Mum stabs at the printed-out piece of paper in front of her. It’s a suspension letter Ms Benewood emailed over this afternoon. ‘It says your name right here. C. MacNeil in the sent-email bit. It’s even from your email address. You can see it at the top. Who else could have sent it?’
My head starts to thump. I honestly can’t give her an answer. There’s a dull ache behind my eyes. It’s almost like there’s a brass band in my head, pummelling my brow, drumming into my skull.
I put my head in my hands.
‘I didn’t do it, Mum. Why won’t you believe me?’ I whisper, tears pricking the back of my eyes.
Mum stops mid-rant. ‘Why do you have to make my life so difficult? Why can’t you be like the other girls who stay in and do their homework?’
‘I’m doing well at school, I do my homew—’
She cuts me off. ‘You’re a tearaway! You’re obsessed with drinking and going out. All you ever do is post hundreds of selfies with your boobs out! And now, apparently, take photos of your friends’ boobs too!’
A hot feeling spreads over my cheeks.
‘Why are you looking at my Instagram photos?!’
‘Everyone can see your Instagram photos!’ she shouts back. ‘How do you think it looks for me, having such an embarrassment for a daughter?’ Mum puts a hand on her forehead and sits down at the kitchen island. ‘God, you’ve nearly given me a heart attack. Just go – I can’t deal with you any more. I need to speak to your father.’
I open my mouth to say something – anything – but all of a sudden, I find I can’t speak. A thump of pain in my head almost knocks me to the ground.
But I don’t fall to the floor. I grip the chair, stand up, and walk to my room.
On the way up the stairs, I’m overcome by a sense of complete and utter defeat. My own mum doesn’t believe me. But then again, I hardly even believe myself. Ms Benewood thinks I’m guilty. So does Louise, obviously. And probably everyone at school. They all think I got with Jerome, even though I can barely even remember his face.
But then again, do I really remember Joshua’s face? Or even know that was his name for certain?
You could have kissed Jerome. When you were smashed, at the party. Who’s to know? It’s the sort of thing you’d do, isn’t it . . .
And yet, it’s not the sort of thing I’ve done. At least, not in the past. Maybe I did get with Jerome and forget. But the emails, sending all those boys photos of Louise – it just seems bizarre. I never log into my school emails unless we’ve had homework set. I don’t even have them on my phone. And I wouldn’t want to hurt Louise; she’s one of my best friends.
I think back to the party. I remember how I behaved: desperate for attention, constantly looking over to where Tom was. I feel Joshua’s lips on mine, or maybe Jerome’s. I can feel a burning inside me, the jealousy I know I get when someone I like prefers someone else . . .
There’s a weird, sick feeling in my stomach. Everything I’ve tried to suppress the last week is slowly coming back.
WHORE.
The fifty messages Sven sent to me that morning before I blocked him. The lingering, unsettled feeling in the back of my mind that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Am I the bitch? Did I do all this to Louise just for attention?
It feels like there’s one person who would know. The same person who knew what I really was before.
In my bedroom, I open up Instagram on my phone and click on Sven’s page. He’s still blocked, but my hand hovers over the three dots by the side of his name.
Should I unblock him?
My hand rests over the screen, but after a few seconds, I click off of the app. I need to speak to someone who actually knows me.
I message Tom, asking him to WhatsApp call me. After a couple of minutes of no response, I press his call icon.
The phone rings and rings. But he doesn’t pick up.
I nibble on my lip. But it’s Tom – it’s fine. He’s my best friend – I don’t need to worry.
Pushing the stupid thoughts to the back of my mind, I type Tom’s name into my Instagram to see the photos of us together.
I blink.
Where is his page?
I try typing his name a couple more times, but nothing comes up. There are hundreds of other Tom Taylors . . . but not my Tom – not his page.
I click through to my own photos. There are no comments from Tom. Not any more. Every single one has been deleted.
Has he blocked me?
My hands start to tremble. I feel like I’m overreacting, but I can’t help myself. Gnawing my lip, I throw on my trainers and a hoody, grab a rucksack – where I stuff my phone, laptop, tablet, anything tech I can think of – and without even a backwards glance, I run down the stairs and out the front door, slamming it shut behind me.
CHAPTER 29
Amber
‘He’s not still doing it, is he, Maisie? Oh-my-God, he sounds obsessed!’ A shrill voice echoes through the school corridor.
I’m walking back along the concourse at lunch, staring down at the emoji Ansh sent me on my phone, when I hear a girl from the year below shrieking with one of her friends.
My ears prick. Maisie Evans. Maisie. The first girl – the one whose house Ren supposedly turned up at – was a Maisie.
Could it be . . .?
I slow down and start pretending to look for something in my bag. Maisie and her friend get up and start walking towards the computer room, continuing their conversation in hushed tones.
I glance after them, and then back to my phone screen.
This is ridiculous, isn’t it? I can’t just follow them into the computer room. I haven’t even seen her face, I don’t know if this is the right Maisie . . . But then again, how many Maisies are there in the school? There’s none in our year. One in the year above, I think. Then this Maisie Evans in the year below.
There’s probably a one in three chance that this is the Maisie, that I’ve just stumbled on to something important, and I’m about to lose the most vital clue about Ren I’ve found so far.
I think about all the hours and hours I’ve spent staring at images of Ren, the location map, the dates I’ve tried to match up.
It could all end up being for nothing; I might never find out the truth.
Without thinking too much about what I’m doing, I make a U-turn and follow Maisie and her friend into the computer room. When I enter, they’re sat huddled over two computers in one corner, heads together, gossiping. There’s no one else in the room, so it’s pretty easy to make out what they’re saying.
Still, I sit fairly close – a few computers away – and then plug in my muted headphones so they don’t think I’m listening.
I click open my biology homework task and hover my mouse over the folder. After several minutes of hushed conversation, my ears prickle.
‘He hasn’t stopped, y’know,’ says Maisie, so quietly it’s almost a whisper.
I glance over, but neither of them are paying attention to me. Her friend is staring at her with a pained expression.
‘But you’ve blocked him, right? You told him to stop?’
‘You know I have! Like a million times. I don’t know what else I can do.’
‘Go to the police.’
Maisie scoffs.
Her friend leans forward. ‘No, seriously. Go to the police. They can warn him or something – they can sort him out.’
‘No – he’ll get bored eventually.’
‘Has he got bored so far?’
I glance over, but this time, there’s no chance of me being caught. Both girls don’t even seem to realize there’s anyone else in the room. Maisie is twisting her thumbs round and round in her palm.
‘He will though. He’s not a psychopath. He knows that I’m not interested.’
Her friend lets out a low sigh. ‘It’s messed-up that he thinks this is romantic.’
‘I know!’ says Maisie. ‘He said he’s going to send me a heart every day until
I change my mind.’
‘A heart?! As in, an actual human heart?’ Maisie’s friend’s eyes are so wide that Maisie bursts out laughing.
‘No, you idiot! Not an actual heart. Ew. A heart emoji. I got them every morning until I blocked him.’
‘Oh-my-God!’
Her friend leans closer to Maisie, and I can only just lip-read her softly spoken words.
‘Every girl in school is behind you, y’know. We all think he’s a creep.’
My mouth turns dry. Every girl in school thinks Ren did it?
Apart from me. I’m his only hope.
I’m staring so hard at Maisie and her friend that I don’t even blink. At that moment, Maisie looks up and catches my eye. I feel my cheeks flush.
She clears her throat and inclines her head slightly to me. Her friend follows her gaze and then frowns.
‘Let’s head out,’ she says.
I stare resolutely at the screen, clicking and pretending to type something for my biology homework as they walk out in silence.
As soon as they’re both outside, they start hissing and whispering, glancing back at me through the doorframe.
My entire body feels like it is on fire.
Oh God.
Why was I so bloody obvious?
I want to get as low to the ground as possible and hide beneath the floorboards. I wish I could sink deeper and deeper. So deep, nobody could see me. No one would know I was there.
I could just sit there, hidden, forever.
At that moment, my phone dings again. Another message, from Ansh.
I tap it open. There’s a GIF of a goose running towards another, bigger goose. It slips straight through the mud, and they both land on their back, squawking.
He’s written, Me, trying to teach people how to deadlift this afternoon.
I stare at the message for a few moments.
I don’t know why he’s messaging me.
I don’t mean that in a silly way. I mean I genuinely don’t know why he’s bothered to send me that GIF. No one else bothers to message me. Everyone else thinks I’m this freakish girl who sits at a computer by herself at lunch and stalks girls in the year below.
No one in my actual year thinks I’m worth speaking to.
I type out a crying-with-laughter emoji, even though I feel like actually crying.
Ansh almost instantly sends a beaming-face emoji back.
And then, even though it’s the most pathetic thing in the world, I look at his message and actually do cry.
CHAPTER 30
Chloe
My rucksack is bumping against my lower back, the rain pelting against the fabric of my hoody, which I’ve stuffed my hair into. A bitingly cold gust of wind chills me to the bone, and my teeth start to chatter.
The bits of my hair that fall out either side of my face are wet, stringy, and starting to turn to natural frizz. I pull my sleeves over my fingertips and huddle my arms together, walking even faster.
I don’t pay attention to where I’m going. My feet know the way.
As the path curves, I swallow hard. I’m beginning to feel actually scared.
Did I email those photos of Louise to the boys in class? Did I get with Jerome?
He could have mentioned he liked her. I could have got annoyed, seen the photos she sent me, and grasped the opportunity to humiliate her.
The phone clutched in my hand is splattered with rain. I try to unlock it, but the screen is too slippery. Even from the lock screen, I can see Tom hasn’t responded.
The skin on my lip splits as I gnaw it, and I taste the metallic tang of blood.
I just need to find out what the hell’s going on. The worst bit is not knowing. Whether someone like J, or Sven, is somehow setting me up . . . But then, they’d need those photos of Louise, and I don’t know how that would be possible.
Or maybe . . . No – she wouldn’t do that.
I stop walking.
Could Louise have done this?
I shake my head almost as soon as I think of it. No.
She does know the password to my school email address; she’s logged on before to help me with homework. But why would she send out those photos of herself? There must be a better explanation.
I mean, I did drink a lot. I could have got with Jerome at Tom’s party. But then, no one has mentioned it other than Louise. Particularly none of the guys. Gossip travels pretty fast, usually.
None of this makes sense.
My shoulders are heaving and falling, and I realize with a start that I’ve run all the way to Tom’s house. I’m standing outside the large, beamed cottage. There’s honeysuckle creeping up a lattice by the door, and ivy snaking along the aged brickwork. With a sniff and a shiver, I knock a few times on the door.
Tom’s mum answers. She’s a slim, plump-faced blond woman with just the beginnings of fine lines scattered across her kind eyes – piercingly blue like Tom’s.
‘Can I speak to Tom?’ I say, breathless. My voice comes out as a croak.
Tom’s mum peers closer. ‘Chloe? Is that you?’
My hood is done up so tightly around my face that only my eyes are peeping out. I can feel tendrils of my hair bunching out either side of the fabric, and I try to smooth them down.
‘Um, yes, it’s me.’
Tom’s mum waves me inside. ‘Oh g osh! Silly me. I hardly recognized you in that hoody!’
She shouts for Tom, and he comes bounding down the stairs, grinning. I pull the hood off my face and try to shake out my hair – but I can feel it’s a wet clump of half-formed frizz.
Tom laughs when he sees me.
‘Raining was it?’ he says, coming over to put his arms around me, but I duck out of his embrace.
‘Why didn’t you reply to my messages?’ I say.
He shoots a look at his mum, who quietly slips out into the kitchen.
‘What? Er, I was working out in the study – my phone’s upstairs.’
I can feel my heart rate start to slow. So he wasn’t ignoring me. But something’s still wrong.
‘Why did you delete all your Instagram comments on my photos, then?’
‘Ah.’ Tom’s face has changed. He shoots a glance into the kitchen, where his mum is. ‘I didn’t really want to have to tell you, what with everything that happened before. I didn’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick—’
He nods. ‘Come upstairs. I’ll show you.’
I pull off my trainers, feeling my damp socks clinging to my feet, and pad up the stairs behind him, my stomach tightening with every step.
CHAPTER 31
Amber
After school, I’m kneeling down by the bike rack, tucking one of my shoelaces that slipped out back into my shoe, when I see Ansh walking across the path, playing something on his phone, his sports bag slung over one shoulder.
I feel a jolt of surprise on seeing him again, even though I know he was working this morning, so it makes sense his shift would be ending about now.
I get up and walk over. When he sees me, he lifts up his hand and gives a little half-smile. I nod, not quite sure how to respond, and his face creases like I’ve done something hilarious.
‘Did you see the gym picture I sent over?’ he says.
I did. During last period, he sent an image of the packed gym with busy afternoon underneath, and I spent the last thirty minutes of class trying to work out how I should respond. I actually typed out three different replies in the notes app on my phone, but I couldn’t decide which to send.
‘Yeah,’ I say, glancing at him. ‘It was, um, cool.’
Ansh slips his phone into his pocket and falls into step with me. I catch his eye.
He shakes his head, smiling. ‘I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that,’ he says.
‘Like what?’
‘Like I’m a monster who’s come to terrorize the village children.’
It’s such a weird thing to say that I pull a face at him, and he immediately grins.
‘You�
��re so weird,’ I say without thinking, then immediately wish I hadn’t. Who am I to say that? I’m the weirdest person in the world. I literally turned up outside Ren’s house.
‘I’m weird?!’ He looks like I’ve just told him he’s on fire when I’m the one with my head aflame.
‘Well, not that weird,’ I say quickly.
‘Not that weird,’ he repeats back, glancing at me with a funny expression.
‘What?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, no – it’s nothing. Just . . .’ He smiles. ‘Just you.’
I don’t really know what to say to that, so I keep walking and staring at the ground. After a couple of seconds, Ansh takes his phone back out and passes it to me.
‘Have you seen this short film? It’s been nominated for an Oscar.’
I take the screen dutifully and start watching the little clip. As I glance up, I see Ansh is watching for my reaction. Suddenly he nods.
‘There’s a great bit here, where the kid tricks the other one. Look—’
He leans in closer to me, pointing at the screen. As he tilts his head down to mine, I suddenly become aware of how hot my body feels – how bizarre this whole conversation is.
Why would Ansh even bother to speak to me again?
As he stands there, I can’t help thinking of all the times I’ve looked at his social media profiles, searching for images of Ren. Just by skimming them, I know every holiday he’s had in the last three years. I even know what his mum looks like after seeing that photo he posted of her by the Aga at Christmas brandishing the turkey.
Ansh’s shoulders shake beside me. ‘This bit is great,’ he says, his eyes on the screen in my palm.
But I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying. My mind is buzzing with everything I know about him. Whether that’s normal. Whether I’m normal. Or whether I’m a complete and utter—
‘Do you ever look at people’s families on Instagram?’ my mouth says before my brain has a chance to register the question and stop me.
Ansh frowns. ‘Huh? Look at people’s families on Instagram? Uh, I don’t—’ He’s looking at me now, not the screen, and his brow is knitted. ‘Why’d you ask?’
‘Oh! Nothing – I just . . . I don’t know. I—’
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