I blotted out the rows, the arguments, told myself they were nightmares, whitewashed my memories so that everything looked perfect. I remember now, though, and my eyes sting with tears the way they did years ago when I used to sit at the top of the stairs late at night, hugging my knees, listening. It scared me then and it still scares me now, the sound of my dad when he’s angry.
I open up my laptop and click on to SpiderWeb. I find a recent photo of me and Ash, our faces squashed up close, laughing into my iPhone camera with the ocean behind us, and post it on to my page. Summer holidays so cool, I type. Wish they didn’t have to end …
Then I click to open the journal page to distract myself, writing through the night while my friends sleep on.
28 January, 4.20 a.m.
Sleepover – that’s a joke. I can’t sleep … I may never sleep again.
My friends don’t have that problem. Bennie is snoring slightly and Tara is wearing a kitten-print nightie that she’s probably had since she was seven. My friends are not cool. Tara has a million freckles and geeky specs and zero dress sense. Bennie is one of those curvy girls that just miss out on that whole hourglass figure thing and end up looking like your favourite teddy bear. Still, at Willowbank they are practically fashionistas. That place is so stuck in the Dark Ages they will be adding kirtles, hoods and goatskin capes to the school uniform list any minute now. The place is so dull it makes my brain ache.
I don’t think I’d survive it at all without Tara and Bennie. They are the sweetest, kindest girls I’ve met in forever. When we hang out I feel like I’m five years old again, in a good way. I feel happy and hopeful, like the world is a good place to be. And that’s quite an achievement right now because my life is actually one big mess. It’s a very long time since I’ve had proper friends, and boy, does it feel good. Hope to goodness I don’t mess it up.
20
On Monday, I have to drag myself to school. It is an effort to pull on the blue-checked tent dress, an effort to pack my rucksack with books and study sheets and shiny new pencil case. The study timetable on the wall above my bed is looking neglected. I stopped sticking to the plan around the time I began working at the cafe; I haven’t opened a maths book in weeks.
I meet Tara and Bennie in the foyer, and together we sit through an hour-long assembly where Miss Bird attempts to shake us out of our back-to-school gloom and instil a little enthusiasm for the year ahead. I close my eyes and doze through most of this speech, so I cannot tell whether it is successful or not.
My enthusiasm is at an all-time low. I slouch through school, just waiting for trouble to find me. It will. Any initial veneer of being different, cool, exotic, are long gone, and hostile glances follow me along the corridors. The dodgy SpiderWeb picture from last term lost me a lot of friends, and my upbeat picture of me and Ash doesn’t seem to have changed that. The fact is, I don’t fit in – I must have been crazy to imagine I ever could.
It was fun to pretend for a little while. I tried, I really did, but the novelty has worn off and my acting skills won’t keep me afloat for long once the teachers suss how little study I’ve actually done these last few weeks. I don’t even have a visit to the beach cafe to look forward to – Ash isn’t working today, and my part-time job is over now that the holiday rush is dying down. I am surplus to requirements.
Back home, I lean against the honeysuckle arch with a few maths books at my side, trying to recover some of the focus I had before Christmas. I am still frowning at the first problem when my mobile rings, Bennie’s name flashing up.
‘Hey, Bennie,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t live without me for even half an hour, huh? I’m glad you called, though, because I’m totally stuck on my maths. That first question is a killer. Any clues?’
There’s a silence on the line, and a pink and white honeysuckle flower drifts gently down on to my worksheet.
‘Bennie?’ I repeat. ‘What’s up?’
There’s a snuffling sound at the end of the line, and then Bennie’s voice comes through. ‘You know what’s up,’ she says. ‘You know exactly what’s up, and that’s fine, you’re entitled to your opinion. I’m not going to argue. If you don’t want our friendship, then fine –’
‘Huh?’ I cut in. ‘What are you talking about? Of course I want your friendship!’
‘You have a funny way of showing it,’ she replies. ‘You could have just said those things to our faces, Honey. You didn’t have to humiliate us like that in front of everyone. Tara is gutted; I am too. Boy, did we get you wrong. We liked you. We trusted you!’
‘Bennie!’ I argue. ‘Listen! Calm down, please. I have no idea what you are talking about! I think there’s been some mistake –’
‘No mistake,’ Bennie says. ‘Check your SpiderWeb, seeing as your memory’s so poor today. And goodbye … been nice knowing you.’
‘Bennie!’ I yell. ‘Wait! Listen to me – whatever you’ve seen –’
But the line is dead. I jump up and run into my bedroom, open up my laptop and click through to my SpiderWeb page. I go cold all over.
A screenshot from my private SpiderWeb journal is posted up on the wall, part of the piece I wrote at the sleepover in the early hours of Sunday morning.
Bennie is snoring slightly and Tara is wearing a kitten-print nightie that she’s probably had since she was seven. My friends are not cool. Tara has a million freckles and geeky specs and zero dress sense. Bennie is one of those curvy girls that just miss out on that whole hourglass figure thing and end up looking like your favourite teddy bear. Still, at Willowbank they are practically fashionistas. That place is so stuck in the Dark Ages they will be adding kirtles, hoods and goatskin capes to the school uniform list any minute now. The place is so dull it makes my brain ache.
They are my words, my views, but taken out of context they look spiteful, bitchy. That’s not how they were intended. That diary entry was about how much I love my friends, not how hopeless they are.
That journal is supposed to be private – so how come it’s plastered all over my home page? I look closer and see that both Bennie and Tara are tagged in the status, and that SpiderWeb says I posted it. But I didn’t. I haven’t touched my laptop since yesterday, and the status was posted a few hours back when I was still in school.
I scroll down, reading through the comments from girls at school. They call me two-faced, vicious, manipulative, mean. I can’t even blame them – this looks bad. Who would do something like this – and how?
I click the Delete button, pick up my mobile and call Bennie and Tara over and over, but there’s no reply. All I can do is post a status explaining that my page has been hacked, but when I go to check on it the words have vanished as if they were never there at all.
A new private message flashes up, and I go cold all over as I see the name: Surfie16.
Don’t hold back, Honey, will you? I know you said your new friends were kind of boring, but no need to broadcast it all over SpiderWeb. Harsh.
I take a deep breath.
Who are you? Leave me alone! I deleted you weeks ago, so why are you on my SpiderWeb page at all?
A reply pops up at once.
You know exactly who I am – Riley. We met at the beach, right? You’ll never delete me, Honey, you’ve been flirting with me from the start. You just can’t stay away!
My hands are shaking as I type.
I definitely deleted you, creep. You’re not Riley. I know you’re not. So who the hell are you?
Almost a minute ticks by, and then the answer is there:
Wouldn’t you like to know?
School the next day is pure torture. I look for Bennie and Tara in the foyer before lessons, but they’re not there, and when I ask if anyone’s seen them my classmates turn away, freezing me out completely. In maths, Tara has moved seats. She won’t look at me, and when I try to talk to her afterwards, Liane tells me to back off, that I’ve done enough damage already. I stand alone at break, the dagger glares of the girls around me piercing my ski
n. It’s almost the end of lunchtime before I manage to track Bennie and Tara down, sitting at a picnic table by the school sports field.
They get up to leave as I approach, but I grab on to Bennie’s arm, distraught.
‘You have to listen,’ I plead. ‘I can explain! I didn’t post those things. My laptop’s been hacked again or something. I’d never have posted that, you know I wouldn’t!’
‘You’re saying you didn’t write it?’ Bennie challenges.
‘I did – but not like that!’ I argue. ‘It was taken out of context! I said lots of nice things about you too; it wasn’t meant to be mean –’
‘Wasn’t it?’ Tara says. Her eyes are pink from crying and I feel so bad for making her feel that way.
‘It was posted yesterday afternoon while I was still in school,’ I say. ‘Think about it – I couldn’t have posted it, could I? It wasn’t me, you have to believe me!’
Bennie shakes her head. ‘You may not have had your laptop in school, but you had your iPhone,’ she says. ‘You could have posted it from that.’
‘I didn’t!’ I protest. ‘Someone’s hacking my SpiderWeb page. Why won’t you believe me? Maybe Surfie16 really is some kind of stalker – he messaged yesterday and it was like he was laughing at me!’
‘I thought you deleted him?’ Tara challenges.
‘I did!’
‘Yeah, right. You obviously didn’t.’
The bell for afternoon lessons rings out and Bennie sighs. ‘It’s funny how these things keep happening to you,’ she says. ‘That photo before Christmas; now this. It looks bad, but somehow, you’re still the victim. Well, my heart bleeds for you, Honey. Look … I don’t want this conversation right now. I don’t know what to believe any more.’
Tears sting my eyes as they walk away. Battling to keep my head high, I elbow my way through the crowded corridors, find the nearest toilets and lock myself in a cubicle. I sink down on to the toilet seat, dismayed. My fresh start, already a little rocky, has finally imploded, and worse, someone is hacking my SpiderWeb and stirring up a whole world of trouble.
Aren’t they? After two nights of little or no sleep, I can’t even think straight. I feel like I’m going mad. I press my cheek against the Formica partition, wishing I was a million miles from here. I sit that way for a long time, and then someone rattles the cubicle door and I jump up, panicked. What am I even doing? I am not the kind of girl to hide, to cry, to fall to bits in public. I square my shoulders, grab my bag and walk out of there, stalking along the corridor as the last lesson-change bell sounds. I put up a hand to wipe away my tears and it comes back streaked with black eyeliner.
‘Honey? Are you all right?’
I push past Miss Bird and walk on out through the double doors, across the courtyard, on to the street; I can hear the head teacher calling after me, but I don’t look back.
Honey
to: [email protected]
cc [email protected]
I didn’t do it, I really didn’t. Please believe me.
xxx
21
The beach cafe is busy, but Lola lets me sit at the counter even though she knows very well I should be in school. I’ve downed three Cokes by the time Ash turns up to start his shift, and I feel jittery and giggly like a hyperactive child. Injustice and anger slosh around inside me like poison.
‘You should go home, Honey,’ Lola says as she leaves. ‘Chill. I know you’re upset … but trust me, it’ll all blow over. Whoever said schooldays are the best days of our lives was definitely having a laugh.’ I drag up a smile and Lola hugs me quickly, hangs up her apron and hands the till key to Ash.
‘What’s up?’ he asks me as soon as she’s gone. ‘How come you’re here before me? How long have you actually been here?’
‘Don’t ask,’ I tell him. ‘Am I a bad person? A mad person? OK, so I probably shouldn’t have written those things, but they were my private thoughts, right? They were never meant to be seen by anyone else!’
He frowns. ‘Honey? Have you been crying?’
‘No,’ I growl. ‘I never cry. It’s just that my eyeliner smudged, OK?’
Ash takes my hands. ‘Look, I know something’s wrong,’ he says. ‘It’s just that I have no clue what you’re talking about –’
‘Fine,’ I bark, pulling away from him, stepping behind the counter and scanning the shelves. ‘Is there any cider in that fridge?’
‘You know there isn’t.’
‘God, you’re so boring!’ I huff. ‘This whole place sucks! Doesn’t anybody around here ever have any fun?’
‘Look, Honey,’ Ash says, trying to take my arm and steer me out from behind the counter. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong but I know something is. Why don’t you go home, like Lola said –’
I turn on him, blazing. ‘Oh, sure, why don’t I?’ I snarl. ‘That would be much more convenient. You’d be rid of me – you wouldn’t have to worry about my car crash of a life. You wouldn’t have to worry about anything. That’s right, push me away, chuck me away, shove me in a corner out of sight so I’m somebody else’s problem. That’s OK. I’m used to it. It’s been happening for years …’
The whole cafe is silent and staring, but I’m too angry now to care.
‘I’m not pushing you away,’ Ash says, exasperated. ‘That’s the last thing I’d do. If you don’t want to go home, stay here with me. Sit up by the counter, talk to me –’
‘Who says I want to talk to you?’ I fling back. ‘I don’t. I don’t want to talk to anyone – whatever I say will just get twisted anyhow. Everything’s ruined. So hey, don’t let me distract you from your job. You have a cafe to look after, and ice-cream sundaes are clearly more important than friends in trouble. Get lost, Ash!’
I turn on my heel and walk away, out of the cafe and along the beach, hands over my ears so I can’t hear Ash’s yells telling me to come back.
It takes about ten minutes’ walking for me to calm down again, and by that time the beach cafe is just a dot in the distance behind me. I kick off my hated brown sandals, peel off the knee-high socks and abandon them on the sand so I can walk along the water’s edge kicking at the surf.
I am an expert at toddler-style tantrums, drama-queen strops, but now I’ve cooled down I feel worse than ever. I went to the cafe to see Ash because I thought he was the one person who might just understand; instead of giving him a chance to do that, I yelled at him, flung every shred of kindness and sympathy back in his face.
What can I say? Today has been a losing friends kind of a day.
I am an expert at giving up, running away. Sometimes it feels like freedom, but today I know it’s just defeat, pure and simple.
I leave Sunset Beach behind, clambering over rocks and following the tideline into another cove, less pretty, more shingly, almost deserted. My rucksack is annoyingly heavy; I ditch a maths book to make it lighter, then turf out my pencil case, my gym shoes, my French dictionary and finally the rucksack itself. I don’t even care any more.
I spot a bonfire in the distance, up on the dunes, a bunch of backpackers gathered round it. The thin plume of smoke reminds me of Tanglewood, of hope. I pull off the yellow neckerchief and throw it into a rock pool, heading towards the sound of laughter, the smell of woodsmoke.
By the time Ash finds me there, two hours later, I am happy again. I am the life and soul of the party, dancing, flirting, smoking, drinking. My throat aches with the harsh burn of cigarettes; no amount of lager can wash the stale, sour taste away. Two or three of the boys are hanging on my every word, and that feels good. The backpackers are mostly from Britain and France, students on a gap year; soon they will be heading on again, some for Brisbane, some to New Zealand, some for Thailand. I am seriously considering tagging along.
When I see Ash walking towards me in the falling light, hope leaps inside me; then I see his face, grim, unsmiling. He walks up to me and takes the ciggy from my lips, grinding it into the sa
nd with his heel, prising the can of lager from my fingers, throwing the contents across the dunes.
‘Hey!’ I yell, outraged. ‘What are you doing? Leave me alone!’
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Honey?’ he growls. ‘Then you could carry on with your little self-destruct jag without any hassles. OK, you’re upset – but this isn’t going to help! As for you guys … what are you even doing giving her drinks and smokes? Are you crazy?’
My backpacker friends seem slightly bemused.
‘Hey, hey,’ one of them says, challenging Ash. ‘What’s it to you, anyway? Leave the girl alone!’
‘She’s just a kid,’ Ash says. ‘She’s fifteen, OK?’
‘Oh, great,’ I snarl. ‘Thanks for that, Ash. What does my age have to do with anything? And what does my life have to do with you anyhow? Get lost!’
‘I won’t,’ Ash says. ‘I care about you, OK? I’ve been worried sick!’
‘Well, you can stop worrying,’ I snap. ‘I’ve had a change of plan. Australia’s not working out for me, so I’m going to travel – Thailand … India … right?’
I look at my new friends for backup, but they are shrugging, turning away. Only one boy sticks up for me. Perhaps he’s hoping that the lager and ciggies he’s been feeding me for the past two hours might still buy him a moonlit snog on the dunes. It won’t, though. Not now.
‘You heard the lady,’ he sneers at Ash. ‘Back off!’
In the fading light he looks kind of seedy, sinister.
‘Look, it’s OK,’ I say, defeated. ‘Ash is a friend.’
The backpacker boy rolls his eyes, disgusted.
Ash takes my hand and leads me away from the bonfire, and the fuzzy, light-headed bubble I’ve been hanging on to deflates abruptly like a burst balloon. Reality floods back. I insulted Ash, yelled at him, embarrassed him in front of a cafe full of customers. Yet the minute his shift was over he came looking for me. Clearly, he is the crazy one around here.
Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey Page 13