SweetFreak

by Sophie McKenzie

  ‘Come with me, Carey,’ she barks.

  I look down at the bird.

  ‘And bring that with you.’ Her voice is like ice.

  Heart quailing, I follow Mrs Marchington along the empty corridor. Her footsteps tap briskly on the tiles. I glance at Amelia. She’s hunched over, keeping her head down. Her little heart necklace catches the light, a silver twinkle against the grey of her jumper. She looks like she’s put on weight since she stopped coming to school. I hadn’t noticed when I went to her house, but our uniform shows every pound.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I whisper.

  Amelia shrinks away from me as if I’ve punched her or am threatening to.

  ‘I didn’t do this,’ I insist, my voice rising slightly.

  Mrs Marchington glances over her shoulder. ‘Silence,’ she snaps.

  A minute later we arrive outside the head’s office. Mrs Marchington takes the dead bird from me and orders me to sit out here and wait, then she ushers Amelia into the room.

  I sit, my stomach in knots, wondering what they’re saying. I don’t have to wonder for long. After just a few minutes Mrs Marchington and Amelia reappear. The teacher has her arm around Amelia’s shoulders. It’s obvious Amelia has been crying.

  I stand up, feeling awkward. Part of me wants to comfort my friend. But I also need to protest my innocence.

  ‘I didn’t put the bird in your lock—’

  ‘Sit down and wait.’ Mrs Marchington’s tone is positively vicious. I slump back into my chair and clench my fists. A moment later the bell goes for first lesson. I shift in my seat, instinct telling me to get up and go. But I stay put, as instructed, while around the corner the sounds of loud voices and stomping feet career along the corridor.

  Two minutes later another bell goes and silence falls as first lessons commence. I wait. And I wait. And I wait. I’m starting to think the head has forgotten all about me, when Mum appears, charging along the corridor, her face white and tight with worry.

  ‘What is this now, Carey?’ she hisses.

  I open my mouth to explain but at that moment the head opens his door and asks us to come in.

  The dead pigeon has been placed on a small table to the side of the room, but it dominates the surrounding space. I have only been in this office once before, during the open day over three years ago, but I remember its long window and stacked bookshelves and smell of paper. I don’t want to look at the bird or the head or Mum, so I stare down at the carpet. This is the only room in the school I’ve ever seen with a carpet. It’s blue, with red flecks.

  ‘Carey!’

  My head jerks up as I realise Mr Emmett is speaking to me. The headteacher is a small man, only a few centimetres taller than Mum, with a thin, shiny nose. He’s wearing a tightly knotted tie that matches his suit – and a deep frown.

  ‘What do you know about this bird, Carey?’ he asks, his tone all pompous and self-important.

  An image of me laughing about the ridiculousness of this scene with Amelia flashes in front of my mind’s eye. This would be funny if it wasn’t so horrible. I glance at Mum. Her hands are over her mouth. She’s staring at the dead pigeon, horror as well as recognition in her eyes.

  I say nothing.

  ‘Carey?’ Mr Emmett repeats. He looks at Mum.

  ‘Rumple . . . our cat . . .’ She shakes her head and looks at me. ‘I can’t believe you’d . . .’

  ‘Carey?’ Mr Emmett says a third time. ‘The bird?’

  I gulp. There’s no point lying about it now. Mum has already given the game away. My best bet is to tell the truth and hope that someone believes me.

  ‘I think someone must have taken it from our bin and put it in Amelia’s locker,’ I stammer. I’m aware of how unlikely this sounds as I say it.

  Mum lets out a low moan. Mr Emmett tilts his head to one side.

  ‘I wonder if you appreciate the impact of this on Amelia?’ he asks. ‘Devastated and terrified by the death threat she received, she bravely returns to school, only to find a continuation of the horrific bullying within just a few minutes of setting foot inside the building.’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ I mutter, feeling sullen. I’ve just given him and Mum the only possible explanation I can think of and they’ve totally ignored it.

  Mr Emmett sighs. ‘The very worst part of this is your refusal to accept any responsibility for your actions.’

  ‘She’s been seeing a therapist,’ Mum blurts out. I’m not sure why, maybe she’s trying to show the head that she’s been attempting to deal with me and my supposedly psychotic ways.

  Whatever, it’s a fairly clear admission that I’m guilty in Mum’s eyes.

  ‘Well that doesn’t seem to have done much good,’ Mr Emmett says curtly. ‘I’m afraid under the circumstances, considering our zero tolerance policy on bullying and the previous issues we’ve had with Carey, I really have no choice but to call the police.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Mum lets out a strangled sob.

  ‘Amelia’s mother wants them involved too. My secretary has rung her and she’s on her way to pick Amelia up.’

  She’ll love that, I think to myself. Just back to work and called away again.

  ‘But . . . but are the police absolutely necessary?’ Mum pleads.

  I stand beside her, ignored by both of them, wondering if Mum is resisting another interview with the cops because she wants to protect me or, as I suspect, because it will make her feel like a bad parent, like Poppy said last night.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Emmett says firmly. ‘Apart from anything else the incident has happened on school property.’ He pauses, a frown puckering his forehead. ‘This is a clear violation of the second chance we gave Carey.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’ I say it louder this time.

  Mr Emmett and Mum look at me. It’s obvious neither of them believe me.

  ‘I think we also need to impose harsher sanctions,’ Mr Emmett goes on. ‘A fixed-term exclusion at least, maybe—’

  ‘No,’ Mum cries. Her voice cracks.

  I look at the carpet again, now embarrassed she’s getting all emotional on top of everything else. Mr Emmett clears his throat.

  ‘I won’t make any final decisions until the police have been informed,’ he says. ‘For today, however, I think it’s best that you take Carey home.’

  That’s it. We’re dismissed. Mum is trying not to cry as she stumbles out of the room. I follow her along the corridor towards reception and the exit. The bell sounds for the end of first lesson. I walk faster. The last thing I want is to be spotted getting chucked out of school. A couple of year eights fly past us, deep in conversation. We reach the reception desk as the sound of voices and footsteps rises up all around us. Mum wipes her face and reaches for the visitor book on the reception desk in order to sign us out.

  ‘Come on,’ I urge. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she snaps. ‘Not one word.’

  I hurry over to the main entrance. My hand is on the door, waiting for Mum to finish, as Poppy flies up. I can see from her confused and horrified expression that news of the pigeon has already spread to the sixth form.

  She’s panting for breath, she must have run all the way here from her classroom. ‘What the hell? It’s all over the school . . . Rumple’s dead bird? Seriously?’

  I nod. ‘It’s SweetFreak.’

  ‘But how?’ Poppy frowns. ‘How would anyone even know the stupid bird was in our bin?’

  My eyes widen as I suddenly realise what must have happened. ‘You told them,’ I say, the whole thing now making sense. ‘You told everyone on NatterSnap last night, remember? You made me your Hero of the Day, you posted about me dealing with the bird and—’

  ‘. . . and I even said that you put it in our wheelie bin.’ Poppy claps her hand over her mouth, lowering her voice. ‘I’m so sorry, Carey.’ She glances at Mum, who is standing awkwardly, clearly desperate to get away, as the receptionist talks to her. ‘Jeez, that means . . .’

  ‘Oh, Poppy!�
� Mum turns, spots my sister and rushes over. She falls into Poppy’s arms. Poppy’s taller than Mum now. She looks over Mum’s head and meets my gaze. stay strong, she mouths.

  It strikes me again that Mum leans on Poppy a lot, far more than she does on me.

  Thanks, I mouth back. A tiny thread of hope snakes through me. The fact that Poppy posted about me getting rid of the dead pigeon surely means George has to be SweetFreak. He would definitely have seen her posts – the two of them are in the same year, for goodness sake – and once he knew the bird was in our bin, he could easily have come to our house to steal it.

  Maybe now I can persuade the police to investigate him.

  Mum draws away from Poppy and wipes her eyes. The reception area is now full of people. Most of them are staring at us.

  ‘Are you guys OK?’ Poppy asks anxiously.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Mum says in a small voice.

  I squeeze Poppy’s arm. My sister could easily have kept her head down and avoided meeting us here. Instead, she’s on show along with me and Mum, tainted by association. I want to tell her how much her support means to me but she’s already talking again.

  ‘Carey didn’t do this, Mum,’ Poppy says.

  Mum presses her lips together. Clearly she doesn’t believe Poppy any more than she does me.

  ‘You should get back to class.’ She gives Poppy a kiss, then turns to me. ‘Come on.’ She tugs my arm and starts walking away.

  I wave at Poppy then turn and follow Mum out to the car park.

  12

  Mum and I don’t speak on the way home. Mum sends me to my room as soon as we arrive, which suits me fine. My phone and laptop are still locked away somewhere, but Mum has let me use an ancient mobile of hers. It’s supposed to be just for emergencies. And, frankly, it’s not good for much else.

  I send Amelia a couple of texts, but they bounce back, undelivered.

  Angry and upset in equal measure, I pace around a bit, then lie on my bed with the first Hunger Games book. I’ve read it before, many times. It’s an attempt at a comfort read, something to take my mind off what’s happening. It doesn’t work. Thoughts of the bird and Amelia’s accusing face and Mum in tears keep flashing through my head.

  About an hour into my read I sneak downstairs and check out social media by logging in on Mum’s tablet.

  There’s plenty of chat about my latest alleged crime, most of which is wildly inaccurate and suggests I killed the bird myself, in front of Amelia.

  Shaking my head I turn to my private messages on NatterSnap. There’s only one. It’s from Rose.

  Poor you. So sorry for you. If you want to talk, call me.

  Her mobile number is underneath. I stare at the words, rereading them, bewildered. It sounds as if Rose knows all about the dead bird – well of course, Minnie and Molly were there and will have filled her in. I can just imagine their breathless tones and wide eyes as they described the scene in the locker room.

  What really matters is that she seems to think I’m innocent. At least I think that’s what her message means. My fingers tremble as I put her number into my mobile and then log off NatterSnap, closing the app so that Mum won’t know what I’ve been up to.

  I sneak back up the stairs and call Rose.

  She picks up after just one ring. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Rose?’ I say, my voice swelling with emotion. ‘It’s Carey.’

  ‘Oh, Carey. I’m so glad you saw my message. You poor thing.’ She sounds so sympathetic I almost start crying.

  ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t put that stupid bird in Amelia’s locker.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Rose says warmly. ‘I know you wouldn’t do anything like that.’

  I hesitate. ‘I didn’t send the death threat or the other messages from SweetFreak either.’ I hold my breath, desperate for Rose to believe me.

  ‘I know,’ Rose says. ‘I know I’ve given you a hard time, but when I saw you in rehearsal the other day . . . well, it was obvious how unhappy you were. There was no way you’d done what everyone thinks. And definitely no way you’d make things worse for yourself by putting something horrible in Amelia’s locker.’

  Relief floods through me. It’s so good to have someone else on my side.

  Even if it is Rose.

  ‘That’s right, I didn’t, I didn’t. And the worst thing is Amelia hates me and she’s so unhappy, I can’t bear it.’ A sob rises in my chest, my voice cracking. ‘I have to make her see I’m innocent. Make everyone see it.’

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might be behind SweetFreak?’ she asks.

  I hesitate. It feels risky to tell her about my suspicions. But what do I have to lose? Right now things can’t get worse, and Rose seems to be genuinely on my side now.

  ‘I think it might be . . . Amelia’s brother, George,’ I stammer. ‘He hates us both.’

  ‘You really think he’d go that far?’ There’s a shocked edge to Rose’s voice. ‘Do you really think he’d do that to his own sister?’

  I hurry on, determined to convince her.

  ‘I know it’s a terrible thing to accuse someone of and obviously I don’t know for sure, but George has a reason to be angry with me and Amelia . . .’ I don’t want to start trashing Poppy by explaining about her cheating on George, so I trail off. ‘It’s complicated, but there are reasons why he might want to hurt us and break up our friendship.’

  ‘Wow!’ Rose gasps. ‘What a nightmare!’

  ‘I know.’

  Another pause.

  ‘So what can I do to help, Carey?’ Rose asks.

  Is she serious? ‘You mean help me find proof against George?’

  ‘Sure,’ Rose says. ‘We could meet up tomorrow? Make a plan?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That means a lot.’

  ‘It’s your birthday this weekend, isn’t it?’ Rose goes on.

  ‘Yeah, it’s tomorrow actually.’ I frown. ‘How did you—?’

  ‘I remember from last year, it was the first good party of the term.’ She laughs. ‘We went for pizza, didn’t we?’

  ‘That’s right,’

  ‘So what are you doing this year?’ Rose asks.

  I shrug. ‘I wasn’t going to do anything, actually. I mean before the whole SweetFreak thing blew up I was going to go to Nando’s but—’

  ‘Well let’s meet there then,’ Rose interrupts, her voice full of decision. ‘Tomorrow night at seven, OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’d love that. Oh, thank you, Rose, thank you.’ As I put down the phone, a smile creeps across my face.

  Maybe with Rose’s help I can finally expose George, prove my innocence and win back Amelia’s friendship.

  The police turn up exactly when they say they will – on the dot of three p.m.. The same two officers as before.

  I hurry downstairs, buoyed up by my conversation with Rose and eager to explain that Poppy’s NatterSnap post means that loads of people knew the dead bird was in our bin. I explain my suspicions about George, but DC Kapoor dismisses my theory instantly.

  ‘George Wilson was on an overnight Geography field trip to the South Downs yesterday, there’s no way he could have been rummaging through your bin in the small hours.’

  ‘Oh.’ I frown. Fresh thoughts fire in my brain. ‘Then maybe he got someone else to do it. In fact that would make sense, he’d want someone else to do it, in case he was recognised. He probably asked a friend.’

  DS Carter gives a weary shake of his head. He glances at Mum and raises his eyebrows. ‘As you know, Mrs Logan,’ he says solemnly, ‘last time we spoke we emphasised that we support local schools’ zero tolerance approach on bullying with our early intervention initiative. We didn’t feel then there was enough evidence against Carey to start a prosecution.’ He pauses. ‘After what happened this morning we’re now far more worried that Carey does represent a credible threat to Amelia.’

  ‘I�
��m not a threat. No way,’ I say, incensed.

  ‘In the light of Carey’s persistent refusal to admit to her actions, we support her headteacher’s decision to impose a one-week exclusion from school and we also recommend that you increase the subsidised counselling sessions Carey has been having to twice a week.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mum looks as if he’s slapped her.

  ‘We’ve contacted CAMHS, that’s Child Mental Health Services,’ DS Carter goes on. ‘They’re here to support you both and hopefully help Carey take responsibility for—.’

  ‘I’m right here,’ I say loudly. ‘And I didn’t do this.’

  Mum nods. ‘I’ll do everything you suggest.’ She looks at me and draws herself up. ‘Carey is already grounded all the way through the rest of term right up until the new year and has no access to a smartphone or her old laptop. Basically she’s not allowed to do anything or go anywhere outside the house without my express permission.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything.’ Frustration wells inside me. This is so unfair. So unjust.

  Mum and the two officers exchange weary, irritated glances.

  ‘If you would just stop lying, Carey,’ DC Kapoor says tartly.

  ‘I’m not lying.’ My voice rises. ‘I’m not a liar.’

  Mum gazes at me, an expression of unbearable sorrow on her face. ‘I’m afraid that’s not true, is it?’ she says softly. ‘There was that party a few months ago that you lied about – and that wasn’t an isolated incident, then you’ve repeatedly gone creeping out of your room at night, even after you promised you wouldn’t.’

  She’s right of course. As was Poppy when she said Mum might find it easier to believe me if I hadn’t lied before.

  But those things were completely different. Why can’t she see that? I sit back, feeling hurt and humiliated in front of the police They try, all three of them, to get me to talk some more but I’m done talking. I’m done protesting my innocence.