by Lucy Cuthew
but they’re all
getting trolled
for being nice to me.
Like that waitress said,
I could say something.
I’m so angry
I start typing.
Oh just fuck off and leave me alone. You are all saying I’m disgusting. I’m a slut. I’m a slag. I got my period. Girls get periods. It’s only blood. Deal with it. #ItsOnlyBlood
I hit send and switch off
my phone
and
lie back,
trying to slow my
breathing.
I try to not think
about the meme.
Instead I try
picturing myself
at the planetarium,
handing in
my application
to Vidhi.
I try
to imagine
her face
when she reads
my essay
about black hole
photography.
Or what she’d say
if I got the place.
How it would be
working there
all summer
alongside her.
But the idea
of Vidhi,
the planetarium,
in fact anything
that isn’t the meme,
is
beyond me.
SATURDAY
TURN ME ON
I wake up early.
I reach for my phone,
feeling hopeful.
Maybe my comment
has changed the way
everyone is
talking about me.
I want to wait,
to savour the possibility,
but it’s calling me:
Turn
Me
On.
It’s beckoning my fingers
to pick it up
and so I do.
I stroke the screen.
I tap red dots.
It sucks me in.
And all I see are images of me
me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
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me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me
over and over
only now
my own
words,
my attempt at a defence,
plaster the meme.
Why did I
write it
like that?
There’s a page called
TOP 13 PERIOD GIRL MEMES
and on every one,
my picture has been changed
in some horrible new way.
And in all of them
are the two pictures
next to each other
as though they
belong together.
The picture Harriet took of me
and
those bloodied fingers.
I don’t even know
whose hand that is.
A stranger’s fingers
supposedly fingered me.
It’s so disgusting.
So creepy.
My shaming is still accelerating
like the universe,
getting bigger
faster
drawing its energy
from dirty
little
me.
FRIENDS
I check my messages,
hoping there’ll be
something from Benjamin.
There’s nothing.
He said his parents have his phone
but he could find another way to
message me.
Say he’s sorry.
It’s still his fault
&nb
sp; that people know
what happened between
us that afternoon.
He can’t even admit it.
He’s no better than Harriet.
I think of mine and Harriet’s fight
in the toilets at school.
How she suggested
simply denying
that it was her who sent
the email to Mr B.
This is classic Harriet.
It wasn’t me.
Deny it.
Avoid it.
Don’t take responsibility.
I do have texts
from all the girls,
who message me separately,
avoiding BEANS ON TOAST
where it would obviously
be awkward.
They’re asking if I’m OK.
Telling me that Harriet denies
it was her who posted it.
That they don’t believe her.
But it’s all so gossipy.
I haven’t got the energy
to reply, to say how hurt
I’m feeling.
I feel so lonely.
I want to talk to someone.
But there’s no one.
I can’t tell my mum
or my dad.
I can’t talk to my friends.
Or Benjamin.
I’ve lost Harriet.
I shove my phone
in my bag
and go downstairs
for breakfast.
PLANETARIUM
Dad gives me a lift.
I sit in the passenger seat,
smoothing the brown
A4 envelope
on my lap.
The summer placement feels
like the only thing
I have going for me
in the whole world.
We pull up outside.
There’s a queue already,
children and families
in broad daylight,
waiting to see
the night sky on the
domed ceiling inside.
“Good luck, Frank,” says Dad,
as I close the car door
and spot a group of girls
I think go to King Edward’s.
They’re staring at me.
Nudging. Whispering.
I look down,
but as I pass them
one of them points at me.
I hear a muttered
“Period meme.”
I hurry past
the rest of the queue
not looking.
I go inside the cool atrium,
passing the posters
reminding people
to look outside
at the blood moon
next week.
My heart thuds painfully
inside me.
I look for Vidhi
to hand over
the envelope.
I spot her by the desk
near the solar system.
She looks up from her phone.
“Oh,” she says,
her mouth falling open.
“Hey,” I say,
holding out my application.
But she doesn’t take it.
She looks around
and says,
“Didn’t you see
Elaine on your way in?”
“No,” I say, glancing behind me.
Elaine hasn’t spoken to me
since she interviewed me.
I don’t think she even
knows who I am.
“Right,” Vidhi says,
fiddling with her rings,
then gets her walkie-talkie
and says, “Elaine, could you come
to the ground floor?”
She turns to me.
“Frankie,” she says. “I’m sorry.
She should have phoned you.”
“What is it?”
I try to read her face.
“Best wait for Elaine.”
We stand in awkward silence.
I slide the envelope
behind my back.
I wonder if I’m
about to get fired.
“Have I done
something wrong?”
I say, eventually.
Vidhi bites her bottom lip.
“Elaine doesn’t think
you should be in today …
what with everything online.”
“Oh,” I say.
I don’t know why,
but I thought
that stuff
wouldn’t penetrate
this place.
Everything about it
seems so disconnected
from the Internet.
Vidhi leans in and says,
“Sorry, I don’t know
how she knows.
Her son’s at St Matthew’s High.
I think maybe he showed
it to her.”
My throat starts to close.
“You’ve seen?”
“Yes,” she says.
“I’m sorry. I…
It’s horrible.”
I’m going to cry.
The closest exit
is just behind Vidhi.
I move towards it
just as Elaine comes
down the stairs.
“Frankie!” she calls,
stopping me
at the door.
“Good, Vidhi told you?
No hard feelings?
We’ll get your shift covered
for a couple of weeks.”
I feel so stupid,
my application
behind my back.
I have to get out of here.
My chest trembles.
“Yeah,” I say.
My voice is weak.
“No, it’s fine.”
“We have quite a conservative
funding body …
and there are children,”
Elaine says, cocking her head
and wincing.
“Parents might complain
if they recognize your face.
It’s just temporary.”
Vidhi moves closer,
reaching out to touch
my arm, but
tears are coming,
so I push the door
and say in a hurry,
“Honestly, it’s fine,
I understand.
Thanks anyway.
See you soon.”
Vidhi says, “Take care of yourself,
Frank—”
but the fire escape
clicks shut,
cutting her off.
A LONELY UNIVERSE
I lean against the door
of the planetarium,
my hands shaking,
staring down at
cigarette stubs
on the ground,
my application
wavering
in front of me.
Tears tumble off my cheeks
splashing onto brown paper,
making my name
an inky stain.
I feel so lonely.
My body presses
against the
planetarium door.
But the weight of it
pushes back at me
as though it’s expelling me.
Inside that building,
the stars are all shining
neatly in their places.
An orderly twinkling
of constellations.
Ursa Major.
Ursa Minor.
Cassiopeia.
Pisces.
Pegasus.
Perseus.
Lyra.
Aries.
Hercules.
I’m on the other side.
I feel
so empty,
like even
the universe
ha
s given up on me.
INSTEAD
I hide
in the trees
behind the car wash
clutching the brown envelope.
The smell of industrial soap
and wax wafts over me
every few minutes
as I cry, on and off,
defiance fighting despair
inside me.
I take out my phone,
thinking about asking
Dad to pick me up early.
Maybe I’ll say I’m ill…
But there are
so
many
notifications
and I don’t want to
see them but also
I can’t help but read them.
I want to know
what’s happening.
It starts to rain,
and I shuffle further
under the trees
hoping nobody sees me.
I’m pathetic,
hiding in the bushes,
shivering,
reading horrible comments
about me.
I’m actually
starting to feel ill.
My phone beeps
and I click on my texts
hoping
there’ll be, maybe,
a message from Harry
(She said,
“You’re nothing to me.”)
or Benjamin.
But it’s just low battery.
I wish he’d message.
Or somehow contact me.
Maybe everything
would feel better
if only he’d just admit
he told somebody.
Because he must have.
And now he’s ghosting me.
Instead I get
sucked into
a long thread
which someone has tagged me in
where people are discussing
online shamings,
and “Internet misogyny”,
and how teenage girls
are “objectified sexually”,
when my screen goes
black.
It’s dead.
So now I can’t even
call Dad, and instead
I crouch under the trees
in the rain for the
remaining hour,
watching a blinking
digital clock
in a nearby car
until it’s time
to go around the front
and be picked up.
When I stand,
I realize I’m still holding
the envelope
with my application in.
It’s soaking.
I shove it
