Blood Moon

by Lucy Cuthew

  and walk quickly

  down the street.

  I can talk to Benjamin.

  I can confront him again.

  Now I think about it,

  time has given me clarity,

  and even though I know

  he didn’t make the meme,

  I do know he told somebody.

  It’s easy, really,

  one turn here,

  down the next street,

  along a few more,

  and before I know it

  I’m looking at his

  red front door.

  I don’t let myself think.

  I don’t let myself stop.

  I just walk up to it,

  reach out with my fist

  and knock.

  FIX IT

  I stand still and wait,

  braced to deliver

  my scathing reproach.

  I watch his shadow approach

  through the cloudy glass

  and then

  Benjamin’s mum

  opens the door

  and I’m totally thrown.

  “Hello,” she says, smiling.

  “Er … hi,” I say, searching

  for words to explain

  who I am

  and what I’m doing

  standing here

  looking determined.

  “I’m … er …

  is … er …

  Benjamin in?”

  I finally get out.

  She tilts her head,

  gives a flicker of a grin,

  before standing aside

  and saying,

  “Sure, come in.”

  My eyes fall straight

  on Benjamin’s trainers

  lying on the floor at

  the foot of the stairs.

  The same ones he

  took off in my hall

  right before we got

  almost completely naked.

  “Go on up,”

  she says, pointing

  to a door at the top

  of the stairs.

  “He’s in his room.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter,

  slipping off my shoes,

  the carpet squashing softly

  beneath my bare feet.

  I climb the stairs,

  wondering if my parents

  would ever be so cool

  about letting a boy

  come up to my room.

  But before I’m at the top,

  Benjamin’s mum shouts up,

  “Someone’s here for you!

  Keep the door open!”

  And I’m in his doorway,

  breathing in the clean,

  biscuity-sweet

  smell of his room.

  Benjamin is lying

  on his bed.

  “OK!” he shouts

  down to his mum,

  not looking up

  from his laptop,

  which is on the bed

  next to him.

  Rugby kit covers the floor

  and on the wall above his head

  is a huge poster

  of what I know to be

  a Cassini mission photo

  of Saturn’s icy rings.

  Benjamin taps the keys

  and I look at his screen

  and I freeze.

  Half of the meme

  fills his screen.

  Not the picture of me,

  but the one that’s always

  next to me with the

  bloodied fingers.

  Stranger’s fingers.

  Why is he looking

  at that bit on its own?

  I feel

  A whimper escapes me.

  Benjamin turns

  and practically

  falls off his bed

  as he sees me

  and scrambles up.

  “Frankie!” he says.

  “What are you do—”

  “What are you doing?”

  I say, pointing at his screen.

  I try to sound strong.

  I feel so small.

  I wish I hadn’t come.

  I want to fall

  into a black hole.

  Benjamin looks from

  me to his screen.

  Panicking.

  Guilty.

  I’m so confused.

  I know, know,

  he told someone,

  but…

  “Did you have something

  to do with the me—”

  “No!” he says, shaking his head.

  “I’m trying to help you!”

  I search his face,

  wondering how he

  could possibly be helping me.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,”

  he says, taking a step

  closer to me. Then stopping.

  “Can I show you

  something I’ve just

  found out?”

  He pulls the laptop

  to the edge of the bed,

  kneels on the floor

  and starts clicking.

  I move a little closer,

  watching over his shoulder.

  Curiosity silencing my anger.

  Then he brings up

  reams of white text

  against a black screen.

  “The metadata

  shows where

  the fingers photo

  was taken.”

  “It’s geotagged?”

  “Exactly,” Benjamin says,

  his eyes wide and hopeful.

  “This is not a stock photo.

  It was taken just before

  the meme was posted.

  At about one that morning.

  Locally.

  But it was nowhere

  near Harriet’s house.”

  “Then where?” I say,

  my heart lifting,

  skipping,

  as I try to stop myself imagining

  what it would mean

  if the meme

  wasn’t

  Harriet.

  “There’s only one person

  I know who lives

  in the area where the

  photo was taken.”

  Benjamin pauses.

  He looks worried.

  “Jackson.”

  I blink.

  And shake my head,

  trying to catch up

  with what he’s said,

  and what it means.

  Harriet was grounded.

  She’d never go

  against her mum.

  Did Harriet really not make the meme?

  “So…” I say, swallowing.

  “Are you saying

  Jackson made the meme?”

  Benjamin nods

  and

  I realize I’m standing,

  guilt and regret

  battling in my guts.

  “Harriet hasn’t been lying.”

  “She could have

  been with him.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “She was grounded.”

  I bend over feeling

  almost sick with relief.

  I breathe out deeply.

  Then breathe in,

  trying to take it all in.

  I was so angry with her

  about the shower photo,

  I believed she’d do anything mean.

  Even the meme.

  I didn’t listen to her.

  But at the same time as

  realizing Harriet

  didn’t make the meme,

  I’m realizing that

  Benjamin still blabbed

  to somebody.

  He was the only one

  who knew.

  “You told Jackson,”

  I say, standing up straight

  to look at Benjamin.

  “I didn’t!” he protests.

  “Stop lying!” I say,

  my voice risi
ng,

  hoping his mum

  doesn’t hear me.

  “It was on Harriet’s page.

  How did he get into

  her account if she

  wasn’t there?”

  “Maybe he guessed it?”

  I say, thinking about how

  all her passwords are

  variations of 99 Flake,

  and how she was salivating

  over her milkshake

  when we went ice skating,

  and how Jackson knew

  her phone’s passcode

  was 9999.

  “Don’t ask me how, but

  her password would have

  been really easy

  for him to figure out.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he—”

  “Just admit you told

  Jackson what we did!”

  I snap.

  I need to go

  and see Harriet.

  “I didn’t,” he says.

  “Stop lyin—”

  “Wait!” he says, pleading,

  his hands on his head,

  compressing his curls,

  as though he’s trying

  to force something out.

  “I told my sister.

  I texted her

  when I got home

  that afternoon.

  I was worried I’d hurt you.”

  “You told your sister?!”

  I say, incredulous.

  Benjamin nods.

  “I didn’t know what else to do.

  She works weird hours

  in California so

  she didn’t reply

  until the next morning.

  I was in school.

  Jackson read

  the message I sent my sister

  over my shoulder.”

  I stare at Benjamin.

  Searching his face

  to see if he’s lying.

  Can that really be it?

  Something so naive?

  So innocent?

  “I’m sorry.

  I should have told you.

  I just hoped so much

  it wasn’t all my fault.

  My sister’s been helping me

  take the worst stuff down.”

  I ignore the implication

  that there has been worse

  than what I’ve seen.

  My temper is rising again.

  “That’s what my parents

  said we should do

  when they found out.”

  “Your parents know?”

  “They know everything.

  They’re going in to

  see the head tomorrow.

  Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  I’m almost shouting.

  Benjamin sighs.

  “I’m really sorry.

  I couldn’t bear it.

  I was just pretending

  it wasn’t my fault.

  I felt terrible.”

  “You felt terrible?”

  I am shouting now.

  “Everything OK?”

  Benjamin’s mum calls

  up the stairs.

  “Yes!” he calls back. “Fine!”

  But I’m not fine.

  I’m furious.

  “And you ignored me!”

  “My parents have

  my phone.”

  “There are other ways

  to contact me,”

  I say, nodding at his laptop.

  “You’re right,” he says.

  “I just wanted to

  fix it for you,

  then show you.”

  I shake my head.

  “I didn’t need you

  to fix it for me.

  I just wanted you

  to be there for me.”

  Benjamin looks

  genuinely surprised.

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all.”

  Benjamin swallows.

  His Adam’s apple bobs

  at the neck of his T-shirt.

  “I felt so guilty.

  I’m sorry.

  I was hiding.”

  “You were lying.”

  Benjamin nods.

  “I wish I’d just told

  you the truth.

  I was lying to myself too.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  I really like you.”

  “I like you too.

  But I don’t trust you.”

  Benjamin looks down at his feet,

  then up at me.

  “Maybe over time

  I can gain that back?”

  Benjamin says.

  “I really hope we can

  hang out again.”

  “I hope so too,” I say.

  Maybe he was

  just ashamed like me.

  But I need

  time to think.

  “Send me that thing,”

  I say, pointing

  to his screen

  as I leave.

  I have an idea forming but

  before I do anything

  I have to talk to Harriet.

  AN APOLOGY

  I run all the way

  from Benjamin’s house

  my legs working

  as hard as my brain

  straining to sort

  the muddling feelings

  of guilt

  from shame.

  I reach Harriet’s gate,

  legs aching,

  heart pounding,

  mouth bursting with

  an apology I desperately

  hope isn’t too late.

  Harriet opens her front door

  and takes a step back

  as she sees it’s me.

  Her face is red.

  Her eyes are puffy.

  “Frankie,” she says.

  “What’s happening?”

  Sweat is dripping

  down my spine

  and I’m panting from running

  as I blurt out,

  “I know you didn’t

  make the meme.”

  I stop to breathe,

  my throat tightening.

  “Jackson hacked you.

  Benjamin can prove it.”

  I lean over

  and gasp for breath

  then stand back up

  and search her face.

  Hoping she understands

  what I’m saying.

  Hoping she won’t slam

  the door in my face.

  Her brow furrows.

  She blinks slowly.

  Sniffs a little.

  “No one believed me.”

  “We were so angry.”

  She starts nodding,

  sobbing and saying

  “It wasn’t me” over and over

  as though she’s making up

  for all the time she’s been

  coping with everyone

  thinking it was her.

  “Harry,” I say,

  reaching out to her,

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She looks at me

  with her bloodshot eyes,

  sniffs snottily and says,

  “I did some horrible things,

  but I would never do

  something so cruel.”

  “I know,” I say, swallowing,

  my heart hurting

  seeing how much

  pain Harriet’s in.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

  Tears slide

  over my hot cheeks.

  “I wanted to,

  but it was so convincing.

  And I was furious with you.”

  Harriet nods,

  tears still pouring

  down her cheeks.

  “You had every right to be.”

  “Please forgive me?”

  “Me forgive you?”

  Harriet says, wiping

  her nose on her sleeve.

 
“Frankie, I was awful to you.

  I took that shower photo.

  I pushed you over.

  I snapped over

  that whole email thing.

  It was so embarrassing.

  I wanted to get you into

  as much trouble as me.

  I’m the one who

  should be saying

  sorry to you.”

  “What I said to you in the toilets

  that day was horrible.”

  “It was quite mean.”

  “I just didn’t understand

  why you’d send

  a picture like that.”

  “I think in my

  sleep-addled state I

  thought it would make

  Mr B like me as much

  as he likes you.

  I’m not as clever as you.”

  “Harry,” I say.

  “You’re so clever.

  I’m the idiot.

  I shouldn’t have judged you

  about the email.

  I should have just

  been there for you.”

  Harriet winces.

  “I should have

  been there for you.

  I didn’t know

  how to come back to you.”

  “I didn’t either.

  But I am so, so sorry.”

  The afternoon breeze

  sweeps the clouds aside

  and a sunbeam falls on us,

  illuminating us, ridiculously,

  both crying snottily,

  standing on the doorstep,

  tears dripping from our faces.

  “I’m more sorry

  than I can ever say.

  To the moon and back

  or something really big

  and cheesy like that.

  You’re not nothing to me.

  You’re everything.”

  “God, I’ve missed you!”

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  Then we hug each other,

  squeezing tightly,

  sort of laughing,

  sort of crying,

  and for the first time in ages

  I feel like smiling.

  So I say,

  “My parents saw

  my porno debut,”

  and I watch her

  as her eyes go so wide

  they look like they’re

  about to fall out of her face.

  AN IDEA

  “OMG, tell me

  everything

  immediately!”

  “I showed them everything.”

  “Everything everything?”

  “Everything everything.