‘Oh, fuck off, Huda,’ Imogen says. ‘Why are you always the one speaking up for her? Is she your girlfriend or something?’
‘Nope,’ Huda replies, quick as a flash. ‘That position is currently vacant – are you interested?’
‘Not even if you paid me,’ Cleo says with an air of disgust.
‘Oh no, really?’ Huda asks, putting on a sad voice. ‘But it’s the thing I want most in the world, Cleo. For you to love me. Why won’t you love me? Your badly drawn-on eyebrows are the biggest turn-on.’
I snigger, and Cleo shoots daggers at me, while raising a hand to her forehead. I stop myself immediately. She scoffs, and opens her mouth to say something, but thankfully the bell rings.
‘Come on, girls, time for class!’ Miss Cuthew calls out to us as she walks towards the humanities block. She lifts up a bundle of papers in her hands. ‘We’re doing blackout poetry today! Eek!’ She actually says ‘Eek’.
I can’t help smiling at her enthusiasm, but Cleo and her coven mutter about how stupid and childlike she is. I want to say something back to them – the impulse is stronger than when they say mean things about me, that’s how much I love Miss Cuthew. We were supposed to be revising Macbeth today, but apparently now we’re doing blackout poetry. I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds really interesting.
Cleo and her coven thankfully leave without saying anything else.
Huda gives me a look as she gets up from the bench. ‘Let me guess, you have notes.’
I smile. ‘I mean, I enjoyed watching that, for sure. And yeah, OK, they probably deserved it. But I think something you do a lot is just speak without thinking. You’re always so defensive and aggressive. I didn’t say a single thing while they were talking shit to me. They would have just walked off eventually.’
‘Yeah, once they’d made you cry, probably,’ she says as we push open the doors to the humanities block. There’s a huge huddle of students crowding around, trying to get up the stairs. Huda and I join the jumble. ‘Plus it feels good to talk back. To take a stand. It shows bullies they’re not in control. You should try it sometime.’
‘You need to stop questioning my suggestions too,’ I tell her. ‘That defeats the point. You’re supposed to just say, “Yes, Perfect Daughter Amani, I’ll stop taunting the bullies by saying mean things.”’
She sighs melodramatically. ‘Yes, Perfect Daughter Amani, I’ll stop … doing whatever you just said. There were too many words for me to remember.’
I hear giggling behind me. Familiar giggling. Huda and I both turn around to find that somehow Cleo and her coven are right behind us, even though they came into the building before us. That can’t be coincidental, can it?
They stop giggling when they see us looking, and put on over-the-top smiles.
‘I think you sat in something on the bench outside,’ Cleo says, all sickly sweet. ‘There’s something on your trousers.’
I immediately crane my neck and twist my body to look at my butt and legs, but there’s nothing there. Not that I can see anyway. Maybe it’s something you only notice when looking up. Oh God, this is so embarrassing.
‘I think you shat yourself,’ Imogen says, so loudly that people around us turn to stare. A few giggles ripple out through the crowd.
My face burns. So hot it must be visible to everyone. Just like the shit stain lookalike on my trousers. I turn to face the front again.
We’re halfway up the stairs now, and people behind are getting impatient. I look at Huda – her brow is furrowed, thunder in her eyes. She goes to say something, but then locks eyes with me and closes her mouth. We move forward up the stairs.
I should be impressed at Huda’s restraint, but my brain is just focused on the fact that Cleo and her coven are laughing at me again. I keep telling Huda to ignore them, and I make out like it’s easy for me to do this, but it cuts at me. Every. Single. Time. Each mean comment chips away at my heart, at my soul. It takes away a piece of me, and if things go on like this, there’ll be nothing left.
We continue up the stairs. Cleo and her friends giggle again, and I feel something like a foot brush against my leg. Instinct says to turn around and see what they’re doing, but I won’t give them the satisfaction. I speed up, trying to get to the classroom as fast as possible. Only that won’t help. They sit behind me there too. I’ll never be able to escape them.
All of a sudden, Huda stops in her tracks. Cleo and Imogen bump into the back of her. They must have been trying to take a photo of whatever they’ve spread across my trousers, because as they crash into Huda, they both drop their phones, which skitter through the gaps in the stairs and fall down at least one flight.
I turn to Huda.
‘What?’ she asks.
She surveys the scene – Cleo and Imogen pushing against the tide of people to get downstairs and grab their phones – then looks back at me, smirking. ‘I didn’t say anything, did I?’
13
Media studies is by far my favourite subject. It’s the one GCSE I know I’ll not just pass, but do well in. I’m genuinely a bit devastated that I haven’t chosen it for A level. Or, well, that Abbu wouldn’t let me choose it, since it doesn’t fit in with the whole training-to-be-a-vet thing. Mr Voake is seriously the best teacher ever; he gives us free rein on our coursework. Other teachers set the strictest guidelines for what we can and can’t submit, but I guess the perks of creative subjects are that as long as you can back yourself, anything goes. For my final project, I’ve done a trailer for a horror film I made up about the apocalypse. It all stemmed from Ismail dressing up as a zombie for some school event. Ammi did such amazing make-up on him that it seemed a shame to let it go to waste. I’ve basically finished editing the trailer now, so I work on my reflective commentary during class. I’m even enjoying this essay part; I get to explain how much thought I’ve put into my style, my selection of angles, my editing choices.
I try not to think about how much I’m going to miss this. Getting to work on things I’m truly passionate about. Sure, I’ll always have my YouTube videos, but it’s not the same. It’s nice to be in a class full of people with the same interests, where I don’t have to hide who I really am.
The bell rings for lunch and everyone starts packing up happily. I reluctantly save my work and gather up my things.
‘You coming to the canteen?’ Maggie asks, eyes on her phone, like they have been basically all lesson, though at least she wasn’t napping.
‘Nah,’ I reply. ‘Gonna try and get some revision done in the computer suite.’
‘Nerrrrrrd,’ she says playfully before leaving.
Huda follows me to the computer suite (OK, I beg her to come). There’s a no-food rule in here, but that’s not going to stop Huda. She lifts an apple slice to her mouth, hand moving at a snail’s pace. Her eyes flit around the room before she puts the end of the apple slice between her teeth and presses down, as quietly as she can, which, again, means as slowly as she can. It’s hilarious watching her try to eat her entire lunch like this, and I can barely contain my laughter as I log into the student portal. Usually no one pays attention to the no-food rule, but Ms Powrie, one of the PE teachers, is in here, doing something on a computer herself. Huda reckons she comes here to watch porn, so she can blame it on a student if anyone ever tracks her web activity.
Huda finishes her apple slices and tries to extract a bag of Wotsits from her bag without making it rustle. She employs the slow-as-a-snail technique again, which really doesn’t work with crisps. I ignore her and load up Mr Cavanaugh’s notes from last week. I was hoping bringing Huda here would make her feel bored enough to help me out – she is honestly a master tutor. But she’s too busy pecking on her lunch and browsing Twitter on her phone.
Cleo and her coven walk through the door. It seems as if they’re everywhere I go recently, and I can’t tell whether it’s just coincidence or a concerted effort to make my life hell. They don’t seem to notice me though, just sit down a few rows in front of
us, which makes me feel safer; it’s much better to have the bullies in front of you than whispering and giggling behind your back. They’re far away enough for me to feel relaxed. Well, minus the rising panic about how I’m ever going to pass my biology GCSE, considering Mr Cavanaugh’s notes are worse than the ones I take in class myself.
An email alert pops up in the corner of my screen. It’s from someone who’s labelled themselves ‘ANONYMOUS’, and the subject title is ‘Blithe Academy Burn Blog’.
‘What’s a burn blog?’ I ask Huda.
‘Hmmf?’ she says, lifting her head from her phone, her mouth stuffed with Wotsits.
‘I just got an email with the subject line: “Blithe Academy Burn Blog”.’ I open the message. Huda cranes her neck to see.
Dear Blithe Academy student,
Wanna know a secret?
Trust me, you do.
Click this link to unveil the truth.
‘What does this even mean?’ I ask.
‘Ooh, I wanna know a secret!’ Huda leans in to get a better look. ‘Click the link!’
‘No way, it’s probably a virus. Don’t you remember when this happened in Year Nine? Someone opened a weird email and it infected the whole school? Oh God, what if I’ve already done it just by opening the email?’ I race the mouse around the screen looking for the quickest way to delete the email, but Huda pins my hand down with hers.
‘No, no, stop,’ she says. ‘It’s probably something to do with the prank war. Just open it. If the computer hasn’t exploded yet, you’re probably good.’
‘Probably?’ I repeat. ‘I can’t be dealing with probably. Maybe I should ask Ms Powrie to have a look? She’ll know –’
‘Oh God, just open it, Amani,’ Huda says. ‘Leave Powrie to her foot fetish porn. C’mon, this looks juicy.’
Huda takes control of the mouse and I let her. I know she’s not going to let it go. She clicks the link. A black screen loads and I’m scared this is one of those websites where something jumps out to scare you, like that maze she made me play once and a scary lady’s face suddenly appeared. It took me weeks to forgive her for that – during which time she kept jumping out from behind things and laughing to make even more fun of me.
Nothing jumps out though.
I look properly at the page. The title is in big red fiery letters at the top.
BLITHE ACADEMY BURN BLOG
FAO: Year 11s (anyone else can fuck off)
We’ve been together 5 years now. 5 years of fun, frolicking and laughter.
Lol.
Do any of us even like each other?
Sure, everyone has friends, but other than that.
I bet there’s someone in our year that you hate.
Flat out hate.
More than one person, probably.
I personally hate all of you.
But who am I?
We’ll get to that soon.
But first, let’s play a game.
How well do you know your classmates?
Why don’t I fill you in?
Let’s see if you can guess who I’m talking about …
Anyone remember Hanneke Tooke’s house party last term?
Of course you do.
That was the night someone
shat
in Hanneke’s little sister’s toy box.
And left their dirty knickers there too.
The poor kid was traumatised
the next day when she went to get her Barbie.
Everyone’s heard that story.
Everyone’s laughed at that story.
But no one knew who it was,
until today …
Drumroll, please …
It was …
the one and only
bitch extraordinaire …
Cleo Walters.
I’m sure Pampers will be in touch
with a sponsorship deal soon, Cleo.
14
‘Holy shit!’ Huda hisses. There’s excitement laced through her words, like she’s fizzing from it, ready to burst.
We’re both an inch away from the computer screen, our eyes glued to the words.
‘This can’t be real, can it?’ I ask, finally tearing my gaze away and looking at Huda. She has the biggest grin on her face.
‘Why would someone make this up? Oh my God, I can’t believe it!’
Her phone vibrates on the desk, and my eyes are drawn to it. The email notification pops up on her screen.
‘Did you get the same message?’ I ask.
Huda swipes her screen, the smile still on her face as she rereads the email. ‘Yep, same one. Holy shit.’
There’s a ping from another phone at the front of the room. Oh my God! If everyone’s being sent the email, Cleo’s going to get it too!
‘Look!’ I whisper to Huda, clutching her arm tight. We both peer over the screens to the row two in front of us, where Cleo and her friends are all looking down at their phones. There’s no one else from our year in this room, and it seems like they still haven’t noticed Huda and me, considering they haven’t said a thing to us. We’ve got front-row seats to their unfiltered reaction. We both wait for them to read, for the chaos to start. There’s a weird buzzing feeling in my stomach – part nausea, part excitement. I know I shouldn’t be enjoying this rumour being spread about a classmate, but c’mon, when that classmate is Cleo … I don’t wanna say she asked for it, or that she deserves it … but if it’s going to happen to someone, then she’s a pretty good target. I can’t tell if that makes me a bad person.
Cleo makes a noise. A strangled type of gasp. Her head snaps up from her phone and she looks at Suzie. Huda and I instinctively duck our heads to make sure she doesn’t see us, even though she’s looking in the opposite direction.
‘You told someone?!’ Cleo hisses at Suzie.
Holy crap, so it’s true! I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face; it’s hard trying to keep the laughter in.
‘Who did you tell?’ Cleo asks quickly. ‘You swore.’
‘I didn’t!’ Suzie pipes up. ‘I promise I didn’t tell anyone.’
‘Wait, it’s true?’ Imogen asks. ‘Why would you tell her and not me?’
Watching this is like watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians or Jeremy Kyle. It’s terrible, like a car crash, but I literally cannot tear my eyes away. The three of them start arguing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Suzie or Imogen speak up against Cleo, say even a single bad word about her, let alone to her face.
‘I can’t believe you’d do something like that,’ Imogen says. ‘In a kid’s toy box?! That’s so gross.’
‘Shut up, Imogen,’ Cleo says. ‘I had food poisoning. It’s not like I chose to do it.’
‘But in a toy box?’
‘There was someone in the bathroom! What else was I meant to do?’ Cleo’s voice is filled with tears now. I’ve never heard her sound desperate before.
‘God, Hanneke’s sister really didn’t notice?’ Suzie asks, looking down at her phone. ‘Before, like, putting her hand in there?’ She shudders.
Cleo snaps her head round to her. ‘You can shut the fuck up, you traitor.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone!’ Suzie whines.
‘Probably blurted it out when you were shit-faced,’ Imogen says with a snarl. ‘You did the same thing last year about … about what happened at the Christmas disco, Boozie Blabbermouth.’
Cleo starts to say something, but her phone goes off with a succession of pings. ‘Oh God, everyone got the email!’ She’s definitely crying now. ‘Who’s doing this? Why would anyone do this to me?’
Her friends remain silent.
I can’t take my eyes off the three of them. They’ve even attracted the attention of the other students in here – some Year Nines and a couple of Year Seven girls. A tiny, terrible part of me hopes the email has been sent to every student in the school, not just our year.
‘Do you think the teachers got it?’ I whisper, half hopeful.
&nb
sp; Beside me, Huda laughs. ‘I’m sure they’ll see it soon enough. This shit is gonna spread like wildfire.’
‘No pun intended?’ I ask.
We dissolve into a fit of giggles. At some point Cleo notices us, and when I look up, I see her glaring right at us, right at me. There’s a spike of anxiety in my heart and I freeze, but then the image of her squatting over a toy box comes into my mind and makes the laughter rise again, and it comes out in a snort.
‘Oh, fuck right off!’ Cleo shouts. If she’d said this to me at any other time, I’d feel a wave of total fear rush over me, but now … she seems like the least scary thing ever.
Huda and I just collapse on top of each other, crying with laughter.
It’s only now that Ms Powrie looks up. She just looks at us and says, ‘Girls!’ in that bossy PE-teacher voice. Huda and I try to compose ourselves, wiping our tears, hiding our mouths with our hands.
Cleo looks to Ms Powrie, probably hoping she’ll do something more, but she’s gone back to her computer screen. When nothing further happens, and Huda and I are just silent giggling, Cleo storms out of the computer suite. Imogen and Suzie stay still for a few seconds before deciding to follow.
‘Probably off to buy some nappies,’ Huda manages to get out between laughs.
It’s a lame joke, and I know I shouldn’t encourage her, but we’ve got the giggles, and everything is so hilarious that I literally fall out of my chair laughing. Huda howls, and Ms Powrie tells us to get out because we’re disturbing everyone.
It’s so worth it.
15
Huda tells me about all the reactions to the blog post the whole way home. Cleo herself seems to have disappeared. No one’s seen her since she legged it out of the computer suite earlier. She hasn’t posted anything online either, which genuinely surprises me. I legit expected her to take to Snapchat to defend herself – to call whoever wrote that blog a liar. But nothing. No one knows who made the blog either. It’s obviously part of the prank war, but neither band is taking responsibility, or credit. Huda is desperate to find out who it was, so she can thank them.
This Is My Truth Page 8