Things are getting bad, and I don’t see any way out. Between extra shifts, paying the rent, and taking care of Charlie, I’ve run out of time for studying. The university say they’ve been patient, but I’ve fallen behind on my research and, if things don’t change, they’re going to cancel my PhD. I’ll have to take some lousy job somewhere, we’ll have to move out of London. I’m scared, K, but we have to put Charlie first. We have to give her the life she deserves.
And that’s the main thing. You’re missing her childhood, and she gets more beautiful every day. You’d be so proud of her.
I know I am.
Please come home.
Ralph
I reread the closing paragraph, a pressure building behind my eyes. You’d be so proud of her … I know I am. I ran a thumb along the words, the ink faded with age, the paper discolored. Did my father still feel that way about me? If he did, he certainly never said it.
Replacing the letter, I examined the front of the envelope. Though the address had been filled out—Wildwood Motel, Atlantic Avenue, Blueville, NJ—it had no postmark. What’s more, the date inside read 25 November 2000 … just days before my mother died.
In all likelihood, she never even saw this.
My head was buzzing with questions. Did the crash happen in America? Why was Mum even out there when I was just a baby? And why had Dad never told me any of this?
I was sitting there, staring at the ceiling, my dad’s private papers scattered far and wide across his desk, when something snapped me from my reverie.
The sound of his key turning in the lock.
The front door opened and I glanced around, panicked, at the mess of papers on Dad’s desk.
I didn’t have time to fix this.
“Charlie…?”
The scritch-scratch of Dad wiping his feet on the mat. Folding the letter, I slipped it into my back pocket and began desperately gathering up the rest of the documents.
I froze when I heard Dad breathing behind me.
“What’s going on?”
He was standing in the doorway, his eyes tracing a ring around the devastation.
“I was…” I lifted up a folder and pretended to search underneath it. “The school needs my birth certificate.”
Dad lowered his shopping bags to the floor. His cheeks were flushed, and he kept blinking.
“This is my study, Charlie. There are … work documents in here. You can’t just barge in without asking me.”
Work documents, I thought. Work documents.
“If you needed something, you should have waited.”
Dad raked a hand through his hair, and his gaze fell on the university award on the desk. His eyes glazed over.
“Dad…?”
There was something he wasn’t telling me. I was sure of it.
But I couldn’t find the words.
“Please, Charlie, just put everything back where you found it.”
“But—”
“Charlie,” he snapped, his eyes trained on the floor. “I’m tired.”
I could make him tell me the truth, I thought. About the crash, about the letter to my mum and what happened to her in America. I could ask him if he was still proud of his daughter.
But instead, as a single tree branch tapped insistently against the small study window, I watched as my father picked up his sagging shopping bags and walked slowly from the room.
* * *
“Come on, girls, hurry up! This race won’t run itself.”
My breath was sticking in my throat as I laced up my trainers and listened to the rain pounding on the roof of the changing rooms. I hated PE, partly because I wasn’t very good at it, but mainly because it was the hardest lesson to be invisible in.
“Apparently the boys have been ready for five whole minutes…”
Miss Blake checked her watch again and continued patrolling the room. Lots of the girls were still only half dressed, laughing and chatting and rifling through washbags. I swear some of them put makeup on before going for a run.
“They’ll be starting the cross-country without you if you don’t get a move on.”
I was struggling to concentrate at school. Thoughts battled for attention inside my head: lines from Gabriel’s songs, the argument I’d had with my father, the letter he’d never sent. I didn’t like the way Dad had reacted to finding me in his study, how he’d snapped at me, the fact that all the while he could barely look me in the eye.
We’d hardly spoken since.
“Keep the noise down, Year Eleven,” crowed Miss Blake, whistle in hand, as we all stood shivering on the starting line. I glanced up the row, assessing my classmates, remembering from last year’s cross-country who was fast and who was slow. My tactic was to drop back early on so as not to end up near the front, but to stay ahead of the stragglers so that I’d finish somewhere in the middle.
“Ready, set … go!”
The rain lashed at our faces and bare legs as we trudged round the sodden, muddy sports field. The usual people were out in front, the unfit ones were at the back, and everyone else—including me—was bunched in the middle. I was surrounded on all sides, which was making it all the more obvious that people were talking about me.
It started small, with just one or two girls. This happened a lot at school, and so at first I ignored it, but then they began to pass the secret around. It was like a giant, mobile game of Chinese whispers, and whatever they were sharing soon made its way around the entire year group. In all directions were whispering mouths, nudging fingers, and astonished eyes.
An hour later, I had finished the race. I showered and got dressed as quickly as I could, left the changing rooms without talking to anyone, and found an empty table in the cafeteria. Melissa took violin lessons on Thursday lunchtimes, so I’d been sitting alone for nearly twenty minutes when I heard the voices behind me.
“We should talk to her…”
“You do it.”
Scattered giggles.
“I’m scared.”
“I’m not. Hey, Charlie. Charlie!”
I swiveled round on my chair. A group of Year Eight girls were huddled together by the adjacent table, beaming from ear to ear. I recognized them straightaway: they were the ones who read the Fire&Lights fan blog aloud every day over lunch.
“We all saw it,” said the girl at the front, the tallest in the group. Her friends jiggled behind her. They looked like they were about to burst.
I put down my sandwich.
“Saw what?”
Their little faces dropped.
“The fan blog,” said the tall girl. She glanced at her friends. “Y’know … today’s blog?”
I started to turn back round when she whipped out her phone.
“Wait, Charlie! Look.”
She walked over to me and held her iPhone in front of my face. It was dotted with chip salt.
The web browser was open on a Fire&Lights fan site.
* * *
PHOTO EXCLUSIVE!! GABRIEL WEST DATING MYSTERY GIRL??
Secret leaked photo of Gabriel onstage with female fan
Listen up, guys, because today’s entry is a JUICY one!! This photo—sent to us by an anonymous source—shows our beautiful Gabriel West with his arm round a fan, on an empty stage … and our source says they might even be TOGETHER?!
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN, GUYS??? Is she just a random groupie, or Gabriel’s new GF??! Comments below people!! :) :) :) xxx
P.S. Remember, you heard it here first!!:-)
xox FIRE&LIGHTS FOREVER xox The best Fire&Lights fan blog on the web!!
* * *
* * *
Underneath the article was a blurred photograph. The photograph of me and Gabriel, onstage in Brighton, that he’d taken with my camera. The picture I had sent to him, only hours afterward, with a little note that read: “Thanks for modeling for me. Charlie x.”
I felt sick.
“Ohmygod it’s so amazing!” blurted all the Year Eights at once.
&n
bsp; The tall girl clapped her hands together. “I can’t believe you’ve met him, it’s just the coolest. What’s he like? I bet he’s the BEST in person…”
How had this happened? What was one of my photos doing on a fan blog? And who started the rumor that we “might be together”?
I scrolled down the page, the chatter and the giggles fading away beneath the rising thud of my heartbeat, pounding in my ears. The post already had nearly two hundred likes, and a smattering of comments.
she is SOOOOO not hot enough for him
um, yeah, like Gabriel would date some random groupie?? as if
ugh what a wannabe
At the bottom of the page, buried among the likes and the reblogs, a user called crazyfaker55 had left a longer comment. As I read it, the words sank into me slowly, like I was ingesting a poison.
i know this girl, she goes to my school. totally up herself. no way gabriel’s into her, unless he likes boring skanks LMFAO. she’s mymusicpix on instagram. we should troll the bitch
I stumbled down into my chair, my stomach churning.
“Charlie…?”
The tall girl was standing above me, the room swimming around her. I lifted up her phone, and she took it back.
“Are you OK?”
In a trance, I slid my own phone, still switched off from PE, out of my bag. It loaded sluggishly, ponderously, the little white circle spinning and twinkling on the screen.
I could sense the Year Eights drifting away from me, blurred shapes, muffled voices, the clink of plates and the scraping of metal chair legs. I felt light-headed, ghostly, like a superimposed image, disconnected from the world. When my home screen finally appeared, I opened the Instagram app, thumb trembling, and the orange notification bar popped up in the corner. Over fifty new comments.
None of them good.
haha nice pix, boy band slut
gabriel don’t sleep with skanks like u
BACK OFF BITCH!!!! GABRIEL’S MINE
ur face sux & so do ur pix
hurry up & die wannabe slut
A hot pain, barbed like thistles, was swelling behind my eyes. The phone was heavy in my hand, buzzing with vibrations, and I dropped it onto the table, one hand clutched to my stomach.
“She doesn’t look happy, Gem.”
“Is she gonna vom?”
I looked up, a flood of tears building, and through my shimmering gaze, I saw Aimee Watts. I knew, straightaway, that I was staring into the eyes of crazyfaker55.
“You all right?” she said, parking herself on the edge of the table.
I couldn’t speak.
Aimee glanced at my phone, and winced.
“Ouch,” she said, with a shake of her head. Her hair was still greasy from PE. “That is nasty, Charlie Bloom.”
I glared back at her, my cheeks burning. Her smile was long and thin, like a blade.
You won’t know when it’s coming.
Throwing my book, my phone, and my lunch into my bag, I scraped back the chair, pushed past Aimee and Gemma, and headed for the corridor. Weaving through pockets of people staring at me, whispering to each other, I ran to the toilets, locked myself in a cubicle, and let the tears fall.
* * *
A familiar pair of shoes appeared underneath the cubicle door. Outside in the hallway, feet squeaked against the linoleum, and I could hear Miss Woods ushering students into the courtyard. Pipes moaned and creaked behind the tiled walls.
“Charlie, is that you?”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, a wet slash of tears smearing my cheek.
“Melissa…?”
“Yes, oh my gosh, Charlie … let me in.”
I pressed my ear to the door, listening for other people in the room.
“It’s just me,” said Melissa, as if she’d heard what I was thinking. I opened the door and she bundled in, locking it behind her.
“Oh my God, Charlie…”
She opened her arms, and I fell into them. For a while, I sobbed, quietly, into her shoulder.
“Are you OK?”
I stepped backward, sniffling, and shook my head.
“Look, I know you’re upset,” she said, a hand on my arm, “but when you think about it, it’s kind of cool, isn’t it? Most people think you’re the biggest legend at Caversham High since Olly Samson.”
I plucked a strip of toilet paper from the roll.
“I don’t care,” I said, dabbing at my eyes. “I don’t want people talking about me. I don’t want them staring at me.”
Melissa took my hand, and I stuffed the tissue paper into my pocket.
“Besides, did you see what happened? Someone left a comment with my Instagram handle in it. It was Aimee, I know it was. People are saying horrible things…”
“They’ll delete the comment, Charlie. They probably already have.”
“But that’s not the point. It’s out there now.” I stared at my hand, cradled in Melissa’s. “Maybe I should close my accou—”
I stopped abruptly at the sound of the main door swinging hard against the tiles, metal handle cracking into the wall. Our hands broke apart, and I touched a finger to my lips. Melissa held her breath.
“Oh my God, I’m desperate for a wee,” said one girl, rushing into the adjacent cubicle. Through the narrow slit in the door, I could see a second girl standing in front of the mirror, fiddling with her hair.
“Can you believe that photo of Charlie Bloom with Gabriel West?” said the girl at the mirror, shaking her hair out behind her.
“I know, right?” said the voice from the cubicle. “It’s got to be a hoax.”
My eyes met Melissa’s.
“Yeah,” said the girl at the sink. “I mean … Charlie Bloom?”
“I know. Why would he be into her? She’s so … quiet.”
Melissa grabbed my hand again.
“He’s hot, though, right?
“Gabriel? Crazy hot.”
The girl at the mirror twirled her hair three times and flicked on a hairband. She spun round suddenly, and I shrank backward, afraid she might see me through the slit.
“You done yet?”
“Yep!” said the second girl, flushing the toilet and opening the cubicle. They walked past us and out through the door, and I sat down on the closed toilet, my head in my hands.
“Don’t listen to them,” said Melissa, dismissively. “That was Vicky Mathers—she can barely tie her own shoelaces.”
I managed a weak smile. Melissa’s face creased with concern.
“Where do you think those bloggers got the photo?” she said. I shrugged.
“I don’t know, but … it had to be Gabriel. Nothing else makes sense. God, I feel so stupid for trusting him.”
I wouldn’t make that mistake again. That was for sure.
“Shall we go outside? I’ll be with you the whole time. I promise…”
I couldn’t stand to stay in school for the afternoon. I decided to sneak out before lunch break ended, and although Melissa said she’d come with me, I quickly convinced her to stay. I didn’t want her getting in trouble, and in any case, I needed some time on my own. So, once everyone was outside on the playing fields and the corridors were empty, I snuck through the main gates, unnoticed, and walked out of school without looking back.
I spent the afternoon wandering along the canal. Aside from the occasional dog walker, there was no one around to bother me, and as I walked up and down the gravel paths, deep in thought, the sun lost its hold on the day, and the hours fell quietly away.
It was something I’d worried about a lot: what might happen if my secret got out. How it might change things at school. And now, in one morning, my disguise had been taken from me. I couldn’t blend into the crowd anymore or keep my head down in class. I was a story. I was public property.
My one comfort was that I’d kept my Instagram handle anonymous. Outside of Caversham High, no one knew who I was, so in a way, I was lucky … but I didn’t feel it. The words in my comment feed h
ad lodged in my skin like splinters. Slut. Skank. Bitch. What right did they have to call me those things? What made people so spiteful toward a total stranger?
My phone burned in my pocket, begging me to unlock it, to get online and see what the world was saying about me. I had locked my Instagram account and blocked the trolls, but I still felt exposed. They were all out there, somewhere. Hating me.
And as for Gabriel, why would he have bothered leaking the photo in the first place? Was he trying to make a point? Was he trying to show me that I didn’t belong in his world? He’d been so keen that I send the picture to him—maybe this was his plan all along. To teach me a lesson.
If that was true, it had certainly worked.
* * *
Later that evening, as I turned the corner into Tower Close, I was gripped by a sudden fear. What if the school had noticed I was gone and phoned my father? Since we’d argued the other night there’d been a weird tension in the house, a silent wall between us, and skipping school would only make things worse.
When I stepped into the hallway, he was waiting for me.
“Charlie, what’s going on?”
I needed an excuse, and fast.
“Dad, I can explain, it w—”
“Look at this.”
He was holding a sheet of paper at arm’s length. I peered at it in the low light: a blurred image in the center, and a message at the bottom.
“Do you know who did this?”
I took a step closer and, as the image shifted into focus, a sticky heat spread through me. Down my arms, and into my fingertips.
“Where did you get that?”
“Someone posted it through our letter box,” said Dad, “which worries me in itself.” He shook the paper in my direction. “Charlie, this is you.”
The image on the page was a poor-quality enlarged printout of the photograph from the fan blog, my infamous Gabriel West selfie. Our names were scrawled above us in black marker: “Charlie + Gabriel <3 <3 <3.” I read the message underneath, heart juddering, and goose bumps prickled my arm. She used to be such a good girl.
“What is this?” Dad croaked, the paper trembling a little in his hand. “Who’s Gabriel?”
Songs About a Girl Page 14