Because of You

by Eve Ainsworth

  I want to call Dad. I want him to pick me up and make this all better, but I know I can’t.

  Minutes pass. The bell rings and I can hear the corridor coming alive with noise. But I stay seated, unable to move. I can’t face everyone else. Not yet. My stomach twists and turns.

  I wait. I don’t even know how long for, but I know that it’s silent outside. I know that everyone will be back in class, getting on with their day.

  And then I slip out of the toilets, find the back entrance onto the playing fields and I walk.

  I walk right out of school and I don’t plan on going back.

  Dad always used to pick me up from school when I was small. It was easier for him to be there, because Mum’s shifts were long and unpredictable. Anyway, it soon became our thing. I got used to seeing Dad’s smiling face at the gate.

  And if I’d had a bad day, he was always there. To give me a hug or to talk about it with me. Dad was good like that. Somehow he always had the right words to make it better.

  I remember when I was nine. For some reason, all the girls in class had turned against me. I had been left on my own at break, watching as the others played and giggled behind their hands. I hadn’t got a clue what I had done wrong, but I hated the heavy feeling that was pressing in my stomach. It was as if a brick was lodged inside me.

  When Dad collected me that day, I told him that I didn’t want to go back to school. That I hated it. That I couldn’t face it again.

  I remember he took my hand and squeezed it in his. We didn’t talk much at first. He just led me to the newsagent and let me pick my favourite ice cream. Then, once we were walking home, he began to speak.

  “Sometimes you have to treat a bad day like a storm in the sky,” Dad said. “It can come out of nowhere. It can sweep you up, turn your world upside down and then, before you know it, it’s gone.”

  “But everyone hates me,” I said.

  “Nobody hates you, Poppy. How could they? You’re amazing. You just have to remember that. The key to getting through a storm is holding your own. Keeping steady. Don’t let yourself be swept up in it. If you can show the world that you can get through this, it won’t beat you.”

  “I don’t think I can, Dad.”

  “Of course you can,” Dad told me. “You can do anything, Poppy. Just don’t be scared. Hold your head up high and ride that wind.”

  And of course he was right. By the next day at school, the “storm” had passed. My friends were talking to me again. I had got through it.

  But this feels different. Today is more personal, more humiliating.

  And I haven’t got Dad waiting at the gate to help.

  The sky is dark and heavy. It looks like it will pour down any minute. I don’t fancy getting soaked on top of everything else today, so I decide to head straight home. Mum will be at work, so I’m hoping I will have the place to myself. I just want to get my head together and work out what I’m going to do next.

  I realise I’ve made a mistake the minute I walk in the door. I can hear Richie’s voice. It’s loud and forceful and it’s pretty clear he is talking about me.

  “… it’s OK, love. I think she’s just got home. Yes. Yes, I will talk to her.”

  I stand frozen in the hall, my cheeks burning. Richie strolls out of the kitchen, his mobile still clutched in his hand. He actually looks a bit awkward as he strokes his chin, his eyes gazing at me.

  “Poppy,” Richie says. “Where have you been?”

  “Why are you here?” I hit him with a question too, hoping it will deflect his attention.

  “I’m working from home.” Richie shoves the phone in his back pocket. “That was your mum. She’s worried sick. The school have just called her saying that they spotted you on CCTV walking out of the building. What on earth is going on?”

  I shrug. “Nothing. I just felt sick.”

  He frowns. “Then why didn’t you go to the medical room?”

  “It was closed.”

  “Really?” Richie says. “It’s never been closed before and yet it is today? So there were no teachers to talk to? No one on reception?”

  I bow my head. I have nothing to say. Not to him anyway.

  Richie sighs. “Poppy, what is going on? Has someone said something to you?” His eyes scan my face, my hair. “What on earth has happened?”

  “Nothing is going on.”

  “The school seem to think—”

  “This has got nothing to do with you,” I shout over him, my anger flaring. What has this got to do with him? It’s bad enough that he’s standing in my hall, but now he’s trying to pry into my life too.

  “I’m only trying to help,” Richie says weakly.

  “Well, don’t!”

  In my room, my phone is buzzing loads. I scan over the messages quickly, trying not to get too stressed. Most of them are older texts on the group chat. People arse‑licking Lia, telling her that they are on her side.

  Yeah, of course they are. They are too weak to be anything else.

  There is a message Fliss sent at lunch. Asking if I’m OK. Asking me where I went.

  Then I start to read the latest updates. I’ve been tagged in something recently. How did someone even do that? They must have sneaked their phone out in class. It’s from Lia – and it’s of me.

  It’s a video. Of me falling to the ground and then sitting, stunned, as milkshake is tipped on my head.

  I watch numbly as the likes roll in. People I thought were friends are posting laughing emojis and thumbs‑up messages.

  I watch as Daryl, one of my oldest mates, someone that I’ve trusted for what feels like for ever, posts a heart.

  I feel like my own heart is breaking.

  I phone Dad again. I don’t care that his voicemail clicks straight on. Even hearing his bright, upbeat voice helps a bit. I imagine Dad standing with me now, wrapping his arms around me, telling me it’s going to be OK. It’s just another storm.

  He’s who I need right now.

  “Dad,” I croak, once the beep has sounded. “Dad, I need you. I need to be with you. I’m bringing my stuff to the match tomorrow. I just want to stay with you for a few days … I’ll explain when I see you … But I just need to get away. If there’s a problem, call me back …”

  I shut off the call, hoping for once that he doesn’t ring me back. I’m hoping he’ll be OK with me staying for a while. After all, he’s offered it before.

  “Pops, you can sleep on my sofa. Anytime. It’ll be fun. Like the old times …”

  I smile, still clutching the phone in my hands. This is all I need. Just a bit of time with Dad, some space away from everything. Hopefully it’ll all calm down and I’ll be in a better place to deal with it.

  “I’m not letting you win,” I mutter to Lia. In my mind, I can see her, laughing and joking with everyone, happily destroying other people’s lives. “I’m not letting you win at all. I just need some time.”

  It’s amazing how much stronger I feel as I pack my small bag. It’s almost as if today never happened at all.

  I’m going to be just fine.

  Chapter Eight

  “Poppy,” Mum says. “Can I come in?”

  I am surprised to see Mum at the door. She used to wake me up all the time when I was small, but not so much now. I guess she just respects my space more. Also, a lot of the time she leaves the house early, long before I’m even awake. It feels a bit weird, seeing Mum’s face peer into my room. I cringe, knowing she will be upset about the state of it.

  I am laid out on top of my bed, still in my PJs, not ready to go downstairs just yet. I’m trying to read a magazine, but not much is going in if I’m honest. Every time my phone buzzes, I have to check to make sure it’s not Dad – but of course it isn’t. I can’t face reading the endless messages people are sending about the video. I keep hoping it will end soon.

  “Richie said you were rude to him yesterday,” Mum says, walking over to me.

  I don’t answer. To be honest, I really
don’t know what to say. If I admit the reason I came home, Mum will make a huge deal out of it and things will probably get a million times worse.

  She comes towards me. Flaps my magazine shut.

  “Poppy. What’s going on?” Mum asks. “You can’t just walk out of school like that. They were really worried about you. They said they were concerned that there might have been a fight.”

  I know Mum struggles with this type of thing, that’s why Dad always dealt with it before. Mum is a no‑nonsense sort of woman. She works hard and expects other people to do the same. She wouldn’t have time to listen to the entire Lia saga.

  “I’m OK,” I tell her. “There was no fight. I just felt sick and needed to get out of school. I should have gone to the medical room. I’m sorry.”

  “You could have managed the rest of the day, surely?” she replies. “You didn’t puke, did you?”

  “No. I was fine.”

  “Well, no more skiving off.” She sighs. “I know you’re struggling with Richie being here. But I don’t need you acting up. This is a new start for us. You just need to open your mind to it.”

  I sniff and open up my magazine again. The page falls open at an article on some lame pop singer that I’ve barely heard of, but I pretend to be really interested.

  “Please just give Richie a try,” Mum says. “He’s not your dad, he’s not even trying to be. But he wants to get along with you. Is that OK?”

  I shrug. “OK. Whatever.”

  Just don’t expect us to be best mates or anything.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?” Mum asks.

  I look up. Try to hold eye contact, because I’ve heard that’s a sign you are telling the truth. “Mum – I’m fine.”

  She nods. “OK.” She pauses, then adds, “So are you seeing your dad today, then?”

  My cheeks burn. My dad … She talks about him like he’s a stranger to her now. Someone detached and foreign. She loved him once. Does she even remember?

  “Yeah, I’m meeting him in a few hours,” I tell her. “We’re going to the game.”

  “He has tickets? Are you sure?” Mum frowns.

  “Yes. Of course I am. We’ve been talking about it all week.”

  Mum shakes her head. “Funny how he finds money when he wants to.”

  I glare up at her. “He wants to take me out, Mum.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Well – I hope you enjoy it.”

  I watch as she leaves the room. It is all too easy. Weirdly, I wish she had pushed me a bit more, really pressed me to tell the truth. Now I long to shout after her:

  “No, Mum! I’m not OK. I feel really stressed. Really anxious.”

  “Help me, Mum. Come back, talk to me.”

  But of course I say nothing.

  I leave a note in my room. I put it on my pillow. It’s short and to the point:

  Staying at Dad’s for a bit. Speak to you soon x

  On the way out, I pass Kayla on the stairs. I have to shove my bag behind my back so she doesn’t see it, but part of me doesn’t even care if she does. What business is it of hers anyway?

  She reaches out and touches my arm.

  “Poppy, I saw—” Kayla starts.

  She’s talking too loudly – the door to the living room is wide open. I don’t want anyone else hearing what happened.

  I rush past her, shoving her a bit. “I’m OK,” I tell her.

  “Poppy …”

  I turn. Kayla’s eyes are wide, her face concerned. She looks like she is going to head back down towards me, but I can’t face that. I don’t want her pity.

  I can’t think of anything worse.

  “Just leave me alone,” I hiss.

  And I rush out of the front door, my bag bumping heavily against my side.

  The match starts at three o’clock. Dad told me to meet him by the newsagent down the end of the road that leads to the stadium. We arranged to be here forty minutes before the game starts, just to be sure. This is the shop where we always stock up on match‑day essentials – bottles of Coke, sucky sweets and a big bag of crisps to share. If Dad is feeling flush, he’ll buy us burgers in the stadium when we go inside. I’m hoping that he is, as I’m already starving, having skipped breakfast to avoid another awkward conversation with Richie.

  A mixture of excitement and nerves trickles through me. I love match days. I love spending them with Dad. These are golden days, something we rarely do any more, which makes it so much more precious.

  I just can’t wait to get in there, to be absorbed in the game and forget about everything else for a while.

  I look at my watch and I see that fifteen minutes have passed already. There is still no sign of Dad. I check my phone, but there is nothing. No missed calls. No messages. An ache starts inside of me, right in the centre of my belly. I start to feel sick.

  There is a swell of a crowd drifting past me down the main street towards the ground. Some people are chanting. Scarves and drinks are being waved in the air. I love the noise, the atmosphere. I want to be amongst them. Walking fast, singing and shouting. But I’m not. I’m outside looking in.

  I’m not part of this.

  He must be on his way. He must just be held up.

  I sit on the small wall that runs alongside the shop. I always used to sit here while Dad was inside buying our goodies and his cigarettes. He would take too long and I’d end up kicking the bricks in frustration.

  Now I am doing the same thing again – watching as the dust crumbles and falls on the pavement in rusty sprinkles.

  I check my watch again. It’s nearly three. Dad wouldn’t be this late; he’s never normally this late. He knows how important it is to get in there before the game starts.

  I hear a distant roar as the whistle blows and the match begins. The ache inside me is deeper now and the tiny hole that was inside my stomach has opened up fully into a big gaping wound.

  Reality sweeps me up in its cold, cruel grip. He’s not coming.

  I pick up my bag and start walking.

  Chapter Nine

  Dad took me to my first game when I was six years old. We’d both been so excited. I remember I kept running around the living room, full of energy, dragging my new scarf behind me like a trailing kite. Dad had even bought me the new season’s shirt and I was wearing it proudly, even though it itched me like mad.

  Mum didn’t want to come. Football has never been her sort of thing. She finds it too loud and shouty. I think she was half expecting me to be the same. I remember her whispering in my ear as we went to leave: “If you get bored, just tell Dad. He’ll bring you straight back. He won’t mind.”

  I shook my head, certain even then that this was going to be perfect. Dad took my small hand in his and we strolled down the road. He taught me the songs to chant – the ones that weren’t rude – and reminded me of the names of the players. When we got to the main street, the crowd suddenly grew in size, and Dad swept me high onto his shoulders so that I wouldn’t get lost or scared. From up there, on my knobbly ridge, I could see right over the heads of the other fans. I was bobbing up and down with the rest of them, like a buoy out at sea. I looked up and I swear it felt like I could have touched the clouds – they seemed so close.

  “Are you OK?” Dad had asked me, holding my legs tight.

  “Yes,” I said, blinking at the perfect blue of the sky. “I feel like a giant.”

  Because I did. I felt tall, powerful and so very, very lucky.

  My dad had been the cause of that.

  My dad.

  And now where is he?

  I walk fast, not really sure where I want to go. All I know for certain is that I need to get away from the noise of the stadium. I want no reminders that I should be in there with them. Not out here. Alone.

  And I don’t want to go home. That would be the worst thing. Mum would be sympathetic of course, but part of her would be smug. She always said that Dad was unreliable and untrustworthy. This just proved her right.


  But this was the first time he’d let me down badly.

  Yes, there had been other times. Especially when Mum and Dad were still together. Dad would often make promises about taking us out for the day, or coming home early and doing something special. It used to upset both Mum and me when he’d forget. When he chose to go down the pub instead. Sometimes I used to think he preferred being in the pub than at home with us.

  But when Mum kicked Dad out, he told me he had changed. He was trying. He told me it was going to be different this time. He was going to put me first.

  I snort. What a joke. And I was an idiot to believe him.

  I find myself at the bus stop. I dig in my pocket – the loose change I pull out will get me into town. When the bus pulls up next to me, I automatically step on. Then I head to a seat at the back and press my body up against the side of the vehicle. It’s not full in here at all, just a couple of older women chatting near the doors and a man sitting in front. I’m relieved. The last thing I need is to see someone from school.

  I pull out my phone and check it again. There’s still nothing from Dad, but there is a missed call from Mum and a message:

  Call me.

  I ignore it. I don’t want to deal with her right now. I wonder whether Kayla has grassed up about the video and now Mum will want to discuss the entire situation.

  Or maybe she has already found the note in my room. She probably thinks I’m with Dad right now. That I’ll be with him for the next couple of days.

  Well, that’s not going to happen now …

  I hook up to the bus’s wi‑fi and go online. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to watch Lia’s video again. This time it doesn’t sting as much. I know what’s coming, I guess. I’m more prepared. This time I feel more like an observer.

  I watch again as I’m filmed hitting the ground, as Charlotte comes up behind me, her snaky smile spreading across her face. I watch as that drink is poured over my head, slowly and deliberately.

  I look down at the comments. There are loads more, but to my surprise more angry messages have been added. Fliss is the first one. I could totally hug her right now.