by Lucy Cuthew
What else did she tell him?
I stand there,
feeling lonely,
thinking
I can’t trust anybody.
“At least no one knows
it was you,” he hisses.
“Everyone is talking about me.”
This is true.
Everyone is
talking about him.
But it’s not embarrassing.
“Yeah,” I say,
realizing something.
“And you’ve never been
more popular.”
THE HUNT
Later, in the lunch hall,
I hear Jackson’s voice,
loud above
the clatter of cutlery
and chatter of the crowd.
“Come on, girls.
Who is on?”
he howls,
a bloodhound
with a scent.
The girls all scream
with shrill denial.
“Oh my God!”
“Not me!”
“Nor me!”
“I’m not due for ages.”
“It’s disgusting.”
But not one of them says,
“It’s only blood.”
It is only blood.
Only blood.
But nor do I.
I just eat my chips
at an empty table,
wishing I had a
packed lunch today.
Harriet doesn’t
bother me.
She’s too busy
asking everyone
who they think
this mystery girl might be,
making sure
the gossip stays on this
juicy new topic,
and doesn’t come back to her
and her ridiculous selfie.
On my way to the toilets
before the last class,
there’s a crowd
gathered outside
the girls’ loos,
which is so annoying
because I need to
change my tampon.
Clutching a new one
in my pocket,
I try to sidle through,
but in the middle of it all,
I end up next to Benjamin.
“Frankie!” he hisses
into my ear. “You should
get out of h—”
“WRITE YOUR NAME
HERE IF YOU’RE ON!”
a voice shouts.
Jackson.
He’s sticking a piece of paper
to the toilet door.
“Come on, ladies,” he shouts.
“Own up. Who’s riding
the crimson wave?”
He scans the crowd
then stops on Harriet.
“What about you?” he says.
“Everyone knows you’re
dirty, you prick-tease.”
Harriet scoffs at him.
“I thought I wasn’t your type
anyway. We’re not family.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jackson throws back.
“Those girls from your threesome?
That photo you showed us
with them kissing your cheeks?
They’re your cousins, right?”
A few people titter
and Jackson looks furious,
and I think he’s really
about to go for her,
but then she
turns around
and surveys the crowd
like she’s the queen and
judge of everything
and says, “Maybe it was Marie.
She’s always had a heavy flow.”
I gasp.
I know Harriet is
sometimes mean
but I cannot believe she
is directing her cruelty at Marie.
(Marie got her period first
and all us girls know
it’s heavy,
but for Harriet
to break Marie’s privacy,
to tell everybody,
is almost beyond belief.)
Harriet did think
it was funny to send
a sexy selfie to Mr B
and to take a photo of me
in the shower.
“Harriet!” I say
as I shake my head.
“What?” She shrugs,
pretending she doesn’t know
what she’s done.
She should just say sorry.
I take a step back
and catch my heel on
Benjamin’s bag
and stumble back,
my hands flailing,
my tampon skittering,
rolling and stopping
at the toilet door.
I land on the floor.
Harriet gasps then
sees my face,
sees Benjamin,
both of us blushing.
She raises an eyebrow
as she looks at
him,
eyes narrowing.
“Frankie,” she says,
her face changing.
The crowd falls silent.
“Leave it, Harry.”
“It wasn’t her,”
she says to Jackson quickly.
“She’s practically a nun,”
she tells everyone, laughing.
“Do nuns even have periods?”
“Why are you helping him?”
I ask, nodding to Jackson.
“Bitch fight!” Jackson cries,
but no one joins in.
Everyone is looking
between me
and Harriet.
Marie goes up
to the toilet door
and picks up the tampon
from the floor,
then with one swift tug
tears down the paper.
“Oi!” says Jackson.
“Who said you could do that?”
“Statistically,” says Marie,
facing Jackson,
“about a quarter of
menstruating women
are on at any one time,
so this” – she waves the paper –
“is bullshit.
And anyway,
do you know how boring it is
what you’re doing?
Periods are normal.
You’re the weird thing.”
Then she scrunches it up
and throws it
at the bin next to me.
“Everyone ignore him.”
“It was Marie!”
Jackson hollers.
“Benjamin fingered
slutty little Marie
when she was
on the blob!”
I feel guilty,
and relieved
she’s taken
the heat off me,
because my cheeks
are threatening
to give me away.
Marie looks angry
but Jackson is still going.
“I can smell your fanny
from here, Marie.
Blood and…”
He sniffs the air.
“Cum.”
There are a few laughs,
and briefly
I see Marie’s mask falter.
Not anger …
perhaps humiliation?
Or regret for sticking
out her neck.
No one is saying anything.
Not even Harriet.
She’s just letting Marie get it.
I pick myself up
and say,
“As if you’d know what
a fanny smells like.”
Jackson swings around
to look at me.
“The nun said fanny!”
“Shut up, Jackson.
The closest you’ve ever
been
to the inside of a girl’s pants
is right where you are now.
Lurking outside the girls’ toilets.”
T h e n e v e r y o n e l a u g h s
at him,
because of me.
“I’ve just remembered,”
Jackson says,
regaining the crowd.
“I did see Benjamin
with someone earlier.
What were you two
whispering about,
Freaky Frankie?”
“We weren’t whispering,”
Benjamin says quickly.
Far.
Too.
Quickly.
The colour of my cheeks
is all Jackson needs.
I swallow
loudly.
“It WAS Frankie!”
Jackson screams.
“You.
Dirty.
Sluuuuuuuut!”
For a moment
I stand still.
I can survive this.
If I don’t move,
Jackson will back down.
But then
everyone turns around
to look at me
and in the crowd I see
Leylah and Bethany
and on their faces
I catch a flicker of
something.
Disgust?
Do they think
I’m disgusting?
I am breaking.
I don’t even stop
to pick up my bag.
I run
crying,
crumbling.
I am disgusting.
HARRIET’S ADVICE
In the other loos,
I pull my feet up,
crouching on the lidless seat,
my f i n g e r s clinging
to the crusty rim.
There’s no point worrying
about what I’m touching.
I am the dirty thing.
“Frankie!” a voice snaps at me
impatiently as a door bangs closed
and angry footsteps approach.
Harriet’s hair drapes on the floor
as her face peeps
under the cubicle door.
She stands and sighs.
“Mr Guerra made me
come get you.
He knows you’re in.
If you don’t come now,
he’s going to mark you
down as truant.”
“I don’t care,” I say,
trying not to sniff.
“You can’t hide in here all afternoon,”
Harriet says. “Don’t make
it worse than it needs to be.”
“Harriet,
you have no idea
what you’re talking about
so just get lost.”
“Come on, Frankie.
Don’t be so weak.
You’ll get through this.
I did.”
“It’s not the same.”
“It’s not that different.”
“It is! What’s happening
to me is worse.”
“Worse than getting moved
into the thick class?
Worse than a teacher
telling on you because
he thought you were
trying to pull him?”
(Which she was.)
“And everyone seeing
the picture that was sent?”
I can’t believe she thinks
she’s the victim.
She sent it.
“Toughen up.
Just tell everyone
to grow up.”
“I just got called a slut.
For nothing.”
“Well…” she says, pausing.
She’s loving this.
“Not nothing.
You did let Benjamin
finger you
on your period.
You’re not even going
out with him!”
“What the hell, Harriet?
Since when were you
the judge of what’s decent?”
“I’m just saying.
It wasn’t nothing.”
“You sexted a teacher,”
I shout through the door.
“That’s so much worse.”
“But much less slutty.”
“You told Jackson
that I’m FRIGID.”
“Well, you proved me wrong,
didn’t you?”
“Just leave me alone.”
“I’d love to.
I’ll let Mr Guerra know
you’ll be crying in here
all afternoon over nothing.”
“If you only came here
to tell me my problems
are nothing, you’ve done that.”
“I came here to tell you
you’re making a mistake
hiding away
like you’ve done something
to be ashamed of.
Come back to class
and this will blow over.
Oh, and by the way,
you left your bag in the hall.
I put it in your locker.
It was decorated
with pads.
I peeled them off.
You’re welcome.”
“Are you done?”
“No,” she says.
“One more thing.
Stop being such a baby.”
BABY
At home that night
I open all my socials
and I mute Harriet
on every one of them
then set my phone
to silent.
I don’t want to hear
from anyone again
until morning.
I curl into Mum
while she reads
a lab report
on the sofa,
and I weep,
cradled in the crook
of her body,
like the baby
Harriet says I am.
Mum holds me close,
waits as I sob
then dry my eyes
enough to speak.
Then finally
I tell her everything
Harriet did, like about her
sexting Mr B,
texting me during class,
taking a photo of me in the shower
and pretending to send it to Mr B.
I tell her everything
Harriet did, but I leave
out all the
stuff about me
and Benjamin.
(Obviously.)
There’s plenty
for Mum to be
really shocked,
which makes me feel better.
“That all sounds quite serious,”
Mum says. “I expect that’s
why Lola grounded her.”
“How do you know that?”
“I heard Lola shouting at her.
I hope they’re both OK.
Has something happened
to make Harriet act this way?”
“No,” I say, annoyed with
her for being so reasonable.
So understanding.
So kind to Harriet.
The bitch.
“Everything is caused
by something,” says Mum.
I wish she wasn’t always
so rational.
“Can I stay at home
tomorrow?” I ask.
“No,” Mum says. “You’re not ill.
Besides, you’re seeing Mr B.
He’ll have read your application.”
I was so excited
about that, before.
But not any more.
Now I’m just going
through the motions.
“Can I take lunch tomorrow?”
“Of
course,” she says.
“I still don’t want to go in.”
“Just talk to her about it,”
she says, like I knew
she would eventually.
“Or do you want me to
knock and talk to Lola?”
“No!” I shout, because
Harriet might have told
her mum everything.
“Don’t talk to her at all.
Even if you see her.
Otherwise I’ll never tell you
anything ever again.”
“OK,” she says,
drawing a cross on her heart.
“Do you want me to
read your application?”
“No,” I say. “It’s OK.
It’s basically ready.
I just need Mr B’s
reference tomorrow.”
“That’s my girl.”
I smile,
but I’m not really sure
what kind of girl
she thinks I am.
Nor what kind of girl
I actually am.
I pick up my phone
instinctively thinking
about discussing it
with Harriet
before remembering
we’re not talking.
Then our fight
repeats on me,
weighs down on me,
horribly.
And instead I go to bed
feeling heavy
and wondering whether
Harriet and I
can ever
get back
to being
best friends again.
After all,
to her,
I’m nothing.
FRIDAY
SEEING RED
My phone is vibrating:
my morning alarm?
Muscle memory
makes me reach
out my fingers.
I try to snooze it,
but it won’t stop.
There’s a ting
and a chirp
and a ding.
Notifications
come firing in.
I open my eyes
and blink at the screen.
And all I see is
red.
Almost every app
has a little red dot
like a gunshot wound.
WTF?
MEME
Someone
has made
a meme
of me.
