by Lucy Cuthew
knocked from my orbit.
Set adrift
spiralling
aimlessly,
helplessly.
I cannot speak.
I cannot breathe.
I cannot see.
“Didn’t you know?”
Benjamin says,
taking a step closer to me.
Reaching out to touch me.
I step back,
stagger,
stumble,
mumble,
“No, I didn’t know.”
“She was the first
to post it.”
Benjamin looks worried.
“Frankie,” he says.
“Do you want to come in?
You don’t look well.”
I swallow and blink
and think of how
to get away.
I need to see this
for myself.
“I’m fine,” I say, turning around.
“I’m going home.
I’ll see you soon.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I thought you knew.
I promise I didn’t brag
about this, Frankie.”
My feet are walking
my brain is whirring
and my hands are fumbling
in my school bag
for my phone.
Benjamin calls after me,
“I can help.
I’m going to help.
I’ll get it sorted.”
But I’m not listening.
His voice fades
as I drift away,
sniffing and scrolling,
head down,
tears falling,
to see for myself.
CRUMBLING
I round the corner
then stop and wipe
my tear-splattered screen
on the soft of my shirt,
and click on Harriet’s page.
And there it is.
Posted last night,
when Harriet
was at home
on her own.
I muted her,
so I didn’t see
that it was Harriet
who did this to me.
This is why Marie
said she’d give Harriet
shit for me.
I let out a sob
as my knees buckle
and I slide to the concrete
and my insides crumble.
HARRIET DID IT?
Harriet did it?
Harriet who
on the first day of nursery
wet herself because I did
out of pure solidarity?
Harriet who
saved up her pocket money
to buy me my favourite
My Little Pony?
Harriet who
hid behind the trees
when I had my first kiss
(with Elliot Miller)
in case I needed her
to rescue me?
Harriet who has lived next door
my whole life,
who knows everything about me,
and knows how much this would hurt me?
Did she just do it
to deflect attention
from her selfie
to Mr B?
Harriet was
that angry
with me?
I can’t quite believe it.
HARRIET DID IT
I get up and walk home,
my heart hurting,
my temples pounding.
Harriet did say,
“You’re nothing to me,”
but I still can’t believe
that all those years
all those secrets
and moments shared
really don’t mean anything to her.
I reach our street and
glance at Harriet’s house
right next door
and think about all the times
we’ve fought before.
Once at the school fair
we agreed to get our
faces painted like bumblebees.
I went first then she backed out
and claimed she never
said she’d do it.
We had a massive fight.
And once, she cut the tail
off one of her own My Little Ponies
then told her mum it was me.
All I did was tell her not to
cut it in the first place.
She did break
Marie’s privacy
telling everyone
about her period
being heavy.
And she took
that shower picture
of me.
I guess she is this mean.
LOW
I open my phone
and send her a message.
Me
This is a new low,
even for you.
And I watch it
and watch it,
waiting to see
when it’s been delivered,
when it’s marked read.
But it doesn’t change.
She’s still in class
but maybe she’s also muted me.
Or blocked me completely.
Deleted me?
I don’t know if I’d even
be able to see.
Maybe
to her
I really am nothing.
GONE
In my room
I scroll and scroll,
checking to see
the time stamps on all the posts.
But I can’t find any
before the one I saw
on her page.
I go back to look at it,
but then
I can’t find it.
It’s gone.
I check again.
I search and search.
She’s deleted it.
I don’t know what to think.
Maybe she regretted it?
But that doesn’t make
me feel any better.
It’s too little too late.
It’s everywhere already.
I hide my phone
under my pillow
where it can’t hurt me,
but I can still feel
the lump of it
pressing into me,
begging me to
look at it.
I move away,
lie on the floor
and try not to think
about how much
Harriet
has
hurt
me
but it’s the only thing
I can think about.
She might have deleted it,
but it’s not gone.
I still can’t believe
she actually did it.
I
simply
can’t
believe
it.
A CHANGE OF SCENE
Mum and Dad arrive home together,
and ask me why I haven’t been
answering my phone.
(Which is ironic
as they’re always telling me
to get off it.)
I briefly worry
that they’ve seen
the meme,
but if they had,
I’d know by now.
They ask
if I fancy pizza out,
a Friday night treat.
I wonder if we’ll see
anyone from school.
But I say yes anyway,
because I really need
a change of scene.
PIZZA
The smell of baked dough
envelops me, as the waitress leads us
to a table
near the open kitchen,
pizza oven full of orange flames.
The waitress gives
us menus
and as she takes our drinks order
she looks at me,
her head cocked to the side,
like she’s trying
to place me.
And I find I’m sweating.
OMG.
Let her not be trying to place me.
Let her not recognize me.
Mum and Dad talk about
the climate,
plastic,
Brexit,
and I try to join in
but I can feel my phone
in my pocket
buzz buzz buzzing.
The rule is
no phones when we’re eating,
but I take it out
and try to read it on my lap
but Dad is on me.
“So what’s new with you?”
“Nothing,” I lie,
but my insides writhe.
Maybe I’m just hungry.
“And how’s Hairy?”
Her name stings.
“We don’t call her that
any more.”
“What’s wrong with Hairy?
It’s the perfect nickname for her.
That girl has so much hair!”
He laughs,
but Mum has the decency
at least
to roll her eyes in empathy.
“Did anything happen with
that boy she was texting?”
he asks, eyebrows waggling.
“Dunno,” I shrug.
“Have you two
still not made up?”
Mum asks.
“No,” I say.
“You really should talk,”
Mum says.
Then the waitress is back saying,
“Are you ready to order?”
and looking at me,
her head cocked again,
like she’s about to ask
whether she knows me.
I order quickly
and hand her my menu:
her signal to leave.
Then look at my phone
on my lap again
until she goes.
“Who’re you texting?”
Dad asks, leaning over.
“No one,” I say,
putting it away.
“Have you got
a boyfriend?”
he says.
Mum elbows him.
“She’ll tell us
if she wants to.”
“If she’d be friends with
me on Facebook,
I wouldn’t have to ask.”
“No one puts anything
on Facebook any more.”
“Doesn’t stop you looking at it
five hundred times a day,” he says.
“Anyway, I post things on there.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Hairy’s friends
with her mum.”
“Just because they’re friends,
doesn’t mean she lets
her see anything.
And I told you,
no one calls her
Hairy any more.
It’s Harry or Harriet.”
“Oh, come on,” protests Dad.
“You’re always on your phone.
And you’re not talking to Hair—
Harriet. I just thought you might
have a boyf.”
“Ugh!” I shudder. “Daaaad.
You don’t say boyf.”
“Why not? I’m only asking.
It would be sweet
if you did.”
Sweet?
The truth
would
crush him.
“I haven’t got a boyfriend.”
“Promise me you’d tell me
if you did?”
“Sure, Dad,” I say.
He smiles
and looks so happy
I actually feel OK
for the first time today.
The waitress lowers
a veggie feast in front of me,
then she looks at me
and her face changes.
She’s placed me.
“Hey! Aren’t you—”
“Thank you,” I say,
taking the pizza quickly,
panic washing over me.
“that girl—”
I cough,
nodding frantically
at my parents.
“from…”
She glances
at my mum and dad
and trails off,
finally understanding.
“Sorry,
thought you
were someone else!”
she says, doing a good
impression of breezy.
“Enjoy your food.”
THAT GIRL
My hands are slippery
on my cutlery.
I cut up my pizza,
and force it down quickly.
My stomach feels crampy.
I glance around nervously.
I just want to be
back at home,
in my room,
hiding from reality.
Mum and Dad
eat painfully slowly,
then order dessert,
and then coffee,
and the evening
stretches ahead of me
like an infinity.
I go to the loo
to check my phone
and there’s the waitress,
drying her hands.
“I’m so sorry,” she says,
touching my arm.
“You’re that girl from
the period meme,
aren’t you?”
I nod.
“I go to King Edward’s,
in town.
We’ve all seen.
Someone said
you’re from around here.
You poor thing.”
The kitchen bell pings.
“Better go,” she says,
her hand on the door.
“By the way,
I think it’s really unfair
what’s happening to you.”
She smiles kindly.
“You should say something.
Don’t let the trolls win.”
She pulls the door open.
The smell of pizza
mingles with the chemical
peach of toilet cleaner.
Back at the table,
and later,
in my room,
her words linger.
Not “What’s happened to you”
but “What’s happening to you.”
THE WEIGHT OF WORDS
I wake in the middle of the night
with a horrible dream
clinging damply to my skin.
I was watching my friends,
Harriet,
Marie,
Leylah,
Bethany,
watching a screen.
On it was me.
They were all cheering
as horrible things
were happening to me.
And I was just watching,
doing nothing.
I go to the window,
fuelled by the freedom
of being awake
in the dead of night.
I open it, lean out
and let the breeze
blow away
the clammy weight
of my bad dream.
At the end of the garden,
up in the leaves
of the sycamore tree,
a light is glowing.
What is Harriet
doing up there
at this time of night?
Maybe she can’t sleep
because she’s actually
feeling guilty?
She should be.
I can’t believe
all the things she’s done
recently.
Like sending that selfie
to Mr B.
And taking that picture
of me in the shower
after PE.
And laughing about
Marie’s heavy periods
in front of everybody.
And posting that
horrible meme.
She doesn’t think about
the consequences.
She doesn’t take responsibility.
Even if she regretted it
and deleted it.
She still did it.
I check my phone
and I can’t believe it,
but there’s a message
from Harriet.
Harriet
It wasn’t me.
I glance up at the tree
and feel in my fists
all of the things Harriet
has done to me recently.
This pathetic text is all
she can say to me?
It’s so typical of her.
Avoiding taking
any responsibility.
Fury flies from my thumbs
in a frenzy.
Me
Is that really the best
you can do?
Me
You’re pathetic.
I know it was you.
Me
I saw it on your page.
Even if you deleted it.
Me
You’re such
a fucking liar.
Me
You’re nothing to me.
God, it feels good
to get it off my chest.
To say what I think.
To hurt her
like she’s hurt me.
I watch as it says
Harriet is typing…
But then she stops.
And I’m stuck, waiting,
staring out of the window
at the green glow
of the lit-up tree house,
amazed my anger
doesn’t make
the glass explode.
SAY SOMETHING
I wait for ages,
but Harriet doesn’t reply.
I go to my bed
and lie down but I
can’t sleep.
I wander mindlessly
onto the page
Freaky Frankie
and read more comments
from people about me.
Some are
supporting me,
