by Rae Earl
I’m useless.
#TerribleBestFriend. I never thought that would be aimed at me. But it might be true. It IS true. Very true.
#Escalation
Yes. All this has escalated quickly. Not in a Bradley way. In a bad-without-any-amazing-moving-stairs way.
Back in my bedroom, life seems completely grim. I’m a bad daughter to my mum and a useless friend, I hurt lovely men, I’m a bad feminist or a good one that’s bad (I can’t decide which), and I’ve forgotten to give my cat her one-drop flea treatment, and she’s currently scratching in a way that says she needs it.
How do I even have the nerve to do an advice vlog?! My life is a total and utter mess. I want to ring my mum, but that will just remind me that I don’t get along with her, either. Her answer to everything is to tell me to come home. I can’t go back there. I can’t go back to that level of clean.
Perhaps I’m a grot, too.
The fact is, I have failed at just about everything. I have upset everyone who has ever been lovely to me … and now I am looking at Aunty Teresa, who’s standing at the end of my bed dressed as Queen Victoria. She has frills, bum and tum pillow padding, and everything.
“Hello, Mills. Your dad and I have had this idea that we want to put to you … we want you to come and join us. Be part of what will become the biggest ghost tour in the country. We want you to do ALL our social media. We thought we could get you to pretend on your advice vlog that you had someone write to you about having a ghost. THEN you get me on to talk about what you do when you have a ghost in your house and THEN, at the end, you say, ‘Thank you, Teresa, poltergeist specialist, who organizes the ghost tour every Thursday and Tuesday from six o’clock, concessions available, and if you do book as a group, a can of Coke is included in your entrance fee.’ It’s not proper Coca-Cola—it’s the cheap supermarket stuff—but we don’t have to mention that, do we? I don’t think so.”
Aunty Teresa doesn’t realize that I’ve been crying, so I just say, “I don’t think I’ll be doing a vlog for a bit.”
“Okay,” she says, “but there’s something else. We’d like you to join us on the ghost tour. You see, we need a younger female character to play a little match girl that dies horribly in Victorian times from being just really cold without a decent duffel coat.”
“It’s called hypothermia,” I say.
“Yeah. That!” Teresa says. “So you just have to basically stand there and moan a bit and say stuff like, ‘I’m freezing’ and ‘Would you like to buy some matches? It doesn’t matter if you don’t smoke. You can use them to light your scented candles.’ What do you think?”
“I don’t think they had scented candles in Victorian times.” This sounds ridiculous, even for Teresa.
“Whatever!” she says excitedly. “You can freestyle. Shiver a bit. You can moan, too. It’ll be really”—Teresa pulls this superserious face and twiddles her fingers—“eerie.…”
Usually I would be shouting “NO WAY,” but my mouth hurdles over my brain and says “yes.” Perhaps it’s about time I did something for someone else. I want to take my mind off everything. Ghosts will do. And let’s be honest: I’ve reached peak dork on the vlog. What could possibly be worse than that?
“Just promise there’ll be no photos shared on the Internet. ANYWHERE.”
“I can’t promise that completely, as anyone can be snapped these days, but I will say no photos of the match girl, as it’s dangerous to take photos of our workers whilst they are channeling spirits.”
“Just to be clear, Teresa,” I say, “I’m not pretending to channel anything. I’m only doing this as a favor.”
“I know.” Teresa hugs me very tightly. “And I really appreciate it. I know you’ll just be doing this for us.”
That’s not completely the truth, though. Doing something, ANYTHING, will make me take my mind off things. Even if that anything is pretending to be a starving, underage worker in a vintage dress.
“Oh,” Teresa adds quickly, “and, by the way, we start tomorrow night. Hope that’s okay for you. Here’s your tray. All you have to do is tie the ribbons around your neck and pretend to be ill. Try some flour on your face. That got me out of school every week, I looked so ill. I’ll leave your costume out for you tomorrow. See you at six o’clock outside the old church that’s been converted into a posh block of flats opposite the driving test center.”
Teresa disappears very quickly.
I may die a social death but not an actual death. Being a starving Victorian match girl will hopefully remind me that life isn’t so bad, though it’s terrible at the moment.
I’m having a sensible burst again. I’m still in there somewhere!
#Ghostbusters
For most of Thursday, I opt for a social coma at school. I’m physically present but not mentally there. Lauren is still away, and I have enough hiding spots to avoid all boys. I spend all of lunch in the Zen Loo. Lovely Gracie heard me in the cubicle. I just told her I was having a nap.
I was glad to get home until I saw what I had to wear for the ghost tour.
There are no two ways about it. I am dressed up in an old lace nightie with a cardigan and batter mix on my face. I look like the ghost of a pancake, not of a little match girl. Also I’m very, very cold. So I may be dying an actual death, too. Teresa has made sure I’m on a main road. This is great for personal safety, but not great for how many people are staring at me. I wish she would hurry up.
Just as I’m seriously thinking of packing everything in and going home, I hear Teresa and the group of ghost hunters she’s with coming toward us. She’s telling them that the church couldn’t be turned into flats until they’d rid the place of the ghost of a sad weeping match girl who had died of cold in the graveyard. I stiffen up, knowing that this is my cue to start moaning and acting generally very ill indeed.
Teresa turns the corner and says, “Behold the match girl. See her terrible rags and then we will tell the horrible story about how no one would buy her matches and how she died because of the cruelty of Victorian society. And how she haunts these posh flats because she wants to remind the rich people of today that having really nice IKEA lampshades and probably under-floor heating, too, isn’t enough. You need to be a NICE PERSON, too.”
I know for a fact that Teresa is saying this because she was jealous that she couldn’t afford one of the posh flats.
At this point, I say in a really feeble voice, “Buy a match from a poor match girl. Buy a match.…”
As I slump like a really ill person, I notice a figure toward the back of the ghost hunter crowd. Staring at me and flashing me a smile that could and would probably bring a very dead person back to life is Danny. And two people who look very like they could be his parents.
And Erin.
And I’m dressed as a match girl with food smeared all over my face.
I’ve probably had worse days in my life, but I can’t remember one.
I wave at Danny. He bounds over to me, leaving Erin with his parents.
“Hello,” I whisper, and pull a this is actually really embarrassing face.
Teresa growls at me, “Ghosts don’t wave at their earthly friends!”
But just as Teresa tries to shoo Danny away, a man in a suit races out from the posh flats and starts yelling, “Oi! YOU! Get lost. You spreading rumors about this place could take ten grand off my property price! Move yourself.”
Aunty Teresa shouts, “This is a public right of way, and I can tell people what I like!”
Someone in the crowd yells, “Is this not true, then?”
“Of course it’s not true!” the man in the suit says. “She’s making money off of gormless tourists like you!”
Teresa goes quiet and then says, “You can’t prove that!”
At this point, all the people in the crowd start tutting and go their separate ways. Teresa says, “No … No! Look! Look at the match girl! She’ll die without your fee.”
Just about everyone rolls their eyes at Ter
esa.
“Why didn’t you take the money at the start?!” I ask her.
Teresa is furious. “I didn’t think my match girl would start chatting up the customers!”
I am adding Teresa to the doesn’t-like-Millie-much-at-the-moment list.
Danny ignores the fact that I have gone bright red under my pancake mix. “Can I buy some matches, please?” Then he winks.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
“I like to find out about social history. I like to know the facts about different places.”
“Me, too,” I say. “For example, I totally know what to do when a randy elk charges you after you’ve stared at his girlfriend.”
“What’s that?” Danny says.
“Run!”
I think at this point I am both wise and slightly hilarious.
However, I can see that Danny is wondering why I’ve started going on about elk.
Why have I started going on about elk?
“Anyway,” he says, “we’re going for a pizza with my parents. Want to come, too?”
Danny says this very uncomfortably. It’s the right thing to do, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t want me to come. Erin and I—it’s just not going to work.
“Er … No. I better get home and check that my aunty is okay.” I also think eating a margherita dressed as a Victorian match girl may not be a good look.
“Okay,” Danny says sort of gratefully. “Catch you another time.”
“Yes!” I say, and I wave good-bye to him and Erin. Erin does not wave back. She’s too busy taking photos.
Good-bye, perfect man. Matches, elk, and the fact I’m a useless person have come between us, but that is this day. The worst day in history. This is like the last day in Pompeii, when Vesuvius exploded. I am currently breathing in hot volcanic ash of embarrassment and dying. I will be discovered two thousand years from now. They will find my fossilized remains and know that I died of terminal spoon.
I just need to get home and talk to someone … anyone.
#OverAndOut
By the time I get home, I’m just over everything and I don’t care. I wipe the batter off my face, get changed out of my costume, and go to the shed. Dave follows me in. She’s still scratching and disappears behind me to tackle her fleas in peace.
I’ve learned a lot these last few days. I feel like I could share something REALLY useful. And who cares about followers or trolls or any of it? This could save someone from what I have suffered. It’s time for a really REAL vlog. I turn on the camera.
“‘Hashtag Help Me.’
“Help me because I NEED help.
“I’ve decided I want to vlog about friendship and relationships and everything and then I’m taking a break from vlogging. And this time I’m going to be totally honest with you.
“The fact is, I feel like a liar. I’m giving all this advice and I can’t get my own life sorted.
“I’m all glowy online, but offline I’m a massive scribble of MESS and MISTAKES. Here’s what happened today. Basically I was meant to be acting like a Victorian match girl for my aunty Teresa’s ghost tour. And while I’m dressed like that I see … someone I really like, and instead of saying something GOOD, I start talking about Canadian ELK. WHY? WHY? WHY? It’s like my brain left my body.
“But on here, I pretend that I know stuff and that I’m the one who can give YOU advice. I can’t! I mess almost everything up. And not just boys but …
“The IMPORTANT STUFF.
“I know some of you know me or sort of know me. But do you? And do I really know me? The thing is—and please don’t think I’m not grateful for all your feedback—but I am spending so much time thinking about this and what I’m going to do on this vlog that I think I’m missing things in front of me. I’m sorry. This sounds so pathetic. And yes, this is a bit of a meltdown, but there’s someone in my life who I have let down so badly. Not by failing to be scary on a ghost tour or by talking about Canadian mammals to a boy I like; I have been ignoring someone who really, REALLY needs me. AND someone who really likes me. And I’ve been … well, I haven’t been fair.
“I have someone in my life whose parents aren’t bad but are useless. Anyway, she has always been there for me, but when I needed to put her first, I didn’t. I put this and you first and someone who doesn’t deserve to be put first FIRST. And she’s been there for EVERYTHING. From the time I got really worried about earthquakes to when I always think I’ve done badly on every test and exam we’ve ever done at school. I know I’m sensible, but I’m also a very annoying worrier. You can be both at the same time. Sometimes one leads to another. The more you know, the scarier the world is.
“BUT ANYWAY …
“Anyway, the point is, I didn’t give her enough time because of THIS world. You. And you are magnificent. You are lovely. I can’t say that enough. You’re not the problem. It’s me. It’s simple. I need to just make sure I don’t miss out on people and actual life. I know, I KNOW I sound like my mum. I probably sound like your mum, too, and, seriously, I’m not giving a lecture here, and neither am I saying I’m giving this up for good. I am not. I LOVE doing this. I’m just putting life in the right order for now. The order that I think it should be in.
“And SEE: This is the real me.
“And I want to say sorry to a person I really hope is watching this.”
(I get a bit teary at this point.)
“So this is Hashtag Help, over and out. I’ll see you again sometime. Just please know that I haven’t got all the answers and I get a lot of stuff wrong. I’m off to put it right now. Well, in the morning. It’s late now, and my cat needs her flea treatment. Not glamorous but fact. Bye.”
I upload it. This is probably leaving myself very open to lots of things. But I want Lauren to see it. And I want everyone to know that I’ve messed up.
I collect Dave and go back to my bedroom. Teresa and Dad are working out the new route for the ghost tour. They are thinking of avoiding the posh flats altogether and using mainly graveyards instead. I hear Granddad saying, “The good thing about dead people is that they can’t disrupt your ghost tour, and even if they do, that will be a really good thing.”
Granddad should vlog. He’s definitely the most sensible person in this house.
Just as I’m about to put my head on the pillow, I get a notification that Mr. Style Shame has posted a photo. When I go to his profile, I can’t believe what I see.
There is a photo of me as a ghost. I look awful. The filter makes it even worse. I don’t know why Mr. Style Shame hates Loz and me so much at the moment. I’ve done NOTHING to him. He must be a dreadful, sexist pig.
I read what Mr. Style Shame has written:
Talk about #WashedOut. This side of Halloween, the ghost look is NOT attractive. #FrightNight
How would Mr. Style Shame have seen me? There was hardly anyone at the ghost talk. Just a bunch of tourists, Danny, Erin, and …
ERIN.
FINALLY I realize that Mr. Style Shame is ERIN. All this time, she’s been pretending to be so positive and mindful and wonderful. In reality, she is just a troll with a really big following. She pretends to be a boy, but it’s her. It MUST be her. She MUST be stopped.
I comment underneath:
This is me in this photo, @MilliePorter. I KNOW who you are, “MISTER” Style Shame. You’ve made it obvious. You need to stop this NOW. Or I am going to tell everyone EXACTLY who you are and EXACTLY what you are about.
I lie back on my pillow and think this is the bravest thing I have ever done. I don’t care anymore. I’ve had the worst day EVER. Let Erin say and do what she likes.
I MUST sleep.
#SuperStar
My phone goes off at 6:55 a.m. I’ve put it under my pillow and the vibrating wakes me up. I can do that. It’s Friday. You can sleep all day Saturday. It’s Lauren, and she’s crying. “I’m SO sorry,” she wails.
“No, I’m really sorry,” I say. And I’ve never meant anything more. I am.
“I saw the vlog, Millie—last night. I wanted to come by immediately, but Dad wouldn’t let me. I’m so sorry.”
“No! It’s me,” I shout. “I’m sorry!”
And Lauren and I say sorry for the next five minutes because we both are, even though my sorry is more important than hers.
Lauren then starts giggling.
“It’s weird, isn’t it? You did that vlog, and it was really just for me. So sweet, and yet it’s gone viral and everyone in the world has seen it. I could tell that you hadn’t planned it. It was perfect. An apology, some good advice, and COMEDY GOLD.”
I nearly choke on my tongue.
“What?!”
“It’s gone viral, Millie! Didn’t you watch it before you uploaded it?”
“No!” I shout. “It said everything I wanted to and I didn’t care! I just wanted to make a point about you. I actually, GENUINELY wasn’t thinking about shares or follows.”
“Go and watch it, Millie,” Lauren says. “It is really funny. Like properly hilarious.”
“It’s not meant to be funny.” I feel quite offended.
“But it is,” Lauren replies. “It’s EPIC!”
I hang up and watch the vlog. I see a very upset and clearly emotional me saying things I really mean, but I do sound a bit like a teacher. In the vlog, I’m so involved in what I’m saying that I completely fail to notice Dave, who has slinked up behind me and spotted Granddad’s wading bird calendar, which is lying on the bench behind me.
Dave doesn’t like birds. And she really doesn’t like ringed plovers. Even paper ones.
When she spots the ringed plover, Dave decides to lift herself up on two legs and dance hypnotically from side to side. She’s better than the “Thriller” cat, like she’s been trained by the world’s best choreographers. She then starts diving up and down on top of the plover, licking the plover, head-butting the plover, and twizzling her bum on the plover.