by Lucy Cuthew
I miss my best friend.
I’m alive.
Yet not alive.
I am the walking dead.
PART THREE
TUESDAY
BUSTED
On Tuesday morning,
my parents decide
my virus has sufficiently
subsided
and I’ll survive
a day in school.
I try to persuade them
to let me stay home,
but I don’t have a fever
and I can’t tell the truth
so I leave the house
and hide in the alley
waiting for what
feels like for ever
for Dad and Mum
to go to work.
Then I scurry home.
But when I open
the front door
Mum is right there.
“Frankie. What’s going on?”
Her face is calm,
but this is what it does
before the storm.
I reach for a lie:
“I forgot my kit.”
But she holds up her iPad,
and on it I see
there’s an email from school.
“Then why is Mr Adamson
asking me and Dad
to come in for a meeting
tomorrow afternoon?”
“I don’t know,” I say,
my insides squirming,
attempting to
escape my body.
Mum says,
“You didn’t go in today.
And you didn’t finish on Friday.
And what about yesterday?
Were you actually poorly?
I want you to stop lying.”
I want to stop lying,
but how can I tell her
what’s happening to me
because
I was horny
and on my period
and a dirty sla—
“Frankie!” she says.
“Whatever it is,
you can tell me.”
I shake my head.
I can’t tell her this.
I cannot bear for her to know
I got f—
“You can tell me anything.
You’re my own
flesh and blood.”
Then I notice
there are tears in her eyes.
Why is she crying?
“I can’t tell you, Mum…” I say.
But even as I hear my words
f l o a t h e r w a y
my hand goes
to my shattered phone,
and I open the page
Freaky Frankie Fanny Fun.
She’s going to find out anyway.
I hand my phone to Mum
and turn away.
I can’t watch her face
as she sees
all the comments
and pictures
and memes
about me.
But I can’t not
watch her face
and wonder
which post she is on.
The original meme
about the period
fingering?
Or maybe some of the
photoshopped images
where disgusting things
have been done
to the fingers
and to my face.
Then Mum breathes out very loud.
“WHAT IS THIS?” she practically yells.
I’ve never seen her face like this:
her nostrils flared,
her skin tight,
white
like bone.
But I can’t speak.
I don’t have the words
to explain what this is.
Mum stares at me
so long I wonder if she’ll ever speak,
and all I can think is:
how is she
going to love me
after this?
Even my blood
feels cold in my veins,
like it doesn’t want to be
part of my shame.
I close my eyes
and look at the dark,
and start to drift apart.
But then I feel Mum’s arms
close in on me,
wrapping around
my trembling body,
squeezing me.
I press my head
against her chest,
so close and still
I can hear her heartbeat,
and I let go.
She holds me tightly
as though she’s
trying to say:
I can hold you together.
But she must know
she can’t.
FAMILY MEETING
Eventually
I stop sobbing,
and she lets go of me
and gets out her phone.
“Mum!
What are you doing?”
I ask, following her to the kitchen.
“I’m calling Dad.”
“Why?”
“To ask him to come home.
He needs to see this.”
“Mum! No.
This is bad enough, without
sitting around talking about it.
Please don’t show D—”
But he’s already answered
and Mum’s saying,
“Hello, it’s me. Do you mind
popping home at lunch today?
…
Now is even better.
…
That’s great.
…
See you in five.”
“Mum! Send me to my room.
Take my phone away.
Ground me.
Just don’t tell Dad.
Please.”
“That’s not fair, Frankie.
How is he supposed to
understand you,
support you,
if you keep things
from him?”
And there was me
thinking the humiliation
had peaked.
Dad comes home
and walks into the kitchen
looking worried.
I can’t cope with the cringe,
so I go to the table and sit down
with my head in my hands,
and listen to Mum explaining
what he’s about to see.
I can tell when he’s scrolling
by the sounds of his breathing.
I wonder what he’s reading,
what he’s seeing,
then I hear sniffling.
I lift my head.
“Oh, Dad!” I say.
“Please, don’t cry.”
“Why would anyone do this?”
he says, wiping his eyes.
I’m not sure what he means by this.
What I did?
Or what’s been done to me?
And then I wonder,
if my parents
have had an email
from Mr Adamson, will
Harriet’s mum have had one too?
I wonder if Harriet
will tell her the truth,
or just pretend
she’s innocent?
“Why you?” he asks.
“Why anyone, Dad?” I say.
He’s meant to be comforting me.
“It’s just time-wasters online,
not thinking about
the real life behind
what they’re doing.”
(And my ex-best friend
leaking my secrets to be mean.)
“But why would so many people
make up all this stuff about you?”
(Because I’m disgusting.)
I shrug.
“It’s not all made up.”
“What do you mean?”
“The meme at the top.
That�
�s sort of true.”
“What’s a meme?” asks Mum.
“A picture with words on,
like captions,” I say,
my skin prickling
as I start sweating.
Dad scrolls on my phone
then turns it to face me.
“You mean this one?”
He’s showing me
the one that says:
“I got fingered on my period
and I bloody loved it.”
“That’s the one,”
I say as a
gravitational wave of
cringe travels through me,
warping me.
Mum peers around to see.
“Oh, the period thing.
Well, that’s nothing
to be ashamed of.
It’s only blood.
Gosh, the Internet
is sexist.”
But Dad’s gone pale
and I wait,
watching his face
as he comes over
and hugs me,
but he doesn’t
actually look at me.
“We need to get this
taken down,”
he says.
“Dad,” I say. “It’s all over
the Internet.
You can’t delete it.”
“Then we’ll phone the police,”
he says into his hands,
not looking at me.
He hasn’t looked at me
since he saw the meme.
“We need to report it.”
I feel so dirty
hearing those words.
This is so unfair.
“Yes,” says Mum.
“I do agree.
We will have to call
the police.
Maybe after we’ve seen
Mr Adamson.”
I knew
they’d say this.
I’ve looked it up.
“There’s basically nothing
the police can do.”
“We’ll still report it.”
Dad sighs,
and runs his hands
down his face.
And I say,
“I’m sorry. This
is all my fault.”
“No!” Mum says.
“You haven’t done
anything wrong,
have you?”
“No.” I shake my head.
And try to believe it.
“This is not your fault,”
she says, coming over
and holding me.
I let her squeeze me
and don’t try to see
what Dad’s doing.
What he’s thinking.
“We’re not going to sit back
and do nothing. We’re going
to put this right.”
I wish Dad would say
something reassuring,
so I know he still accepts me,
still loves me.
Mum lets go of me,
and I look at Dad
and say, “Are you mad at me?”
My voice is shaky.
“Of course not,” he says,
shaking his head.
But I don’t believe him.
He stands up
and goes to the sink
and with his back
to me says,
“You were going to tell me
if you had a boyfriend.”
I pause, then say,
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Oh God.
What must he think of me
that I’d do something
so intimate
with just anybody?
It all suddenly seems so dirty.
It really wasn’t meant to be.
Mum takes my hand.
“Did he do this viral thing?”
“It takes more
than one person
to make something
go viral.”
“We do know that,” says Mum.
“But did one of you tell someone?”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“We could talk to his parents!”
Dad says, turning round.
“What’s that
going to achieve?”
I’m fuming with Benjamin
for blabbing to everyone,
but my parents
talking to his parents
about this?
#NoWay
“Please,” begs Dad,
“just tell us his name.”
As if knowing something
will anchor him.
“Benjamin.” I sigh.
“His name is Benjamin.
But he didn’t make the meme.”
“Then who did?”
I hesitate
then say,
“I don’t know who,
but the damage is done.”
What would they do
if they knew it was
Harriet who’d brought
all this on me?
“You’re right,” says Mum, nodding.
“The important thing
is you going back
to school.”
“Not today!” I say.
Mum looks at Dad,
and they nod at each other,
agreeing at least
this tiniest mercy
to let me carry on hiding
for one more afternoon.
“You can stay home today,” she says.
“But tomorrow, you go in.
And we’ll talk to the head
in this meeting.”
Dad nods,
but goes to leave the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Frankie.
I need some space to think.”
“Dad!” I cry.
“What are you doing?”
“Just give him a moment.”
“Oh God,” I say.
“He’s going to look up Benjamin.”
“No,” says Mum firmly.
“He wouldn’t do that.”
I feel my chest tightening
as Dad’s footsteps fade.
He can’t even look at me.
“He’s ashamed of me.”
“He’s not,” she says.
But only
to make me feel better.
“I really don’t want
to go to school tomorrow.”
“You can do this.
You’re strong.
And we’ll be there
in the afternoon
to support you.”
Ugh. She’s right.
My parents are going to come in.
Everyone is going to know they know.
Everything.
“This is going to be
so embarrassing.
Please don’t make me go.”
“You can do this,”
Mum says, crouching
in front of me and
holding my arms
reassuringly.
“Are you ashamed?”
I think about it.
I mean
I really
think
about it.
Am I ashamed?
I think back to that afternoon.
To me and Benjamin
stargazing,
talking,
and getting my period
on his fingers.
It was embarrassing,
but not shameful.
The shame has come from
what other people have said.
I can’t do
anything about them.
I would do it again.
I shake my head.
“No,” I say, “I’m not ashamed.”
And as I say it
I feel fast and
f r e e
like a particle
that’s just been
fired around the
<
br /> Large Hadron Collider.
I feel like me.
I pick up my phone,
instinctively,
but Mum gently
prises it out of my hands.
“I’d better keep this,”
she says, pocketing it.
“Just until we’ve
worked out how to
get all this taken down.”
DOING SOMETHING
Mum tells me she’s going
to check on Dad and
I don’t mind.
My thoughts are racing.
I make myself a sandwich
and eat it in the kitchen,
chewing it slowly
trying to think clearly.
I can’t hear my parents
speaking, or even moving.
The house is so silent,
incongruous with
my noisy, defiant thinking.
I don’t want to retreat
back to my room.
I’m raring to go,
to do something.
I clear up my lunch
and then sit in the kitchen
listening to the tap dripping,
trying not to think of
Dad being ashamed of me,
even if Mum says he isn’t.
I bounce my knee
until I can’t bear it
and I stand up,
go to the door,
pull on my trainers
and shout,
“I’m going out!”
I surprise myself
as I open the front door
and step outside
into the wide world.
I’ve got time to kill
before school is out
so I walk away from home
and take a long route
around the houses,
thinking about
what I’ve gone through,
how much I’ve been alone,
how impotent it’s made me.
I know I’m lucky
to have Mum and Dad
but they can’t sort this out.
Their only plan
is to try to take stuff down.
They have no clue.
I think about
the waitress in the toilets
that night who told me
I should say something.
I’ve been scared to speak
to anybody since it blew up online.
I keep checking the time,
then finally
at four
I turn sharply