What's a Girl Gotta Do?

by Holly Bourne

  “But they won’t like it if you go off-piste in Cambridge interviews. You’ve got to play the game, Lottie. And I’m not sure, when pressed, if you’re capable of that. Once you’re in, great. I’m sure they’ll celebrate that critical mind of yours. But will you be able to hold your tongue to get in? You know what I mean?”

  I could feel the pulse in my neck thud all bulgily, thud thud thud, as the blood thumped around my body in panic.

  Was he right? If I got a stuffy person and a stupid question, could I let it go? I mean, I’d left my old school and it was plenty like that.

  All I’d ever known, all I’d ever been told by my parents, was that going to Cambridge or Oxford sorted you out for life. Yeah, there were exceptions, but everyone knew it opened the doors. It wasn’t just about the prestige of the degree – it was the mates you made when you were there, those bonds. Inevitably this bunch of people would grow up and get jobs in all sorts of important places, and you’d all got drunk together in first year and pissed in a punting boat, or whatever it is you do to bond. Those friendships – they changed things.

  I wanted those doors opened for me.

  Not just for me. I wanted to smash through them, so I could leave them open. To let other people in after me.

  Yes – maybe I sound like a wannabe feminist superhero. I guess maybe it was my ego at play a bit. I’m self aware enough to know I’ve got a hefty ego on me, and you can’t feel much better about yourself than when you’re changing the world…

  “Are you okay?” Mr Packson said, and I realized I hadn’t replied.

  I picked at a piece of skin that had come loose around my thumb, digging my fingernail into it, trying to rip it.

  “Is Cambridge…sexist?” I asked in a very small voice. “Am I… Is it…likely something sexist will happen in my interview?”

  Mr Packson’s face darkened. “I’d like to say no. Cambridge has a women’s officer, they’re pretty vocal. And King’s College, where you’ve applied, is very progressive. Cambridge even started running consent workshops for Freshers, did you see? It was on the news a year or two ago?”

  I nodded, remembering seeing it.

  “But…” he continued, running his hands through the little hair he had left. “Those are the students – they’re much more with the times. You may find, on your interview…the board that are talking to you…well…as I said…they’re unlikely to appreciate you being a maverick. Yes, it may be only men who interview you. There are more male professors than female professors, I’m afraid.”

  I opened my mouth, but said nothing. I closed it again.

  Mr Packson tried to smile. “I saw you in the paper this morning.” His voice was softer.

  “I’ve not seen it yet. I overslept. We were celebrating… being on TV yesterday.”

  “Yes. Everyone was talking about it in the staffroom. They said you did well.”

  I couldn’t help but fill up with pride then.

  “This project though. Does it run into the date of your interview?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s the week after.”

  I could see he was visibly relieved. “Ahh, well, maybe it will be okay then.”

  All my thoughts were crowding in on my brain, bashing and pushing into one another. Trying to get my attention.

  “I’m not going to stop calling out things that are wrong the moment this project is finished,” I said.

  We were startled by the bell ringing. It was always so shrill. I had art with Amber and Megan next. The bell jogged Mr Packson into action and he started collecting up his papers.

  “I know, Lottie,” he said. “But maybe this one day, this one interview… Perhaps you could let it slide? Pick your battles, you know?”

  That’s what I’d planned to do. But hearing him say it out loud made me feel all peculiar, like I’d suddenly eaten something funny.

  “We’ll see.”

  forty

  I hadn’t looked at my phone since I’d woken up and when I glanced at it on my way to art, I had about ten billion notifications. Just as I was about to start opening them, I spotted Amber down the corridor.

  “Lottie!” She waved. Her face was…odd… Pinched, but with a smile. “You’re here! I’ve been messaging you.”

  We caught up with each other and walked to class in step.

  “So? Have you seen the news stories?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No! I drank too much bloody champagne and overslept. What are they like? Is it all good?”

  Amber hesitated before she nodded, moving out the way for a group of stoners heading in our direction. One of them, Guy, the druggie prick who’d messed Evie around last year, turned as I stood aside to let them pass.

  “WOAH – YOU’RE THE GIRL FROM THE TV!” One of his mates pointed at me like I was some kind of exhibit.

  Guy – who I’d hung around with for a LOT of last year because of Evie – laughed in my face. “Watch out, dudes, it’s the FemiNAZI,” he said, like we were strangers. They all creased up and made the Hitler salute.

  “Grow up,” I told them, pushing past.

  It didn’t bother me, much. Well – it’s not every day people compare you to Hitler but, umm, still.

  “What is it, Amber?” I said, when they were behind us. “You hesitated. Are the newspaper stories bad?”

  We’d vetted the journalists so carefully, and they’d seemed really on my side yesterday. I mean, yes, they were still journalists…but…

  She smiled. “The stories were fine, you came across all smart and awesome as always.” Amber pushed through the double doors of our art room with her back and I followed her in. We walked over to our usual spot.

  Megan was already sitting down, paintbrush in hand.

  “All right? How’s the hangover, Lottie?”

  “Hey, Megs. It’s okay actually. Apart from Amber here is freaking me out a little.”

  Amber crashed into her seat. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.”

  “So why is your worried face out?” I sat down on my chair, avoiding looking at my canvas. Our topic for this term was “Passion”, and I’d been attempting to make a photomontage/painting/3D thingy of all the women in history I admired. But, right now, it was only half-done and looked a mess.

  Amber paused.

  “Tell me…”

  “It’s just… Have you seen your phone? Have you been on our channel?”

  “Not yet. I overslept and then I had this meeting… But it’s been buzzing like crazy…why?”

  “It’s just…well… I guess I can show you.”

  Megan and I raised our eyebrows at each other in a what’s-up-with-her? way, while Amber got out her phone and pulled up the news stories. Saffron, our teacher, was late as usual. I leaned over eagerly, trying to see what they’d done, the headlines they’d used for me, whether my hair looked okay.

  “Ohhh, it looks GOOD!” Megan squealed, looking over my shoulder. And my tummy started to fizz. It did look pretty good…

  “Yeah, I told you. The stories are FAB. It’s just well… I guess it starts with the comments.” Amber scrolled down to the bottom of the story, and I saw there were over two thousand comments.

  “Oh my God, two THOUSAND? Don’t people have better things to do?” I joked, but I felt instantly sick with apprehension. Comments sections under news stories weren’t good – especially comments under news stories about feminism. Sure enough, looking over Amber’s shoulder, the top one read:

  What about men’s rights? Does this silly teenager even think about those? We have less access to our children, our life expectancy is lower. But no, let’s just focus all our attention on WOMEN – because that’s equality, right?

  It wasn’t even that bad. It was to be expected…but still the fizzing in my stomach soured and white-hot anger coursed through me instead.

  “Has he not read what I said?” My fists clenched in on themselves. “Did he ignore the bits where I said about how sexism impacts all genders? Did he not watch the
video where I had a go at people using the phrase ‘man up’?”

  Amber winced behind her mass of hair.

  “Hang on,” I said, butting her shoulder out of the way. “What’s that say?” I read it out loud. “This comment has been removed because it breaks moderating guidelines. And there’s another one. And another… Why are they all being removed?”

  I was starting to guess though. Things had to be quite nasty to get removed by a newspaper’s moderating team… The fizz that had become anger now morphed into anxiety. My guts had no idea what to do next.

  “I, umm…well… Your story’s getting a lot of attention – which is great!” Megan said, but the brightness in her voice was so forced I’m surprised she didn’t snap an artery.

  “The downside is,” Amber finished for her, “umm…as a side effect, you’ve drawn out some trolls.”

  Trolls.

  My phone.

  I dived into my coat pocket and got it out, bringing up my accounts. I had more notifications than could even work on the counter. My vision went hazy. Maybe they’d be nice things? Maybe maybe…

  I clicked on my notification page, and straight away my hand went to my mouth.

  U R a slut bitch. Hope u burn.

  Angry bitches like u deserve 2 get raped. Watch your back.

  You gonna hollar when Im raping u whore?

  Amber was looking over my shoulder now – she gripped me tight.

  “Lottie…oh Lottie…it’s stupid. Just ignore it.”

  I was scrolling madly, hardly able to hear her. All my senses were on alert – the room seemed bigger, the noises of students seemed louder, my ears hurt, my eyes hurt. I kept scrolling.

  Amber gripped tighter. “Lottie, stop looking at them.”

  Bitch I know where u live. Watch it.

  “Can they really know where I live?” I asked, somewhat desperately. “They didn’t put my address in the story.”

  “LOTTIE!” Amber actually grabbed me and shook me. “You need to stop looking at it. Turn your phone off!”

  “She’s right,” Megan said. “This is just what happens when a feminism story gets in the news. I mean, it’s horrible, don’t get me wrong. But it’s normal. None of these comments mean anything! They’re just trying to silence you because you’re standing up for something good.”

  Their words floated above me, not quite landing. Then they sank in, and I felt so terrified about what I needed to do next that I almost forgot to breathe.

  “Lottie? Lottie? You’re not talking. You’re never not talking!” Amber said.

  “Guys?” I looked up at them, tears in my eyes. My hands shook on my phone. “I can’t ignore it – it’s sexism.” I gasped for breath, looking at the door, our teacher still AWOL. “I have to reply to them, I have to call them out. It’s the rules of the project…”

  Amber’s eyes widened. “Lottie, no! You’ll make it so much worse.”

  “She’s right,” Megan said. “This is surely outside the project remit. Don’t feed the trolls, remember? It’s what everyone says.”

  I ignored them and looked down at my phone again. I’d already received ten more notifications. Only two of them said nice stuff. The others were horrific. I hit reply to one and began punching in some words.

  “Lottie, what are you doing?”

  “What do you think I’m doing? What’s the battery like on your phones? Megan, can you film me replying to them? Otherwise Will will get annoyed.”

  They looked at me like I’d gone completely bonkers. Maybe I had. But I’d made a promise to myself and I was in the newspaper because of it. I couldn’t turn back on it now.

  You are a sexist pig.

  I hit send.

  Could they really find my house? Was I really in danger?

  I copied and pasted what I’d just written and fired it off to the other people threatening me. Bish bash bosh.

  “Look!” I pointed at my phone. “Some people are favouriting my reply!”

  “Lottie…” Amber’s eyes were filled with tears. “Please, stop.”

  “You know what?” I asked, feeling full of energy, feeling on edge, feeling mad… “I don’t think I have time for classes today. Not if I have to reply to all this scum…”

  “Please, Lottie. Come on, let’s talk about this.”

  “Lottie, you can’t let them get to you,” Megan said.

  “I may just skip today and go home. This is going to be a full-time job,” I replied, mostly to myself.

  “You bunked off yesterday. Lottie, stop hitting reply! This won’t help anything.”

  “I DON’T HAVE ANY CHOICE!” I yelled and the art room fell silent, as the whole class turned to look at me. One girl, this snotty girl we’d never liked, stage-whispered in her friend’s ear, “Oh, look, it’s the attention seeker again. Pathetic much?”

  Attention seeker?

  My phone was vibrating so hard it was making my hand itchy and hot.

  I wasn’t an attention seeker. I was just trying to do a good thing. A righteous thing. It was only a month, then I’d leave everyone alone.

  Fifteen new notifications. People had begun to repost my replies. They were spreading through the internet like wildfire wearing posh running trainers.

  I stood up. “I’m going to go,” I told the girls. “Will you tell Saffron I’m not feeling well?”

  “Lottie, please. Stay. I can’t follow you. Especially after yesterday. You know my attendance is down since I got tonsillitis. I’m almost below eighty per cent…” Amber said.

  I smiled warmly at her, though by her shudder, it came out more manic than I’d intended.

  “You stay put. I’m fine. I’m just going to go home and work on this. I’m totally fine.”

  “Lottie?” Megan asked uncertainly. “Come on, sit down. Talk it through with us.”

  “Lottie! Lottie? Lottie?!”

  But I was already marching out of the door, just as Saffron came in.

  forty-one

  My eyes stung from staring at a screen all day.

  And crying. They stung from the crying too.

  My neck ached from hunching over the old family laptop that I’d set up in my room.

  My stomach rumbled, complaining about its lack of breakfast, lunch, dinner.

  I twitched whenever I heard a sound.

  Was it them? Had they worked out where I lived? Were they really coming for me?

  But still, still, I didn’t stop refreshing the page. It was like a compulsion. Each threat, each horrid comment, was like a fist had reached out of the flickering screen and punched me straight in the stomach.

  Every single physical flaw in my appearance had been pointed out to me.

  Every single double standard in my argument.

  Every single part of my security and feeling of safety had been compromised.

  Still I pressed refresh.

  Ctrl + C of my you’re a sexist pig response.

  Ctrl + V.

  Over and over.

  It was making them worse.

  My phone was buzzing so hard it had fallen off my desk several times.

  Initially most of the messages were from Amber and Evie, asking if I was okay.

  I’d fired back, No, but I want to be alone right now. And I don’t mean that in an overrule-me-and-turn-up-anyway kind of way. I love you both. I’m fine.

  I so wasn’t fine.

  Some of the buzzing came from calls from journalists, answerphone messages from journalists, a few FemSoc people asking if I was okay…the rest were from my notifications.

  The abuse. So much abuse.

  I’d been pinged a link to more news stories – new ones about me, stories about how I was personally responding to every single bit of abuse. This, of course, made everything get even more out of control. My battery died, my phone stayed on the floor. Mum and Dad – oblivious to everything because they had no interest in social media – just thought I was working – they were delighted.

  When would this s
top? When could I stop?

  At least ten different people had told me they wanted to kill me today.

  And I’d had to reply to them.

  A loud knock at my door.

  “I told you, I’m working! And I’m not hungry.”

  The squeak of the door opening.

  “Then don’t eat me.”

  And, for some reason, the sound of Will’s voice just broke me. I didn’t acknowledge him, I didn’t say hi. I just slumped over onto the desk and started wailing. It was a new realm of crying for me. My throat was making noises I didn’t even know were possible. Will was at my side instantly, a hand resting uncertainly on my shoulder. I choked and rasped and gasped for air in big gulping sobs. Will waited, his hand shaking on my juddering body, not saying anything. But he was there. Silent, but there. Like he knew I needed to cry myself out.

  Which, in time, I did.

  Slowly, I raised my head, taking him in, giving him a small watery smile. He didn’t look like his usual self – his normally perfectly quiffed hair was all stood on end, like he’d been raking his hands through it, deep circles under his eyes even his thick frames couldn’t hide. Yet when he smiled back, that underlying self-confidence shone through. Dented, but still there.

  “I’ve never had a girl cry so hard when I enter their bedroom before,” he said. “Usually they’re much more enthusiastic.”

  My watery smile diminished and I pointed to my sodden face. “Trust you to think this is all about you.”

  Will looked at my screen. Another fifty-six alerts had cropped up during my crying spell.

  “I know this isn’t about me.”

  Instinctively, I went to click on the little fifty-six number icon, which had just transformed into fifty-eight. But Will’s hand shot out and grabbed mine – pushing it away.

  “No, Lottie, come on.”

  The feel of his hand on mine… It sent sparks exploding off inside of me…even with all this going on. I tried to push him away though, to click, to carry on with this job, but he held me tighter.

  “I’ve got to!” I said. “The project!”