by Non Pratt
“Just to be very clear,” I say, every word accentuated by how annoyed I am, “my position on kissing you remains the same.”
CHAPTER 17
Tonight I should be working on the videos for Wednesday, but I’m not in the mood for anything to do with Sef.
Needing a distraction, I log online as myself, trying to remember how long it’s been since I waded around the internet wearing my own identity. Truth Girl and Dare Boy have subbed to an incomprehensible number of channels, all middlingly successful – subs in the thousands rather than the millions – but back in the day, Claire Casey liked the big hitters. None of the videos that show up on my home page are familiar, it’s mostly Americans adored by millions, but there are also a few choice Brits.
I scroll through them looking for the right flavour vlogger for my angry, bitter palate. No one too sweet – I need someone to cheer me up without actually being cheerful. In the end I click on MozzyMozzaMeepMorp. If Moz could lift my mood during the darkest of #MilkTits times, I’m sure he can do it now.
Pootling round his channel, I discover he’s been developing a series of Rate It or Slate It? videos, the camera looking over his shoulder as he watches someone else’s channel. The guilty pleasure is Moz’s playground and his clever and frequently cruel commentary invites you to laugh at the people he’s watching. Very meta and very addictive and very much what I’m looking for. I watch quite a few before clicking on the one with the lowest view count, posted earlier today.
“Meep morp, chickadees, anyone else bored of challenge channels? Tired of truths that you know are lies? Dog-tired of dullsville dares? Likewise, my friends, likewise…”
Hearing him say this makes my stomach sink. Moz’s video, his cynicism, pushes me too close to believing that we’re going to fail and I snap my laptop shut, not wanting to hear him slagging off challenge channels when we’re so desperate for people to watch ours.
Down in the sitting room, Mum looks up from the other end of the sofa as I flop onto it and skip restlessly through the programmes recorded on the box. It’s supposed to distract me from all the messages Sef’s sending me. He’s been on overdrive since I left him in the library and it’s annoying me – although I accidentally glance down when another flashes up on my phone.
Have you seen how many views have come in on the Toothpaste dare???
Which piques my interest.
No.
Sef sends me a screengrab and despite how annoyed I am with him, my eyes grow wide at the figure. Doesn’t change how monosyllabic my reply is.
That’s a lot.
UNDERSTATEMENT OF THE CENTURY.
Then:
Fancy going out to celebrate?
I read the message, then turn my phone off without answering. People only try too hard when they know they’ve done something wrong and until Sef admits what that is, I’m not going to play.
“You all right, Little Bear?” Mum says, surprising me.
“Hm?” I finally pick a BBC wildlife thing on the grounds that the camerawork will be good. “Yeah. Why?”
She shifts in her seat to reach for her wine. “You’re always in your bedroom, Dad in his office and me in mine.” Mum waves her glass to indicate the sitting room, before taking a sip. “Want to make sure everything’s OK. That’s all.”
Actually I’m annoyed with this boy because he broke up with his girlfriend and didn’t tell me.
Aside from the inevitable, What boy? Where’d you meet him? Is that where you’ve been going every Saturday? What about your schoolwork? she might also ask me, Is it really worth getting this worked up about it?
“I’m fine, Mum,” I tell her.
Rich has noticed I can’t stop checking my phone. Although maybe that’s just because Gemma has a lunchtime hockey practice and he’s actually able to pay attention to me.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I put it back in my pocket and instantly want to take it back out. It’s been a week since the popularity of DARE: Lick toothpaste off Dare Boy’s chest! kicked the donations up the backside and we’re very close to the head-shaving target.
“Are you going to finish that pie?” I ask Rich, eyeing his pastry.
Rich ignores me, his fork poised as if using it to hunt. “Gemma has a theory that you’ve got some secret boyfriend on the go…” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“I don’t,” I snap and Rich edges away. “Can you answer my question about your pie. I’m hungry.”
Rich glances round. “OK, but don’t let Gemma know.”
“That I ate the leftovers of your pie?” I carefully transfer the crust from his plate to mine. “I wasn’t planning on informing her. But why would she care?”
Rich fidgets, looking shifty, and mumbles something into his drink. I frown at him until he repeats it.
“Gemma thinks you should only share food inside a relationship.”
There are a lot of expressions trying to happen on my face. “I’m eating a bit of your pie, not sucking up some spaghetti Lady and the Tramp style. That’s a stupid rule.”
“Gemma has a lot of stupid rules,” Rich mutters and I check my phone again so he doesn’t think I want to hear him talk about them.
Sef has messaged me. Again. Despite having spent three hours filming on Saturday, things still aren’t right between us and he’s been even more puppy-ish this week than last, bombarding me with questions and GIFs and emojis as if that’s the way to fix things.
All I want is for him to apologize for not being honest with me and the longer he leaves it, the grumpier I get.
This time, though, it’s to tell me that we’ve made the target and a nervous squeak rasps my throat.
“Secret boyfriend or not –” Rich tries to look at my phone and I lock the screen – “something’s got you excited.”
Scared, I think about correcting him.
I brush my hair out in a sort of farewell gesture on Saturday morning. Soft, fine and slightly mango-scented because I used Mum’s nice shampoo, my hair is a rose-gold waterfall plunging down my back to just below my shoulder blades. I twist round to look in the full-length mirror on the back of my door, the flesh beneath my bra folding over on itself. Pale skin, pale hair, freckles bleeding together into a pale-brown blur on my shoulders, peppering what little you can see of my back above my bra.
I feel a bit like I’m some kind of sacrificial offering once I’m dressed, sitting on my bed and plaiting my hair in two long braids so that we can donate it afterwards. When I see Mum on my way out, she tells me my hair looks nice like that and I feel so unbearably guilty that I run down the road, trying to outpace the squirming sense of dread in my guts.
Sef is waiting in Mrs Bennet, her heater going full blast so that it’s like stepping inside a hug when I open the door.
I’m greeted with a “Hair looks nice”.
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry, OK?” he says out of nowhere and I glance up.
“What for?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I’d broken up with Laila. You’re one of my best friends and…” He lifts his hand to twist the stud in his ear and I wonder if he’s secretly quite pleased to have yet another thing to fiddle with when he gets like this.
“And?” I prompt, because I’ve been waiting nearly two weeks for this and I’ve no intention of letting him off lightly.
Sef laughs, ducking his head a little before he turns to look at me. “Not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
“Any reason I should?” The same words he said in the library when I’d wanted to know why he’d not told me sooner.
Sef’s eyes are all over me and I heat up with more than Mrs B’s overactive climate control.
“No,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I hid the truth from you, C. I’ll be straight with you from now on. About everything. OK?”
As apologies go, it’s acceptable.
CHAPTER 18
Mum bursts into tears and then:
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“You look like a CANCER VICTIM!”
We explode into a row so loud that Dad comes hurrying out of his office to break things up. Not that he succeeds.
“What is wrong with you? Are you trying to punish me for not paying you enough attention?”
“Oh my God! Listen to yourself – this has nothing to do with you. Literally nothing. It’s my hair and my life and I’ll do what I want.”
Mum’s face hardens. “Whose idea was this?”
“Mine.”
“Was it Rich’s? I’m going to have a word with his mother—”
“I said IT WAS MINE!” I roar, my voice a tidal wave of sound that’s rolled in from the furthest corners of my soul. “Do you really think so little of me that you can’t possibly believe I might do something for myself? For fun? For charity? For actual ‘cancer victims’ as you call them?” I hate the words she used, the way she said it, like cancer is something that only happens to people too weak to avoid it.
“How is that your responsibility, Claire?” Mum flails her arms around in frustration.
“There’s no need to get hys—” Dad starts, but Mum’s not in the mood.
“Oh, don’t you even think about going there, Connor Casey.” Mum swoops her handbag and the car keys from the kitchen counter next to her and leaves the room.
“Where are you going?” Dad starts after her.
“Out.”
“Where? Why? We’re in the middle of—”
The distant slam of the side door to the garage cuts him off.
“Why is she being so unreasonable?” I mutter, thinking that at least Dad’s on my side, until he turns to look at me, finger pointing firmly in my direction to silence whatever I’m about to say.
“That’s enough from you.” He stares at me, finger still out, indicating I should stay quiet. Dad’s scary when he’s this angry. “I don’t even know you any more.”
“Dad—”
His arm relaxes, fist unclenching, whole body sagging before me. “No more, Claire. I can’t deal with this right now.”
And like Mum, he walks off rather than try and fix his broken relationships.
Sunday is a pleasant reprieve. Kam approves of my new look – his laugh is so loud that the nurse manning the station comes to his room to find out what the joke is – and I wish I could tell him that he’s the one I did it for.
My nerves return in full force on Monday, though, and at the last minute I grab a beanie hat from the miscellaneous accessories box by the front door before I meet Rich at the bus stop. Even though it itches – and smells a bit like head grease – I keep it on long after I’ve boarded.
“Are you ever going to take that thing off?” Rich asks.
I pull my hat further down over my ears. “Maybe.”
“Have you had a haircut you hate or something?”
I nod. Although I actually kind of like it. Zero minutes wasted on washing and drying and brushing and styling.
“Let me see.”
Ever so slowly, I lift the hat up off my head, cheeks pink from the heat as much as embarrassment at the way Rich is goggling at me.
“Wha…yyy?” His face is a slow-mo GIF of “horrified reaction”.
“For charity.” I like how this lie is also the truth.
“You’re…” He shakes his head and then strokes mine like I’m a lovable puppy. “A freaky, unknowable human. And a gift. You know I’m going to call you Baldy from now on, right?”
So unimaginative.
I put the hat back on for the walk into school, but I take it off before I walk into the classroom, Rich glued to my side for support.
Vijay sees me first. “Is that Milk Tits?”
But the name is too familiar for it to hurt the way it once did.
There’s a swell of noise in the corner, then a collective pause as all attention sweeps across the room straight to where I’m standing. My hand shakes as I run it over my head and try to smile.
“So … I had a haircut at the weekend.”
There’s another second of silence and then someone laughs. “You are such a weirdo.”
And just like that, everyone relaxes back into their conversations. Gemma and Chloe and some of the other girls ask if it was a mistake and whether they can have a feel of it.
When Seren walks in – right on the bell – she pauses, looking at me sitting with Rich on the desk. We lock eyes and then, after a moment’s appraisal, a slight smile curls at the corner of her mouth before she nods and turns away.
CHAPTER 19
I’ve got something to show you.
If this is a surprise picture of your abs again, know that I will not be looking. Things may have been resolved since he apologized for not telling me about Laila, but I’m still resisting Sef’s efforts to drive things back to the way they were before. There’s no fun in suggestive messaging when you know there’s no actual suggestion behind it. When he had a girlfriend, I could allow myself to believe there was a “what if…” air about everything. Now he’s single, I’m having a hard time keeping up the delusion.
Something to show you *in person* – meet down in the car park at lunch…
“Perhaps if I spoke to her in English, Claire would deign to give me her undivided attention?”
I’m startled into looking up from the phone on my lap to see Madame Cotterill holding out her hand and looking severe. “Donne moi ton téléphone.”
Sef’s already in the car park when I arrive, late from getting my phone back, complete with a lecture about using it in class.
“What is it, then?” I clamber into the passenger seat of Mrs Bennet, hoping there are no teachers looking out of the staff-room window. You can get into trouble for stuff like this.
Sef’s grinning at me and the energy that’s rolling off him is electric.
“Three guesses.”
“Sef!” But this is exactly the sort of game he will play by the rules. “Fine. Is it an exciting piece of equipment?”
He gives me a very amused look. “I think they frown on that kind of behaviour on school premises.”
I shove him in the arm and mumble, “I didn’t mean that kind of equipment.”
My second and third guesses aren’t right either. Sef is not offering me a home-baked cake or a puppy.
“What is it?!”
I didn’t know it was possible for him to beam any brighter, but when he shows me what’s on his phone, I see why.
There, sent to our Truth or Dare account, addressed to Dare Boy and Truth Girl, is an email. It’s only short, but the impact it has is huge:
Hey hey.
So I think your channel is bang. Want to make some noise together?
Moz (meep morp)
The next morning, when Sef picks me up, he’s buzzing with excitement while I buzz with something less enjoyable that nags insistently at my insides, churning my stomach, squeezing my bladder and clawing at my throat.
There’s a reason I’ve never skipped school before.
Rich thinks I’m ill. My parents think I’m at school. I think I’m going to faint.
But when MozzyMozzaMeepMorp suggests you meet him for lunch in a swanky London hotel to talk about collaborating with him, you say yes. That Rate It or Slate It? video I didn’t watch all those weeks ago, that was us doing that stupid toothpaste video and…
If I don’t stop staring at my reflection in the mirror and worrying about whether my mum’s train has been delayed or something equally awful that could mean we get caught, we’re going to miss our own train.
“Will you just chill?” Sef says, when I emerge from the station toilets in my own clothes, uniform stuffed into my rucksack. “It’s going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
Sef hooks an arm round me and drags me along the platform towards the gates.
“Trust me,” he whispers, his lips close to my ear. “We’ve already got away with it.”
Our T-shirts and jeans earn dismissive glances from t
he other people in the restaurant, whose shopping bags probably contain socks worth more than the cameras stuffed in my rucksack. Shuffling and awkward, at odds with the opulence of mirrored columns and waterfalls of white crystals hanging from the ceiling, we hunt for Moz, Sef murmuring, “The customers are as white as the tablecloths.” Eventually we find Moz in one of the booths, where he glances up from his phone and waves us to sit down, telling us to order something – “They cut the crusts off the sandwiches and everything” – while he deals with an email he’s just got from his agent.
He might be rich enough to eat fancy sandwiches, but Moz looks even more out of place than we do with his lip-piercing and cobalt hair. His T-shirt is printed with grainy photos of bums and boobs and he’s wearing mismatched Converse.
When he emits a short sharp “Bollocks!” at whatever he’s reading on his phone, the couple next to us turn to frown through the row of orchids separating the booths.
Sef and I order tap water, too nervous to actually think of eating. Too scared that we might have to pay for it.
Finally, Moz puts his phone screen-down on the table. The back of the case is a photo of the side of his own face.
“So,” he says, “this is what you look like without masks.”
He stares at us for an uncomfortable moment, smiling like we’re specimens from a zoo. “Cute glasses.”
Sef nods.
“Cute face.” Moz winks at me. I know he’s gay, but Moz just winked at me!!!
Over the next half hour, Moz talks. And talks. Mostly about himself, occasionally asking us a question about our own channel, only to try and guess the answer rather than let us provide one. It puts me at ease, him behaving the same way he does online. It’s as if I’m watching him onscreen rather than actually sitting at the same table, stuffing my face with the ridiculously delicious circular sandwiches he ordered.
“You want some more?” Moz turns to wave at one of the wait staff. “It’s on my publishers.”
When I say I didn’t know he had a book deal, Moz raises a purple-painted finger to his lips, his smile a sliver of teeth.
“The more money you get, the less you have to spend. World be whack.” All his sentences are like this, short statements that sound like you might see them on an inspirational poster across a panoramic photo of that famous rock in Australia. Or a Bart Simpson meme.