You Don't Know Me

by Sophia Bennett

  When mine’s ready, I take it up to my room. There’s something I need to do. It’s funny: when Rose was here, she was the songwriter so I never bothered, apart from ‘Sunglasses’. Now, these new lyrics seem to be pouring out of me. They’re probably all rubbish, but I still feel the need to get them down. I dig out an old notebook that Rose gave me ages ago and I never used. As soon as I find a pencil sharp enough to write with, the lyrics flow onto the page. And the next page. And the next.

  Now I need to see if I can capture the tunes that come with them. I wish I was better at playing guitar.

  The ‘teach yourself’ book is hiding behind two unwashed mugs at the top of my bookcase. I reach up and bring it out. Rose has always had a guitar teacher, but John Lennon learned this way, she told me. So did other guitar greats like Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page. And Rose’s spare guitar – she named it Molly – is right there in the corner, asking to be used.

  By the time Mum calls me to lay the table for supper, I’ve just about mastered two chords: A and C. Sort of. Given that the guitar is badly out of tune. I still have a lot to learn. My hands are aching, but it’s a good ache. It reminds me of when Dad tried to teach me in Vegas. The pads of my fingers feel numb from holding down the strings and strumming them. I’d forgotten that guitar playing was such hard physical work.

  After supper, I add D major to my repertoire. Instantly, it unlocks one of the tunes in my head, and I can start to describe it with my fingers. It’s amazing what you can do with three simple chords. Perhaps, looking back, I was giving Rose more credit than she deserved. Or maybe not. OK, so she knows an awful lot more than three chords. This morning, Ivan Jenks announced that she’ll be recording ‘Breathless’ for release as soon as possible.

  Anyway, it’s bedtime and I’ve written half a song. I may have lost my phone because of some IDIOT, but it hasn’t been an entirely wasted day.

  For the first time in weeks, I sleep straight through, without nightmares, and wake up feeling better. From the amount of sunlight in the room, I’d say it was mid-morning. One day left until I have to face everyone at school again.

  I get up and check over the lyrics I wrote last night, before assessing the state of my bedroom. As always, it looks as though there has recently been a minor explosion in the vicinity. It’s a constant work in progress, my bedroom: something I mean to tidy, and turn into a ‘calm, relaxing sanctuary’, but which ends up as a snapshot of my messy life.

  I tackle it bit by bit. Slowly it becomes less of a disaster scene: the washing machine is on full-time; my wardrobe re-emerges from under its curtain of tops and dresses, and now contains only clothes that still fit me; the clean, white surface of my desk reappears from under the mass of papers. Eventually my carpet is empty except for a pile of clothes to get rid of, and Rose’s two cardigans, which I really must return. I slip the one with the coral bead edging on again.

  At school the next morning there are several men with cameras outside the gates, trying to take pictures. They call out my name, but I ignore them, hiding my head under the biggest hat I could find in the porch this morning. It’s good to be surrounded by people. I feel safer here, even though I still don’t know what to expect from my friends.

  Nell gives me a brief smile in the locker rooms, but Jodie hurries her away. The rest of the day is pretty bad, but not quite as horrific as singing to millions of people on live TV when you’ve just betrayed your best friend, or being told that somebody wants to kill you. About eighty per cent as horrific, I’d say.

  One thing I realise: I used to be quite popular. I never really knew. But people used to include me in conver -sations, and call me over if something interesting was happening. Now they always seem to be whispering, and the whispering stops whenever I come by. The people I thought were my friends seem to be busy whenever I approach, while others that I hardly know grab me to have their picture taken with me, grinning and pointing, so it can be a trophy on their Interface page. Every single teacher looks at me with pity or disgust.

  When I get back to my locker at home time, someone has scratched DROPTHEFATGIRL into its surface. The pointed letters, inscribed with something sharp, set my heart racing. All the way home on the bus, I keep checking behind me to see if anyone’s following me.

  In the evening, after homework, I check on Rose online. If I can’t talk to her, this will have to do. Besides, she is everywhere – on every chat show and news clip, with Linus or Roxanne or Sebastian – talking about her win. She has been for weeks; I wonder how much sleep she’s had.

  ‘And how does it feel to be a total internet phenomenon?’ they ask her in a news clip. ‘I think your song’s got sixty-five million views now. What’s that like?’

  ‘Unreal,’ Rose says. ‘I’d just like to say thank you to everyone who’s supported me.’

  ‘I bet you would. It’s a beautiful song. And tell me, you’ve had some people being pretty mean about . . . your figure. But you’ve shown that it’s possible to rise above all that. So, are you comfortable with your body image now?’

  There’s a long pause, and I watch Rose silently squirming at being asked the question. But she avoids rolling her eyes, takes a deep breath and smiles graciously.

  ‘I don’t think anyone is totally comfortable with their image,’ she says. ‘But I’m OK with myself. All I ever wanted to do was write songs.’

  ‘Isn’t she fabulous?’ Linus chips in from beside her, beaming. ‘Isn’t she wonderful? She’s a real advert for the non-typical girl. She shows there’s hope for us all.’

  He laughs and pats his own impressive stomach. But Rose is a typical girl, I think angrily. Just not typical of singers and people on TV. It’s sad to watch her smile fade slightly while everyone else in the studio laughs along with Linus, but I wonder how many people notice. Soon she’s fixed her grin back on and she’s busy talking about how amazing it was to meet Jessie J backstage.

  I still miss her. I’m wearing her cardigan now. Across the room Molly, her guitar, is propped up against the window, where I left it last night. If people knew that Sasha Bayley, official #skinnycow, was looking after Rose’s spare guitar for her, what on earth would they think?

  The thought makes me sad, then it makes me giggle. It gives me the idea for a new song. I grab my notebook and start writing again.

  ‘You don’t know me

  You think that you do

  From the pages and the papers, but

  I’m a different girl inside . . .’

  Then I try a few experimental chords, to match the tune in my head. From now on, this feels like the closest I will ever get to Rose.

  I’m back at my computer a few days later, looking at pictures of her doing a fashion shoot for an entertainment magazine, when an email arrives in my inbox. It has the subject, ‘Rose Ireland research’. So many people want stories about her. Is there anything left that they don’t know – apart from how I really feel about her, of course? Warily, I open it.

  Hi Sasha. I’m doing a background piece on Rose Ireland and her stunning rise to fame. I noticed Andy Grey talking about the record-breaking votes you got with your band in the early stages of Killer Act. I’ve looked at these more closely and they intrigue me. Don’t they look unusually good to you? Is there something you’d like to talk to me about? I can help you tell your side of the story. It’s time to set the record straight. You can contact me using the details below. Fiona Kennedy.

  I read it over and over.

  What kind of ‘background piece’? It doesn’t sound very flattering to Rose.

  . . . unusually good . . .

  What does Fiona Kennedy mean by ‘unusually good’? Of course those votes were unusually good. We couldn’t believe it at the time. It was the weirdest experience, from the first time we saw ‘24 votes’, to when they went into the thousands. We were just lucky, weren’t we?

  But staring at Fiona’s words, I suddenly wonder. For a girl band no one had heard of, those votes were insane. Looking back, I ca
n see why the journalist’s intrigued. Honestly, can anything else horrible come out of this story for me?

  Not just for me. For us.

  Of course, if there was something wrong about the votes, I wouldn’t be the only one to suffer. I’ve given up trying to contact Rose, but Jodie and Nell should know about this too. Whether we like it or not, we’re all in this together.

  With a sinking heart, I go downstairs to call Jodie’s number. I know she doesn’t want to talk to me, but I don’t think she’d forgive me if I didn’t warn her.

  To my surprise, when I call, she answers. I’m so used to being ignored by Rose now that I’ve come to expect it.

  ‘Hi. Yes?’

  Cold, clipped Jodie. I hate it, but at least she’s listening.

  ‘Look, something’s happened. There’s this journalist who thinks she’s found something to do with our votes. We need to talk.’ I tell her about Fiona Kennedy and her suspicions. ‘Don’t you think something was strange?’

  ‘Not really,’ Jodie says. ‘The Head had us as her ringtone, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Ignore her. That’s what I do. Ignore them all. Our lives are ruined anyway. Don’t let her make it any worse.’

  The accusation in her voice hurts as much as if she’d smacked me with a ruler. Sometimes I wish she wasn’t such a drama queen.

  ‘They’re not ruined,’ I say, trying to summon up the weird feeling of hope and courage I felt coming back from Crakey Hill, after that boy smashed up my phone. But right now, it’s hard to recapture.

  ‘Anyway, see you tomorrow,’ she says gruffly, over the increasingly loud noise of heavy metal in the background. ‘Got to go now. My brother’s being an idiot. Turn it down, Sam! Elliot! I can’t hear myself think.’

  Elliot. Elliot Harrison. The weird computer geek who’s best friends with Jodie’s brother. The guy who put our video online. What else did he do?

  Little White Box

  I catch him first thing the next morning, in the corridor outside the sixth-form common room, where I’ve been waiting. He looks startled when he sees me. I don’t blame him.

  ‘Elliot, I know about the votes,’ I say.

  I don’t, of course, not really – but one look at his shifty face, which has gone red to the tips of his ears, and I can see I’m on to something.

  ‘What votes?’ he mumbles, trying to move past me.

  ‘The votes we got for Killer Act. I know, and there’s a journalist who knows too, and she’s going to do an article on you, so . . .’

  ‘What?’

  He stops dead and stares straight at me. Looks like Fiona Kennedy was right.

  ‘Those votes. You made them happen, didn’t you? She’s on the case, Elliot. You have to tell me, or else I’ll just talk to her and she can talk to you direct.’

  ‘Look,’ he says nervously, ‘not here. Let’s go into town after school. I promise I’ll tell you there, OK?’

  When the final bell rings, I find Elliot waiting for me in the reception area. Outside, the photographers have gone at last, but I wonder who else might be watching me. I try not to think about it.

  ‘There’s a gaming shop that’s usually quiet,’ Elliot says. ‘We can go in there, if you like.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever.’

  It’s a twenty-minute walk into town through the rain, and actually I’m glad of his company. He walks with a sixth-former’s confidence, and now, if somebody is watching me, they’ll see that I’m not alone.

  As we get to the edge of town, the rain eases off and the sun pokes through the clouds. Castle Bigelow can look quite pretty, with its old, painted buildings lining the high street, and the grand stone entrance to Castle College crowning the top of the hill. I take off my hat and stuff it in my pocket, enjoying the fresh air on my face.

  Inside the gaming shop, Elliot explains everything.

  ‘I wanted things to be nice for you,’ he sighs. ‘That’s all. I watched your videos and they were really funny. But that one – ‘Sunglasses’ – was special. I thought it was fantastic. I kept humming the song to myself. You looked . . .’ he coughs and his voice fades to a nervous grunt, ‘gorgeous doing your . . . dancing. I thought people should see.’

  ‘We wanted to keep it secret. It was our video.’

  He hangs his head and grunts some more. I think it’s some form of geek apology.

  ‘OK, so you were trying to be nice,’ I say, frustrated that an act of so-called kindness could end up doing so much damage. ‘But why did you rig the votes?’

  ‘Because I could,’ he says, meeting my eyes again.

  So he did it. He really did it.

  He perks up a little and looks proud of himself.

  ‘I knew more people would pay attention if you had votes. And Interface have the most pathetic internal security. I mean . . . for an operation their size. It’s astounding they’re so easy to hack. They were kind of asking for it really.’

  ‘How did you do it?’

  I breathe carefully and try to keep the tears out of my voice. The one time I thought the four of us had done something good together – something we could be proud of, before we spoiled it all – it was all a mirage, faked by this boy in front of me. It was just a dream. Elliot doesn’t notice. He carries on eagerly.

  ‘Well, Interface voting’s all anonymous, so I created some new accounts to vote. I kind of automated the system so it could create multiple accounts to speed things up. It wasn’t quite that simple, but that’s the basic idea. I did it at school, so they couldn’t ever trace it back to me directly. But they could if you tell them, Sasha.’ He frowns anxiously.

  I close my eyes for a moment, defeated.

  ‘So you’re a hacker,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah,’ he grins. ‘And I’m brilliant. Not to blow my own trumpet or anything, but . . . I’m pretty special on computers. I’m thinking of working for NASA one day. Or Interface. There’s so much I could teach them.’

  ‘If you don’t get jailed first.’

  His grin fades slightly.

  ‘Yeah, well, about that . . . please don’t tell on me, Sasha. Please?’

  ‘OK,’ I sigh. I wasn’t going to tell on him anyway. I just wanted to understand.

  ‘Look, if you want to know,’ he says, ‘I only did it until you did that gig at George’s. After that, I didn’t need to.’

  ‘So those last votes . . . when it went into the thousands . . . they were real?’

  ‘Yeah, they were. Honestly. People really liked you. Once they knew about you, it went viral. And I owe you, Sasha. If there’s ever anything I can do . . . just call me. I mean it. OK?’

  I smile wryly.

  I would . . . but I don’t have a phone.

  Next day, Mum offers to meet me in Castle Bigelow after school to replace my iPhone with the cheapest thing we can find. I didn’t completely explain how my precious phone got broken. Actually, I said it fell out of my pocket while I was walking and I lost it. Mum didn’t have the heart to be totally angry with me, given the whole ‘being talked about as a teen bully on the evening news’ scenario.

  It will be torture to be out in public, watching out all the time to see who’s watching me, and waiting. But it went OK yesterday, and this trip has to be done: I need a phone.

  We go into West Country Mobile and ask for the cheapest pay-as-you-go smartphone they do. I can’t believe I’m going to have to pay for my old contract and my new calls. The whole thing is so unfair it makes me want to scream. And it all goes back to Elliot. Elliot and Dan Matthews. I mean . . . boys. Honestly, what is the point of them? All they do is make life unnecessarily complicated and mess things up.

  The new phone is disgusting and I don’t really understand how it works. But I don’t really care. It also means I have a new phone number, which is a nightmare, but I still haven’t got round to sorting things out with my provider yet about my old phone. Dealing with hate mail can be pretty exhausting, even if all you’re doing is trying to i
gnore it. On top of that, just getting to school and back and keeping on top of my homework is about as much as I can do right now.

  I’m busy checking out the new screen and keypad, and thinking about the practicalities, as I trail after Mum down the street towards the car park. Ahead of me, a group of three school kids, not much younger than me, are walking down the pavement, laughing. They’ve just been to the chip shop and they’re sharing a bag of chips and a large Coke. I lift my head. The chips smell delicious – all hot and vinegary. I give the trio a friendly smile.

  They look at me and stop dead.

  ‘Oh, my God, it’s her!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one from the show. The one who dropped Rose. Look!’

  Before I know it, the youngest and smallest of the group has stepped forward, grabbed the Coke from her friends and thrown it all over me.

  The shock makes me shriek. For a second, I can’t feel anything, and then a cold, wet sensation penetrates through my hair, down my neck, into my clothes. I drop the phone and stand there, gasping. The boy reaches into his pocket and gets his phone out, laughing gleefully.

  ‘Smile for the camera!’

  The older girl’s already filming me on hers. Then they both take several pictures of me gasping, before casually moving on.

  Mum hasn’t noticed. She’s still walking away down the street. It’s only taken a few seconds, but a crowd is starting to form. More people. More phones. I stoop to pick up my new, damaged one from the pavement and get up to find more screens in my face, more flashes. Now Mum turns round. She runs towards me, gathers me up and hurries me along.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. It’s over. It’s over.’

  But it’s not over. How can it ever be over? Sitting in Mum’s car, driving back home, I have to fight hard to stop myself from breaking down. I am Sasha Bayley. I am not a bad person. I don’t deserve this, even though so many people think I do.

  When we get home, there’s a Land Rover parked on the verge outside the cottage. Instantly, I struggle to fight a new wave of panic. Do paparazzi drive muddy Land Rovers? So far they’ve all been in low, fast saloons. Oh no. I can’t bear for them to see me like this.