Blood Moon

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Blood Moon Page 11

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.r />
  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,

 

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