This Is My Truth

by Yasmin Rahman

  Huda opens her mouth, but just then the bell rings.

  ‘I’m going to registration,’ I mumble, starting to walk off.

  ‘Wait!’ she calls.

  My mind races, wondering what she’s going to say. Whether she’s suddenly understood everything that’s going on in my mind and has come up with some amazing advice.

  ‘It’s Tuesday,’ she says. ‘We’ve got assembly.’

  I look around and see that most of our year is in the quad, waiting to be let into the hall. And there, right in front of me, is the notice board again, taunting me with the countdown. Just over two weeks now. And I’m still no closer to feeling secure about any aspect of my life. I want to kick it again. Want to take out my frustration and anger after that conversation with Huda by giving the stupid notice board a great big kick. But of course, I can’t. Everyone would think I’m crazy. So instead I join the crowd as we file in.

  Huda is still by my side. ‘Amani, we’re OK, right?’ she asks, almost desperately. She does this every time we have a fight, however small. After a lifetime of people bailing on her, I think I’ve become her constant. She doesn’t want to lose me. And I don’t want to lose her. She’s been my best friend since we were twelve. There’s no breaking us up.

  ‘We’re good,’ I tell her. I nudge her in the side with my elbow – our thing. And we are good. But I’ve realised something. I can’t talk to her about this stuff at home. She doesn’t get it. I’m just going to have to keep dealing with this alone.

  Huda can’t help me.

  I don’t think anyone can.

  25

  Huda and I find seats almost slap bang in the centre of the hall. She hooks her arm through mine and rests her head on my shoulder. This is another thing she does to make sure we’re ‘OK’. She won’t stop until she’s got me laughing, I know it. And it’s working. I can feel the anger from our disagreement dissipating. Taking it further, Huda rearranges herself so her head is in my lap. This makes me laugh out loud.

  ‘Oh my God, stop,’ I laugh whisper. ‘Your arse is, like, right in Maggie’s face.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Huda says, shuffling her body again. She turns to Maggie Chan, who’s sitting on the other side of her. ‘Sorry, dude.’

  ‘No worries,’ Maggie says through a yawn. ‘Did I catch you two in the middle of something?’ She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘Why, you jealous?’ Huda asks, hooking her arm through mine and resting her head on my shoulder.

  ‘Soz to disappoint, but I’ve got a pact with my girlfriend that I can only cheat if it’s with a celebrity,’ Maggie says. She sits up in her seat suddenly. ‘Oh my God, what about Ezra and Suzie and Imogen? Crazy shit, right?’

  ‘You mean the blog posts?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m obsessed,’ Maggie says. ‘I keep checking the website in case there’s something extra on there that they haven’t emailed about.’

  ‘Me too!’ Huda chimes in. ‘It’s so good to see those bitches being taken down, though, right?’

  ‘Oh, for sure!’ Maggie replies. ‘Cleo’s the one who started that petition to get separate changing rooms for straights after I came out. Fuck her entirely.’

  ‘Is she in today?’ I ask, looking around.

  ‘Dunno,’ Huda replies. ‘Don’t think anyone’s seen her since the first blog.’

  ‘I guess that’s proof that it was true, right?’ Maggie asks. ‘You wouldn’t disappear if it wasn’t. If someone made up shit about me, I’d be making sure everyone knows it’s not true.’

  Huda snorts. ‘Cleo doesn’t need anyone making up shit about her. She makes her own shit. I hear it goes everywhere.’

  Maggie starts cackling, and I just roll my eyes.

  ‘What about her two groupies?’ Maggie asks, craning her neck around the room. ‘Anyone seen them today? I hope there’s a bitch fight! I can’t believe Ezra was sleeping with both of them. Crazy, right?’

  ‘Er, I dunno,’ Huda replies. ‘You didn’t think it was a crap secret? Compared to Cleo’s?’

  ‘No way!’ Maggie says. ‘Those two have been besties forever. This is, like, the ultimate betrayal. There’s going to be a huge fallout, and you know I live for that drama.’

  I find myself scanning the room for Imogen and Suzie, eager to know whether the fallout has happened.

  ‘They’re not sitting together,’ I say quietly. Part of me hates myself for joining in, but I can’t help it. ‘Imogen’s over there by the door and Suzie’s all the way on the other side of the hall.’

  ‘Where’s lover boy?’ Huda asks, craning her neck. ‘I wonder who he’s chosen?’

  I spot Ezra sitting a few rows in front of us, and to the left. He’s looking at his phone, laughing with his friends. ‘I hate the double standard,’ I say. ‘He’s probably being crowned a legend by his mates. They’re probably begging him for tips on how he got them both. It’s gross. Guys get away with so much.’

  Huda gives me a pointed stare. I start to feel hot under her gaze. I know I’m blushing.

  ‘Amen,’ Maggie says, thankfully moving the moment on. ‘Guys like him make me glad to be gay.’

  Mr Bach walks onto the stage, towards the lectern that’s in front of the projector screen. The screen is off, but lowered, which must mean he’s got a slideshow or something planned.

  ‘OK, everyone, settle down,’ Mr Bach says, even though everyone is already settled. ‘I had planned to give you all a motivational assembly today. Considering there’s not long left before study leave, I thought it would be beneficial to get your brains pumping, thinking about the future, where you’re going to go from here, what you’re going to use your GCSEs for in the real world. I had a very nice speech all prepared. But that’s not going to happen today.’

  I turn to Huda and pull a surprised face; she pulls a silly one back. This is another one of our things that we do every time Mr Bach, or any teacher, makes a cliffhanger comment like that.

  ‘Instead, I’m having to lecture you all, and you know how much I hate that.’

  Huda and I roll our eyes at each other.

  ‘I know it’s the end of year, and everyone’s excited about summer, and freedom, and festivals and whatever it is you all get up to these days. But that does not excuse the behaviour that Year Eleven has been exhibiting for the past week or so. I’ve had several complaints from teachers about the disruption that these so-called pranks that have been going on have caused.’

  Huda and I look at each other again. She grins maniacally. I was going to roll my eyes again, but seeing her expression makes me burst out laughing, which I have to disguise as a cough. I elbow her in the side as I cover my mouth.

  ‘Now don’t think I don’t know about the “prank war” that takes place this time every year,’ Mr Bach continues, ‘but also don’t think that just because it’s existed in the past that it has been accepted in the past. We had a zero-tolerance policy on end-of-year pranks last year, and it will be the same for you. Henceforth, anyone found taking part in any of these pranks, anyone found to be planning anything, will be given three days’ detention and isolation. At the very least. And possibly even suspended.’

  I turn to Huda, but she’s actually paying attention.

  ‘Look, I get that you want to have fun.’ Mr Bach’s voice loosens. ‘And that the end-of-the-year atmosphere can be intoxicating. But there’s only two weeks left. And those days really should be spent revising. Doing practice papers. Paying attention to your teachers. Because at the end of the day, that’s what you’re here for: to pass your exams, to get the best start in life that you can. The reputation of Blithe Academy is in your hands and …’

  He keeps talking, but a whirring noise has started up, murmuring beneath his lecture. From the way his eyes wander, I can tell he’s trying to figure out the source without drawing attention to it. It’s not working though; everyone starts looking around. Suddenly the projector screen behind Mr Bach comes to life – the light flashes on and the screen goes from g
rey to white. The light shines directly onto his face, so harsh that he brings his arm up to his face and moves to the side. The projector screen is now in perfect view. A video starts playing. First there’s an image of Mr Bach, his usual teacher photo. And then a song starts playing.

  ‘I like backpacks, they are my life,’ a male voice raps in the style of ‘Baby Got Back’.

  ‘What’s going on?!’ I ask Huda. She’s too transfixed on the screen to reply – there’s a look of wonder and amusement on her face.

  ‘All the other bags are just shite,’ the song carries on. The tune is so catchy, I know it’s going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the day.

  The image on the screen changes, like a PowerPoint presentation. It switches to a photo of a backpack. An animation starts up, and Mr Bach’s staff photo gets placed onto the backpack, so his face is the design of the bag. Everyone in the room cackles as the song carries on with backpack-related lyrics that fit perfectly to the tune.

  The screen zooms out so next to the bag is another photo of Mr Bach – a full-length one of him turned to the side. The animation kicks back in and the backpack with Mr Bach’s face floats across the screen and attaches itself to the back of the full-length photo of him. Mr Bach is now wearing a Mr Bach backpack. The whole thing is so immature and badly done, yet at the same time, with the song and everything, it’s completely hilarious. I find myself crying from laughing so hard. Huda and Maggie are in a similar state.

  Mr Bach starts going crazy on stage, trying to block the screen while screaming, ‘Who’s doing this? Make it stop! How do I stop it?’ Which just makes it even funnier and I legit almost fall out of my chair.

  The teachers scatter – some rushing backstage to fiddle with the controls. And then a few seconds later, the video lets out a last, ‘I like backpacks, they are my life!’ The screen returns to grey.

  ‘Everyone, quiet!’ Mr Bach shouts, his voice louder and harsher than I’ve ever heard. We all have a hard time controlling ourselves. The laughter just won’t go away. Every time I feel myself calming, the song loops in my head and I get the giggles again.

  ‘Who’s responsible for this?’ Mr Bach bellows into the crowd.

  No one replies, obviously. There’s still some shuffling going on around the hall. I see someone two rows in front take out their phone, look at the screen and nudge the person next to them. Someone else does the same. And then I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket.

  BLITHE ACADEMY BURN BLOG

  Welcome back to the Blithe Academy Burn Blog,

  guys, gals and non-binary pals.

  Hope you’ve been enjoying the REVELATIONS

  I’ve been providing.

  It’s an honour to be of service, truly.

  Though if you don’t nominate me for student of the year in the yearbook, you’re all dead to me.

  Anyway, another one for you.

  You all should really stop having such dirty secrets

  (or at least keep them better hidden.

  You’re making it too easy for me).

  Stacey Lineham.

  You’ve always been a bitch.

  We’ve been stuck with your stuck-up self for five years now.

  And we’ve had enough.

  I think your parents have too.

  Oops sorry – parent. Singular.

  Your mum’s so fed up of you that she’s turned into a raging alcoholic.

  Don’t think we didn’t all see her on parents’ evening,

  slurring like an addict,

  smelling like she’d showered in wine.

  Do your mum a favour,

  do us a favour,

  and stop being such a bitch, Stacey.

  You’ll drive us all to alcoholism too.

  As for the rest of you …

  Yep, you guessed it,

  I’ll be back

  with some more juicy revelations.

  I wonder

  WHO

  my next target will be?

  26

  Maggie and I walk to media studies together. She’s on her phone, watching all the tweets and Instagram posts and Snaps coming in about Stacey. I didn’t tell Maggie or Huda how I’m feeling about this new post. And they didn’t ask; they just assumed I was as amused as they were. But I’m not. The truth is that I’m mad. This is so out of order, and no one seems to see it. Today’s blog seems different. More of a personal attack. Well, I guess all of them have been personal. But to make it about someone’s parent? That’s crossing the line. Especially when it’s exposing a real illness.

  ‘I knew it!’ Maggie says for maybe the fifteenth time since we left assembly. ‘I knew there was something up with her mum at parents’ evening. Did you see her knock over the Christmas tree? That was hilarious.’

  I bite my tongue. Maggie and I aren’t really close enough for me to show my truth, for me to go against what she and pretty much everyone else in the year is enjoying. But inside I’m bubbling with rage. At the person who’s posting these blogs, for thinking it’s OK to do this, that it’s funny to do this. I’m angry at everyone else for going along with it. I’m even angry at myself, because I’m being a hypocrite. I didn’t mind when it was Cleo, or Suzie or Imogen; a part of me thought they deserved it, so what right do I have to be angry about Stacey – just because I have no problem with her?

  ‘Do you think there’s a pattern?’ I say. ‘I mean, how does whoever’s doing the blog decide who they’re gonna … target?’

  ‘Hmm, I dunno,’ Maggie replies. ‘Cleo was obvious. She’s the biggest bitch in our year. And then of course her little groupies. Stacey’s a bit left field, innit? I’ve never had any beef with her, though she can be annoying. I wonder who’s got it in for her?’

  ‘Whoever wrote it sounded like they hated her,’ I say. ‘Really hated her.’

  I wonder if there’s anyone who feels that strongly about me. I try my best to be a decent person, but now I can’t help but run over everything in my head, wondering if I’ve pissed anyone off in years gone by. I try to think if there’s anyone who would want to write such things about me. Because if today’s shown me anything, it’s that the blog could go after anyone. And worse, if they have no problem going after people’s parents, then I’m in real trouble. What if they somehow find out about Abbu? Would Maggie be this excited about the gossip? Would my classmates be this eager to make fun of me if the truth about my family came out?

  But of course it can’t. It won’t. I’ve been so careful. Only Huda knows, and she’s promised not to tell. I just hope Ismail hasn’t said anything. If he’s mentioned it to a friend, it could get to their older siblings, who could be someone in my year. Oh God, the possibilities are endless, and all so terrifying.

  ‘Who do you think’s doing it?’ I ask. Maybe Maggie has an idea. Like Huda, she knows most people in our year. She might know if anyone was acting shifty, or maybe she’s heard something.

  ‘My bet’s on Ezra,’ she replies.

  ‘But he was in the blog,’ I say.

  ‘Mind tricks, innit!’ she says, excited. ‘Throwing people off the scent. Plus, the blog basically bigged him up. He’s doing all those other pranks so it makes sense, no?’

  I shake my head. ‘Ezra’s not clever enough to think like that,’ I say. ‘It must be someone who knows a lot of secrets. Someone who’s maybe friendly with a lot of people?’

  ‘Hmm, I guess you’re right,’ Maggie says as we reach the humanities block. ‘Like, you’d have to trust someone a lot to tell any secret like these. I’d only really tell my girlfriend about things with my parents. I mean, if there was anything.’

  ‘Exactly!’ I say. ‘Don’t you think it’s wrong? You trust someone to keep your secrets, and then they go and do something like this. It’s betrayal, kinda. No?’

  Maggie doesn’t reply right away. She’s still scrolling through her phone as we climb the stairs. Oh no. Have I gone too deep? Our friendship is sort of surface level, and it feels like I’ve made myself a pari
ah by showing that I don’t find this blog fun.

  ‘It’s probably just someone who’s a big snoop,’ Maggie suggests eventually. ‘Maybe they’re just always in the right place at the right time and find these things out somehow.’

  ‘Hmm, maybe.’

  ‘Oh my God! Look!’ Maggie says, suddenly jerking her head up. She holds her phone out.

  ‘You found out who it is?’ I ask, my heart spiking. I lean over to look at her screen. But it’s not a confession, or an accusation, like I had expected. Just an Instagram post. Someone has Photoshopped the words ‘Blithe Academy Burn Blog’ onto a photo of the Burn Book from the film Mean Girls. Underneath, there’s a caption asking people to submit secrets for the blog.

  ‘It’s from Ravi Singh’s account,’ Maggie says. ‘So obvs not the legit blog, else it’d be anonymous, but I am living for the memes. Did you see the one someone did of Cleo with a toy box?’

  Something heavy drops in my stomach, a new worry growing the same way the popularity of this blog is. ‘Do you think … they’re gonna go after everyone?’ I ask.

  ‘I hope so!’ she says joyfully. ‘Fingers crossed they get that bitch Rachel Huxley next.’

  ‘Aren’t you scared?’ I ask. ‘That, y’know … something could come out about you?’

  ‘What are they gonna say?’ she says with a laugh as we reach our classroom. ‘“Maggie Chan is gay?” Or that I really like naps? Pretty sure everyone knows that already.’ She swings her bag off her shoulder and sits down. ‘I haven’t got any secrets. I’m an open book.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I mutter to myself as I take the seat next to her.

  God, what if I’m next?

  27

  The rest of the day passes without any more disruption. After the prank at assembly, the teachers have been watching us closely. Not that anyone cares. At break I overheard some of the boys saying that they were going to order actual backpacks with Mr Bach’s face on them. I saw Stacey Lineham too. She was crying. Her friends all had their arms around her, maybe trying to hide her from everyone, maybe just comforting her. It didn’t stop idiots like Ezra making cracks about needing a drink. It’s ridiculous that nothing’s being directed at him. All the girls are getting flack, and he’s strutting around like he owns the place. Maybe Maggie was right about him being part of it.