#Help

by Rae Earl

  Danny smiles a bit and looks down. There’s a pause and then he says, “Well … I’d better be going to … finish this. Bye, Millie. Hello – is it Lauren? You were in that vlog too! Bye, Lauren!”

  Lauren manages to wave. My brain hasn’t recovered from the “A la noodles!” comment and can’t form a sentence.

  Danny Trudeau and his gourmet lunch drift off like steam. I collapse on a bench. Lauren drops beside me with her jaw on the floor.

  “What happened there?!” Lauren isn’t used to seeing me so utterly useless. “You were… Oh Millie! You really like him, don’t you?!”

  I groan.

  Lauren puts her arm round me. “Don’t worry! Perhaps he likes talking about … kitchen storage.”

  In the middle of saying it, Lauren realizes she sounds ridiculous and tries something else. “He thinks you’re really funny!”

  I have a bad feeling that Danny Trudeau and lots of other people are laughing AT me not WITH me. I really need to get away from school as soon as I can.

  #DADRESCUE

  When I get home, I find that Dad has taken all the cuddly toys from my bedroom and the exercise bike is now in the hall. Apparently, Mum gave him strict orders to make a lovely room for me. Yes! But I feel a bit bad. The bike is now a place to put coats, junk mail, charity collection bags and the red bills that my dad seems to get all the time. It will never be something to increase your actual fitness on.

  Grandad corners me when I go downstairs to make a cup of tea.

  “You look fed up, love. Everything OK?”

  I tell him nearly everything. I can see him looking puzzled. Finally, he blurts out, “I don’t get it. Why are you bothered by the opinions of people you’ve never met in your life, orchestrated by some madam who needs taking down a peg or two? Just ignore her!”

  But I can tell that he’s worried because I hear him go straight into the front room and tell Dad that I’m being that “new style of modernly bullied”.

  Dad come upstairs, hugs me and says, “Mills, do you want me to go up to the school and sort this out?”

  I show him the photo. “Here’s the problem. I posted the photo. I shared it first. She’s just shared it again, credited me like she should have done, but basically said I’m tragic. She’s done nothing wrong. Really. Well, she has but she’s – Dad, she is EXTREMELY clever. You can’t beat her.”

  Dad stares at me intensely and says, “You’re right, Millie. Keep away from her. She’s clearly a bit of a genius. Focus on your friends. You’re still friends with Lauren, aren’t you?”

  That isn’t really what I wanted to hear. I wanted more than that. God, I miss Mum. She’d know what to do.

  Dad goes back downstairs and, despite my frankly enormous clever bit of brain YELLING, “Don’t read the comments, Millie!”, I can’t help myself. I look at Erin’s account again. The likes have gone up to over 1,000 and the comments are horrible:

  Who would live like that? Selfish to the earth

  Awful jeans! No point taking care of those LOL

  SLOTH! :-)

  Great advice E

  Wow, that room could do with a decent tidy and a paint job.

  Now I know I’ve been moaning a bit about my room, but Dad is trying and Grandad is old! He doesn’t care about repainting.

  This person needs to get some self-respect for themselves and their clothes.

  Just as I can feel my chest getting tight again, I see another comment:

  Erin – you are just evil for doing this. Stop being so fake.

  It’s from @MissLaurenMeister – Lauren’s account. She’s brave and loyal and lovely … and very, very stupid.

  #PARASOL

  I call Lauren immediately. Every second that comment is on there, someone could see it and report back. And when Erin sees the notification or hears about it, she isn’t going to be happy that someone has accused her of being less than perfect in front of her followers. She will take things even more nuclear. Use Weapons of Mass Social Media Destruction.

  Lauren picks up the phone after no rings. “I know, I know,” she yelps, “but I just can’t take that girl any longer. We have to stand up to her, Millie. We have to stick our heads above the parasol!”

  “Parapet,” I have to correct her.

  “Yeah, whatever – what is a parapet?”

  I google it. “It’s a barrier which is an extension of a wall at the edge of a roof.”

  “Yes!” Lauren shouts. “We need to stick our entire bodies over the social-media parapet and put up an anti-Erin parasol to guard against her onslaught of being … fantastic. I’ll delete the comment though. Hopefully, she’s waxing and hasn’t seen it!”

  I tell Lauren my plan. I’ve been thinking about it since the corridor clash this morning. ”I reckon the best way to fight back is to make another vlog that makes US number one at school. And then no one will remember Mr Style Shame or the exercise bike.”

  “YES! But we’ve got to do it RIGHT. The right name. The right look. The right EVERYTHING. We HAVE to take it as seriously as Erin. She basically has a brand.”

  “You’re right, Lauren. No more cats or pandas or How NOT To vlogs. This is going to be the real thing. You do realize though,” I say, “that this means she will go for us, Loz? It’s not just sticking our head above the parasol.”

  “Parapet! Now you’re getting it wrong!” Lauren giggles.

  This makes me laugh too. “Yes. That. Again. This is sticking our head above the entire world and saying, ‘ERIN BREELER! We are here with our vlog and it’s about the things that REALLY matter. It’s the stuff-that-really-matters vlog!’ I know! How about we talk about how we deal with school, home, boys, make-up – we can cover everything?! EVERYTHING THAT MATTERS EVER AND EVERYTHING THAT WILL EVER MATTER! And we can start with…”

  I tail off. I sound ridiculous.

  “Yeah. This might need a bit of thought, Mills.” Lauren sounds uncomfortable. “And what should we call it? If we’re taking on Erin, we can’t sound like spoons.”

  She’s right.

  Lauren pauses and whispers, “Perhaps we can make up a really smart pseudo cyber bully called Helen Teeler?!”

  “Oh Lozza, I’m not sure that will work. I know – I’ll come over after school tomorrow and we can discuss and plan fully.”

  I get off the phone and trip over a tennis ball that has rolled out from under the bed. Our next vlog will have to be filmed somewhere quiet where there is little chance of someone barking coming in and, when I hear Teresa singing about her latest Tinder date, I know that means not here.

  #ONLOCATION

  “Well, we can’t film it here, Mills. Listen!”

  When we get back to Lauren’s house, her parents are not shouting. It’s silent. And immaculately tidy. Perfect conditions for vlogging in fact.

  “Why can’t we?” I ask.

  “Because it’s always really quiet before they kick off again.”

  This annoys me a bit. I was counting on Lauren’s house. I know her parents are rubbish but I’m not in a great domestic situation either! Surely we can make a vlog without them getting in the way. I try to persuade her.

  “But we can’t do it at my grandad’s. It’s chaos and no one understands privacy. Aunty Teresa comes into my bedroom every other minute.”

  Lauren bows her head. “Millie. We can’t do it here.”

  “Are you sure?” The vlog is such a good idea I don’t want to let it go AND I want to get it just right.

  “Millie. There’s a football match on tonight. Mum wants to watch it. Dad doesn’t. That makes Dad rant about old girlfriends and the way Mum still wears floral dresses and Doc Martens even though she’s forty-one.”

  This outrages me! “But they look cool though! That’s totally sexist!”

  “I know,” Lauren sighs. “He’s just cross. He doesn’t really mean it.”

  This makes me think. “We should do a vlog on discrimination too, Loz. There are loads of things to cover. Feminism. Sexism. Sho
uld you wear make-up when you’re campaigning for a better, fairer world? Or something.”

  “Whatever, Millie, we can’t do it here. Seriously.”

  I have another major breaking-news brain flash of excellence. “I know where we can do it. We’ll have to time it just right though. My mum’s house. I don’t want to go back there but … my room would be perfect!”

  Lauren looks horrified. “But you’re not living there any more!”

  “I know!” I wink. “But I’ve still got my key.”

  “What about the Neat Freak?” Lauren asks.

  “He works late on Wednesdays and Thursdays. If we time it right with his shifts and Mum’s, we’ll be fine! Tomorrow after school. We’ll have exactly forty-five minutes. We can DO THIS! TRUST ME!”

  This is me pulling out my credit card of sensible. It never lets me down.

  #BURGLARS

  We go straight from school to my mum’s. It’s deathly quiet. We creep up to my old bedroom and open the door. It’s Wednesday and the Gary’s away. The normal world can play!

  When I get inside, I can see that someone has already dusted the blinds, even to the far corner bits. No one does that. I bet even Prince Harry’s blinds are filthy bad there. It looks cleaner than it has done in a very long time. And it was only a bit dirty in the first place. I am fully aware of all the many diseases that come from dust and bed mites. I’ve seen those photos of bedbugs that have been magnified to a million times their actual size.

  “Right,” Lauren says. “First things first. What’s our vlog going to be about?”

  I flip out some notes I’ve scribbled down. Mum always says preparation stops poor performance. WHY can’t I get Mum out of my head?

  “EPIC!” Lauren shouts. “Now we need to prepare THE FACES.”

  Lauren’s make-up collection is extensive. Her mum and dad buy her something every time they feel guilty about shouting and upsetting her. Which is a lot.

  We spend serious time getting the base right, and then we thoroughly contour for screen. We go high gloss on the lips and dark on the eyes.

  Lauren looks at us both. “Yes. The effect is professional but approachable. It says we mean business but you can also talk to us on a level that you’re comfortable with. It’s the look of today’s pressurized professional woman. We work. We nurture. We deliver.”

  I try not to laugh but I do. “Loz, you spoon, where did you get that from?”

  Lauren laughs too. “I saw it on This Morning when I was off school with conjunctivitis. Seriously. It’s make-up with a message.”

  We both end up giggling like mad. “Loz, we need to be quiet. If Mum finds out we were here, she’ll think that I can’t cope at Grandad’s.”

  “Well, you can’t.” Lauren looks all sheepish and apologetic. “You’re Miss Lady of Order and that house feels like a party popper has just gone off ALL THE TIME.”

  I do a death stare. “No. It’s not right for vlogging. That’s different.”

  Lauren can see I’m a bit miffed so she just takes some fairy lights off my mirror and dangles them in the air above my head.

  “Shall I hold the lights like this behind you?”

  I do not want my best friend standing behind me like a Christmas tree. It will make us look like those wacky funster vloggers. That’s not what we’re about. I’m not saying we can’t be funny but we also have really serious stuff to discuss.

  “Loz, I want you sitting with me. OK – how should we start? I’ve been thinking our first subject should be—”

  Lauren interrupts me. “Well, I thought we could just say who we are … and then totally wing it. Be natural. Talk from the heart!” And then she just stares at me.

  I try not to get cross. I do think we need to be a little more prepared than that. But I don’t want to be too bossy and Mrs Know-It-All to Lauren. That’s old Millie. Mum-influenced Millie. I’m trying to live more in the moment now, so I say, “Yeah! Let’s go for it.”

  I press record on my phone and we both say, “Hello!” then collapse into giggles.

  “It’s OK! We can edit it!” I say. “Take two. Take two.”

  “Take two what?!” Lauren looks very confused.

  “That’s what directors say,” I explain. “TAKE two! OK. This one. Really this one.”

  We turn the camera on and giggle again.

  “Lauren!” I yell.

  “I’m sorry,” she snorts through laughs. “It’s just, you know … too … you know!”

  “I know.” I get it. “Right. Let’s think of something really serious.”

  Lauren stares at me and says, “Death.”

  And we still can’t stop laughing.

  “What is wrong with us?!” I ask. “Are we terrible people?! We’re now laughing at death!”

  And then Lauren collapses on my fluffy rug, shaking with the giggles.

  “It’s not even funny,” I yell but I can’t stop laughing either.

  Then suddenly, I hear a noise outside the door. “Lauren. Shhhhh! I think Mum’s back! Or Gary!”

  Someone is coming down the landing towards my bedroom. We’ve been making so much noise, they must think we’re really rubbish burglars. My heart starts to pound. I can see Lauren looking at me for comfort but I can’t give her any. I’m scared too.

  She whispers, “What if they bash us over the head with something or call the police? Or call the police THEN bash us over the head?!”

  “Shhhh!” I snap. “It’s going to be OK.” I don’t believe this for one moment.

  The door creaks open slightly. Someone is checking to see who the intruders are. Unless… My brain starts an insane worry spiral. What if burglars are actually disturbing US? What if some prisoners have escaped and they want a really tidy safe house with a good selection of soups and non-crumbly biscuits. We are in trouble. I can sense it. I know it. This is bad. This is serious.

  This is—

  McWhirter, the robot vacuum cleaner, glides into the room on full spin and starts trying to hoover up Lauren, who is still on the floor. He must be pre-programmed to start cleaning automatically. He has a little base on the landing that he sits in when he’s doing the upstairs.

  I scream very angrily, “McWhirter!”

  “Don’t upset him.” Lauren looks nervous. “Perhaps he’ll tell Gary or something!”

  “How can he, Lauren?! He’s a robot!”

  Lauren narrows her eyes. “Perhaps he has a surveillance device on him. Perhaps a tiny camera is relaying all this to your mum now via satellite. Perhaps she doesn’t really work at a hospital. Perhaps she’s been employed by the government to spy on teenagers everywhere and robot vacuums are actually just cameras that clean!”

  It’s then that I decide we need to get out of here.

  “Lauren. We are catching crazy off this house. This is why I wanted to go to Grandad’s in the first place. Let’s get out of here.”

  “What about the vlog?” Lauren looks GUTTED. This is her big dream too.

  “We just need another plan. We’re not giving up. Let’s go back to mine, get some dinner and have a think.” I put my arm round her.

  I haven’t got a clue where we could film, but Lauren doesn’t need to know that right now.

  #SHEDOFSENSE

  When we get back to Grandad’s, Dad and Teresa are having a karaoke session. Teresa is in the middle of a serious power ballad. Dad is howling like a dog in pain. They have loads of fun together but no one has done the important jobs. A duvet of lint has collected in the back of the tumble dryer. The house is Mess HQ and it’s why everything is on the brink of catching fire.

  The safest thing is to go out to see Grandad. As usual, he’s in his shed. He spends a lot of time there. He may not understand women or the Internet, but perhaps he has some idea of a place to film that is slightly sane and quiet.

  I knock on the shed door. Lauren waits outside. The shed can fit two but not three. Grandad is sitting there asking a tiny rose in a tiny pot why “she” refuses to bud. Thou
gh this sounds a bit mad, it’s easier to deal with than what’s happening indoors.

  “Grandad, can you…?”

  All of a sudden, I have an odd thought.

  Grandad’s shed would be a perfect vlogging space if we just moved all the gardening equipment, the pot plants, the green netting, his tools and pieces of wood, and his calendar featuring Britain’s favourite seashore wading birds.

  Grandad spots me eyeing it up. “I imagine you want to come in here for some reason. Quiet. Nice big inside lock that keeps the whole world out. I may let you use this shed, but don’t you be taking my bar-tailed godwit, Millie. I want that calendar kept up there.”

  Grandad is slightly psychic.

  “I was just wondering if me and Lauren could use your shed for a bit of filming. We want to make a vlog,” I say.

  Grandad looks at me with his detective-inspector-investigating-a-murder face. “What’s a vlog? Is it illegal?”

  “No, Grandad! It’s like a video that you can upload to a site and then everyone can watch it!”

  “But why would people want to watch it?”

  Grandad doesn’t mean to be harsh. He just really does not get it.

  “Because,” I explain, “you’ve got something to tell people that might help them or make them laugh or—”

  “So what are you going to tell them? What can YOU do?”

  OK. He IS sounding harsh now. And Captain Sexist of HMS Patronizing.

  When I answer him, I sound a bit sharp. “I’m starting a funny advice vlog. On how to deal with life and idiots and families and trolls.”

  Grandad stares at me. “You do know trolls aren’t real, don’t you, Millie? I mean, I know we told you they lived under bridges and frightened the Billy Goats Gruff but they—”

  I do lose my patience slightly now. “Grandad. A troll is someone who keeps hassling you on social media and the Internet.” I try to make it simple. Lauren nods behind me.

  “Well, just tell them to stop it,” Grandad says.

  I’m trying to be patient. I REALLY am. “It doesn’t work like that. You can tell them to stop it and they just carry on.”