back in his chair, peering over his half-moon glasses. He looks pointedly at the clock hanging above the whiteboard.

  ‘Sorry, Mr O’Leary, I—’

  ‘I don’t have time for excuses. Report for detention at big lunch.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Arguing is an excellent way to find yourself with after-school detention as well, Miss Ní Dhonnabháin.’ He snaps his fingers at the rows of seats. ‘Suigh síos.’

  Ali, Maggie and Jamie are sitting in the back left-hand row, where we always sit for Irish class, but the seat nearest to the window, my seat, isn’t empty. Chloe Hegarty is sitting there, staring out the window at the sun bouncing off the artificial green of the AstroTurf pitch.

  ‘Are you deaf, Emma?’ Mr O’Leary heaves himself up from his seat and stands far too close for comfort to me, broken veins running like threadworms across his cheeks and nose. ‘I thought I told you to sit down.’

  ‘My seat is taken,’ I say, staring at the girls.

  ‘I don’t care.’ He draws the words out slowly.

  ‘But—’

  ‘Sit down. You are wasting precious scrudu time.’

  ‘Test?’ Shit, shit, shit, shit. ‘What test?’

  ‘You are, eh, testing my last nerve, Miss Ní Dhonnabháin. You have a grammar test today. It will count as thirty-five per cent of your mark for your summer exams. I believe I told you this on Friday, did I not? Now. Take. A. Seat.’

  There’s only one seat left, in the front row, next to Josephine Hurley, who everyone knows is a total lesbian because she watches the rest of us as we get changed for PE. Chloe was forced to share a room with her when we went on our school tour to Rome last year, and she told me that Josephine kept walking in on her while she was in the shower and claiming it was an ‘accident’. I sit down with an exaggerated sigh, something that would usually generate a laugh, but there’s nothing, and even Josephine shuffles her chair away from me, murmuring something to Lisa Keane on her other side. I can hear my name whispered, and the two of them stifling giggles. I stare at a poster of Ireland on the wall, all the rivers and mountain ranges and lakes picked out in different colours, trying to steady my breathing.

  I am Emma O’Donovan.

  I am Emma O’Donovan.

  I am Emma O’Donovan.

  I am Emma O’Donovan.

  The bell rings, and I have to hand in an empty exam booklet.

  ‘Remember, Miss Ní Dhonnabháin,’ O’Leary says as he’s gathering up his board markers and books, ‘detention at big lunch. And please, never arrive late to my class again. A dhéanann tú a thuiscint?’

  ‘Yes, Mr O’Leary, I understand.’ He frowns at me to speak in Irish too. ‘Sorry. I meant . . . Tuigim.’

  He leaves; a few girls who are in lower-level English following him to go to their next class. The door slams shut behind them. I get to my feet, knocking over Josephine’s pencil case as I do so, ignoring her squeak of protest. She can pick it up herself, the stupid bitch.

  ‘Hey.’ I stand in front of the girls in the back row. ‘Where were you this morning? I tried ringing all of you about a million times.’

  Maggie drops her chin, but Jamie stares at me. Ali still hasn’t looked up.

  ‘I suppose you rang Eli too, did you?’ Jamie says.

  ‘Eli? Why would I ring Eli?’

  ‘You seemed pretty friendly with him on Saturday night.’

  ‘Jamie.’ Maggie’s head snaps back up. ‘Just forget it.’

  ‘Forget it?’ Jamie says. ‘You want us to forget that your so-called best friend kissed your boyfriend?’

  Kissed? I kissed Eli? Fuuuuuck.

  ‘I didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .’ (Did I? I can’t remember.) ‘For God’s sake, J, we were all just messing around. It was only a bit of banter. Maggie knows that. Don’t you, Mags?’

  She looks at me wearily. ‘I do, Em. It was nothing. I’d barely even call it a kiss.’

  ‘Maggie!’ Jamie looks at her in horror. ‘It was still your boyfriend. She kissed your boyfriend.’

 
I fold my arms across my chest. ‘Why are you assuming that I kissed him? Maybe Eli made a move on me.’

  ‘Emma.’ A note of steel enters Maggie’s voice. ‘Don’t do that. Eli does not fancy you.’

  (What?)

  (Why not?)

  ‘I know that,’ I say. ‘I never said that he did.’

  ‘Everyone has to fancy you, don’t they, Emma?’ Jamie mutters. ‘One boy just isn’t enough for you any more.’ Someone in the row in front of us giggles at this.

  ‘Why are you making such a big deal about this?’ I ask her. ‘Maggie doesn’t care, so why should you?’

  ‘As if you don’t know,’ Jamie says through gritted teeth. ‘As if, Emma.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, and then I catch myself, reminding myself that I am Emma O’Donovan, and that Emma O’Donovan does not cower before bitches like Jamie Murphy. I stand up straight. ‘Look, J, I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ve had a really shit couple of days, and I don’t appreciate you being such a bitch to me. Like, do you have any idea what’s going on for me at home? My parents—’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about your fucking parents.’ Maggie places a hand on her forearm to calm her down, but Jamie jerks it off.

  ‘No, Maggie. Stop trying to make this better. It’s not like this is the first time she’s fucked you over. Like, hello? The fucking Volvo? She never even apologized for that, did she?’

  ‘That had nothing to do with you. And I did apologize to Maggie.’ All the girls in our class are staring at us now, open-mouthed. ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did, I guess.’ Maggie bites her lip. ‘But I got in a lot of trouble, Em, and you kind of treated the whole thing like it was a joke. I would never have gone out in that weather if you hadn’t asked me to pick you up.’

  ‘I didn’t force you, did I? I was stuck out in Aaron’s house, and no taxi would come out because of the flooding, and Mam kept phoning me. What else was I supposed to do?’

  Ali finally lifts her head and looks me straight in the eye. ‘Well, maybe, Emma, you could try to be less of a whore. Just a thought.’

  Her words are like fists, driving into my stomach, leaving me winded. ‘What?’ My head is spinning. Did Ali just say that to me? Ali? ‘I told you, I didn’t sleep with Aaron that time, no matter what he said afterwards. We only—’

  ‘Oh, stop lying.’ Ali bangs her fist on the table, and both Maggie and Jamie start. ‘That’s all you ever do,’ she says, ‘lie, lie, lie, lie.’

  ‘Why are you being like this?’ The words come out of my mouth in a plaintive whimper. ‘What have I done that is so terrible, Ali?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. How about the time you told me you didn’t want to lend me that red top from River Island because you were afraid I would stretch it? How about the time you went on for an hour about how beautiful my mom was, and then ten minutes later casually dropped it into the conversation what a pity it was I didn’t look like her? What about the time you told Maggie that Eli kept coming on to you and they nearly broke up? What about the time—’

  ‘OK,’ I say, feeling pressure building up behind my eyes, ‘I get it. I’m a fucking bitch. I’m the worst friend in the whole entire world. Why are you making such a big deal out of it this time?’

  ‘You slept with him,’ Ali whispers, and she blinks away tears.

  ‘Aaron?’ I’m confused. ‘Oh, wait, Paul O’Brien? What do you care?’

  ‘Not Paul. Although I suppose the fact that he has a girlfriend is irrelevant. Emma O’Donovan always has to get whatever it is she wants.’ Her voice trembles. ‘I can’t believe you had sex with Sean.’

  ‘Sean?’ I almost laugh in her face. ‘Sean Casey? What are you on about?’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Emma.’ She stares out the window for a moment to compose herself, then looks at me again, and it’s like I’m looking at a stranger. ‘You are absolutely disgusting, do you know that? Four guys in one night? Do you have any fucking self-respect, Emma?’ I just stand there. I am waiting for someone to defend me. But no one does. They look gleeful, like they have been waiting for this for the last eighteen years and it hasn’t come a minute too soon. ‘Like Paul wasn’t enough for you,’ Ali continues. ‘You had to ride Sean too, and fucking Dylan Walsh – like, what is wrong with you, Emma? You’re sick. You’re actually sick.’

  ‘Julie is going to kick your ass,’ Sarah Swallows adds helpfully from the row in front of us. ‘Just so you know.’

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck any of you are talking about.’ I grip on to the edge of the desk with my fingertips.

  ‘Maggie.’ My voice cracks, and I hate myself for it. ‘Maggie. Please.’

  She puts her hand out to cover mine. ‘Emma.’ She waits until I look up at her, my eyes pricking with tears, but I can’t cry, not in front of all these people. ‘Listen to me – were you taking stuff at the party?’

  ‘Of course she was.’ Jamie rolls her eyes. ‘Did you not see her? She was chewing the face off herself.’

  ‘J,’ Maggie warns her, then squeezes my fingers. ‘Emma, come on, just tell me – did you take anything?’

  ‘No, of course I—’

  ‘Please, Emma.’ She pulls her hand away and starts to massage her temples. ‘Please. Just tell me the truth. Is that why you did this? Because you were off your face?’

  ‘But I didn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is—’

  ‘There’s no point in denying it.’ Maggie is getting exasperated. (She is sick of me.) (They are all sick of me.) ‘Eli told me. You’re just making things worse by lying.’

  ‘But I’m not lying. I admit I slept with Paul, but—’

  ‘Stop it. He has a girlfriend. And besides that, you knew how Ali felt about Sean. She doesn’t deserve this.’

  ‘But I didn’t have sex with him. And it’s not my fault that he doesn’t fancy her. I mean, I told him that she . . .’ I stop myself just in time.

  ‘Told him what?’ Ali’s face is stricken. ‘Told Sean what, Emma? What did you tell him about me?’ I look away. ‘You told him I liked him, is that it?’ she says. I don’t deny it and she looks like she wants to kill me.

  ‘Well, maybe I should tell him to get an STI test as quickly as possible,’ she says. ‘Chlamydia is so easy to treat these days, isn’t it?’

  As soon as she says it, I think I see regret in her eyes, but then it’s gone. Maybe it was never there in the first place.

  ‘Fuck you,’ I hiss, as the classroom gasps in delight. I can hear people fumbling in bags for phones, the clicking of keys as people text. Lisa Keane has taken out her iPhone and is pointing it at us. ‘If you’re filming this, I will literally cut you.’ I make a lunge at her, but she just laughs at me. Lisa Keane is laughing at me.

  ‘Easy Emma,’ Jamie says, then smiles in delight. ‘Yes, Easy Emma. I do like a bit of alliteration. It’s nearly as good as Sarah Swallows.’

  ‘Hey,’ Sarah says. ‘Don’t drag me into this mess.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t think name-calling is helping here,’ I say, trying to channel Hannah in therapist mode. ‘Can’t we go somewhere private and talk this out?’

  ‘No.’ I’ve never seen Ali so resolute, and suddenly I feel very afraid. ‘You knew how I felt about Sean, but it didn’t matter. Whatever Emma O’Donovan wants, Emma O’Donovan gets, right?’

  ‘But I didn’t—’

  ‘It’s not enough that everybody else always prefers you.’ Her lip starts to quiver, and Jamie wraps a hand around her waist. ‘You just had to prove that Sean liked you best too.’

  I crouch down until I’m eye level with her. ‘Ali—’

  ‘Fuck off and leave us alone,’ Jamie says.

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Emma.’ Maggie’s voice is firm. ‘I think it’s probably best if you just leave now.’

  ‘Oh, whatever,’ I say as I stand up, moving towards my new seat at the front of the class. ‘I don’t give a fuck anyway. It’s not my fault Sean
doesn’t like you. He’s probably not into giants.’

  No one laughs. They always laugh at my jokes.

  ‘I’m relieved he doesn’t like me,’ Ali says. ‘Since he’s probably riddled now anyway.’

  ‘I told you,’ I say. (Who is she? Ali would never say things like this, especially not to me. Ali is good and kind and loyal.) ‘I didn’t . . . I don’t even fucking remember what happened on Saturday night, but I definitely didn’t—’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Emma?’ Jamie narrows her eyes at me.

  The room goes quiet, muffled, like when you wake up in the morning and you can somehow sense that it’s snowed the night before.

  I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.

  ‘That’s right,’ Jamie says. ‘Best not to say anything. No one likes a girl who makes a fuss, do they?’

  *

  10.00 a.m.

  I wait for what feels like hours, then sneak a peek at the clock on the wall again.

  10.04 a.m.

  At small break, the bell rings and Maggie and Jamie form a protective circle around a red-eyed Ali. She is the victim.

  ‘You know you’re not allowed to stay in the classroom during break,’ Ms O’Regan calls at me from the open doorway. ‘Out you get.’

  I walk to the ref alone. Why did I forget my phone, I need to text Sean and Dylan, I need to ask them what they’ve been saying, why are they saying things that aren’t true. (But I don’t remember, I don’t remember.) The ref is a large, dark room, the old-fashioned brown lino and oak-panelled walls swallowing any light. There are round Formica tables filling the middle of the room, a glass-plated hot-food counter at the top, about a hundred girls in there, chatting, laughing, arguing.

  I join the queue for food, the two second years in front of me turning to look at me, smothering smiles. They nudge another friend, a plump girl with box braids. ‘What?’ she says, her eyes widening as they jerk their heads back towards me. I pick up an apple from the basket next to the stack of trays at the front and walk to the cash desk. Mr O’Flynn is on duty and I hand him a euro coin without comment.

  ‘Got a little bit of sun over the weekend, I see?’ he teases as he hands me back my change.