by Lucy Cuthew
But I say,
“My essay,
my reference
and whether we’ll get
that picture of
the blood moon
next week.”
“Oh yeah, the blood moon!”
she cries, clapping her hands,
surprising me that she’s
still excited about our
joint love of
astronomy
and photography.
I feel a bit bad that
I thought she wasn’t
interested in anything
except boys.
“I’ve been researching
what we should do with
this blood moon.
I have loads of ideas
we can try.”
She pulls out her phone
to show me.
“See this one,” she says.
“Wouldn’t the silhouette
of the tree look amazing?”
“Totally,” I agree.
“I just hope
the sky is clear.
The forecast is really bad.”
“Don’t worry,” she says.
“I just know it’ll be
the perfect night.”
I love how Harriet’s
always so positive.
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
She grins. “Now,
back to boys.
Tell me who you fancy.
Is it Benjamin?”
“No,” I say,
a bit too quickly.
“Come on, I’m bored.
Give me something juicy.”
“I have nothing juicy,” I say.
“Although, maybe there’s
something you can tell me…”
“Anything.”
“OK … so say I did
fancy somebody…
Hypothetically.
How would I know
what to do,
you know, if I ended
up with them,
intimately?”
Harriet snorts. “Intimately,”
she says, doing a horribly
accurate impression of me.
Then she breathes out dreamily.
“Don’t worry,” she sighs.
“When you’re with someone
you really like
you just k n o w what to do.”
“I believe
that’s true for you.
You’re always so at ease talking
to somebody you fancy.
But you’re so much more
confident than me.”
“I’m not really,” she says,
and for a moment she looks
kind of young.
Then she rolls back her shoulders
and pushes her chest out at me.
“I’m just faking it
until I start making it.”
She pouts and waggles her
eyebrows at me.
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,”
she says, giggling,
then she gets up
and moves over
to the telescope.
“Right then, give us a look,”
she says, nudging me.
“And, Frankie,”
she adds, putting her face
to the eyepiece,
“if you do like someone,
just be yourself.
Yourself is lovely.”
SUNDAY
LITTLE LIES
On Sunday morning,
Harriet messages me
asking if she can use my printer,
under the pretence that mine is better
because you can print almost anything on it
including something
she says she needs for her French project,
but I know she wants to
do homework
together.
I’d rather do it
on my own,
because lately,
Harriet is always
distracting me
or copying me,
or talking about
the latest person
she fancies.
I tell her she can use it later
because I’m going
to help Mum with work
at her lab,
and instead
I slip out of the house
and go down to the library
to work alone.
And while I work
I think about the possibility
of Benjamin
popping in to get something
and coming over to talk to me.
Or sitting opposite me,
and us doing our
homework together
and talking
passionately
about physics and stuff
because Benjamin
is sciency like me
and maybe us
ending up
in between two quiet shelves
kissing or something.
#Hypocrisy
MONDAY
NON-SCHOOL-UNIFORM DAY
Harriet opens her front door
wearing a low-cut T-shirt,
reeking of perfume,
and with so much makeup on
I wonder for a second
if it’s Saturday,
not Monday.
“You’re not going to school
like that, are you?” I ask,
before I can stop myself.
“We’re not allowed makeup.”
“Good morning to you too,”
she says, rolling her eyes.
“We’re not in uniform.
I can wear what I like.
Anyway, it’s the natural look.”
“RuPaul style.”
“Frankie,
in case you’ve forgotten,
we’re allowed to dress
however we want today.”
“I don’t think that”
– I point at her outfit –
“is what they meant.
You’re going to
get into trouble.”
Why does she have to
be so reckless?
I wonder whether she’s
dressed like this for Mr B.
I still can’t believe
she fancies him.
“For what?
Wearing a T-shirt?
Come off it.
Still rocking the nun vibe,
I see,” she says, taking in
my skinny jeans
and retro NASA hoody,
which I was hoping
made me look clever
rather than nunny.
“If nuns can be astronomers,
then sure,” I say, laughing it off,
but wishing I’d worn
just a bit of makeup
for non-school-uniform day.
I wonder if I’ll see
Benjamin today.
Just then, Harriet’s mum
comes out of their kitchen,
drinking a green smoothie,
her slinky dressing gown
sliding over
her bare legs.
“Bye, girls,” she calls
as she heads upstairs.
“Give ’em hell.”
DISTRACTIONS
Our year is gathered
for assembly
in the auditorium
with the head.
The audience lights are
on and Mr Adamson
is going on
and on
about (the girls’)
school uniform.
#We’veHeardThisOneBefore
“We must eliminate distractions
to your education.
Exams are soon.
I don’t want anyone failing.
I don�
�t want to see
short skirts …”
(he says this to
three girls
in the front row)
“hair dye …”
(to Bethany,
who has dyed hers
bright blue)
“or inappropriate makeup.”
(to Harriet).
“They are all distracting.”
“For who?” Harriet hisses in my ear.
“Him? The crusty old perv.”
I wish she’d stop
drawing attention
to herself,
but she does have a point.
I’m not sure who
is going to find it hard
to concentrate in class
because of Bethany’s
cobalt-blue bob.
And if anyone does,
I can’t help thinking
that’s their problem.
I glance around the room,
wondering where Benjamin
normally sits in assembly.
Right at the end,
I spot him,
a few rows
in front.
He doesn’t see me.
SHAMELESS
Mr Adamson pushes past us
as we leave assembly.
“Excuse me, ladies.”
“Sorry, sir,” I say,
moving out of his way.
Harriet flutters her lashes
at his back and says,
“I hope I don’t make anyone
think about anything
uneducational today.”
“Harriet!” I hiss.
She’s so reckless.
“What?” she says.
“That git has the nerve
to suggest that my makeup
might make someone fail
their exams.
I’m not having it.”
“You are shameless.”
“And you’re a coward.
You hate him
as much as I do.
Don’t pretend
you respect him.
‘Sorry, sir!’” she says,
doing a mean impression of me.
Then she trots off
to catch up with Leylah
and Bethany, saying,
“Did your dad go mad
about your hair?”
But before they’re too far away,
she turns around, hands in prayer,
and says, “See you in physics,
Sister Frankie.”
CHANGES
Me and Harriet
have been besties
since I can remember.
When
we were in year two,
in Mr Parlow’s class,
literally everything
was a laugh.
I wish we could go back
to being silly all the time,
but the feeling of it,
the freeness of it,
has gone.
I wish Harriet would stop
reminding me
I’m not as fun as I
used to be.
Although now I wonder
if I was ever as free
as she seems to be.
CHANCES
Harriet wants to sit at the front
of the physics lab,
probably so that Mr B
can see her smoky eyes,
but it suits me
because I want to know
if he got my email asking him
to write a reference for me.
“Today, we’re looking at
weight and mass,” he says.
“Settle down now,
let gravity guide you
to your seats, ha ha.”
Harriet laughs really loudly.
All through class
I scribble madly,
taking in every word
he says
while Harriet drops her pen
every five minutes
and struts to get it,
bending over
o u t r a g e o u s l y s l o w l y
right in front of Mr B.
Before we leave,
he intercepts me at the door.
“I’ll write your reference
and give it to you Friday.
Do you want me to
read your application too?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“I think you have
a really good chance,”
he adds.
I feel my face flush
with pride that he has recognized
this is my special thing.
“I’ll email it later.
Is that OK?”
“Absolutely,” Mr B says.
“Nice hoody, by the way.”
Behind me I hear Harriet say,
“Can you read mine too, sir?”
“Of course.”
But then he says,
“You have it now?
OK, stay behind.
I’ll take a look at it
right away.”
I hear her say,
“I just love the stars…”
but I have to move to let
the rest of the class
file out.
So it’s from outside
that I watch her
lean over his desk
(so inappropriately)
while he reads
her application
before mine.
WE’D BE ALL RIGHT
No chance of stars,
it’s raining,
but even so
Harriet and I
go up to
the tree house
after dark.
“So did Mr B
like your application?” I ask,
while she gets her laptop
out of her bag.
“Yeah,” she answers, vaguely.
“What did he say?” I ask,
wondering if
he thinks she’s got a
really good chance.
“Oh, you know.”
“No,” I say. “What?
Did he read your essay?
Did he suggest any changes?
Did he think it was a good topic?”
“Frankie, can we
just leave it?”
“Sorry,” I say.
If it were me
I’d want to talk about
it all evening.
“I was just asking.”
Harriet scowls at me.
“Look, we’re not all
Mr B’s favourite,
you massive physics nerd,
so it wasn’t exactly a shower
of glory. And I don’t feel
like talking about it.
Least of all to you.”
“I’m sure yours is brilliant,”
I say, trying to sound
encouraging
but realizing I probably sound
patronizing.
She’s on her phone
so I set up the laptop
and wait for her
as she laughs
then sighs about something.
“What’s up?” I ask lightly,
hoping we can
change the tone.
“It’s Jackson,” she says.
“He won’t stop messaging.”
“I thought you liked him?”
“I did,” she says. “But now
it’s getting kind of boring.”
“I told you not
to get involved.”
“No, you didn’t.
And now he’s obsessed.
And you know
he told us he got with
those two girls that night?
They’re his cousins!”
I burst out laughing.
“That’s incest.”
Harriet whacks me.
“Obviously nothing happened.
/>
He lied to brag.
I’m not into that,
know what I mean?”
“Totally,” I say.
But I want to stop talking
about Jackson and get on
with our evening.
“How do I get rid of him?”
“Tell him you don’t like him?”
“Ooh,” she says, typing,
“I’ll tell him I’m busy
and I’m going out with you.”
“Harry,” I say. “That’s lying!
Just tell the truth.
And then can we please
watch The Walking Dead?”
“Absolutely,” she says,
hitting send
and then turning her screen
to show me.
She has actually written
that she’s with me with me
and not to contact her again
because of my jealousy.
“Harry!” I gasp.
“You’re such a liar.”
“It’s fine,” she says.
“Everyone lies a bit.
He’ll know what it means.
I’m saving him face.”
I’m just glad
she’s not taking things
any further with him.
She tucks her phone away
and pulls the snacks out
of her backpack
then opens her laptop
and presses play.
We nestle into the pile of pillows
and with the fairy lights twinkling,
and us alternating eating
tortilla chips and tangerines,
we spend the evening
scream-laughing at the
incompetence of everyone
except Rick Grimes.
(Actual fanny flutters.)
“You’re drooling!”
“Am not.”
“You can’t have the hots
for Rick, and tell me
Mr B is old.”
“Different rules
for the apocalypse.”
“Stab it!”
Harriet says.
“You idiot.”
“Shut the door!” I yell.
“Use the machete!”
Harriet shouts.
“Run away!” I scream.
“Use the machine guns!”
Harriet says.
“Lock the doors and hide!”
I say, feeling safe
up here, in our tree house,
where no one can get us,
