This Is My Truth

by Yasmin Rahman

  36

  It’s lunchtime and Huda’s avoiding me. Which is fine, because I was totally avoiding her first. I keep looking around the canteen to see if she’s going to walk in late and come over to our usual table, but I know Huda. She just needs a bit of time to herself. I’m still angry at her for everything she said earlier, but the urge to lash out has thankfully disappeared. It really scared me for a second, made me consider whether Abbu’s bad habits are genetic. The last thing I want to be is like him. I’ve reasoned with myself that it wasn’t like his anger at all. Abbu gets angry when things don’t go his way, he gets angry because he’s not given the power he thinks he deserves.

  I’m nothing like him.

  If I keep saying it, maybe I’ll convince myself it’s true.

  Huda will be back soon. I know it. This is the biggest fight we’ve ever had, but Huda and I can’t be apart for long. We just need to let our anger die down and then things will be fine. For the time being, I’ll have to make do. We don’t have any more lessons together until tomorrow, so it’s just getting through today. And I’m doing that by replacing Huda with Maggie. She’s sitting next to me, munching her crisps. We’ve both brought Doritos for lunch. If that doesn’t mean we’re destined to be friends, I don’t know what does.

  ‘Did you hear about Stacey’s mum?’ Maggie asks me, scrolling on her phone with her Dorito-free hand. ‘The school called social services on her after the whole blog thing.’

  ‘What, really?!’

  ‘Yeah!’ Maggie’s voice goes higher when she sees that I’m interested. ‘They had to report it because of safeguarding or whatever. I heard from Juwairiyya that a social worker turned up at Stacey’s house to check everything out. Stacey thought they were gonna take her into care.’

  ‘Oh my God! So what happened?’

  Maggie shrugs, and deflates a little. ‘Nothing. They just talked to Stacey and her mum.’ Maggie leans in close to me. ‘Turns out that on that parents’ evening, it was the anniversary of Stacey’s dad’s death. Think she just had a few drinks to not be sad. Probably shouldn’t have come out in public, but y’know.’

  ‘Oh God, that’s awful,’ I say softly.

  ‘Yeah, I get it though. My mum wasn’t in a good way for a while after my sister died. She still gets a bit down when, like, it’s an anniversary or her birthday or something.’

  I didn’t know Maggie’s sister had died. I’m a terrible friend. She told me about her media studies coursework the other day – the film about her sister – and I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn’t even bother to ask about it. I feel like I should ask something now, but the blasé way she mentioned her sister makes me sort of afraid to.

  ‘Poor Stacey,’ I say instead. ‘The blog’s getting out of order, don’t you think? That whole thing must have been really hard for her and her family.’

  ‘It’s all just bants, innit?’ Maggie says, going back to her phone. ‘It’s not like whoever’s behind it knew this would happen.’

  I cock my eyebrow, even though Maggie isn’t looking at me. ‘You spill someone’s secrets, there’s gonna be a fallout. Especially with something as out of order as this. Even if Stacey’s mum was an alcoholic, that’s literally no one’s business. There’s certainly no need to spread it.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon, Amani, lighten up. It’s just a prank. I’m sure they’ll soon go back to who’s cheating on who, and who shat their pants.’

  I hold in a groan. Why is everyone like this? Why does no one see how out of order these blogs are? How out of order it is to spread other people’s private business.

  ‘So … you had a sister?’ I ask, trying to change the subject, making an effort to be a good friend. Not one that judges; one that asks and pays attention.

  Maggie turns to me and smiles. It’s a different one than I’ve seen on her before. A softer one. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Her name was Isla. She died five years ago. Car crash.’

  ‘Oh wow, I’m so sorry.’ It’s a knee-jerk response. One I wince at, but it would feel rude if I didn’t say it.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I’m over it. Mostly. You just get used to it and move on, innit?’ “It’s what she would have wanted,”’ she continues in a mocking tone. ‘So many people say that to me, as if they knew her. She wouldn’t have wanted that actually. She would have wanted us all to be miserable forever, to think about her forever. She was a self-obsessed git, was our Isla.’

  I burst out laughing. Maggie’s eyes widen, probably shocked at my rudeness. ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, immediately stopping.

  ‘No, don’t be sorry!’ she says, smiling now. ‘I hate it when people get all sentimental when I talk about her. She’d prefer laughter, trust me.’

  ‘So what’s your video about? Like, a tribute or something?’

  ‘Nah, much better than that,’ Maggie says, sitting up straight. ‘I don’t like that whole thing where you can only say good things about people after they die. Isla was a … she could be a bitch. But she was also hilarious. There’s so much funny footage of her. I’m going to make a video that would embarrass the shit out of her. Wanna see what I’ve got so far?’

  ‘Yes!’ I say, craning my head over Maggie’s phone. I watch as she flicks through her camera roll. And I’m watching as an email alert pops up.

  A new blog post.

  BLITHE ACADEMY BURN BLOG

  Backpack may have said to stop the pranks,

  but this isn’t a prank.

  It’s a service.

  (You’re welcome)

  And today’s subject …

  someone who runs under the radar.

  Someone who’s been doing so for years.

  They say it’s the quiet ones who have the biggest secrets.

  And that’s certainly true of our pal Amani Akhtar.

  ‘Why is she so quiet?’ I hear you ask.

  It’s because she’s terrified.

  Of her father

  (Mr CatBeard himself),

  who likes to beat his wife.

  And not just his wife …

  Has anyone noticed the bandage on Amani’s arm?

  Wonder what that’s hiding?

  Today, the Blithe Academy Burn Blog

  reports on a

  burn victim.

  37

  This can’t be happening.

  It can’t.

  How did they …?

  Who …?

  Oh my God, I think I’m going to be sick.

  A wave of anxiety floods through me. My heart starts thudding so hard I can feel it in my ears. My face, my body, everything heats up and I start sweating. The burn on my arm is pulsing, acting as a sort of siren for incoming trauma.

  Everyone knows.

  My biggest secret has been revealed to the entire world. This is exactly what I’ve been terrified of since the blog started. Maggie turns her attention from the screen we were both reading to look at me. We lock eyes. There’s pity, confusion, concern, maybe a hint of condescension written all over her face.

  I can’t stand this.

  I can’t take it.

  I can’t.

  ‘Amani …’ Maggie starts.

  I jolt up from my seat. ‘I need to go to the loo,’ I manage to get out. I know she knows it’s an excuse. But right now I don’t care. I don’t care what she thinks. I just need to get away. I need to get away from the eyes that are all about to focus on me, from the whispers. I need to get away from the laughs and comments that are about to be thrown in my direction. I just need out.

  I grab my bag and leg it out of the canteen and into the food-tech building, where the loos are usually empty. It’s only when I push open the door and run in that I realise tears are streaming down my face. I rush over to the sinks, resting my palms down and bending over the basin. I’m going to be sick.

  Oh God, everything is falling apart. Everything is ruined.

  Why? Why is this happening to me? I’ve never done anything to hurt anyone. Why am I bein
g punished like this? If this gets back to my parents, there’s going to be … it’s going to be terrible. Everything is going to be terrible.

  Something pops into my head then – Maggie’s comment about Stacey’s mum and how social services got involved because of the blog. Oh God. What if they come for Ismail? What if they’re making Ammi pack up his things right now? It’ll all be my fault. Whoever’s behind this blog clearly has it in for me. I’m the reason this is happening. My family’s going to break apart because of me.

  I look at myself in the mirror. My face is all wet and sticky. I look pathetic.

  An idea comes to me.

  I just have to convince everyone the post is fake. It’s this blog’s word against mine. They have no proof. I have to tell social services it’s all a lie. That someone has it in for me. All of the rumours spread by the blog have been personal. The one about Stacey just spent the whole time calling her a bitch.

  But who could it be? I can’t help but wonder. Who is responsible for my whole life crashing down? The only person that knows is Huda, and she’s promised not to say anything. I believe her. She wouldn’t go back on a promise. Huda says she’s been let down by too many people in her life, and that she’d never do the same to anyone.

  Over my gulping sobs, I hear the door open and a voice. ‘You OK?’

  Maggie must have followed me. I quickly wipe my face with my sleeve, wincing as pressure is accidentally put on the burn. I sniff back my tears and snot, try to make myself look less of a wreck. I wipe away all I can before turning to the door.

  ‘Thanks, Maggie, I’m fine,’ I say.

  Except it’s not Maggie.

  It’s Huda.

  38

  Huda’s standing with the door closed behind her so it’s just the two of us trapped inside this small room. I try to examine her expression, but my tears have made everything blurry. I swipe at my eyes.

  ‘Did you tell someone?’ I shout. ‘You promised. You fucking promised!’

  ‘I didn’t … say anything to anyone …’ she mutters.

  ‘How did the blog person find out then?’ I ask.

  And then it hits me. We had a conversation about it at break. Out in the open. Right next to the field. Cleo and her friends were sitting just around the corner from us. They were all whispering as I walked off.

  ‘Oh my God – do you think someone was listening to us earlier, when we were at the bench?’

  I can just picture it now: Cleo getting one of her minions to army-crawl over to where we were sitting, out of sight, but close enough to hear every word.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I repeat, mostly to myself. I’m screwed. If it is Cleo, she’s not going to let this go. She’s going to make things worse and worse until I can’t take it any more. UGH! This must be revenge for the comments Huda makes to her. Cleo’s been fine with me since her blog got revealed. But if Huda’s the one who caused this, she’s the one who can fix it too. She’s the only one I know who can put Cleo in her place.

  ‘Huda, please, you have to help me. It must have been Cleo who did this. You know how much she hates me. She must have overheard us earlier and told whoever’s doing the blog. Huda, you have to help me. You’re the only one who can stop her. Huda, please.’

  Huda doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, looking down at her feet, fiddling with her bag strap.

  ‘We have to convince everyone the blog is lying!’ I say. I’m gabbling now. ‘It was wrong about Stacey’s mum – did you hear? She’s not an alcoholic or anything. It was just … whoever’s writing the blogs is only doing it to people they hate. We can stop them, Huda. We can work together and stop them. We have to make everyone else turn against the blog. If we convince them it’s a lie –’

  ‘It’s not a lie though, is it?’ Huda says fiercely.

  I’m taken aback by her anger. I would have thought she’d be on my side. I thought she’d be the one person who would understand how devastated I am, just how bad this is.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask. ‘You agreed to help me keep this secret.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I said you needed to speak out, but you refused, called me a bitch and walked off. I agreed not to say anything.’

  I stare at her, gobsmacked.

  ‘And I kept my promise. I didn’t say anything,’ she says. ‘I typed it.’

  39

  ‘It was … you?’ I say, my heart thudding. ‘With the blog? This whole time?’

  She doesn’t reply for a few seconds and I start to think I’ve misunderstood. It can’t be Huda. It just can’t.

  She groans and then comes over to the sinks, next to me. ‘It wasn’t meant to go like this, OK? I only did this … for you. All of it. For you.’

  ‘For me?’ I ask. ‘Don’t you dare say this was for me. I would never have asked you to do anything like this.’

  ‘But that’s the thing,’ Huda says, getting energised now. ‘You didn’t have to. That’s what friendship is. I knew you wouldn’t tell anyone about your dad. I knew if you had your way, you’d just keep this inside and things would get worse and worse until someone … someone got really hurt.’

  I glower at her. ‘Someone did get hurt. Me. I can’t believe you … you … so, what? All of this. All the blog posts, they were you? Or just this one?’

  Huda nods slowly. ‘It’s always been me. It started off … as an idea for the prank war, but I hadn’t figured it out. And then Cleo … fucking Cleo just wouldn’t leave you alone. I’ve always hated her, but when I realised how much she was picking on you, how upset it made you, it pissed me off so much, I had to do something.’

  I stare at her. ‘So you told everyone my biggest secret, literally destroyed my life and split apart my family … to get back at Cleo?’

  ‘No! Of course not.’ She gives a frustrated groan. ‘It started off just to get back at her. To show that people can, and should, stand up to her. And then … then it went so well and everyone was so into it that I had to carry it on. I thought I’d use it to get back at some other dickheads. Cleo’s coven for starters. I didn’t realise how … fun it would be. I enjoyed seeing how everyone reacted to the blogs, hearing people talking about it. It’s stupid, I know, but it made me feel … powerful. Like I was making a difference. Making people pay for being pricks.’

  She pauses, as if waiting for me to clap, or thank her for her service, but I’m just confused as to why she’s giving me this spiel. ‘So at what point did you decide you’d ruin my life?’ I ask. ‘And how much fun did you have doing it?’ A wave of sadness runs through my body; the last few words come out with a quiver.

  ‘I’ve already told you yours was different!’ she protests. ‘That wasn’t for fun, or out of spite. Amani, I did this for you. It all came to me after Stacey’s blog. I felt … I felt bad after that one. I mean, she’s a bitch, and she deserved it. But when I heard the school called social services, I realised I’d gone too far. I didn’t mean for things to get so serious. I was going to stop, I promise. But then I realised maybe serious was good. Maybe this was the answer. Maybe this was the way I could help you! Your dad … he hurt you, Maani. That … that burn … watching that happen, it was the last straw for me. I couldn’t just sit back and let this carry on. I’d be the worst best friend in the world if I did.’

  ‘You are the worst best friend in the world!’ I shout. ‘How does the whole school knowing my family’s business help in any way? You say you started this blog for me, to protect me from Cleo’s bullying. But you don’t think people are going to make fun of me for this? People have been singing “Stacy’s Mom” to Stacey and staggering about, pretending to be drunk around her, ever since her blog came out – you think it’s going to be any different for me? What gives you the right to –’

  The bell for the end of lunch rings, making us jump. I wait for Huda to leave, to go to class, but she doesn’t move. And neither do I. I’m not letting her win this argument.

  ‘I stand by what I did,’ she says. ‘Now it’s out t
here, you can’t ignore it. Your mum can’t ignore it. Maybe this will be the push she needs to speak out.’

  ‘Or maybe this will be the push my dad needs to actually fucking kill her. Did you even consider that?’

  I can see the words hit home; her eyes widen and she lets out a small gasp. I decide to take it a step further. I’m not even paying attention to what I’m saying, I just want to hurt her as much as I’m hurting.

  ‘You’re a fucking shitbag of a person, y’know that? It’s no wonder that Ali and Nafisah don’t love you enough. You’re a stirring bitch who doesn’t deserve to be loved. D’you know how many people would give anything to have parents as loving as yours? Parents who care, who are normal? You’re so lucky, Huda, and you don’t even notice your privilege. You just use it to have power over everyone else. How does that make you any better than my dad? Enjoy this while it lasts, Huda. I hope you can live with what you’ve done.’

  I pick up my bag, swipe at my face with my sleeve one last time, and stomp out of the loos before Huda has a chance to say anything – not that I’d fucking listen to that bitch.

  She’s ruined my life.

  40

  By the time I storm out of the food-tech building, everyone is in class, thankfully. I speed off down the empty path, keeping my head low. I need to get home. I need to get away from all the people here who are waiting to make fun of me, who are waiting for me to break down in front of them. It feels like my entire world is crashing down, and for some people here, that’s the most entertaining thing ever. I realise now why Cleo disappeared from school when her blog post went live. The desire to burrow away and hide is overwhelming.

  ‘Amani?’ someone calls behind me. A familiar voice. I make the mistake of turning around – a reflex. Dammit.

  It’s Mrs Farook, my PSHCE tutor. I run my timetable in my head to make sure it’s not her class I’m supposed to be in right now, and luckily it’s not. I can just pretend I’m late to class or going to the loo. I stop walking and wait for her to catch up, because I’m not a monster, and she’s one of my favourite teachers. I duck my head, pretending to look in my bag for something, and secretly wipe my eyes.