For Luke and Caitlin
With thanks to Lou Kuenzler,
Moira Young, Julie Mackenzie,
Gaby Halberstam and
Melanie Edge.
1
Friendship matters.
Right?
Being loyal. Being honest. Being there. It’s what really counts.
That’s what I thought, anyway. That’s why I was prepared to sneak out of my room that night to meet Amelia. My bestie who was in a state. Again.
Well, maybe I liked the fun of getting something past Mum too. She thought I was already fast asleep up here. Which, clearly, I was never going to be. It wasn’t even ten thirty, for goodness sake. But that’s my mum for you . . . she doesn’t really get me at all. Nobody does, apart from Amelia.
Which brings me back to my late evening creep across the landing . . .
I close my laptop and check Amelia’s message one last time.
rly need c u, pls com now, usual plce
She must really be upset. With a sigh I turn off my phone – just in case I get any alerts – and leave my bedroom. I take wide strides, careful to avoid the place where the floor creaks. The TV’s on downstairs, but otherwise the house is silent. My little brother, Jamie, has an eight-thirty bedtime, which means that Mum makes us all keep it down after that. I’m more worried about Poppy – that’s my older sister – catching me sneaking out of the house. She’d love to get me in trouble. She’s in a massive mood with me at the moment because her stupid boyfriend George broke up with her and she blames me. It’s so unfair. All I did was send Amelia a video of Poppy making out with a guy on the beach when we were on holiday. I was just having a bit of fun with the video. I certainly didn’t mean to stir things up with Poppy’s boyfriend. It was a private message and I made it clear the whole thing wasn’t really Poppy’s fault. I even put angel wings on Poppy’s back and devil horns on the Spanish boy’s head, just to show that she was the victim – seduced by a six pack with big brown smiling eyes.
The trouble was Poppy’s boyfriend George is my best friend Amelia’s brother. He’s also – clearly – suspicious and nosy, because he deliberately went and snuck a look at Amelia’s phone. He saw the video and then he dumped Poppy.
It really wasn’t my fault. Or poor Amelia’s. I mean, I feel bad that Poppy’s all broken hearted over George, but if he’s so untrusting that he thinks it’s OK to snoop about on someone else’s phone, then I reckon Poppy’s better off without him.
I just wish she saw it like that.
George broke up with her the day after we got back from holiday. That was three weeks ago and my sister is still furious with me.
I stand outside her door, holding my breath, braced for Poppy to wrench her door open and start shouting. But all I can hear are sobs.
Is she crying? Guilt flushes through me. I’d give anything to make her feel better. Though if I’m honest I don’t think it was true love with Poppy and George. I mean, I get she’s upset about him finishing with her, but they’d been together nearly a year and if Poppy was as loved up over him as all that, surely she wouldn’t have let that Spanish boy eat her face off?
I hurry into the bathroom at the end of the corridor. The window is hitched up a tiny bit, like it always is unless the air outside is literally freezing. I ease it fully open and scramble outside, hooking my feet around the drainpipe then letting myself carefully down on to the shed roof that’s a metre or so below. Beneath me our cat, Rumple, is trotting across the patio, a dead bird in his mouth. Poor Mum’ll go mad when he takes it into the kitchen. She gets really upset about Rumple’s murderous tendencies and, like my sister, she can’t stand the sight of blood. Still, Rumple’s latest prey is a lucky break for me . . . if Mum’s preoccupied, she’ll be less likely to check I’m in bed.
It’s been a warm day, considering it’s almost the end of September, but the night air is cool. I zip up my new jacket – a black satin bomber with flowery embroidery on the back – and inch across the shed, over the fence and on to the top of next door’s kitchen extension. They had it put in last year. Mum was all nicey-nicey when they apologised for the noise and disruption, though she complained about it all the time in private. She’d have complained a lot more if she’d realised the flat roof gives me a perfect run over to the wall that borders the street at the end of our road. I’m there in seconds, easing myself down to the pavement. I race across the road and around the corner onto King Street.
In a couple of minutes I’m clambering over the railings into the park and heading for the kids’ play area. Mum used to bring me and Poppy here when we were little. More recently I’ve brought Jamie, though now he prefers the nearby wood. The row of swings clinks in the breeze. Across the park I can just make out the edge of Bow Wood: dark and gloomy beyond the street lamps. Amelia isn’t here yet. I lean against the spider-web climber with a sigh, wondering what’s held her up.
I take advantage of the silence to run through the lines from my first scene in The sound of Music. I was given the main part, Maria, after the auditions last week. Which, if I’m honest, is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all year. Not that I can let on how I feel, of course, it would be seriously uncool to show any of my friends that I’m over the moon to be involved with a school musical. Plus they’d all think I was full of myself if I started gushing about having the lead. It’s not like I think I’m massively talented. That is, I guess I’ve always been able to sing and I don’t have any trouble learning lines. Whatever, I spent most of Year Seven doing song and dance routines in front of my bedroom mirror, imagining I was a global star. Which is kind of embarrassing to admit to now. Anyway, we’ve only had one rehearsal for The Sound of Music so far – the whole cast doing group songs and it was fun. Amelia isn’t in the show. She says the idea of standing up in front of everyone and performing terrifies her, though she might get involved with the set designs.
Where is she?
I suddenly remember that I switched off my phone when I crept out of the house. I turn it back on and, straightaway, it pings with an alert. Is that her? I check the screen, half expecting it to be a text from Mum, furious that I’m not at home and all set to ground me for a month. She caught me sneaking out a few months ago and I promised I wouldn’t ever do it again. But it’s a message from Amelia.
Carey, where r u?
I roll my eyes. Amelia’s message clearly said we should meet at the ‘usual place’ which, all summer, has been the park.
Irritated, I message back:
im at swings, u?
we sed rec
we sed swings
Nothing back from Amelia. I stand up, tugging my jacket around my chest. Is she seriously annoyed? I’m sure I’m right about the meeting place. But maybe Amelia’s too upset to think straight. She’s been getting these mean private messages on NatterSnap from someone calling themselves SweetFreak all week.
If you’re under ten or over sixteen you probably haven’t heard of NatterSnap. It’s an awesome app that lets you animate and manipulate images then share them. There are lots of apps like it, but NatterSnap is probably the most popular right now. And definitely the most realistic. Unlike, say, with SnapChat, the posts don’t disappear unless you delete them. For instance, the last SweetFreak message Amelia got showed a huge (real) pig with her face perfectly superimposed on it rootling around in mud, then falling onto a house which collapsed under the weight, sending neon letters sparking into the air that said: Amelia woz here. Which is crazy. Because she’s not even remotely overweight. The opposite, in fact, though she always says she thinks she’s fat.
I told Amelia to ignore the message. When she hesitated I took her phone and deleted it myself. People can be really mean on social media but you can’t let nasty stuff like t
hat get to you. I know that sounds brutal, but it’s the only way to cope. I wish Amelia wouldn’t let it get to her.
Another message beeps, bringing me back to the park and the chilly night air:
Please hurry, I rly need 2 c u
My irritation vanishes. Poor Amelia, she must be feeling terrible. It’s all very well me saying she should just ignore SweetFreak’s mean messages but it’s horrible not knowing who they come from. Like, it’s got to be someone who knows her, right? But who would hate Amelia so much that they’d go to all that trouble?
I send a message back to her:
On my way x
Hoping that will have made Amelia smile, I set off across the park. I speed past the edge of the wood, shivering as I glance into the shadows of the trees, then on, down a couple of deserted backstreets. As I turn the corner by the Duck and Dragon pub I pass a pair of teenagers: a boy about my age and a girl with pink hair who looks about eighteen. The girl is wearing DMs with rainbow laces while the boy has mismatching trainers – one grey Adidas, the other yellow Nike with a green swoosh.
I scurry on, wondering whether that’s some sort of random style choice or because he can’t afford new trainers.
Another couple of streets and I’m almost at the rec. It’s closer to Amelia’s house, just as the park is closer to mine. Though in my opinion the park wins hands down as a place to meet. Technically the rec itself is an old club building that was used a million years ago when Mum was a teenager, for something called the Cornmouth Youth Club. Needless to say nobody goes there any more, I think old people play bingo in it or something. There’s a bus shelter outside – also unused, the last bus came through there about the same time Mum was going to the youth club.
When Amelia and I say to meet at the rec, it’s this bus shelter we mean.
She’s there as I approach, bending over her phone, her long straight blonde hair falling over her eyes. She never ties it back, whereas I’m always shoving my curls into hairbands.
‘Hey!’ I call out.
Amelia looks up. Her big blue eyes glisten in the lamplight. She looks really unhappy.
I run up. ‘I thought the “usual place” was the park,’ I say, panting for breath.
‘It was in the summer,’ Amelia sniffs. ‘But now we’re back at school we meet here.’ She says it with a tinge of petulance, as if this is something I should have automatically known. A flicker of irritation passes through me, then a tear trickles down Amelia’s face and I remember why I’m here.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask. ‘Is it SweetFreak? Have they sent another message?’
Amelia shakes her head. ‘It’s Taylor. He still hasn’t called me. In fact . . .’ Amelia says, choking back sobs. ‘In fact he’s just unfriended me on everything.’
‘Oh.’ I sigh inwardly. Is that really what’s upset her so much? I don’t get it. I mean, she and Taylor only went on a few dates together. Nothing serious – just like my sister and George – and yet Amelia’s totally obsessing about him. I hate seeing her like this.
‘I was wondering about the messages I’ve been getting from . . . from SweetFreak.’ Amelia’s lips tremble. ‘Do you think Taylor might have sent them?’
I wrinkle my nose. It seems unlikely that Taylor, who as far as I can see has basically lost all interest in Amelia, would start sending her nasty messages out of the blue. But I’m pretty certain Amelia would probably rather he paid her any attention than none at all. Anyway, she’s miserable enough about the guy ignoring her without me going on about it too.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, trying to work out what to say that won’t upset her any further. ‘It doesn’t seem like his style.’
I’m not sure if this is true, of course. I’ve met Taylor several times, but I don’t know him properly.
Amelia is still sniffing, clearly trying not to cry again. I feel so bad for her.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
‘Not really.’ Another tear wobbles down Amelia’s cheek.
I give her a hug and we sit down on the rusty old bus shelter seat.
Amelia’s fingers stray to her silver necklace and the little heart-shaped pendant that hangs from it. ‘I still can’t get my head around it. Taylor seemed so happy. She sighs. ‘The last time I saw him he took me to the Haunted Hut outside the industrial estate. He’d got hold of a key to it somehow, a weird one with a skull painted on the end, and it was really spooky. I was all freaked and Taylor was really nice and we made out and it was so romantic and he gave me this necklace and then . . .’
‘. . . and then the very next day he just stopped calling.’ I sigh. Amelia has already told me this story several times. ‘I know, but, see, you can’t think like that. It’s boys. There’s no way of understanding them. They’re crazy.’
‘He mentioned he’d met a girl hoping to be a model.’ Amelia’s face crumples again. ‘So of course he wouldn’t still want to go out with me after that. I’m so fat and ugly.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘I am. You’ve never had a boyfriend so you don’t understand.’
‘Of course I—’
‘No. It’s obvious. He was just putting up with me until someone better came along.’
I press my lips together to stop myself pointing out that I’m certain Amelia’s reading way too much into it. Anyway, Taylor is clearly an idiot if he doesn’t want to be with her so why is she getting so upset?
What is it with her and Poppy that they’re so hung up on stupid relationships?
Why can’t they get excited about something else? Like, I’m not saying I’m so super-sorted or anything, but I’ve got the lead in the school show, I’m on track with my grades and while I wouldn’t say I was the most popular person in my year, I don’t have any beef with anyone. I’m certainly not hung up on a guy I only dated a few times, like Amelia is. Or heartbroken because I messed up like my sister.
I sit back, letting her go over the last meeting between her and Taylor yet again: how he was all handsome with his dark wavy hair and leather jacket and how maybe if she’d kissed better or worn a sexier dress he might have stayed interested. I’m itching to tell her to get over him, that he’s a loser. Good-looking certainly and, by all accounts, popular. But a loser nevertheless.
‘He’s crazy if he doesn’t want you,’ I settle for saying.
Amelia gives a little cough. ‘I was actually wondering if I could . . . that is, I know Jamie is friends with Taylor’s little brother, so maybe you could organise for them to get together and I could come with you?’
My mouth gapes. ‘You seriously want to go to his house on the pretext of my kid brother having a playdate?’ I hesitate. ‘Oh, you must feel really awful.’ That’s what I say, but what I’m actually thinking is that it’s a bit selfish of Amelia to be asking. No way am I using Jamie as some sort of chess piece to manoeuvre her in through the front door. My seven-year-old brother annoys me half the time, with his mischievous grin and his constant pestering, but I love him to death. And I refuse to use him just because Amelia’s desperate to get back with a stupid boy who isn’t worth her time or her tears.
I meet Amelia’s soft, trembling gaze, my irritation mounting. She’s my best friend and I love her, but she really can be a bit of a princess. Lately, I feel like all we ever do is talk about her. Not that I’d say that to her face.
I’m just trying to work out how to reject her Jamie plan without losing my temper, when Amelia herself gives a groan.
‘Don’t worry. I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea. Anyway, there’s no knowing if Taylor would even be in, though I suppose once I’m in his house I could always try and sneak into his room . . .’ She glances at me, then, seeing the look on my face, corrects herself. ‘Sorry, it’s fine. I’m fine.’ She checks her phone. ‘It’s late. I’d better get home. Thanks for coming out.’
Is that it? I’ve risked being grounded for a month, just so Amelia can go on about Taylor?
I take a deep breath, struggling with my ir
ritation. I can’t let her see. It’s not fair on her. And anyway, we’re best friends. Amelia’s awesome. She’s always been there for me, like the time we went on a school trip to the London Dungeon and I got sick and Amelia stayed with me for two whole hours while everyone else was running about having fun. She’s a great friend. And I need to be a good friend to her now. What is it Mum’s always saying? Something about everyone being entitled to their own reality and that it’s important to try and respect other people’s points of view, even if you disagree with them.
Right now, for Amelia, her reality is that she’s devastated and she’s had to put up with those mean NatterSnap messages all week, so I say nothing, just hug her goodbye then run home through the empty streets.
A quarter of an hour later I’m hauling myself over our neighbour’s wall and up onto their kitchen extension. I scramble across it, then hop over the fence to our back-garden shed and up to the bathroom which is, thankfully, unoccupied.
As I let myself in and pad across the landing I can hear Mum downstairs, on the phone to one of her friends. She’s moaning about the dead bird Rumple dragged in. Suddenly feeling tired, I creep to my room, avoiding the creak in the same way that I did on the way out. There’s no sound from Poppy. I slip out of my clothes and get into bed. I check my phone, yawning now. Nothing from Amelia, which hopefully means she’s feeling better. I put the phone down on the little desk beside my bed. Its blue light illuminates my open laptop.
I stare at the laptop, frowning. I was sure I closed it before I went out. But I can’t have done and neither can anybody else in the house. Jamie’s been fast asleep for hours. And if Mum had come in here and discovered I wasn’t in bed, there’d be hell to play. As for Poppy, the mood she’s in right now, she’d definitely have grassed me up if she’d realised I’d gone out.
I’m asleep within seconds, forgetting all about my laptop. It’s not until the end of the following day that I realise what has happened.