by Lucy Cuthew
watching other people
being useless,
and knowing, if it was us,
we’d be all right.
Well, honestly,
I’d be scared shitless.
But Harriet
is actually pretty brave.
TUESDAY
LUNCHTIME
In the lunch hall
I subtly scan the room
for Benjamin,
before I pick a table
and start to eat
my saucy spaghetti
(carefully,
in case Benjamin’s watching me).
Harriet sits down heavily
and sips her large
black coffee.
“Ugh.” She shudders,
swallowing and grimacing.
“This is so bitter.
It’s disgusting.”
“Why’re you drinking it then?”
laughs Leylah,
opening a can
of lemonade.
“Because I’m dying,” Harriet says.
“I didn’t go to sleep until 4 a.m.”
“Sexting Jackson?”
Bethany smirks, nudging Harriet.
“I told you,” she says,
leaning away from Bethany,
“I ended it with him.
And your lunch
absolutely stinks.”
“All right,” grumbles Bethany.
“Don’t have a go at me.”
“I’m sorry,” says Harriet,
rubbing her hands over her face
and groaning. “I’m just so tired.”
“What were you even doing?”
I ask. “I was with you
until about ten.”
“I was rewriting
my application to
send to Mr B.”
“Oh,” I say.
I feel a pang of jealousy.
What if she worked
on hers harder than I did?
“Did you manage it?”
“Just,” she says. “I sent it
this morning then had
about two hours’ sleep.
But I think I made
a horrible mistake.”
“What?” I ask.
“No,” says Harriet. “I’m not telling you.
It’s too embarrassing.”
She groans
and folds her body forward,
resting her forehead
on the table.
Marie says,
“Nothing good gets done
after 10 p.m., if you ask me.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Harriet retorts
from under her hair.
“I’m sure it’s not as bad
as you’re imagining,”
says Leylah.
“What if it’s worse?”
Harriet mumbles.
I try to think of
something reassuring
to say but just then
I see Benjamin
walking towards me
and I’m briefly distracted,
wiping my face
and smiling at him.
He grins at me
as he walks past.
God, he’s dreamy.
When I look back,
Bethany is patting Harriet’s head.
“I’m sure it’s great.”
“You’ll feel better
after a good night’s rest,”
says Marie.
“Enough with the sleep, Marie,”
Harriet moans.
“And, Beth,” she adds,
“you had better
not be getting
tuna in my hair.
It took me an hour
this morning.”
And we all giggle
as Bethany licks
her fingers
quickly
before resuming her patting.
EXTRACTION
That afternoon, in history,
a year seven
knocks on the open door,
a piece of paper
trembling in her hand.
“I have a message
from Mr Adamson.”
Ms Wyse
beckons the girl,
lowers her glasses,
reads the note,
and sighs.
“Harriet Prosser,
you’re to go.”
Harriet glances at me.
She looks worried.
Then she gets up
and slopes off
out of the door
and as I hear her footsteps
fade down the hall
my stomach knots.
What’s she done?
DISTRACTIONS
Mr Adamson banged on about distractions
for about an hour just
yesterday.
I can’t think of many things more distracting
than extracting someone in the middle of class
with no explanation.
Apparently Mr Adamson’s
second lesson of the week is
irony.
SPECULATION
After Harriet goes
we’re meant to be reading in silence
but everyone is whispering
and the boys are all giggling.
I can tell
that something
is going around.
I remember once,
when Mohammed’s mum had a baby,
he got to leave early.
Another time, Caylee’s grandmother
was in hospital dying,
and she was called out of class.
Apparently she only just made it
in time to say goodbye.
Births and deaths.
What could be dramatic enough
to warrant Harriet’s extraction?
Everyone has a theory,
but I know it’s about
what she mentioned at lunch.
The thing she wouldn’t tell me.
I put her bag in her locker
when we leave the lesson
but then in the corridor
between classes
I hear Harriet’s
name behind me
and turn to see
Jackson, Dev and Charlie
laughing and whooping,
their necks craning
around Harriet’s phone,
taking pictures
with their phones
of her screen.
I push myself
in to see an email
Harriet has sent.
To Mr B.
“How did you get that?”
I snap,
snatching her phone
off the boys
and tucking it in my pocket.
“You can’t just take
things out of people’s bags!”
“It fell out of her bag in class,” says Jackson,
holding his hands up.
“I was just looking after it,
as you didn’t notice.”
“Bullshit,” I snarl.
“How did you open it?”
“Nine nine nine nine
is pretty easy to see
when you sit behind
somebody.”
He snorts, looking between
Dev and Charlie, adding,
“Easy. Lol. Just like her.”
God, he’s disgusting.
“You’d better not have
done anything,”
I say, turning away
and leaving them
whooping and
calling after me
to lighten up.
Down the corridor,
I look at her screen
and read
the email.
She’s sent him her
application again,
and she’s attached a selfie.
She’s in bed wearing
&nb
sp; a low-cut pyjama top
and she’s leaning in,
her boobs squeezed.
She’s written:
Hopefully you’ll agree
I’ve worked really hard on this.
Can you check it over again?
Ugh, Harriet.
I cannot believe her.
Doesn’t she ever think
about the consequences
before doing something?
TROUBLE
I sit in geography,
worrying.
Harriet’s going to be
in so much trouble.
You can’t send a picture
like that to a teacher
and get away with it.
What was she thinking?
I check my phone
under the table,
unable to concentrate
and wondering
what’s happening
to her now.
Mr B must have told the head.
They might suspend her.
What if they expel her?
I don’t know whether to cry
or scream.
Then
an unknown number
messages me.
In iso. Meet me
in the toilet in ten.
H
I wait in geography
for nine minutes,
feeling sick, finding it
impossible to concentrate
on anything Miss Allison says,
which is annoying because
she’s already told us
tectonic activity
will be in
our mock exam.
Finally, it’s time.
I slip Harriet’s phone
out of my bag
and into my pocket
next to mine.
I walk to the front
and ask for a pass
to go to the loo.
Miss Allison
looks at me
suspiciously.
“Quickly then,”
she says, like she knows
I’m up to something.
“Five minutes,
or I’ll come check on you.”
FIGHT
I hurry down
the silent corridor,
Miss Allison’s threat
following me.
Five minutes.
If she checks up on me
they’ll find Harry too.
(Meeting someone
while skipping isolation
got Joseph Carlton
a month-long exclusion.)
The toilet door
bangs shut behind me
making me jump.
I’m so worried
I’m already sweating.
“Harriet?” I whisper,
peering around
cubicle doors.
A hollow sniff echoes
from the last stall.
Harriet’s perched on
the toilet seat.
Black mascara streaks
her cheeks.
Once in primary school
Harriet hid in the toilets
because Lena Kowalski
said her head was too small
and we ended up laughing
about it.
I don’t think laughter
can help us now.
I crouch down next to her,
hug her,
squeeze her
trembling body.
“Oh, Harry,” I sigh.
What else can I say?
“Frankie,” she sobs,
practically hyperventilating.
“I’m in so much trouble.”
“Why are you out of iso,
and whose phone did you
text me from?” I ask her,
checking over my shoulder,
hoping nobody else comes in.
But she’s crying so much,
I can’t understand
what she’s saying,
and her sobs are echoing
all around the toilets.
“Shh,” I hiss, ripping off some toilet roll,
checking the time as I wind the paper around my hand.
I’ve already been gone
two minutes.
“Just breathe,” I tell her.
Harriet sits up and
blows her nose,
then turns around and lifts the lid
of the sanitary bin
and quickly throws
the soggy clod in.
I sweep my thumbs
under her eyes
to dry her tears
and clean her face.
“Don’t judge me,
Frankie,” she says.
“But I sent something
I shouldn’t have.”
“I know,” I say. “I’ve already seen.”
I take her phone from my pocket
and put it on her knee.
“Jackson had it.
He saw your passcode
over your shoulder.
They took a copy.
I’m really sorry.”
“Ugh,” she moans.
“So embarrassing.
And Mr Adamson had
such a go at me.
He says I’m getting
detention all week.”
“Well, that’s not surprising.”
Harriet looks up and
narrows her eyes at me.
“Sorry,” I say.
“What are you going to do?”
“I was thinking … maybe
I can say I didn’t send it?”
“Or you could take some
responsibility?”
It comes out
before I can stop myself.
“Thanks, Frankie,” she says.
“All right,” I say,
holding my hands up.
“I just don’t think
you should start lying.”
“I can’t believe Mr B told on me!
Mr Adamson said
the photo might be classed
as child pornography.”
“Oh my God! Harry!
Do you not think
that’s why he told on you?”
“Calm down, Frankie,”
Harriet says, flippantly.
“It’s just a tiny bit of tit.
There’s no way Mr Adamson
will call the police.
He’s exaggerating
to scare me.”
I check the time.
I’ve been gone four
minutes.
#ShitShitShit
“It’s not just tit.
Don’t you get it?
This is serious.
What is Mr B going to
think of me?”
“What’s it got
to do with you?”
“Everything!” I spit,
forgetting to whisper.
“I’m your best friend.
He knows we’re
always together.
He’s going to think
I endorsed it!”
“Oh my God,” she says.
“Endorsed it…
Get over yourself!”
“Me? What’s got into
you lately?
You need to
take this seriously!”
Harriet’s tears have stopped.
She stares at me coldly.
Her mascara is gone,
her foundation too.
Her freckles are showing
like they always used to
when we were little
before she wore makeup
only I don’t recognize
who she is any more.
“I am taking it seriously,”
she protests.
“Why do you think
I was so depressed at lunch?
I know it was stupid.”
“You’re not taking
>
anything seriously.
You’re all over the place
chasing Lee,
texting Jackson,
dumping Jackson.”
I have less than one
minute to get back to class
before Miss Allison comes.
“And now sending Mr B
that slutty selfie!”
“Slutty?” she screams.
“Fucking hell, Frankie!
You think you’re
soooo
PERFECT!”
“Harriet!” I snap. “Shut up!
Or we’ll both get busted.”
“Oh, and if Saint Frankie got
into trouble, that would be
the end of the world.”
“Hey,” I say. “That is not fair.
I don’t want to be here.”
“Then don’t be,” she shouts,
shoving past me.
“You’re not helping me;
you’re just judging me!”
I reach out to stop her,
but she flings me
off her
so violently
I slip on the tiles
and fall to the floor.
I stare at her,
pain exploding
in my hip where I landed,
and in that moment
I hate every bone
in her body.
She spins around
and looks at me
and I see in her eyes
that she hates me too.
She moves and I think
she’s going to hit me.
“I am
done with you,”
she spits.
“You’re NOTHING TO ME!”
“Good!” I shout.
“I don’t want to be
friends with
a slut anyway!”
She storms to the door,
opens it and shouts
into the corridor,
“FRANKIE YOUNG IS
SKIVING IN THE TOILETS,
BUT I MADE HER DO IT.”
She looks down
at me on the floor,
and whispers,
“Happy now?”
then whips her hair
over her shoulder
and struts out.
HAPPY?
I’m terrified
a teacher
heard and I might
get detention,
or worse.
I’m furious
she deliberately
tried to get me