Good Me Bad Me(57)

She’s twelve, almost thirteen. Small for her age. And I know what your dad would think. He’d be worried.

‘Pathetic. That’s what you are. I bet you loved it in the Cotswolds without me, playing happy families with my parents.’

I did, yes.

‘Not that I care, it won’t be long until you’re gone anyway, you probably won’t even get to stay for Christmas.’

I look at her angry face. I should reach out, offer her my hand and say, let’s shake on it. Call a truce. Let’s do this together, think of the fun we could have. Think of the mischief. But the temptation to push back, to fight, is so much stronger. Her fault, she keeps feeding the wrong wolf, giving it permission to be in charge. So instead of trying to make peace, I say to her, ‘I hear you at night sometimes.’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘I hear you.’

A bullseye on her body, square in her chest, stops her in her tracks. She knows what I mean, that I hear her cry. I might be naked but she’s just been laid out bare.

It takes only minutes after she leaves for my phone to vibrate, she’ll have got my new number from the blackboard by the front door, Mike insists everybody’s is up there. I unfold myself from the shower curtain, wrap a towel round me, walk over to my desk and pick up my phone. A picture message. Hair frothy with shampoo, skin shiny, arms folded round my ribs. Nipples hard, a dark bush below.

I can see she sent it to a number of people. Girls and boys, Joe included maybe. I walk back into the bathroom, drop my towel. Slice. Once. Twice. Red. A more interesting photo, if only she’d asked.





26


Before I left for school this morning Saskia gave me a small velvet pouch. It’s a present, she said, from the crystal shop on Portobello Road. When I opened it, took it out, rolled it around my palm, the edges rough and raw, the top and bottom smooth and black, she told me it was a Black Tourmaline. The talisman of protection. I thought you could keep it in your pocket while you’re in court, I thought it might help, she said. I thanked her but the gesture, although kind, made me feel worse, reminded me I needed protection.

I don’t feel ready for tomorrow, a dark-coloured bruise. Aubergine. Indigo. Deep inside. Pulsates. I go over the lawyers’ questions in my head as I walk to school – tell the court what your mother did, tell the court what you saw – but I can’t remember the answers.

Just tell the truth, Mike says.

Easier said.

We meet in the hall for a run-through of the play. The words, their meaning, so familiar to me. Skulls gleaming white, the end of innocence, the girls dressed as boys. Phoebe was lucky last time, she wasn’t narrator when Ms James watched, but today she stumbles her way through her lines, a prompt needed every minute or two. Miss Mehmet loses it, says, that’s it, Phoebe, you’re out, Milly’s taking over as narrator. The look on her face, and while the score’s not even – she’s way ahead after the photo last night – I’m hot on her tail.

The punishment for stealing her part comes quickly. She posts my photo on the Year Eleven forum, a few alterations here and there, hair on my breasts and thighs. Frankenstein’s bride. She changes the password for the forum to ‘freak’, a tactic employed to keep snooping teachers at bay. She sends an email out alerting us to the change. These highly selective schools, a breed of smart yet sneaky teens. Tricks and trolls.

A comment from LadyLucie2000 suggests, let’s set up a Facebook page called Milly the Freak. Phoebe added underneath: ‘Good idea!!!! I snapchatted it to Tommy at Bentleys, he’s going to pass it on to all the boys’ schools out of London.’

At lunch I feel the stares as I walk past the tables to the servery. The majority look down as I walk back towards them with my tray, Clondine included, but not Phoebe or Izzy. Phones out, vicious smiles on their lips. It won’t be long until I’m allowed to have my own Facebook page. Once the trial’s over, June said. A lot of normal things to catch up with. In it to win it. I take a seat at a table as far away from them as I can and when they leave the dining room a girl called Harriet approaches me. Asks if I’m okay, says, not all of us are like Phoebe, just try and ignore her, she’ll leave you alone eventually. Sympathy. An important tool in my armour. A camouflage of my own.

It hurts, don’t get me wrong, I’m not made of steel, but the heading on my photo – Milly the FREAK, she can run but she can’t hide – makes me feel better. Phoebe still doesn’t get it.

My intention of running is nil.

Hiding.

Yes.

Running.

No.

‘I want you to imagine you’re up on the stand, you’re safe, the screen hides you from harm. The people who can see you, the jury, the lawyers and the judge, are not there to hurt you, only to listen. Identify an object to focus on in the courtroom, something that brings you comfort. I want you to look at it if any of the questions become too upsetting.’

‘What if I don’t know how to answer?’

‘Tell the lawyers you don’t understand, they’ll rephrase, ask it in another way until you do.’

Mike ends the session by giving me instructions for the morning, tells me to stay in my room until Phoebe leaves for school. He told her yesterday about my minor ‘procedure’, that I’d be off for the rest of the week. I thank him, and I mean it.