Blood Moon

by Lucy Cuthew

  into trouble.

  I’m hurting

  where I fell

  when she

  pushed me.

  I’m worried

  she might

  get into trouble

  with the police

  or Mr B might

  lose his job.

  I’m frustrated

  with her

  for not taking

  anything seriously.

  And I’m aching

  inside more

  than I could

  ever have imagined

  at hearing her say,

  “You’re nothing to me.”

  Those words

  echo inside me

  making me feel empty.

  Nothing to me.

  Nothing to me.

  Nothing to me.

  No. I’m not happy.

  LATER

  Harriet isn’t

  at the gate

  after school.

  I walk home

  alone,

  seething,

  and even though

  she shouted at me

  that I’m nothing to her

  I’m still not quite

  angry enough

  not to miss her,

  just slightly.

  TALKING

  That evening,

  I try not to look at my phone.

  Harriet can deal with

  this on her own.

  She doesn’t want me.

  She said I’m nothing

  to her.

  I go to the living room

  with a heavy feeling

  and a tummy ache

  to half watch Bake Off

  with Mum and Dad,

  a physics textbook

  open on my lap.

  “Are you OK?” asks Mum,

  looking up from

  a pile of marking.

  “No,” I say.

  “I hate everyone

  and everything.”

  “PMT?” says Mum.

  “Maybe,” I reply

  gloomily.

  “Cuddle?” offers Dad.

  “You’re not doing homework.

  You haven’t turned the page

  for about three cakes.”

  “No, thanks,” I say,

  ignoring Dad’s hurt face.

  “Me and Harriet had a fight.”

  “Have you tried talking about it?”

  Mum asks, taking off her glasses.

  “Ugh,” I say.

  “We’re way

  past talking.”

  “You said that last time.”

  Dad mutes the telly, and crosses

  his legs to face me.

  “Come on, talk to us.”

  “No,” I say.

  “I don’t want you

  to be all reasonable

  and understanding.

  She’s a bitch.”

  “Language,” tuts Mum,

  putting her marking aside.

  But Dad pouts sassily,

  then flicks his non-existent

  hair over his shoulder

  and squeals,

  “Tell me she did not snog

  that boy I fancy?

  I’ll kill her if she even

  looks at him

  one

  more

  time!”

  “Ergh, Dad! Stop it.

  And I told you,

  no one says

  snog any more.”

  “Pash?” he tries.

  “Smooch?

  French ki—”

  “Dad!”

  “Come on, Frankie,”

  says Mum, tucking her

  hair behind her ears.

  “What did Harry do?”

  I shake my head.

  I can’t tell them.

  It’s too embarrassing.

  What if they think

  that’s the kind of thing

  we’re all doing?

  “Well, we’re always here

  if you want to talk,” says Mum,

  putting her glasses back on.

  “You just call

  out my name…”

  Dad starts to sing.

  “DAD!” I start,

  but Mum gives him a

  serious look over the top

  of her glasses and he stops,

  acting out zipping his lips.

  “Thank you,” I say to her.

  “At your service,” replies Mum,

  going back to her marking.

  “But you should talk about it,”

  she adds, without looking up.

  “Talking always makes it better.

  Sometimes worse first.

  But always better in the end.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say.

  I’ve heard it before.

  “Listen to your mother,”

  Dad mumbles

  out of the side

  of his mouth.

  “She is very wise.”

  Then he unmutes the telly.

  EXPLOSION

  When I go up to bed

  and I’m finally alone

  I can’t help check my phone.

  BEANS ON TOAST

  has exploded:

  a hundred and

  fifty-eight messages.

  Harriet’s flapping

  because the whole

  school knows she

  basically sexted Mr B.

  I only skim read.

  The girls all share screenshots

  of what everyone’s saying

  in other groups

  so that Harriet can see

  and they can help

  her be outraged

  about Mr B telling on her.

  (Instead of addressing

  the real problem,

  which is Harriet

  not taking responsibility

  for her own stupidity.)

  And then I see

  they’re all saying

  they’ve seen the picture

  and they don’t think

  she’s a slut.

  My stomach sinks.

  My insides shrink.

  She’s turned

  them against me.

  She’s told them

  about our fight

  and what I said

  and they’ve decided

  Harriet’s right.

  #TakingSides

  I go to the bathroom

  to brush my teeth

  and through a crack

  in the open sash window

  I can hear Harriet crying.

  When we were little

  we used to do bird calls

  through these exact windows

  late at night

  if we wanted to speak.

  We’d sit on the sills

  and chat until

  one of our parents

  caught us and told us

  it was time to go to sleep.

  I listen to Harriet weep.

  I’m so

  angry with her

  for shouting at me

  pushing me

  for trying to get me

  into trouble today

  for saying

  “You’re nothing to me”

  that

  I cannot say

  that I care about her

  that I don’t want her to be hurt

  that she’s everything to me

  how she’s my best friend

  and I love her

  anything.

  I close the bathroom

  door behind me

  and get into bed,

  pulling the covers

  up around me,

  salty anger spilling

  onto my sheets.

  It takes me

  ages

  to fall asleep.

  WEDNESDAY

  THIGHS

  I can’t remember when

  I last walked to school

  without Harriet.r />
  We’ve walked together

  since we were ten

  and before that

  literally every day

  with my dad on his way

  to work at the bike shop.

  Sometimes he used to

  let us take it in turns to

  sit on his saddle and

  he’d wheel us along,

  deliberately wobbling

  with us giggling.

  I slip out quickly,

  avoiding Mum, and I

  go the long way so I don’t

  have to pass Harriet’s house.

  There’s no way

  we’re walking together today.

  I don’t even want to see her.

  The streets are slow

  without any gossip.

  I’ve only walked down

  three and already it feels

  like it’s taking an eternity.

  But as I turn down

  the next street,

  I see Benjamin

  closing his front gate.

  Perhaps he’s been

  walking this way

  since we were in

  primary school,

  and I never knew.

  He’s so hot.

  (And so cool.)

  I push thoughts of

  Harriet aside, and

  pull myself up tall,

  set my eyes

  to the parting clouds

  like I’m deep in thought,

  perhaps about the way

  the morning sun creates

  crepuscular rays.

  “Frankie!” he says,

  with a nod of his head.

  “Hey, Benjamin!” I say.

  “I didn’t know you lived here.”

  (Which is perfectly true,

  except now I do,

  I’m always coming this way.)

  Benjamin has a sports bag

  slung over his shoulder

  and I don’t know

  what else to say,

  so I ask,

  “Have you got PE today?”

  “Rugby trials,” he says.

  “Lunchtime.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  “Aren’t you already

  on the team?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “But

  these are try-outs for the

  first fifteen.”

  “What position

  do you play?”

  “Second row.

  You’re meant to be tall,

  and strong as well.

  I’ve got the height

  but I need to work

  on my upper back.

  My lats, you know.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Which bit is that?”

  “Here.” He pats the muscles

  beneath his armpits.

  “I’m meant to be training.

  Doing weights, you know?

  Or, like, giving piggybacks.

  If you need a ride…?”

  He offers me his back,

  but

  I cannot reply.

  My tongue is suddenly

  too big for my mouth.

  We walk a few steps

  in silence,

  and I wonder if he’s

  imagining the same

  thing as me.

  Me jumping on him,

  our bodies touching

  and me riding him.

  I glance at him and

  Benjamin

  is

  blushing.

  My cheeks go red

  and I feel myself getting

  hot

  hot

  hot.

  I look down,

  searching for

  something to say,

  but Benjamin’s legs

  are in my eyes’ way.

  His school trousers cling

  to his rugby-tight thighs,

  and all at once I realize

  the power

  of a meaty pair of thighs.

  I wonder what it

  would be like

  to bite them

  and at the same time

  I wonder what it

  would be like

  to tell Benjamin

  this is what I’m thinking.

  It’s hard to imagine

  doing something

  so outrageous.

  “I had so much fun

  on Saturday,”

  he says. “I was hoping to

  talk to you Monday,

  or yesterday.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  “I really liked

  hanging out with you.”

  I giggle, though

  I don’t mean to.

  “Hey,” he says, stopping

  next to the park railings.

  “Don’t laugh at me.

  I’m trying to say

  I’m into you.”

  I stop too, though

  it’s hard not to move,

  because suddenly

  I’m full of rocket fuel.

  “I like you too,” I say

  easily,

  feeling my volatile insides ignite.

  “It was a shame

  that night ended

  when it did.”

  I take a step closer.

  And Benjamin draws

  a little nearer to me

  and whispers, “Do you think

  it’s too early?”

  “For what?” I ask,

  so close I can feel

  the biscuity-warmth

  of his breath on my face

  and realize that he’s

  talking

  about

  kissing.

  “For this,” he says,

  then leans in,

  and brings his lips

  close to mine

  and I move my lips

  closer to his

  and just like that

  we’re

  kissing

  by the railings

  in the golden

  bright

  morning

  sunshine.

  #Amazing

  COLD SHOULDERS AND PIGGYBACKS

  In The Walking Dead

  the zombies are always

  biting people’s necks.

  But as I leave Benjamin

  at the school gate,

  I glance again

  at his rugby thighs

  and realize if there is

  an instinctive part

  of the human brain

  dedicated to eating

  human flesh

  it would definitely make

  zombies bite the thighs.

  They are,

  undeniably,

  the meatiest part

  of the human body.

  I stifle a snort

  as I catch up with Marie,

  and we walk into

  physics class.

  I wish Harriet were here.

  Marie wouldn’t get

  why that’s funny.

  But then I realize

  that Marie

  hasn’t actually said

  a word to me.

  I guess Harriet did

  a thorough job

  of turning her

  against me.

  I look around to catch

  one more glimpse of

  Benjamin, and instead

  see Harriet get out of

  her mum’s bright yellow car

  and walk through the gate,

  head held high.

  We file inside the physics lab

  and Marie very deliberately

  doesn’t sit next to me.

  She takes the last seat

  on the row behind

  where we usually sit

  with Harriet.

  Then the room comes alive

  with whispers and murmurs

  and a classroom of heads follows

  as Harriet approaches.


  She flicks her hair

  theatrically for the benefit

  of everyone watching.

  I can’t believe she’s

  enjoying this moment.

  She looks totally fine.

  Happy even.

  I guess Mr Adamson

  didn’t call the police.

  I wish he would.

  She deserves it.

  Harriet is heading towards

  our classroom door but then

  she struts right past,

  and I watch through the window

  as she goes into

  the other class.

  I guess Harriet got moved

  so Mr B isn’t teaching her.

  I sit on my own.

  I take out my phone

  under the desk

  just to check.

  We’re not allowed

  phones in class,

  we’re meant to

  leave them in our lockers.

  Not that anyone bothers.

  But Mr B won’t be

  expecting me

  to break the rules.

  I have a message from

  Benjamin.

  I open it,

  smile at it.

  Benjamin’s message says:

  Piggyback home?

  I want to say yes because

  all I can think of are

  rugby-tight thighs.

  Rugby-tight

  thighs.

  My finger hovers on reply.

  God, I want to …

  bite his thighs.

  How shall I reply?

  But while I’m thinking

  I’m not listening

  to anything happening

  in the room because

  my mind is off with Benjamin.

  Then Marie kicks

  the back of my chair

  and I look up to hear

  Mr B say, “Ahem!”

  in his particular way.

  He scowls at me and taps the

  box for confiscated phones.

  I get up

  and drop mine in,

  blushing because I

  usually wouldn’t dare to

  be

  actually

  messaging.

  On my way back to my seat

  I smile at Marie,

  but she won’t look at me.

  MOMENTUM

  “Open your books to page

  one hundred and twelve,”

  says Mr B. “Momentum.”

  I copy the equation

  he’s written on the board:

  momentum = mass x velocity.

  But then I start thinking,

  if Benjamin gave me