by Lucy Cuthew
CHOICES
7.31 a.m.
“Frankie! I’m making porridge.”
My favourite.
Mum’s only in the kitchen,
but she’s light years away.
I hug my knees
and try
and try
and try
not to cry.
7.35 a.m.
“Have a good day, Frank!”
Dad shouts.
He slams the door,
leaving,
not knowing
I’m breaking.
I can’t go to school today.
7.39 a.m.
“Frankie! It’s ready!
Shall I bring some to you?”
“No!” I shout.
Like a flash, I’m moving.
“I’m coming down.”
I get dressed,
use cover-up
around my splotchy,
blotchy,
puffy
eyes.
I grab some tampons
then go downstairs.
There’s no point crying.
No point saying I’m too ill to go in.
I pick up my bag.
“I have to go in early
to see Mr B,” I lie.
It’s surprisingly easy.
“You still need to eat,”
she says, putting down
her spoon.
“I’ll have this on the way,”
I say, grabbing a banana,
trying not to face her.
“What about your teeth?”
“Brushed them already.”
“Don’t forget your lunch!”
She points to a box
on the kitchen worktop.
She’s made me
a packed lunch,
just like she used to
for primary school.
“Thanks, Mum,” I say.
She’s cut my sandwiches
four ways.
It makes
my heart ache.
“I’m proud of you,”
she calls after me.
If only she knew.
HOW BAD CAN IT BE?
Outside, I let myself feel it.
My feet pound the pavement,
rage and injustice
boiling up from a place
I didn’t even know existed.
I only sent that picture
to Benjamin.
So I know
this was him.
No one has had my phone.
I swipe past the hundreds
of notifications to call
Benjamin.
It r i n g s
and r i n g s
and he doesn’t a n s w e r.
He said he didn’t mind.
He said it’s biology.
He said, “It’s only blood.”
Then he told someone?
Sent them that picture of me?
How dare he ignore me?
I pass the railings of the park
where only the other morning,
Benjamin stopped
and kissed me.
I look down at my phone
and see the pictures again,
placed beside one another,
making me seem
so disgusting,
and another wave of self-loathing
washes over me.
I crouch in an alleyway
and read everything,
my blood boiling,
until I’ve seen it all
and it’s part of me.
I’m revolting.
I might as well just go to school
and get the reference I need.
How bad can it be?
HOW BAD IT CAN BE
I go through the gate.
The static crackle of
gossip
flows ahead of me.
The crowd parts slightly,
laughter and hollers
following me.
Marie shoulders her way
out from a group
to walk with me.
“You’re in!” she exclaims.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I can’t believe it.”
She links my arm.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
“What did you think I’d do?”
I ask, genuinely interested,
because I have no idea
how to handle this.
“Stay at home.
That’s what I’d do.
You’re so brave.”
“Where’s Harriet?” I ask.
“She’s over there.”
Marie nods behind her.
“Don’t talk to her,
it’ll only make it worse.”
I wonder for a second
what she means
but then I see Harriet
talking to Leylah
and she sees me
and
even though she must know
what’s happened
she turns her back on me
and walks off without Leylah.
My heart sinks.
Is Harriet still
not speaking to me?
“Ignore her,” says Marie.
But I’m barely listening,
because all I’m thinking
is how I need
Harriet now,
but I don’t think
I’d be able to get
the words out.
Marie leads me
through the crowd,
staring everyone down.
“Why are you
being nice to me?” I ask.
“Because you don’t
deserve this,” she says.
“Thanks, Marie.
Have you seen Benjamin?”
She shakes her head.
“What a blabbermouth.
If he is here,
he’s going to get
a load of shit from us.
He did leak it, didn’t he?”
“Well, I didn’t tell
anybody,” I say, numbly.
“That’s what we thought,”
she says, nodding.
“And Harry,
she’s getting shit from me
today too.”
“Thanks,” I say.
It’s nice at least she can see
that right now,
what I need
is my best friend.
Then the bell goes
for registration and I stand there,
searching for Benjamin,
but I don’t see him.
UNDER SIEGE
After a hellish registration,
I slip into an empty classroom
and lean against a year seven display
of medieval battle strategy,
checking my phone
for the hundredth time.
It’s only been a few
seconds since I last looked,
but there is more.
There
is
so
much
more.
There’s a link in
my DMs
from someone I don’t know.
I click it, my skin prickling.
A page loads on
a site I don’t know
with a sidebar of threads
slut-shaming celebs.
My page of shame’s name:
Freaky Frankie Fanny Fun
Randy^^Tts
this dirty little schoolgirl has no shame
lets teach her a lesson
B0rg3n
wanna finger fck this slut & sm. SGILF
Mazzter
creamin myself over this lil bitch
I cannot breathe.
I cannot see.
I have no idea
what
to
do.
But then
I hear
the sound
of footsteps,
growing louder,
coming closer
to me.
Lessons will be starting soon
and here I am in the history room,
under siege.
There’s a door behind me.
A cupboard.
I duck in
and close it
just as
a class
files in
so
I’m in
the dark
with
old textbooks
squatting
quietly
balancing
silently
carefully
desperately
hoping not
to be
discovered
here in this
dark
little cupboard
hiding
from my own
shame
for
an hour
or more.
Then,
finally,
the chairs scrape,
the door bangs,
the noise of the room
diminishes
to silence
and I open
the cupboard a crack
to check the coast is clear.
It’s physics right
after morning break.
I listen
as the volume
rises then falls
in the corridors
and at
the very
last moment,
I make a dash for it.
I need my reference,
then I’m going home.
NUCLEAR DECAY
In physics, there’s no space
next to Marie, so I sit at the front.
Maybe Mr B can protect me.
There are whispers and giggles of
“slut” and “period” until finally
Mr B comes in and tells Jackson to
sit down and stop clowning around.
We’re doing nuclear decay today,
but I’m not staying.
I’ve got my own toxic waste.
This meme has poisoned me
invisibly.
It will never go away,
just slowly fade,
halving exponentially.
I simply need the right moment
to ask for the reference,
before saying I have to leave.
“Jackson, do the handouts,
please,” orders Mr B.
Jackson gets up, and smirks at me
as he passes and trips over.
“Watch it, dirty,” he whispers,
slapping my back.
I hear a rustle
as something sticky
is attached to me.
I reach my hand around,
and peel it off.
Then bring it back,
to look at it
under the desk.
A pad.
It’s so stupid
I should laugh,
but I can feel tears
start to well in my eyes.
I stand up quickly,
hitting my thighs on the desk.
“Sir, I feel faint. Can I leave?”
“Oh,” says Mr B. “Do you want
someone to take you to
the office?” he asks.
“I’ll be fine,” I say,
swinging my bag
onto my back,
already at the door,
but
he calls,
“Don’t forget this!”
so I have to come
back into the room
with everyone sniggering
to take the reference
from his hand.
“I read your application.
It’s amazing. Feel better.”
Somewhere inside
I register what he’s saying
but then Jackson shouts,
“Heavy blood loss
can make you feel faint.”
And I feel
disgusting again.
And it is the smallest comfort
that I hear Mr B saying,
“Jackson, it is not
acceptable to be heckling
fellow students.
Take a seat
and see me
after class.”
POINTLESS ADVICE
I google What to do if you go viral
but the answers make out like
it would be a good thing.
In PSHE Mrs Lovelie said,
“If you’re getting bullied online,
remember CRI.
Confront. Record. Inform.”
Who am I meant to Confront?
I don’t know the people
piling in on me.
Why would I Record it?
It’s already everywhere.
And Inform who?
Mrs Lovelie?
I imagine sitting down
in her little room,
and explaining how
after school
(with my nightclub thighs)
Benjamin Jones
fingered me
on my period
then told everyone.
And someone made a meme,
which has gone viral,
so I’m getting filthy
messages from strangers.
She probably doesn’t even
know what a meme is.
There is still Benjamin.
I could confront him.
He’s the only one I sent
the picture to, after all.
He either made the meme,
or gave someone else
that picture of me.
DOORSTEP
Benjamin’s house
has a red front door.
I approach it slowly,
watching for signs
of life through the windows,
but everything’s still.
I walk up the path
and knock
and wait
on the concrete step,
hoping his mum or dad
won’t answer, because
all my anger is lined right up,
ready to fire.
I watch a silhouette
approach through
the foggy glass,
and feel his imminent
proximity in my guts.
I take a step back,
as though I’ve been punched.
Benjamin opens
the door a crack,
and looks at me
like he can’t believe
I’m here.
“Frankie,” he says,
looking behind me,
checking the empty street.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, I couldn’t talk to
you in school, could I?
You coward.”
“Ah, man,” he groans,
his hands on his face.
“You went? I’m sorry.
I just couldn’t handle it…”
“You couldn’t handle it,
or me?”
“No,” he says. “It’s not like that.
I’m not ignoring you.
I wanted to talk.”
“Well, here I am.
What did you want to say?
Sorry for bragging to all your mates?
Or for sending my picture
around to all the boys?
Or was it actually you?”
“Please,” he says,
checking the street again.
“Come inside
and we can talk.”
I want to talk to him,
but not in his house.
Not on his terms.
“I’ve been calling you
all morning.”
“I don’t have my phone,”
h
e says. “My parents took it.
And they won’t be giving it back
any time soon.
They’re ridiculously strict
about school.”
“What? Why?
Do they know?”
“No,” he says, quickly.
“I tried to bunk off this morning.
But they caught me.
Made me go to school.”
“Then where were you?”
“I hid by the library
then came straight home
when they went out.
I’ve seen how this shit goes down.
There was no way I was going
to school after that meme.”
“I did.”
“How was it?”
“It was horrible.
No thanks to you.
I can’t believe you
blabbed our secret.
It was private.”
“I didn’t tell Jackson!”
“You must have told someone!”
“I promise,
I didn’t tell
a soul in school.”
“Stop lying!
You were the only one
who knew about what we did.”
He says his parents
have his phone,
but maybe he just
doesn’t want me
to look on it.
Maybe it’s in his pocket
with evidence on it.
He probably sent it
to the boys’ group message.
Bragged about fingering me.
“Frankie,” he says,
reaching out,
trying to touch me.
“Please come in.
Let’s not talk
about this out here.
You have to believe me.
I haven’t told anyone
in school
anything.”
“Well Jackson
seems to know everything!”
“I didn’t tell him!”
I don’t believe him.
“And how did they know
about my period starting?
I didn’t tell anyone that either.”
“What, not even Harriet?”
“No. We’re not talking.”
“But…
Frankie…
Harriet made the meme.”
DRIFTING
Harriet made the meme.
I’m punched in the stomach,
