Girl (In Real Life)

by Tamsin Winter

  “So, sweetie,” Mum said, sitting down next to me. “Listen, this probably isn’t going to be very nice to see, but I’d rather you watched it with me than on your own or with someone at school.” She took my hand, and with the other she unlocked her phone. “I just want to say, he’s not meaning anything bad about you, okay? It’s about your dad and me.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I watched her type Brooklyn Evans into the search bar, and the video came up. Already I felt a lump in my throat.

  Mum squeezed my hand. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s us he’s getting at.”

  “Yep, you heard me right – they vlogged about their daughter’s period,” Brooklyn Evans said and a photo of me came up on the screen. I was holding my head in my hands. It was from an old video because there was a streak of pink in my hair that I’d had done last summer holidays.

  “This poor girl, right?” he said. “I mean, can you imagine? I’ve had a video brought to my attention. It’s made by RottenFang and I have permission to show you guys.”

  My blood went cold. RottenFang was the name me and Carys had used for our account. We got it from the name generator. I could feel my heart beating in my throat and the hand Mum was holding felt sweaty. “It’s a compilation showing all the times Eva Andersen has clearly felt uncomfortable with the filming, and in some cases actually asked her parents to stop. And guess what? They carry on! In fact, they make it a funny part of the vlog. I’m going to play a little section of it. If you want to see the rest click on the link in the description.”

  I watched as the 1980s song I’d chosen began playing. And there it was: the video that me and Carys had made. Eye rolls, sighs, closing doors, covering my face, crying. The subtitles we’d written saying “exploitation” and “child cruelty” and “Free Eva!” By the time the video ended, I felt sick. I didn’t dare open my mouth in case whatever I said sounded guilty. I dropped a few pebbles into the water and waited for Mum to say something.

  “Apparently this Brooklyn Evans guy targets family vloggers,” she said. “That’s literally the point of his channel.” She tapped on another video. “Look, in this one he says all family vloggers are evil.” She sighed. “Anyway, the newspaper’s been in touch. They’re going to run a piece on it when we’re back home.”

  “An article?” I said, feeling dizzy even though I was sitting down.

  “Yes,” Mum said, tapping her screen again. “This one’s had a million views! We’ll have to film a response. I mean, we’re not cruel, are we?”

  My hands were trembling. And my voice didn’t come out very loud in the wind. But I knew this was my chance to say it. I took a deep breath. “It feels a bit cruel sometimes, I guess.” I watched a yacht crossing the water, not wanting to look at Mum’s face.

  “It feels cruel?” Mum put her hand on my arm. “It honestly feels like we’re cruel to you? Cruel?”

  I wished she would stop repeating that word. “Kind of,” I said. “Sometimes. Not deliberately.”

  “Like when?” Mum asked, her voice only just above a whisper.

  I felt sick, like I’d swallowed too much seawater. “Well, the period stuff, obviously. And the filming in my room, in my wardrobe. I know you don’t see it, but sometimes it feels like you care about the channel more than me.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Mum said, and she pulled me into a hug. I could hear her phone still pinging in her hand. “I’m so sorry it feels like that. I’ll do better. Your dad and I, we’ll do better.” She stroked my hair and for a second I felt like telling her everything. About how the video Brooklyn Evans had played was made by me and Carys in her bedroom. How I’d had no choice because she and Dad never listened. How I’d had to do it. Because there was no other way.

  “I do get the privacy thing, Eva. I do understand. I still see you as my little girl.” She sniffed. “But I need to remember you’re getting older. You’re becoming your own person.” She stared at her phone for a minute. “Fancy hitting the ice cream parlour? It’s only a little way along the harbour. It’s getting cold out here.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Mum hugged me and I breathed in the sea air, and listened to the waves and I thought, It’s worked! Things are going to change. It’s going to be better.

  Then, as I started walking towards the ice cream shop, Mum said, “This way, sweetie. We’ll have to go back to Farmor’s and get changed first. Sorry, sweetheart, but we still have to do the Pretty and Proud posts, remember.”

  And I suddenly wanted to plunge head first into the freezing waters of the Baltic Sea.

  The next day, Mum and Dad took a bike ride round one of the neighbouring islands. Farmor said she wouldn’t make it all the way round, so I volunteered to stay at the cottage with her. I was planting some beetroot seeds when I heard her spade drop onto the cobbled path. I stood up and went over to her.

  “Are you okay, Farmor?” She was out of breath and her cheeks had gone red. “Shall I get you some water?” I said, because I didn’t know what else to do.

  Farmor nodded and closed her eyes. She staggered to the metal bench by the shed, sat down, and took deep breaths. I quickly went inside and filled up a glass of water, then held it out to her. But she didn’t take it. Her forehead was covered in beads of sweat, even though it wasn’t very warm. She took big gulps of air. I wondered how bad it was if an old person couldn’t breathe very well.

  “Are you okay, Farmor?” I said again. She still had her eyes closed. I wished Dad was there. “Should I get someone, Farmor?” I said, trying not to cry. “I don’t know what to do!” My mind flooded with useless Danish phrases. Why couldn’t I think of the word for “help”?

  Farmor reached out for my hand. Hers was hot and trembling. Then her other arm dropped down over the side of the bench and her body slumped over and the glass of water smashed all over the path.

  I don’t really know what happened after that. Only that I didn’t get help quick enough.

  My eyes were swollen with crying by the time Mum and Dad got to the hospital. Astrid and Stefan, Farmor’s neighbours, had been sitting with me for what seemed like hours. They stood up when Mum ran down the corridor towards us. I couldn’t stand up because my legs felt like they were made of concrete. Mum wrapped her arms around me and sobbed into my neck. I thought I’d run out of tears by then, but loads more slid down my face onto Mum’s cagoule.

  “Oh, sweetheart, you poor thing. I’m so sorry.”

  Dad’s eyes were red and there was half a packet of tissues stuffed into his cycling shorts. His legs were splattered with mud. He kneeled down and wrapped his arms around both of us.

  “It’s my fault,” I said, in between sobs. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “No, no, Eva,” Dad said. “The doctor said she’d had a bad heart for a long time. She didn’t tell us. I think…she was waiting for us so she could say goodbye.” I squeezed him as tight as I could. “I wish I’d been there,” he said. “How could I not have noticed she was ill?” And for the first time in my life I heard my dad swear in Danish.

  A doctor came through the double doors and spoke to them. Dad said how he wished he’d known she had a bad heart. The doctor said a load of stuff I didn’t understand. I stared at the speckled tiles on the floor, thinking about how this morning I could hug Farmor and hear her voice and plant seeds in her garden. Now I could never hug her again and those seeds I planted would grow and she’d never get to see them. And I knew that my heart would never go completely back to normal.

  Farmor’s house felt grey and echoey when we got back. Mum couldn’t find any normal teabags so she made us dandelion root tea, which reminded me so much of Farmor I couldn’t drink it. But I couldn’t let go of my cup either. My heart felt weird. Like the world wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Even the cottage itself seemed sad. It was like someone had opened a window and let all the happiness out.

  The next day, I sat on the sofa with an untouched morning bun in front of me, while Mum and Dad wrote
a list of things they needed to do. My face felt numb from crying and there was this sort of haze around me, like a bubble that wouldn’t burst. Nothing felt real. Like part of me had been rubbed out.

  “So, I guess I should see if my cousins want to fly over for the funeral,” Dad said. The word “funeral” hit me like a stone. I put my hand over my eyes and I felt Dad’s arm around me. “It’s all right. It’s all right. She’s with your farfar now.” And I was suddenly reminded of Christmas, when Farmor had talked about seeing my grandfather again. “When I die, I’ll be with your grandfather. It’s been a long time, you know. We have catching up to do!” she’d said. I felt a tear slide down my cheek as I wondered if she’d known she was sick then. Dad stroked my head and said, “You’ll always be her lille majroe.” It was like he’d pressed a bruise. Thousands of tears poured out of my heart. I’d never hear her call me that again.

  Upstairs, I pulled my sketchbook and pencils out of my case and curled up in the blanket that still smelled of Farmor. I drew a big dandelion clock in the middle of the page, with some of the seeds sailing away. I sketched waves and sailboats and gulls and a porpoise. The thatched mushroom on her roof. A little turnip. Everything that reminded me of her. Everything I loved about her. After I’d finished, the page was splotched with tears. But my heart felt a little bit lighter.

  I heard the latch on the bedroom door go, and Mum said gently, “Hey, sweetie, Lars made some soup.” She carried a tray of soup and bread over to the desk by the window. “He’s looking through Farmor’s old recipe books.” She looked over at my sketchbook and for once, I didn’t hide it away. “Oh my goodness, Eva! This is so beautiful.” She cupped my face in one hand. “We’re all going to miss Farmor so much.”

  Later, I went for a walk down to the sea on my own. Mum and Dad were talking to someone from a funeral place, and said they’d meet me once they’d finished. I sat with my legs over the wall, dropping pebbles into the water, waiting for my phone to pick up a signal. It beeped. Then it didn’t stop. Messages from Spud, Carys, Jenna. Even Gabi. And a voicemail from Hallie. All saying they were sorry about Farmor. How did they know she had died? Then a horrible feeling crept over my skin. The All About Eva Instagram. Mum wouldn’t have done that, would she? I tapped on my app and there it was. The drawing I did about Farmor. I’d left it on the desk. Mum must have taken a photo of it while I was downstairs. The caption said: Yesterday we lost Eva’s beloved grandmother. She meant the world to us.

  I wanted to scream. Everything I felt about Farmor, all my memories of her, stolen out of my heart and shared with the entire world. My whole body trembled with anger. And I couldn’t really think straight after that.

  “How could you?” I shouted at Mum as she and Dad came into view. I stood up from the edge of the water. “That picture was for Farmor! Not you! You didn’t even ask me if you could share it! After everything I’ve been telling you!”

  I heard the click of Mum’s heels on the pavement as she ran towards me. “Eva, I’m so sorry. Calm down, sweetie. I didn’t think. Our followers are like family and—”

  “No, Mum. Farmor was family. She would have hated you putting it on there!”

  “Hey, Eva, come here.” But even Dad’s gentle voice couldn’t calm me down. It was like my heart had been gouged out.

  I glared at Mum. “Everything Brooklyn Evans said about you in that video is true! You are cruel!” I spat the words out then ran towards Farmor’s cottage. I knew Mum wouldn’t be able to keep up in her heels, but I heard Dad walking a little way behind me. Anger tore through me like a tornado. I grabbed the key from under the yellow flowerpot, stormed upstairs and tore the picture into pieces.

  “Eva!” Dad said, bounding up the stairs behind me. “What’s happened? What is all this?”

  “It was private, Dad,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “All my memories of Farmor.” I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.

  “Oh, Eva.” Dad hugged me and I felt my tears soaking into his woolly jumper. “We’ll take it down, okay. We’ll take it down.”

  I heard the latch go and Mum say, “I’m sorry, Eva. Your picture’s just so beautiful and—”

  “You can have it,” I said, and kicked some pieces of it towards her.

  “Oh, Eva!” Mum said. “You didn’t have to rip it up! I would have taken it down. But the comments were—”

  “I don’t care about the stupid comments!” I screamed. “Those people are not my friends.” I wanted to say more, but my chest felt like it was about to break apart.

  “I’m sorry,” Mum said quietly. And I heard her go downstairs.

  After a while, Dad said, “I’m sorry Farmor’s gone,” in Danish. “She would have said it’s like swallowing a camel.” And then I cried and laughed at the same time.

  The days ran into each other after that. Dad wanted me and Mum to go home so I didn’t miss any school, and fly back over for the funeral. But Mum wanted to stay with him in Dragør. They thought about asking Spud’s parents if I could stay with them for a week, but Dad changed his mind when Spud FaceTimed saying he’d accidentally shot a hole in their garage door with Chip’s BB gun. So, Mum emailed Miss Wilson saying I’d be back a week later, and changed our flights.

  Dad asked if I wanted to do a reading at the funeral, being Farmor’s only grandchild. But I felt too embarrassed about my Danish. Mum said she’d help me find a nice poem to read. But there’s no way I could have read anything out loud without crying. Or making mistakes. So, Astrid, Farmor’s neighbour, sat with me the day before the funeral and showed me how to make a wreath of wild flowers from Farmor’s garden instead. I drew hearts on a cardboard tag and added a tiny little turnip – a lille majroe – in the corner.

  Dad was sitting on the little bench outside the front door, but when I went to show him, Mum said, “Leave Dad for a little while, sweetheart. He needs a bit of time thinking about his mor on his own.” I hadn’t really thought about Farmor as anyone other than my grandma before. But that day, and at the funeral, she was my dad’s mor. Mum. And I missed her more than ever.

  Mum held out her arms and I sank into them. It’s hard to stay angry at someone when you need them so bad. Her eyes were filled with tears, just like mine.

  “We both have to do our best to speak Danish tomorrow, and to be there for each other. But remember, you can say goodbye to Farmor in your own way too. This is beautiful,” she said, picking up the wild-flower wreath I’d made. “Really special.”

  “Don’t—” I said.

  But she must have known what I meant, because she squeezed me even tighter and said, “I won’t.”

  The next morning, the wardrobe door creaked as I lifted off the outfit Mum had helped me choose in Copenhagen the afternoon before. It was dark grey. Over the dress, Mum had hung a necklace with a pale blue oval stone. Like Farmor’s eyes, like the sky. I opened the curtains and watched the sun appear behind the clouds on the horizon as gulls circled boats. The bells of the old church chimed seven times.

  I wrapped Farmor’s yellow crocheted blanket around me, breathed in her scent, and said, “Farvel.” Goodbye.

  I didn’t sleep on the flight home. But I pretended to so Mum and Dad would stop checking if I was okay. Mum asked the air steward for an extra blanket and I felt her tuck it around my legs. I waited to hear the click of her camera, but I didn’t. So that was something.

  It was late by the time we got home. The house felt cold and weird, and I didn’t feel like unpacking or anything. I went straight to the back door to call Miss Fizzy. Mainly because I wanted to check she was still alive after two weeks of Spud looking after her.

  “You sure you want to go to school tomorrow?” Mum said.

  “Yeah, I want to go,” I said, picking up Miss Fizzy and cuddling her to me. She smelled like lavender. I hoped it was from the lavender bush in our garden and not from some weird experiment Spud had done on her. Mum kissed me and said goodnight, and I carried Miss Fizzy up to my room.

  I he
ard Dad bring the cases in from the car.

  “Jen,” he said, “you’d better take a look at this email from Ash. It’s about the hacking.”

  I stood still for a minute, with the thud of my heart and Miss Fizzy’s purr in my ears. And my guilt floating out into the room like an oil spill.

  I didn’t sleep properly that night. I stayed up late looking at All About Eva stuff for hours. It was the first time I’d looked since Farmor died. And the whole thing had blown up way bigger than I’d imagined. Everywhere I looked there were headlines and videos and more headlines and more videos.

  All About Eva: The Case Against Family Vloggers

  Exposing Kids to Internet Fame Too Young

  Meet the Family Vloggers Under Fire

  Can YouTube Kids Consent?

  Influencer Questions Safety of Kids Growing Up

  on YouTube

  Would You Actually Want to be Eva Andersen?

  In a way, it was my dream come true in terms of bad publicity for the channel. It was just a lot more than I’d expected. My parents wouldn’t tell me how many subscribers they’d lost, but when I checked they were down by almost two hundred thousand. I should have felt pleased. Plan B had worked. Like Farmor would have said, the goat had been shaved. But sometimes, it’s only when you get what you want that you realize what a massive mistake you’ve made.

  Before I’d even finished my breakfast the next morning, Mum had read out nine emails from sponsors pulling out. Dad was talking about difficult phone calls he’d have to make. I felt kind of cut off from everything, like I was sitting at the bottom of a lake, and there was nothing I could do to swim back up.

  I was staring into space when Mum nudged me and handed me my untouched orange juice.

  “Eva,” she said gently. “You sure you’re up to going in today? I know I feel like getting back into bed.”

  “Jen,” Dad said, “she’s missed enough school already.”