Well, what else am I going to do?
I’ve more or less given up phoning Amelia and none of my other friends call or text me. I keep scrolling through my social media apps to keep up with what’s going on, but I’m not included in anything and I don’t try to push my way back in. I’m still hopeful that I can explain to everyone on Monday morning my suspicions about George and that they’ll realise then the proof against me isn’t as cast-iron as they all seem to think it is.
It doesn’t quite work out like that.
On Monday I walk into my form room, my heart thudding in my chest. Surely Amelia will be back today?
She isn’t, though everyone else is there. They all stare as I walk over to my usual seat. My palms feel clammy as I put my books on the desk.
Rose is two seats down, busy with her phone.
‘Hi,’ I say, not particularly because I want to talk to her, but in order to break the ice.
She doesn’t reply and I’m fairly certain from the way her head tilts self-consciously as I speak, that she’s deliberately ignoring me. Irritation rises inside me. This is so unfair. What gives Rose or any of the others the right to judge me like this?
‘Hey.’ I go over and plant myself right in front of her. She doesn’t look up. ‘Hey. I’m talking to you.’
Rose lifts her head. Her long, freckled nose wrinkles with disdain.
‘Can you smell something?’ she asks the group of girls at the window.
They watch her intently. I hold my breath. What is she doing? She gives an exaggerated sniff. ‘I smell something,’ she says slowly. ‘I smell . . . the Freak.’
Two of the girls by the window giggle. My face burns.
Rose sniffs again. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Definitely the smell of the Freak.’
I turn and walk away. I’m itching to rail at her, but I’m afraid if I talk I’ll cry. And I don’t want Rose or any of them to see how much their stupid insults are getting to me.
The day goes from bad to worse. Nobody speaks to me in any of my classes. Most people won’t even look me in the face. There’s a rehearsal for The Sound of Music at lunchtime and I look forward to it more than I could have imagined. This time it’s just me and Heath – rather than a big group thing – and it’s obvious straightaway that the accusations following me around have poured a bucket of cold water on his interest. He’s offhand and distant, as if he’d rather be anywhere other than having to read through his lines with me. It’s not like I was ever seriously interested, but his obvious U-turn still hurts.
The final straw is when I trudge home, more miserable than I’d have thought possible, and Mum greets me as I walk in with the words:
‘I think you need to talk to someone, Carey. Get to the bottom of what’s going on with you . . . so I’ve found you a therapist and booked an appointment for tomorrow evening. Her name’s Sonia Greening and she’s got a very good reputation.’
Tuesday, six p.m., I’m ushered into Sonia’s living room. She’s a big woman, wearing a shapeless dress and red-framed glasses. The bangles on her arms clatter against each other as she eases herself into a chair with a beaming smile. Her living room is as cluttered as ours at home, though whereas our place is just messy, Sonia’s surfaces are carefully covered with all sorts of ethnicky knick-knacks: wooden carvings, postcards, multicoloured scarves and loads and loads of tiny, unlit candles.
I sit on the sofa opposite Sonia’s chair, hands in my lap, feeling desperately uncomfortable. Sonia starts talking about this being a safe space and entirely private and about her listening to me. I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve never been in a situation remotely like this before.
‘So, Carey . . .’ Sonia gives me an encouraging smile. There’s something fake about her. It’s that thing adults do when they’re trying too hard to be ‘down with the kids’. ‘Why don’t we start with how you’re feeling physically?’
I stare at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Any tightness or tension?’
There is: my stomach is tied into knots and it feels like there’s a band across my chest and throat. But I don’t want to talk about it with Sonia.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, shrinking back a little.
‘OK.’ She nods sympathetically. ‘How did you feel when the police were talking to you?’
‘Great,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Fantastic.’
Sonia nods again, but the smile is looking even faker than before. ‘I’m here to help you, Carey.’
‘Help me do what?’
‘Help you process everything that’s happening . . . but you have to open up to me if I’m going to help.’ She clears her throat. ‘Let’s start with how things are at school.’
‘OK,’ I say.
‘I understand you have the main part in your school production this year?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have regular attendance with good grades across all your subjects?’
‘I guess.’
‘What about friendships? Boyfriends? Social life?’
She’s trying to draw me out and it makes me just want to clam up.
‘Up until a few days ago I had lots of friends and my social life was just fine and I don’t want a boyfriend.’
‘You don’t want a boyfriend?’ Sonia pounces on this. ‘Tell me . . . what’s your situation at home? Is Dad around?’
From the way she’s asking it’s obvious my mum has told her about Dad leaving.
‘My dad left when I was ten. He gives us a bit of cash in Christmas cards sometimes and last summer he sent a photo of his new baby. I don’t think about him much.’
I can see the cogs whirring in Sonia’s brain. She’s clearly thinking that I’ve got issues because I don’t have a father.
‘Is the baby a brother or sister for you?’ she asks.
‘I don’t remember,’ I say. This isn’t true. Dad’s baby is a little boy called Teddy with a mass of dark curly hair just like Dad’s – and mine. I don’t know why my stupid father sent the stupid picture. It made Poppy furious and when Jamie saw it he asked if maybe Dad had gone away because of him, because he was hoping to find a better son. I’ll never forget the look on his face. It was the most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen.
‘Where does your dad live?’ Sonia persists, oozing with phoney concern.
I shrug. ‘Dunno.’
This isn’t true either. Dad lives at seventy-seven Camber Avenue, Broadcombe, just along the coast. I memorised the address before Poppy destroyed the note and picture, swearing me and Jamie to secrecy. ‘We mustn’t tell Mum,’ she’d insisted. ‘She’d be so upset.’
I fantasised for a while about going to find him, but what would be the point? If Dad wanted to see us he’d come to Cornmouth himself.
‘I don’t care about my dad and his stupid new family,’ I say.
‘I see.’ Sonia pauses. ‘Let’s get back to things at school. Tell me about your friend Amelia.’
I shrug. ‘She’s cool. We’re best friends. At least we were . . .’
‘What sort of things did you used to do together?’
‘I dunno. Chatting, hanging out . . .’ Sonia looks at me expectantly, clearly wanting more. I rack my brains for something to say. ‘Er, a couple of weeks ago we recorded ourselves singing and put it on YouTube, like we were a girl band or something.’ This isn’t exactly what happened. We did record ourselves but Amelia just mouthed along to the words, saying she couldn’t sing in tune to save her life.
‘And, even before the recent upset, had your friendship changed recently?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, new friends on the scene? Perhaps even a boyfriend . . . ?’ Sonia lets the word hang in the air.
‘I guess,’ I say, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Amelia started dating a boy called Taylor Lockwood. She got a bit loved-up over him.’
‘Ah. How did you feel about that? Did her relationship with Taylor upset you?’ Sonia raises her eyebrows.
‘
Not really, I just thought it was stupid when he dumped her and she got so upset.’
‘You thought she shouldn’t have been upset?’
I meet Sonia’s intent gaze and feel suddenly wary. What is she getting at?
‘I didn’t say that,’ I explain. ‘Of course she’d be upset, but they weren’t together very long and Amelia kept going on about it . . .’
‘Did that make you angry?’
A switch flicks inside me. All of Sonia’s softly pressing questions and her beaming smile are basically attempts to get me to confess. She isn’t really interested in what I have to say. She’s already decided I’m guilty and just wants me to admit it.
This isn’t a ‘safe space’. It’s a trap.
‘I thought it was an overreaction,’ I say carefully. ‘I was trying to be supportive, a good friend.’
‘But what were your emotions?’ Sonia persists.
I press my lips together.
‘It’s important that we own our feelings, Carey,’ Sonia goes on earnestly. ‘It’s part of taking responsibility for ourselves.’
Taking responsibility. That’s the same phrase the police officer used. And Mum. There’s no point talking to this woman. She’s prejudiced against me. Everyone is. And the only way I’ll ever change anything, is if I can prove I’m innocent, which means unmasking whoever is guilty.
Which I’m now certain is George.
I barely speak through the rest of the session. As soon as Sonia says our time is up I hurry downstairs. Mum is waiting in the car, Jamie in the back seat.
‘How was it?’ she asks.
I turn my face away. I can’t believe Mum is siding against me. It feels like the world as I knew it has ended.
‘Carey?’
‘Fine,’ I grunt.
Mum sighs and drives off. Jamie keeps her chatting through the journey home. As soon as she’s parked by our house I leap out and hurry away.
‘Come back!’ Mum calls after me. ‘You’re grounded. Carey! Where are—?’
I turn the corner and her voice fades away. There’s a strong wind blowing gusts into my face. A piece of grit stings my eye. I blink it away, clenching my jaw. Fifteen minutes later I arrive outside Amelia’s front door. There’s no sign anyone’s home. It’s only seven thirty so her mum and stepdad are bound to be at work – they rarely get back before eight. Nevertheless, I hesitate on the doorstep. Suppose George answers?
I press the bell. No one comes. I press it again.
After a long minute, the door opens. Amelia stands there, her hair tied off her face in a ponytail. I’m used to seeing her in make-up both in and out of school, but right now she’s not wearing any and all I can think for a second is how small her eyes are. They’re screwed up, peering at me suspiciously.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she says.
‘I didn’t do it,’ I say.
Amelia starts to close the door in my face.
‘But I think I know who did.’
The door stops moving. Amelia meets my eye. She raises her eyebrows.
‘I think it was George,’ I explain. ‘Your brother, George.’
Amelia’s jaw drops.
‘Seriously,’ I continue. ‘George is angry at both of us, because I sent you that video of Poppy and that Spanish guy. And he could have hacked my laptop, no matter what the police say. Because someone must have.’
Amelia stares at me. Her fingers stray to the chain around her neck. The little heart Taylor gave her is on the end. Amelia rubs her thumb over the back of the heart, where I know the initials ‘A’ and ‘T’ are scratched.
How can Amelia and I be so close that I know such an intimate detail – and yet so far apart.
‘Also, the last time I saw George he threatened me,’ I say, thinking of the party last Friday night. ‘He said he wished I was dead. Please, Amelia, you have to help me prove it was him so that—’
‘George couldn’t have done it,’ Amelia says, her voice like ice. ‘He was with Mum when the police said your laptop was being used.’
‘I’m telling you, he must have found a way to—’
‘And if George was angry with you it’s because he’s seen how upset I am, and how upset Mum and Dad are, especially now I’m missing so much school.’
‘So come back,’ I urge. ‘Show Geor— whoever sent the messages how strong you are, that whatever SweetFreak throws at you, you’re not going to let it change you or your friendships or . . . or your life.’
Amelia curls her lip. I sense I’ve said the wrong thing, though I can’t work out what. A mask descends over her face and, when she speaks, her voice is thin and pointed, like a knife.
‘You know why else George is angry?’ she asks. ‘He’s angry because his sister’s supposed best friend has turned out to be a horrible cow.’
‘But—?’
‘Listen to me, Carey.’ Amelia takes a step forward, filling the doorway. Her cheeks have pink spots. ‘First you said it was Poppy, now my brother. You need to stop blaming other people and admit you’re SweetFreak and that you sent those messages. And you can definitely stop pretending to be my friend.’
‘But I’m not . . . I didn’t,’ I protest. ‘And I am your friend.’
‘Really?’ Amelia says, her voice tight and thin. ‘Like you were my friend when you called me Princess behind my back? Or when you totally took over when we did that YouTube video of us singing? Or when you were practically rolling your eyes at how stupid I was to get upset over Taylor?’
I stare at her, mouth gaping. What is she talking about? I was patient over Taylor. And it’s hardly my fault if Amelia gets oversensitive about stuff. ‘That’s not what hap—’
‘And you need to remember this one, specific, important thing,’ Amelia snarls. ‘I never want to speak to you, ever again.’
I open my mouth to protest again but before I can utter a word my best friend slams the door in my face.
9
A long week at school passes. Whichever way I turn, people treat me like I’ve got some hideous contagious disease. Some are openly hostile, calling me out over sending the death threat, bitter contempt in their voices. Others – mostly the younger kids – scuttle past me at top speed, clearly afraid I might get it into my head to attack them.
Horrible though these reactions are, I prefer them both to the meaner, more subtle campaign against me which is led by Rose and which involves most of the girls in my form completely ignoring me. From the scraps of conversation I overhear it’s obvious that Rose has been in touch with Amelia and has lost no time telling everyone how devastated she is. Not that I hear this directly . . . thanks to Rose I’m left out of every conversation – both at school and online. Worse even than this, is the way when I am in earshot, I’m referred to in the third person by my new nickname.
‘There goes the Freak,’ and ‘Ugh, the stink of the Freak,’ and stuff like that.
I hate, hate, hate the way it’s impossible to face them down over it.
It’s not much better at home. Mum’s initial anger has turned into a sort of subdued unhappiness. She speaks to me about basic stuff like homework or when it’s my turn to take out the rubbish, but she doesn’t chat with me like she used to. I can’t remember the last time she pointed out a dress I might like on ASOS or yelled up the stairs for me to come and watch TV with her. And she has given up asking me to confess to being SweetFreak.
When the police at last return my laptop and mobile phone, Mum hides them, informing me they are locked away in a secret place away from the house where I won’t be able to find them. I ask repeatedly when I’ll get them back, but she just shrugs and says ‘when I think you can be trusted’, which clearly isn’t likely to be any time soon.
I’m also officially grounded from all non-school related activities for the rest of term. Not that I have anywhere to go or anyone to see. I think Poppy has an idea of what I’m going through, but for some reason, when she asks how I’m doing, I feel too ashamed to tell her just ho
w horrible everyone is being to me. I do ask her to keep her eyes open for any clues that George is SweetFreak, though as the two of them are barely speaking I don’t hold out much hope this will get me any closer to proving his guilt.
The following Tuesday I visit Sonia again. If anything, this session goes even worse than the first one. I clam up completely in the face of Sonia’s increasingly earnest attempts to draw me out. She keeps banging on about the importance of growth through personal responsibility:
‘Unless you find a way of coming to terms with the hurt you’ve caused, you’re in danger of remaining stuck in the past, weighed down by your actions. I’m sure if we can talk about it, Carey, we can find a way to help you face up to what you’ve done and move on.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ I want to scream at her. But what’s the point. She’s convinced of my guilt.
Everyone is.
How is it possible that just a few weeks ago I was as happy and popular as I’ve ever been? At the start of the school term I’d even thought about having a big outing to Nando’s for my birthday. I’d planned on inviting loads of people and asking Mum to go halves on it. But now my birthday is less than a fortnight away, Mum hasn’t mentioned it and I can’t think who I’d ask anyway.
Amelia still hasn’t shown up at school. She’s been absent for a fortnight now. All the teachers will say is that she’s ‘off sick’. I can’t imagine her mum is thrilled about having to take so much time off – if that’s what’s happening. Mrs Wilson was on the phone to my mum within an hour of my visit to Amelia, insisting I keep away from her daughter.
Mum was furious I’d gone around there. ‘Don’t you realise how humiliating this is for me?’ she said. ‘Not to mention how awkward for poor Amelia. Stay away from their house, or I’ll extend your being grounded to the whole of next year as well as the rest of this.’
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