by Lucy Cuthew
I bite my lip then turn
to Harriet and whisper,
“I threw my
application away.”
“What?” she says,
looking horrified.
“The deadline is today.
Did you get yours in?”
“I’m not applying.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because my heart isn’t in it.
I don’t really want it.
I’m going for this
photography thing instead.
But you have to apply.
Do you still have your essay?”
“It’s all on my email,”
I say, mentally checking
the bits I’d need
to send to Vidhi.
“Then let’s go!” she orders.
“Do it now while you’re on
a winning streak!”
“OK!” I say,
as Harriet grabs me
and drags me
towards the computer labs.
It’s amazing how uplifting
and empowering
having my best friend
beside me can be.
NORMAL GIRLS
At the end of the day,
after the meeting,
where Mr Adamson
gave us time
and space to properly explain
to Jackson
what he actually did to me,
and to Harriet too,
and to all the girls
to some extent,
we’re finally free.
We follow
our parents out
of Mr Adamson’s office,
Jackson and his parents
right behind us.
We turn one way,
and his family turn the other.
We’ve seen and said enough.
I’m just happy it’s over.
Harriet and I tell our parents
we’re walking home together
and we’ll see them later.
As we say goodbye,
Dad pats me on the shoulder
and I try to ignore
that he’s still being weird.
“Well, that went well,”
Harriet says,
her glee at her
freedom
flying off her
like subatomic particles,
invisibly influencing me.
“Jackson is angelic
in front of his parents!”
“I know, right?” she says.
“Who was that kid?”
“So quiet.
So humble.
So polite.”
“Yes, Mum.
No, Dad.
I’m sorry I let you down, Mum.”
“Do you think they’ll actually
take his phone away?”
“I hope so,” she says.
“And I’m glad he’s suspended.
Mr Adamson’s right:
he’s lucky we’re not
involving the police.”
“I never thought
I’d hear you say
Mr Adamson is right.”
“I never thought I’d hear
you admit you
think Benjamin
is fit.”
“I haven’t.”
“You don’t need to.
He was very sweet
in assembly. You really
like him, don’t you?”
“I do,” I say.
“But it’s still so awkward.
We’ve hardly spoken
since … well, you know,
my period started on him.
And then he ignored me
for a week.”
We’re right outside the bakery
and Harriet stops me,
her eyes wide,
her mouth open.
“Wait,” she says,
a smirk on her cheeks.
“You came on him,
then you
came on
on
him?”
“Shh!” I hiss, nodding, shoving
her shoulder with mine
and realizing that we’ve never
actually talked about the details.
But she doesn’t seem
to think it’s disgusting,
more entertaining
if anything.
“Oh my God!”
she practically screams.
“This is never gonna
grow old.”
Inside the bakery
we get pastries,
and as we wait
for our change,
I can feel
Harriet’s shoulders
still shaking
against mine.
Out on the street,
walking home
in the afternoon sun,
just two normal girls
eating croissants,
I could cry with relief.
My best friend is beside me
laughing about something
that previously
made me feel so disgusting.
#FriendsAreAmazing
“I can’t really call you
a nun any more,
can I?” says Harriet.
“Nuns have periods too,
Harry,” I say, then snort.
And Harriet snorts too,
which makes me laugh.
And before we know it
we’re both
cackling,
laugh-crying,
gasping for breath,
tears rolling down our cheeks.
We only stop
when we get to our street
and I realize that my guts
have stopped squirming,
and, for the first time
since this all started,
I feel like myself again.
Maybe laughing
is the antidote
to shame.
“Was it good?” Harriet asks.
“Honestly?” I pause. “Yes.
Do you think that’s weird?”
“No,” she says.
“I think it’s great.”
“Do you think it’s normal
that I came on … when…?”
“I expect so. If you poke it
and there’s something
waiting to come out …
it’s going to come.
Excuse the pun.”
“Harriet! You make
everything disgusting!”
“That’s why you love me,”
she says, brushing flakes
off her lips.
Then, as I’m in
a confessional mood,
I say, “I bit his thigh.”
I wait, enjoying her face.
“It was
unbelievably
meaty.”
DAD
Harriet and I lie
on the floor in my room
talking about
the lunar eclipse,
which is tonight.
A blood moon.
#TotallyCosmic
And we watch one of the
videos on her phone
that someone took
of us in assembly.
We’re amazing.
We’re warriors.
We totally nailed it.
We relive every tiny detail,
and try to take in
the bigger picture.
The hilarious expression
on Mr Adamson’s face
when he read my T-shirt,
and the possibility
that what we did
might make a difference
to somebody.
Then there’s a gentle knock
on my door
and I sit up and say,
“Hello?”
and Dad pokes his head
inside, sheepishly, saying,
“Is there room for three?”
Harriet nods
and shuffles over,
patting the floor
between us.
Dad reaches into
his back pocket
and says, “I got this
fixed for you.”
“My phone!”
Its shiny screen is mended.
My fingers long for it,
and I reach out and take it.
“I love you,”
I say, cradling it.
“You’re talking to the phone,
aren’t you?” says Dad.
“Yup.” I nod.
“What are you watching?”
he asks.
“A video of the assembly.”
Dad leans in and says,
“Great. I want to see.”
I’m not sure
if I want him watching
but Harriet’s already
pressing play,
and although I feel
hot with embarrassment
at least there’s nothing
invented on here.
It can’t be more embarrassing
than what he’s already seen.
This is all real me.
Dad watches, nodding,
and when it finishes
he says, “YES! EXACTLY!”
Then he looks at me.
“You said it, girl!”
I’m so shocked,
all I can say is
“What?”
“You did. You said it.
You go, girl.”
“Dad!” I groan, cringing,
“Don’t call me girl.”
“Should I call you
a woman now?”
“Ew, no,”
I cry, but I’m so relieved
that he agrees
with what we said.
“Just be normal.”
“No, thank you!” he scoffs.
“Normal is boring.
I’d rather be like you.”
“I thought you were
ashamed of me.”
“How could I be?”
“Because of what I did.”
“You didn’t do anything.
I mean, I’d rather not know
the details, but that’s my beef.
I’m not ashamed of you.
I never could be.”
“I thought you thought
I was disgusting.”
“No,” he says, touching
my cheek tenderly.
“Society is disgusting.
You are amazing.
You have amazed me
every day since the moment
you were born.
I’ve never been prouder.”
“Dad, are you crying?”
“Maybe,” he says,
his voice wobbling,
tears brimming.
“You two are so cute!”
Harriet cries, throwing
her arms around both of us
and squeezing so tightly
we can hardly breathe.
Dad whispers,
“I love you, kid.”
“I love you too,”
I say, and I’m glad
for the tight squeeze,
because I’m also crying.
Then I add, quietly,
“By the way,
I sort of have a boyfriend.”
And Dad laughs hotly
into my ear
and whispers, “Well,
that’s just lovely.”
BLOOD MOON
Up in the tree house
Harriet and I
wait for night.
I feel floaty.
Mum was right,
being brave
really can make
your problems
melt away.
#NoWorries
I peel and portion
a tangerine and
share it with Harriet,
watching the darkness
come alive with
the light of a million stars.
We chat about the application
and what we’re going to do
with our lives,
looking at the stars
and the moon rise,
the shadow of the earth
making its path
across a glowing surface.
I say,
“I think tonight
is our night for the best
moon picture yet!”
Harriet says,
“There she is!”
pointing at me.
“Huh?”
“You’re back!
It’s good to see you.
The good old, happy,
excited by the moon,
nerdy, wonderful you.”
We set up the telescope,
watching red
seep into the moon
at its edge.
Then Harriet lines it up,
closes one eye and
puts the other
to the lens,
breathing
a long
slow
heavy
sigh.
“It’s A M A Z I N G!”
I
look,
and
my mind
falls silent.
Blood red,
impossibly lustrous,
suspended over us
three hundred and eighty-four thousand
kilometres
away.
The beauty of the blood moon
reminds me that
the universe is huge
and we are tiny,
but so lucky,
because we get to
witness its beauty.
FOR EVER
I don’t think
people realize that
you can take
a really good picture
of the night sky
on a phone
through a telescope.
We take a ton
and one is amazing.
Harriet posts it,
and tags me,
then we watch
the hearts come rolling in.
And I feel the love,
but not online.
I mean the real stuff,
right here,
from my best friend.
Although I hate
that the meme
will always be online,
it’s amazing that some things
will be captured there
for all of time.
SWEET DREAMS
A noise wakes me
in the dead of night.
A scuffle,
a rustle,
the crack of a stick
underfoot.
I rub my eyes
and look at Harriet,
moonlit,
asleep beside me,
dribbling,
her phone stuck
to her cheek.
I peel it off
and place it
beside her gently,
then lean over the boards
and peer down
through the leaves.
“Psst!”
a voice hisses
on the night breeze.
Standing there,
like a dream,
beneath the dusky
green canopy,
his face lit
by the LED
of his phone screen,
is Benjamin.
“Can I come up?”
he whispers.
“I brought pastries.”
I nod, but put my finger
to my lips.
“Yes, but quietly.
Harriet’s asleep.”
He climbs the ladder
and sits down
next to me,
smelling of his
leather jacket
&
nbsp; and clean laundry
and the bakery.
“What time is it?”
I ask.
“It’s just after three.”
“What are you doing here?”
I whisper, glancing
to check Harriet’s
still asleep.
“I wanted to see you,”
Benjamin says,
shuffling closer
so that both of our legs
are dangling into the tree.
“How did you find me?”
“I saw Harriet’s post.
That picture is awesome.
I remembered you said
you sometimes sleep
out here, and well,
I’ve been awake
watching it happen.”
“What happen?”
I yawn, and then
he says, “Wait.
You don’t know?”
He holds out his phone.
“Know what?”
“I’ll show you!”
he says,
placing his thumbs
over the screen excitedly.
“Your picture of
the blood moon is trending.
Look what happens
if I google you!”
Benjamin types in my name
and I wait,
preparing for shame,
and at the same time,
dying to see.
He tilts his phone
to show me the first page.
And
.
.
.
The top hit
is not
the meme.
It’s just the moon.
The beautiful full
glorious orb
of the blood red moon.
And the words I see
are not
“whore”
or
“slut”
or
“dirty”
or
“slag”.
It’s like
this
amazing picture
of the blood moon
taken on a home telescope
by two British teenagers
is
EVERYTHING.
If it keeps
trending,
this could actually
put an end to the meme.
Banish it to obscurity.
“Did your sister do this?”
He shakes his head,
smiling. “It was nothing
to do with her
or me. It was all
Harriet and you.”