‘NO! Don’t come near me.’
I’m afraid to move or speak. I have no idea what happens to me after this moment.
‘If you were my best friend you wouldn’t have done that, Red. If you were my best friend you’d know . . . ’
‘Know what?’ I say, dropping my head, knowing exactly what she is going to say before she says it, because I am her best friend, and I do know her better than anyone, and despite all that, I fucked this up about as bad as it can possibly be.
So I know what she is going to say next.
‘Red, I’m not like you. I’m straight. I don’t kiss girls.’
Ten months ago . . .
Our first gig was fucking brilliant. We’d only been together a couple of months, but we had all these songs, enough for a set – and you know what? We sounded good. Not like a school band, not like a bunch of kids. We were tight, we were awesome.
Playing together back then, the four of us, we couldn’t put a note wrong. It was like we’d been destined to meet our whole lives and change the face of music history with our radical sound. It felt fucking exciting is what it felt like.
We were friends by then, laughing and joking. Hanging out, exchanging banter. I was part of it. I’d never felt like that before. Part of something so good.
Nai got us our first gig, she hustled and pestered this guy with a back room in a pub until he said we could play, but he wouldn’t pay. We didn’t care. We didn’t even care if no one came. It was just the word, gig. Our first proper gig.
The room was empty when we set up. There was no lighting, just a couple of bulbs swinging from the ceiling. It didn’t matter, it was our first gig. Fuck we sounded great. The floor was deserted, but we didn’t even notice. All we noticed was each other. Eyes meeting, feet tapping, bodies swaying, lips moving. I haven’t ever had sex, but it would have to go some way to be better than that, four people so closely connected they know the beat of each other’s hearts.
And then one by one people started to trickle in from the bar until there was a crowd by track five, and the heat built up so fast that sweat dripped off the ceiling like rain drops. We played every single one of our songs, and then as many covers as we could think of and by the end they were eating out of the palms of our hands, begging for more. The best drug in the world.
Eventually the landlord pulled the plug on us, and the whole pub booed and shouted for an encore. It was brilliant. Outside in the corridor I gulped down a pint of water and Rose came out of the loos.
‘You are fucking awesome,’ she said, grabbing me and kissing me on my closed mouth. ‘I fucking love you, Red.’
And I stood there for a long time on my own after she left and tried to make sense of it all. Was my racing heart from the gig, or from her lips? Either way the adrenaline made me tremble and shake, and I was lost. I was lost to her, right in that moment and I knew it. I knew I was going to spend the foreseeable future in love with a girl who wasn’t ever going to feel that way about me.
After they’d all gone, we were loading up my kit into Rose’s mate’s van when the landlord came out to see us, lighting up a fag.
‘You can play again,’ he said.
‘Only if you pay us,’ Naomi replied.
‘Fifty quid,’ he huffed.
We felt like millionaires.
24
I don’t remember what happened after Rose told me she didn’t kiss girls, I only remember the look on her face, and whatever it was, was the opposite of love. I remember leaving her house, though I don’t remember putting on my shoes, or grabbing my stuff. I remember the cool of the evening air on my hot cheeks, and how, as I ran along the street the soft soles of my trainers barely made any sound. I don’t remember going home, or anything else until this moment, standing in front of my mirror and looking at myself.
The me that is standing there, strong but not muscular arms, toned stomach concealed beneath a loose shirt that hides my small breasts.
And that other me, the girl who stands behind me, is the unhappy one, the one I could have been. The one who follows me around everywhere I go, my very own personal ghost.
For the first time I look over the shoulder of my reflection and into her eyes. She has long hair that she straightens every day, and just the right amount of lipstick for her age, peachy because that suits her skin tone. She’s one of the girls, the girl who everyone likes because she isn’t too pretty and she isn’t too loud; she is the perfect BFF, studies hard and always does her homework on time. She does OK at school, she does OK at life, and if a boy notices her she pretends that she is excited. And maybe, in those skater dresses that her mum buys her, and the heeled ankle boots, she’d get a boyfriend before long, because even though she is ginger, she is pretty, with delicate features and big green eyes. That girl is everything on the outside that a sixteen-year-old girl should be.
And her mum is so proud of her.
But inside, inside that girl wants to cry every second. Inside she is screaming and she can’t get out. Inside she is lost and lonely, and tired, so tired of faking it, that she wonders if she can even keep her heart beating it hurts so much to pretend to be everything she is not.
And I stopped looking in mirrors, while I remade my outside to match how I feel inside.
But now I make myself look.
I make myself see who I am, the shaved sides of my head, the explosion of hair that falls into my eyes. The angular face and beautiful green eyes.
Now I look in the mirror and I see myself, and it matches me on the inside at last.
I don’t see weird or gay or straight. Or a girl who wants to be a boy.
I just see me. It’s who I am, and I don’t fit in to any category except my own, and why does that matter to anyone? All I want to do is be me.
I think about Rose, and the look on her face.
I feel the hurt of that ghost girl I used to know so well.
I let myself fall in love with Rose. Which was fucking bad. But worse than that, I let that feeling out at exactly the wrong time. Rose was telling me something big and important and I made it all about me, and I let her down when she needed a friend, not a lover.
What the fuck have I done?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What the fuck have I done?
And then I look myself in the eye, and it helps. It helps to see me there, giving myself a look of compassion.
All I did was show how I feel.
I showed love, and longing, and desire.
But that’s all. And that’s not wrong. It’s not wrong to be who you really are. And for a while all the anxiety drains away, and I stop looking at myself in the mirror, and instead stare at the backwards city I can see out of my bedroom window, the lights of millions of lives twinkling all the way to the horizon.
There is no need to despair over being brave, over risking everything to be true. Instead I feel free, because tonight I broke down one more barrier to truly being myself, crossed one more bridge towards the life I want. And for now, anyway, I feel good about doing that, even if I have burnt it down behind me.
I feel proud.
Ash is sitting there as I arrive at the hospital, and the moment I see her I feel better, anchored. Like the sight of her is the only thing stopping me from spinning out of control.
‘Do you ever go home?’ I ask her, trying to keep things normal. She relaxes against me, the warmth of her skin against mine. ‘Ash, will you do something for me?’ I ask her. She looks at me sleepily.
‘What?’ she asks.
‘Will you hack my dad’s computer?’
‘Yeah, just give me his email,’ she says.
‘I love that you don’t even ask me why.’
‘You’ll have a good reason,’ Ash yawns. ‘Because I only use my powers for good. But not right now, OK? I just need to close my eyes for a minute.’
I feel the weight of her head against my shoulder, and her breathing slows down.
‘Ash, I think I might have fucked up my
whole life,’ I say.
She snores in reply.
Video
Posted 1 hour ago.
‘Last night I found out that @RedDrums is a liar and a pervert. I thought she was my friend, but all she wanted to do was to get it on with me. All this time, she’s been trying to get into my pants.’
87 rections
49 comments
Kasha: Fucking hell! Gross!
Gigi: Oh my God, I always thought she was looking at me
Kasha: R U OK Rose? You must be traumatised, pal!
Parminder: Don’t worry I’ll take care of that bitch for you
Maz: Want me to sort that cunt out?
Kasha: I’m going to troll her so hard
Gigi: She deserves everything she gets
Amy: What a slag!
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25
I wake up early, before dawn, after an hour’s sleep in my own bed. It’s still dark outside, but I can hear noises downstairs. The second I open my eyes I am wide awake, my heart racing, my whole body restless, so I pull myself out of bed and check my phone. It’s full of notifications. More than I can make sense of. I go to her Instagram, and there’s a video. Of Rose crying. Angry and upset.
I watch it.
I drop the phone onto the floor.
Why?
Why would she do something like that, that . . . that isn’t Rose.
I made a mistake, but I didn’t do what she said, did I? I didn’t. I know I didn’t, so why is she lashing out like this?
Be pissed off with me, sure. Have a go at me, fine. But tag me and post that to all of our friends? All the people who thought I was a dickhead before the band. Now they have a reason to treat me that way again.
What do I do now?
Do I go to school, act like nothing has happened, when I know that everyone will be waiting to stare and whisper and worse?
All the sense of pride and freedom I’d felt last night, that I took with me to bed, vanishes.
I always thought Rose was my friend, that she really cared about me.
Not the blood and bones that carries me around, but the me that’s inside my head and my heart. But what happened last night must have been much worse than I realised. Because I’ve made her angry and I’ve hurt her, and if I made her feel even for one second like the scum that left her battered and used, then . . . oh my God, what if I am like them?
‘Amy?’ Gracie only uses my real name when Mum has sent her to fetch me for something. ‘Amy?’
I don’t answer, I just lie there. Not sure what to do.
‘Red?’
‘Come in, kiddo,’ I call out, and she pads in, in her Scooby Doo PJs, screwing the ball of her fist into her sleepy eyes.
‘What’s up?’
‘Mum says you have to take me to school because she’s throwing up. But there isn’t any milk for Cheerios and I don’t know what else to have for breakfast.’
‘Right, that’s OK, I’m coming. Go see if there is any bread.’
I just want to make this right. I just want everything that happened last night, that post that is ticking through everyone’s timelines to vanish, and for everything to go back to the way it was.
But I don’t know how to do that.
It’s almost impossible to tear myself away from the fear and anxiety that wants to invade every part of me, but I make myself do it, make myself get dressed and put on my trainers. On the way downstairs, I stop outside Mum’s room. She’s facing the window, her back hunched and tight.
‘Want tea?’ I ask. Groaning she rolls to look at me, her face all triangles, triangle eyes and mouth, sadness in every angle. My mum looks like shit.
‘Please.’ Her voice is hoarse and dry, the room stinks of something stale, I wonder if she might have wet the bed. I wait. I wish . . . I wish I could talk to her about this, but I can’t. So I focus on the one thing I can take care of right now. My sister.
‘I’ll pick Gracie up today too, OK? I can cut the last ten minutes of school, make sure I get there on time.’
‘Thank you.’ Mum musters something like a smile, but it’s barely that. She turns away from me, dragging the duvet over her head.
Gracie talks and I don’t listen, I don’t need to. All I need to do is hold her hand, feel the tug and pull of her on my arm as she skips and jumps, and to concentrate hard on not thinking about what waits for me at school. I could just not go, I could drop Gracie off and go to Camden again, but if I don’t go I won’t know how bad it really is. I won’t know if Rose is OK.
Gracie has to tug at my hand to make me let go of her as we reach the school gates.
‘You’re coming to pick me up?’ she asks and I nod.
‘See you later!’ I watch her as she runs into class, and the playground empties and the school mums and dads leave. And then there’s nothing else to do but turn around and face whatever comes next.
Ash, Red
Ash
What the fuck is going on, whole school calling you a rapist?
Red
Fuck. You saw her Instagram?
Ash
I hate Instagram
Red
Go look
Ash
Fuck. I mean clearly you didn’t do that . . .
Red
Something else is going on. This isn’t Rose . . .
Ash
Or maybe you don’t know her as well as you think you do . . .
Red
I know her. I really know her and . . . I can’t explain it, but this isn’t her
Ash
Look don’t worry. It’s fine
Red
How is it fine?
Ash
Do you feel like disappearing and then throwing yourself off a bridge?
Red
OK, I take your point. Any luck with the tattoo?
Ash
No, although the more I look at it the more I think I’m right about it being code. But I need help. So I’m getting in touch with some people
Red
What sort of people?
Ash
People. Dark Net kind of people. The less you know the better
Red
Fuck Ash, you aren’t bloody Edward Snowden you know
Ash
Who?
26
Everyone is in class as I walk quietly down the corridors, hoping that the constant buzzing and pinging in my pocket will eventually stop. Like that time that Tally Lawson sent a pic of her boobs to Clarke Hanson and he screenshotted it, and it went all around school. Some people called her out as a slut, and some people called him out as the dick he definitely was, and they were both off school for two weeks after the police cautioned her about making an indecent image.
And then, when news got round that Naomi had vanished, no one cared about Tally’s tits any more.
Everyone hates me and that old uncertainty that I used to feel comes back, like my ghost girl stalker had suddenly run up behind and thrown herself back into my body, filling me up with the pain and anxiety that she carried around in her chest.
Maybe I am a liar. I was never honest with Rose about how I feel about her.
Maybe I’m not the decent person I thought I was.
Maybe I am a monster after all.
I walk into Music and sit at the front of the class. I can sense the bitching going on behind my back, I can feel it vibrating in my pocket. Pulling my phone out, I quickly suspend my accounts.
‘Red, what are you doing?’ Mr Mark shouts at me, taking me by surprise. ‘Give me your phone!’
He doesn’t wait for me to offer it, snatching it up from my desk, and tossing it in his desk drawer.
‘Come and get it at the bell,’ he says.
But not having my phone any more doesn’t make any difference. I can still hear it vibrating in his desk drawer, and see the flash of screens all around me, a swarm of electronic words massing and multiplying in thin air, each one a needle-sharp sting.
/> The bell sounds and I sit in my chair, trying to show I hear every one of the muttered insults that hits the back of my head as everyone else leaves.
When the room is clear, I go to Mr Smith.
‘Look, I’m sorry I shouted at you,’ he says. He looks flustered, ruffled. I know how he feels. ‘That class really winds me up sometimes. But you’re one of the good ones, you didn’t deserve that.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘What’s going on?’ he asks me, taking the phone out of the drawer, but holding it back as he waits for an answer.
‘Nothing.’ I shrug, and look at the door. I don’t want him to be nice to me, I’m afraid that if he is, I’ll cry.
He gets up from behind the desk and comes around to stand next to me.
‘Hey.’ I feel the reassuring weight of his hand on my shoulder as he looks into my eyes. ‘If that lot are giving you grief, then speak up, all right? I don’t want anyone keeping stuff to themselves. Nothing is that bad, Red. You can come to me, OK?’
‘Thanks, sir,’ I say. I stand for a moment longer and wonder if I really could tell him about how the second time I ever kissed a girl, I ruined everything with my closest friend. And I look up into his green eyes, and I decide that the answer was no.
‘I’m here for you,’ he says. ‘You’re a great girl, Red.’
Which is funny, because I feel like a terrible one.
‘Fucking sleaze,’ Kasha says as I walk past. ‘What, you trying to look at my tits, dyke?’
I keep my head down, for the first time regretting losing the mass of hair that I’d had scissored onto the floor of the barbers. Nowhere to hide now.
‘You heard of consent?’ Parminder asks me as I walk past. ‘Dickless rapist.’
I stop, and remember the reason that I had my hair cut off was because I wanted to be the sort of person who didn’t hide who they were behind a curtain.
‘That’s not what happened,’ I turn around but now it’s not just Parminder and Kasha standing there, another six or seven of my year group have joined them, arms crossed, chins jutting.
‘Look, I don’t know why Rose has done this,’ I begin and it comes out wrong. I try again. ‘I just . . . I made a mistake that’s all. I got it wrong. I don’t know why she’s reacted like this—’
Mirror, Mirror Page 18
