There’s no point any more. They’ve all decided I’m guilty.
I might as well be.
The rest of Friday passes slowly. I get a couple of sweet texts from Rose to say she’s thinking of me and looking forward to meeting up tomorrow. The relief these messages give me is pathetically huge. A month ago I wouldn’t have cared what Rose thought of me. It even crosses my mind to attempt to wrestle my curls into an approximation of her trademark long bob, but that really is a step too far, both for me and my unruly hair.
Poppy charges up the stairs to find me as soon as she gets home. She is shocked that the police refused to credit the suggestion that George might have read about me putting the pigeon in the bin and asked a friend to steal it for him.
‘They’re convinced I’m guilty,’ I say glumly. ‘Nothing I say ever changes their minds.’
Poppy sighs. ‘It’s like that scientific thing where if you go into your research expecting a particular outcome, then that’s the outcome you tend to get.’ She sighs. ‘Though it’s still hard to imagine George being so mean, especially after all this time. You’d think he’d have moved on.’ She paces up and down my room, lost in thought. She’s grown taller in the past year and her face is longer, a perfect oval. She’s always been pretty but now it’s in a grown-up way, like she’s comfortable in her own skin, at one with all aspects of her appearance, from her long slim legs to her almond-shaped eyes and her carefully messy blonde hair.
The way we’ve grown close since she accepted I wasn’t SweetFreak isn’t anything like the way Amelia and I were friends. That was based on sharp bursts of emotions where one minute we’d be in hysterical laughter over something and the next Amelia would be crying her eyes out looking to me for support and comfort. My friendship with my sister is far steadier, involving fewer displays of strong feeling, but for all that it’s solid, based more on grit than glitz.
And apart from the first couple of days Poppy’s faith in me hasn’t wavered. I still don’t really understand why she’s so convinced of my innocence, when everyone else thinks I’m guilty. For a split second I wonder again if maybe she’s responsible herself and simply sticking up for me out of guilt. Then I push the thought away. This is the worst thing about being blamed for something I didn’t do: no one trusts me and I trust no one.
‘I’m excluded from school for the whole of next week,’ I say and the words land flat in the room, as bleak as my mood.
‘That sucks,’ Poppy says.
She’s right, it does.
But at least she’s on my side. And tomorrow – my birthday – I’ll meet with Rose and we can begin to plan a proper fight back against all the lies.
13
The next day is officially my worst birthday morning ever. For a start I’m plagued with memories of how much fun I had last year, when Amelia and I spent five hours at the mall, spending my birthday money on clothes. We bought matching tops and wore them when we went out that night.
Today is very different. Not only do I receive no money, but when Mum wishes me a ‘happy birthday’ her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. I wasn’t really expecting a gift, but it still hurts as she explains that my present will be the future return of my laptop and phone.
‘You’ll get them back once you’ve grown up enough to take responsibility for your actions,’ she says miserably. ‘And believe me, deciding not to celebrate your birthday this year is every bit as painful for me as it is for you.’
Yeah, right.
Jamie is excited at least. He proudly presents me with a drawing of me and him acting out parts from Warriors of the Doom Wood. I get a card with cash inside from Mum’s parents who she clearly hasn’t told about my disgrace. Mum takes the money and pockets it without a word.
‘I’ll bank this for you for the time being.’
Awesome.
Poppy gives me a pretty necklace with pink beads. I give her a hug and put it on straightaway.
Nobody makes a cake.
The day slips past. I play with Jamie until I get bored, then I retreat into my room and focus on my lines for The Sound of Music. I’m almost word perfect in every scene now. I reckon I’ll only miss two rehearsals over the coming week while I’m suspended from school. It’s not a big deal. There are several scenes I’m not in that Mr Howard can work on while I’m away. He knows I’m well ahead on my part so I’m not worried about it.
Despite her decision not to celebrate my birthday, I overhear Mum telling Poppy that maybe she should forego her planned Happy Hour drinks on the high street. A few of her work colleagues are meeting up for someone’s fortieth and Mum has flip-flopped over whether or not to go all week. Thankfully Poppy – who knows about my meet-up with Rose – urges her to go ahead and see her friends, saying that’s she’s going to microwave some popcorn and watch a movie with me.
Mum compromises by saying she’ll go for a few hours. She comes into the living room to tell me and Jamie she’ll be back by ten and that Jamie better be asleep. She makes her eyes wide when she says this, which for some reason always makes him giggle.
As soon as Mum leaves I put on some lipgloss and my fave jeans and head out myself. It’s not quite six thirty so I’ve got plenty of time before I meet Rose but I’m nervous so I hurry. I skirt around the park and take the road to the west part of town where the Nando’s is situated.
I’m two streets away when I think I see Mum, across the street in a group of women. It’s actually someone with a similar hair style, wearing the same Zara coat. I realise this later, but at the time I’m thrown into a panic and race in the opposite direction as fast as I can. I take a left turn, then two more, assuming this will bring me out back on the high street. But it doesn’t. I wander around, cursing my lack of Google Maps and my poor sense of direction, until it gets to six forty-five and I have to acknowledge that I’m lost.
I swear under my breath, trying to take stock. I’m in a section of town I hardly ever come to: just to the north of the main drag. No one I know lives here. It’s a weird mix of houses: a lot of run-down properties used as squats and a few streets with delis and those plantation blinds at the window, part of the Lower Cornmouth gentrification plans, according to Mum.
I turn a corner and almost trip over something on the pavement.
I yelp, stumbling. A strong arm yanks me upright. I pull away and spin around. There’s a canvas rucksack at my feet.
‘Sorry, that’s mine. Sorry.’
I look up. A boy stands in front of me, about my age. He’s vaguely familiar, with a shaggy shock of thick dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s dressed in an odd combination of clothes – a worn leather jacket that looks too big for him, over faded jeans and mismatching trainers.
It’s the trainers – one grey Adidas, one yellow with a green Nike swoosh – that prompt my memory: this is the boy I saw the night I crept out to meet Amelia. He was with a girl wearing DMs with rainbow laces. I’m on my guard instantly, instinct telling me he’s homeless and a million warnings from home and school making me afraid he’s about to try and mug me. Or at least ask for money.
The boy must see my anxiety on my face.
‘I don’t want anything,’ he says, smiling. ‘Are you OK? You were storming round that corner like a bull.’
‘A bull?’
He laughs. ‘Sorry, that’s not very flattering, is it? I mean you steamed round like a sleek missile, intent on your target.’
‘I’m not sure being a WMD is any better than a bull,’ I say, relaxing a little. The boy seems genuine enough. There’s real kindness in those blue eyes and when he smiles they light up. He’s not obviously good-looking – his face is too long and his lips on the thin side – but there’s something intriguing about him.
‘Actually, I’m lost,’ I admit. ‘I need to find my way back to the high street.’
‘Yeah, there’s loads of cul-de-sacs and dead ends round here,’ he says knowledgably. ‘So how long are you visiting Cornmouth?’
I laugh. �
�Would you believe I’ve lived here all my life?’
The boy laughs too. It’s a rich, warm sound. For a fleeting second I wonder if he really does live on the streets like I assumed when I first saw him and why he’s wearing odd trainers. Then I remember Rose will be arriving any minute at Nando’s. I need to hurry.
‘So which way is it?’ I ask.
The boy gives me directions and I thank him then hurry on my way. Turns out I’m only a couple of minutes away from Nando’s, arriving at five to seven. The restaurant isn’t busy right now, though I know it’ll be heaving later. I explain I’m meeting a friend and the waiter puts me at a little table by the window.
I check my phone as I wait. I’m starting to feel nervous again. I try to reassure myself: Rose was so sweet yesterday, she believes in me, she’s going to help me.
From tonight, everything is going to start getting better.
I check my make-up and adjust my top. It’s now quarter past seven. The place is half full now and the waiter is eyeing me suspiciously. Where is she? I check my useless text-and-calls-only phone again. Rose and I definitely agreed on seven. It gets to twenty past and another group of teens I don’t know saunters in. Only three empty tables are left, none of them as nice as mine by the window. The waiter is openly throwing me dirty looks.
I send Rose a text:
I’m here. Are u on ur way?
No reply.
The waiter, who has managed with difficulty to seat a large group just next to me, comes over just before half past seven. ‘I’m afraid I can’t hold your table much longer,’ he says. ‘When is your friend going to get here?’
‘Just a few more minutes,’ I say.
‘OK.’ He looks doubtful, but leaves me in peace.
I text Rose again. Then I call her. Nothing.
And then a text finally arrives. The sender has withheld their number, but it’s undoubtedly from Rose:
Hey SweetFreak. Check your NatterSnap
I stare numbly at the screen. She’s not coming. She was never coming. I‘ve been set up.
I was set up from the start. It’s so obvious now I think about it: Rose was only been pretending to be friendly yesterday in order to humiliate me tonight, here in the restaurant.
I stumble out the restaurant door, too numb even to feel the shock and shame of this latest slap in the face. I trudge home, too low to cry.
As soon as I get through the door I ask to borrow Poppy’s phone to check NatterSnap. There’s a photo of me from Nando’s sitting alone at my table. It’s been posted on the main feed by someone – presumably Rose – calling themselves CareyLFreako – which is not my NatterSnap handle. The caption underneath reads:
Big Saturday night with da gang. #popular #freak
All I want to do is get back and crawl into bed and stay there.
Which is what I do for most of the weekend. Poppy tries to talk to me, but what is there to say? Someone – most likely George – has set out to ruin my life. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I cry every now and then, but mostly I just feel a dull, dead sense of despair. I no longer wonder or even care if George is SweetFreak. What does it matter? Even if he is, he’s covered his tracks so well I’ll never be able to prove it.
My week of being excluded from school begins and I’m glad I don’t have to go in and face Rose and everyone. Mum knows she can’t police my being grounded during the day, though she’s threatened to make random calls on the house phone to check up on me. I don’t really care if I stay put, to be honest. Where am I going to hang out if not at home? It’s getting too cold for the park or the wood and I don’t have any money.
I spend Monday trying and failing to lose myself in The Hunger Games, again. I watch TV and try a couple of movies but I can’t concentrate. I think about how much I miss being online. It’s the weirdest thing not being connected any more but of course I don’t have any way of accessing my own devices and when Mum went to work this morning she locked all the other electrical items in the house away.
On Tuesday I have a morning session with Sonia the patronising therapist which is the worst yet, ending with her suggesting that my refusal to open up to her is a sign that I’m tussling with myself over being honest and that underneath she knows I want to confess my guilt.
That afternoon I run through all my lines from The Sound of Music. At least I know the part, though how I’m ever going to face everyone else in the play again, especially Rose, I’ve got no idea. And then Poppy arrives home from school with a letter for Mum about me. We steam it open, knowing Mum won’t be back for another hour and that we can reseal it before she gets in.
The letter is from the head. It’s the formal acknowledgement of my week-long exclusion.
We don’t want to give up on Carey and we don’t want her to give up on herself. Obviously the main condition of her returning to school is that there should be no further instances of bullying or threats against any pupil or member of staff. And of course we have already discussed increasing Carey’s counselling sessions to twice a week. It is also important to stress that this is Carey’s final chance. Another incident and she will be permanently excluded from school.
‘Jeez,’ Poppy breathes.
‘I know,’ I say with feeling.
You’d think that would be the worst bit – the threat of expulsion over things I haven’t even done. But it isn’t. The worst part of the letter comes right at the end, after all the warnings and heavy stuff.
I have discussed the situation with Mr Howard and we both agree, very reluctantly on Mr Howard’s part, that it is no longer appropriate for Carey to take the lead in the school’s production of The Sound of Music. I’m sure you will understand our view that there should be no reward for bad behaviour and it is inevitable that a role such as ‘Maria’ confers celebrity status within the school. I also believe that though Mr Howard has apparently been impressed with Carey’s application to her part, we are concerned about putting her in the position of role model to the younger years.
‘In other words their parents have complained,’ Poppy says, wrinkling her nose. ‘I’m so sorry, Carey.’
I nod, tears pricking at my eyes. I’m too choked to speak. There’s a dull weight in my guts. The bitter taste of despair in my mouth. Being Maria in The Sound of Music has been about the only thing keeping me going for the past few months.
‘At least things can’t get any worse,’ Poppy says with a sigh.
But it soon turns out she is wrong.
14
My week-long exclusion from school ends, half term comes and goes and the endless days of November turn into the interminable weeks of December. I have absolutely no social life so, other than when I’m dragged off for therapy sessions with annoying Sonia, I stay home, bored and resentful. After much begging on my part Poppy lets me borrow her phone so I can at least connect with the outside world. I’m excited to be able to get into my social media accounts, then crushed to discover that I’m still ignored – or abused – on everything. Any posts I make are met either with absolute silence or a torrent of nastiness in which the nicest word anyone has to say about me is: Freak.
I try again a few days later, hoping the bitchy gossip will have died down.
It hasn’t. Even the boys from school who didn’t ignore me after the SweetFreak death threat now clearly think I’m a psycho bunny boiler, thanks to that stupid pigeon in Amelia’s locker. How do I know? There’s one of those horrible chats between the boys on NatterSnap where they rate the hottest girls in our year. Mostly the posts are straightforward: a boy puts forward his choice of girl and the others either agree or not. I have an alert on my name, so I see when Aaron Price – a dweeby boy I barely know in one of the other classes – says he thinks I’m hot. And I see when, immediately afterwards, a whole bunch of other boys gleefully warn him to stay away from me, telling him and the entire world that I’m deranged, that if he doesn’t watch out I’m liable to kill any pets he might have . . . or start stalking him . .
. or chop off bits of his body . . .
It’s all ridiculous and I don’t believe any of them seriously think I’d do any of these things. They’re not really thinking about me at all, it’s just a game to them, something to tease each other about. And they don’t think about how I’m a real person, whose feelings might be hurt. Truth is, though, that I’m kind of past hurt feelings. Most of the time I’m just numb, existing in a strange limbo with my house and family – and perhaps the woods where I sometimes take Jamie to play Warriors – my entire world.
Mum softens a little as Christmas approaches. We never have lavish Christmases, there’s not enough money for that, and Poppy and I long ago accepted that the focus of the day should be on our little brother, not ourselves. Jamie is, as ever, full of wonderment and delight at his presents: a tablet of his own, bought secondhand on eBay, from Mum and a new plastic sword set and Warriors of the Doom Wood dressing-up outfit from me and Poppy.
Poppy gets a secondhand tablet too and some perfume and cash. Mum gives me clothes, which Poppy has chosen. They’re nice, though I’d far rather have got a proper phone or a new laptop – or even my old ones back. But Mum is carrying through on her pledge to deny me access to decent technology. I still have to make do with her ancient mobile that just makes calls and texts. At least I’m no longer grounded once January starts.
I go out on New Year’s Day eager to take advantage of my regained freedom. It’s the first time I’ve been anywhere other than school or Sonia’s house for ages but I quickly realise I have absolutely nowhere to go. The places in town I used to hang out with my friends are just boring dumps with no one to liven them up. I miss Amelia more than I would ever have imagined: the way we could make a joke out of anything, the way we usually agreed on stuff and the way we’d talk and talk, processing every aspect of our lives and relationships.
SweetFreak Page 9
