Chocolate Box Girls: Sweet Honey

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say. ‘It’s great to know you’re always there for me.’

  Dad’s still yelling an answer to that as I run to my room and slam the door behind me. He may as well have slapped my face – he’s told me flat out that he doesn’t have time for my troubles. I love him more than anyone else in the world – you don’t get to choose who you love – but I’m worn out with trying to make him love me back.

  He left when I was twelve. I told myself it was a mistake, that he’d come back, but when he didn’t, the hurt curdled into anger and I started smashing up everything I had left. I thought that if he could see how upset I was, he’d come back, reach out his arms and hold me tight, safe from all the chaos. When he moved to Australia it felt like the worst rejection ever; I thought that if I could somehow get there too, everything would be all right.

  Well, I got to Australia, I got Dad’s attention. I managed to keep it for two or three whole days, and then the novelty of having his long-lost daughter around wore off for Dad. I was just one more chore to take up his time, demanding, annoying, scrambling for the crumbs of his attention like a dog under the table. It’s not as if it’s any better for Emma – it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Dad’s new happy family set-up is even shakier than the one he walked away from in Somerset.

  I’m in trouble, real trouble, and my own dad does not want to know.

  Next morning, I trick Emma into allowing me another day off school, pressing a hot flannel against my forehead to give the impression of a fever. Dad barely looks up as I trail across the kitchen to plead my case; if I fell down dead in the middle of the breakfast area I think he’d complain that I was cluttering the place up. Emma tells me they’re meeting friends for dinner and will be back late, but to call if I need anything. Yeah, right.

  I prop the mirror on to my desk, ready to sketch out another self-portrait, but as I adjust the angle the mirror slips and falls down behind. When I move the desk to rescue it, I see that the mirror has cracked and shattered, like a jagged glass spider’s web. Seven years’ bad luck … that’s all I need.

  Peering into the broken mirror I see a scared, broken girl, her features sliced up into fragments. It’s how I feel inside, how I’ve felt for a long time. I pick up a pencil and capture the image on paper, over and over. I try not to think about the laptop sitting in the corner of the room, it’s green power-light taunting me. I don’t want to look; I daren’t, but it’s all I can think about.

  When I’m too tired to draw any more I hunt through the jewellery kit Mum bought me for Christmas, pulling out a card of thin silver wire, soft enough to cut with scissors, and a roll of see-through nylon line. Slowly, I prise chunks of broken glass away from the mirror, wrapping each one with a criss-cross of wire until thirty shards of mirror hang in the bedroom window; suspended on fishing line, spinning softly, catching the light like crystals.

  I am aiming for a curtain effect, so that everything I see is shattered and spoilt. Instead, the shards snatch up rays of sunlight like a prism, sending dozens of tiny rainbows dancing all around me.

  Finally, all out of distractions and willpower, I give in and check SpiderWeb. All of yesterday’s deleted pictures are back. There’s a new one too, a close-up, smiley photo of me that Emma took on the steps of the Sydney Opera House. It isn’t sleazy, it isn’t snarky – it’s just ripped right down the middle and spattered with what looks like blood. I feel physically sick.

  Surfie16 has already added a comment.

  Things not working out in Australia, Honey? Looks like you’re finally losing it. Or is this just a clever way of telling us you’re two-faced?

  With fingers cut and bleeding from a dozen tiny glass cuts, I type out a message.

  Who are you? Why are you doing this?

  Instinct tells me he’s involved, and the reply confirms it.

  You’ll find out soon enough.

  Fear slides down my spine like sweat. Remembering Ash’s advice, I open up my SpiderWeb settings and click on Delete Account. Everything finally disappears, and the relief is instant, liberating. Why did I take so long to let go? I don’t need SpiderWeb; for the last few days I’ve felt like a fly, trapped inside it, waiting to be picked apart by some invisible spider. The fallout from all of this will take some cleaning up, but at last the page has gone. The damage stops here.

  Over on the bedside table, my iPhone bleeps and I open my text messages, looking for messages from Tara and Bennie. The screen flashes up an unknown number.

  Nobody likes you, English girl. Nobody ever will.

  I drop the phone on to the floor, my fingers shaking, but it bleeps again.

  Worried yet? You should be. I’m watching you.

  I go cold all over. I run to the window, but my bedroom looks out on to the garden; there is nobody there, nobody watching. It’s just somebody trying to scare me, and doing a great job of it. It buzzes a third time.

  Don’t believe me? You will. I know all about you … all the secrets you thought you’d left behind. And by the time I’m finished, everyone else will know them too.

  Another text buzzes through, and I force myself to look, in spite of everything.

  Check your SpiderWeb …

  I know I shouldn’t; I know that I’ve deleted my page now, that the whole trolling thing should be over, even if the texting is not. Still, I find myself opening up my laptop, clicking on the bookmark to SpiderWeb.

  And it’s still there. Every hideous, leering photograph, every snarky, spiteful comment, all of it. Nausea rolls through my body in waves. I can’t delete the posts and I can’t deactivate the page … I can’t do anything at all to stop it. Can I?

  Slowly, the nausea turns to fury. I want to rewind, wipe out the last two months, erase this whole mess. Looking through the curtain of spinning glass shards, I see the swimming pool, glinting turquoise in the sun.

  I run outside, carrying my laptop and iPhone, my bare feet burning on the hot flagstones, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle, heavy, intoxicating. One good throw is all it takes; I watch both iPhone and laptop sink down through the turquoise water, moving more slowly than you’d think. I’m looking for relief, rescue, but instead my eyes fill with tears; this won’t change a thing because the hacker still has control of my SpiderWeb page. I’m trapped, helpless.

  Crouched on the edge of the pool, I let myself fall forward, diving down to the bottom. I have some vague idea of rescuing the laptop, but of course, that would be pointless; it’s wrecked now, ruined. It’s funny how quiet it is underwater. Everything is slower, softer; the world seems muffled, far away. Of course, the minute I touch the blue tiles at the bottom I start to float up again, so, stubborn, I catch hold of the foot of the ladder and hold on. I want to prolong the moment, hang on to the feeling of peace. And then it becomes a challenge, a dare. My lungs burn and bubbles of air escape, rising up to the surface like a warning flare. My cut fingers are screaming with pain as the chlorine burns them, but my hands hold tight and my chest aches and my head fills up with darkness.

  I take a great gulp in, swallowing water, and suddenly I am breaking the surface, lungs bursting, floundering for the side. I drag myself out of the pool and huddle on the grass, shaking, sucking in long, gasping breaths. I’m so shocked my mind can’t make sense of anything, and shame and self-pity seep through my body like poison. I sit like that for a long time, until my breathing calms and my PJs have dried against my skin. After a little while the sun eases my shivers and I notice the deep blue sky, the golden sun, the scent of jasmine. I hear the flutter of parakeets darting between the trees like brief flashes of rainbow, and I stretch out under the honeysuckle and let myself fall into sleep.

  When I wake, there are three figures crossing the driveway, two of them in familiar blue uniform. Tara, Bennie and Ash walk towards me across the grass, and for a moment I don’t know whether to be happy or sad or scared or ashamed. Maybe there’s a bit of all those things.

  ‘Hey,’ Ash says. ‘Don’t
tell me. You decided to go for the whole swim-in-your-clothes thing again. English girls … crazy!’

  This is a little too close for comfort, and even Ash seems to know it. His soft brown eyes are dark with worry.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ I whisper as my friends kneel down on the grass beside me. ‘Post that diary thing – I promise I didn’t. I wrote it, but it was meant to be private; if you saw the whole thing you’d see that actually it was all about how much I cared –’

  ‘We know,’ Tara interrupts. ‘We’ve been trying to tell you, but you haven’t answered our texts or messages.’

  ‘My iPhone’s been hacked, blocked,’ I say, eyes drifting towards the pool. ‘And now it’s broken. My laptop too …’

  Ash reaches across and takes my hand, and I find a bit of strength in that.

  ‘We know about the hacking,’ Bennie is saying. ‘We’ve seen the pictures and we know you were telling the truth. I’m sorry we doubted you, Honey. It’s sick!’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s driving me a little bit crazy, but … the worst of it was thinking I’d lost you guys. I think you’re amazing, both of you. I’ve been miserable, thinking you hated me.’

  Bennie grins. ‘We don’t do hate,’ she says simply. ‘Besides, it’d take more than a few silly words to wreck this friendship.’

  ‘We’re mates,’ Tara chimes in. ‘You’re stuck with us.’

  Seconds later, the three of us are clinging together in a clumsy, emotional hug. I break away briefly to drag Ash into it too, and we hang on tight and hold each other close, and a little bit of the pain inside me peels away.

  Later, after I’ve showered and changed and combed my hair, we sit in the kitchen drinking ice-cold orange juice. Turns out that Ash went over to Willowbank at lunchtime to tell Tara and Bennie about yesterday, and how worried he was; the three of them have come straight from school, Ash arranging cover for his beach-cafe shift. I have friends who actually care about me, which is kind of amazing.

  ‘We have to figure out who’s doing this, and why,’ Tara says. ‘If the hacker really is Surfie16 and Surfie16 isn’t Riley … then who? Do you have any enemies?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ I say. ‘Lucky me, huh? I wondered about Liane, but I don’t think she’d do this. Would she?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ Tara says. ‘She’s just a gossipy, spiteful girl – I think she’s reacting to it all, but I don’t think she’s actually behind it. It has to be someone with a reason to lash out.’

  ‘How about Cherry?’ Bennie suggests. ‘The stepsister from hell?’

  I frown. I can’t stand Cherry, but I cannot imagine her writing the toxic, hateful stuff of the last few days.

  ‘There’s a problem with that theory,’ I say. ‘She’s several thousand miles away.’

  Ash raises an eyebrow. ‘We can’t assume it’s someone local,’ he points out. ‘Let’s look at every possibility. Could someone have your password?’

  I blink. I’ve had the same password for just about everything since I was thirteen and first had a SpiderWeb page. At Tanglewood we all knew each other’s, because we shared a computer and people were always forgetting to logout. That puts Cherry in the frame again, of course.

  ‘A few people know my password,’ I admit. ‘People back home. Look, if I had any ideas, I’d tell you, I swear … but I don’t. Should I just ask Surfie16 outright?’

  ‘No way,’ Bennie says, eyes wide. ‘He could be some kind of psycho, and he has your address, right? Honey, this is scary. Have you told your dad? Your mum?’

  ‘Dad wouldn’t listen,’ I say. ‘And I don’t want Mum to know – she’d be worried sick, and she’s too far away to help.’

  ‘Look,’ Ash says. ‘This is cyber-bullying. I bet your head teacher wouldn’t stand for it. If you won’t tell anyone else, tell her. Tell the police, tell someone!’

  Is he right? Is speaking out the only way to stop this? I think of the damage this hate campaign has done, slicing right through my cool-girl mask to expose the scared little girl inside. I straighten my shoulders.

  ‘I’ll tell Birdie,’ I agree. ‘First thing tomorrow. I swear. And then I’ll go to classes and face it all out, and if Liane or anybody dares to say anything to me –’

  ‘We’ll be with you,’ Tara says. ‘We’ll meet you at the gates. Miss Bird is OK … she’ll know what to do. Speak out, don’t let this creep win!’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Bennie says, ‘Tara and I can report Surfie16 on SpiderWeb and report the spam on your page. It might take a day or two to go through, but they take things like this seriously.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, wide-eyed. ‘That should work. Thank you. Thank you!’

  Long after they’ve gone, I lie in bed watching the moonlight dust the mirror shards in the window with silver. It’s hot – stupidly hot. The TV news has been reporting bush fires for days, films of smoke clouds unfurling across the Blue Mountains, homes burnt to the ground. Logic and confidence fall away and fears crowd my head once more. My iPhone and laptop are broken, but the chances are that my stalker is still filling the Internet with hate. I try not to think of Dad’s laptop, Emma’s iPad, but I can’t help myself. I want to know. I want to see. I want clues, truth, no matter how scary.

  I get up and pad softly through the house to Dad’s study.

  What’s the matter? Not answering my texts? I hope nothing’s happened to your phone. It’d be awful if you lost it or broke it or got too scared to switch it on. But don’t worry, Honey, I’ll always find you. And there’s always SpiderWeb, of course. I haven’t finished with you yet.

  24

  I know I shouldn’t try to confront Surfie16, but I cannot help myself. Do Australian teenagers lurk online at 5 a.m. the way he does? I don’t think so. Maybe it’s that he – or she – is in a whole different time zone.

  I open up a new message and begin to type.

  Who are you? Really?

  A reply appears straight away.

  Wouldn’t you like to know? Perhaps someone you know pretty well … the person you least expect. And I’m going to destroy you, just like you destroyed me.

  Just like that, my courage crumbles away and my head fills with doubts and fears. The person I least expect? Could it be Bennie or Tara? Or Ash? I log out again and snap the laptop shut, but now I’m back in the spider’s web, trapped and helpless.

  By morning, I have dredged up some strength and determination. Tara and Bennie will have reported Surfie16 by now, and though I am not looking forward to watching Birdie scroll through the nightmare of my SpiderWeb page, I am certain that telling her is the right thing to do. I am pretty sure she’ll help.

  Dad and Emma have left already, promising they’ll be home on time later, pleased that I’m ‘better’ and returning to school. I wonder what they’d think if they bothered to actually listen, if they knew what I’ve been going through? Would they care? I bite my lip. I think they would, if I gave them a chance to.

  My uniform is perfect, apart from the Converse; wearing one lone brown sandal is never a good look, but I’m hoping Birdie will understand and forgive me. I’m about to leave when the phone rings, and I drop my bag, silent, still. What if it’s the stalker, if he’s traced my landline somehow?

  And then I hear Skye’s voice, small and faraway and wobbling slightly, on the answer machine.

  ‘Honey, I need to talk to you. You won’t answer your phone and you won’t answer texts and I know you’ve been blocking us from SpiderWeb … now this!’

  Answering the call will make me late for school, but I pick up the phone.

  ‘Skye?’ I say. ‘It’s me. Oh, it’s so good to hear you!’

  There’s a silence, and the faint crackle and buzz of the line. As far as I can work out, it’s around 10 p.m. back home, which is an odd time for Skye to be calling, but I am not complaining. Just hearing her voice makes me feel so homesick I could cry.

  ‘Good to hear from me?’ she says. ‘What is wrong with you? How could
you do this? How could you be so cruel?’

  Dread seeps through me, cold and heavy.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean,’ Skye says. ‘I was upset when you blocked us on SpiderWeb, but now I wish you’d left it that way. You’re sick, Honey! What did we do to deserve this?’

  I glance around the kitchen, spy Emma’s iPad and fold back the cover, still clutching the phone. Luckily, it’s not locked and I log in to my home page; it looks the same as before. It’s upsetting, obviously, but Skye’s What did we do to deserve this? makes no sense.

  ‘Skye, I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I say. ‘But if you’ve seen something bad, it’s because my SpiderWeb page has been hacked. Somebody’s been blocking my friends and family, sending me threatening texts –’

  Skye isn’t even listening. ‘Don’t lie, Honey, it had to be you,’ she says. ‘Nobody else would have known how to hurt us so much!’

  I click away from my home page and on to Skye’s, recoiling as a series of graphic war images unfolds; death, injuries, mutilation. My stomach heaves.

  ‘I can see,’ I whisper. ‘Oh God, I can see …’

  ‘Why would you do this?’ Skye repeats. ‘I don’t understand! We’ve tried to delete, but the pictures just keep coming back.’

  I click to Cherry’s page, spammed with pictures of horrible, violent manga; on Coco’s, photos of sickening animal cruelty are everywhere. I’m crying by the time I get to Summer’s page, but the pictures there still make me flinch: images of morbidly obese women, of skeletal, starving children, each one supposedly posted by me.

  Who would do such a thing? And who actually knows enough about my sisters to choose the images that would hurt the most? No wonder Skye thinks I am to blame.

  ‘Summer is hysterical,’ Skye is saying. ‘She’s shut herself in the bedroom, saying that she hates herself. You’ve ruined everything, Honey. How could you?’