37. Stand Up
STAND UP
Dad came home earlier tonight. At eight, I left Mrs Crawford’s place, where she pretended to be my nan.
I waited until Conner left, spoke to Mrs Crawford, thanked her unconditionally for letting me stay, before heading home.
When it hit nine-thirty, Dad entered the house.
I glare at the gap between the floor and the door.
His shadow moves past, and he goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower come on.
Closing my eyes, I sigh in relief. The card must have had enough money. I had to take more than I wanted to put into my other card for the electricity bill. Luckily, I changed it before the due date, or else Dad might have spent the money I needed, leaving us without power.
Clutching my phone, I close my eyes and think about my future, about saving myself, until I drift into a peaceful sleep.
In the car with Conner, we speak about moving in.
I know it seems too fast, for I barely know him.
What if he’s messy? No, he washed up his cup at Mrs Crawford's, and this car is always clean, even though we often eat in it. I’ll more than likely be the messy one.
My room is a bombsite, with clothes sprawled on the floor.
He told me the furniture was already inside, like a lounge, a bed, and appliances. My heart speeds up when he asks me to look at the apartment this weekend. It’s too real, and I don’t know how much my heart can take knowing that I’ll be eighteen and free in a few more weeks.
I never thought this was possible.
Not until Conner.
I drag my sweaty palms across my pants and tell Conner that I can pay for half, but he ignores my request, as always, and hands me the coffee he ordered. I smile, knowing that Conner makes it challenging to ask for things, and he’s old-fashioned.
The bell rings once we get to the school. Samantha waits at the entrance to the parking lot. Her arm loops with mine, and we head to our first class. I raise my hand to Conner, waving as he heads to the science block.
“I heard you passed out in your art class yesterday. Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer. “I wasn’t feeling too well. I should have gone to the nurse’s office sooner.”
“I was so scared,” Samantha says. “I thought you got sick from something on the camping trip. Like a bug bit you. Those tissue box rooms were shady. It wouldn’t surprise me if something snuck in.”
“No,” I breathe a laugh.
I feel slightly sick—no, anxious is the right word. It’s like butterflies, but not the good kind. This uneasy feeling inside me comes to life when I realise that I’m back at school and people are still viewing my photo.
I should have listened to Conner and stayed home. Or I could have gone to Mrs Crawford’s place for the day and listened to her old stories of when she was young and wild. The way she talks, I assume she has many wonderful, lighthearted stories.
As soon as I sit in my seat, Julien and Mark turn around with wicked grins.
My mouth feels dry when they look at me, and my hand grips the pencil case from my bag too harshly.
They know. They must have figured it out.
Passing out in class has gone around the school, and they’ve pieced it together.
That’s what people do. They grasp at straws. Everyone is a victim.
I should flee before they could usher—
“It’s Emo Emma,” Julien declares. “She’s not here today. It’s suspicious.”
I twist in my chair and look at the back, where Emma usually sits.
“She could be sick,” Samantha says, brushing it off. “You don’t know that for sure.”
“Noya was sick yesterday,” Mark says, making me flinch. “Yet she came to school today.” He turns toward me, and I wish to be as invisible as our English teacher’s schoolwork in front of us. “How are you? Did my drawing gross you out?”
“A little,” I admit. “But I was feeling off all day, so…”
“Well, anyway, Mr Rogers gave me two after-school detentions for that drawing,” Mark says. “Conner was pissed as well. Sorry about that, Noya.”
“It’s fine,” I breathe.
“Right,” Julien says as he puts away his phone, “you and Conner are a thing. He doesn’t hang out with our group anymore.”
“Didn’t he and Andy get into an argument yesterday?” Mark asks, turning to Julien.
“Yeah, I saw him grab Andy’s shirt, pinning him to the building behind the Post Office,” Julien states. “When I saw that, I pretended I didn’t see a thing and walked back to school.”
“Did you hear what they were talking about?” Samantha asks nonchalantly.
“No. Conner released his grip on Andy when I saw them, and Andy stormed off, pissed.” He leans back in his chair, his elbow resting on Samantha’s table. “They have always had beef.”
“Weren’t they friends in primary school?” Mark questions. “I remember seeing them hang out together, playing handball or marbles.”
“Hmm.” Julien grunts. “I remember that, too. I wonder what happened.”
I sit back in my chair and try to work. My thoughts grow louder as I wonder if Conner and Andy were friends and what caused them to hate each other. There had to be—wait. Conner told me Andy didn’t do group assignments and such. Was there something more?
I go to the bathroom, and Samantha heads to the back of the building.
She told me she would send a message if Andy was there, and I silently thanked her before going to the toilet.
My phone vibrates when I wash my hands after I pee.
Andy is here, sitting with Wylan and Dylan.
Another message comes through right after that one.
Samantha: Conner is also here, waiting for you.
Pocketing my phone, I shrug my school bag over my shoulders and head out when Sarah Jane comes through.
She has a smirk on her face, and her arms are folded across her chest. Sarah Jane clutches her phone in her right hand, a beaded accessory with a love heart dangling at the end.
She is undeniably pretty, and she knows that too, for the way she holds herself. There’s a lot of confidence.
“I’m surprised you came to school today,” she says.
I blink a few times, and then my gaze drifts to the exit, wanting to leave, but she stands there, and I know she’s not finished with this conversation.
“Pardon…”
“I thought you would stay home today after you saw the photo of you going around school, making it easier on me.” She stares daggers at me.
“But you came, and that emo creep, Emma, didn’t, and so people are convinced it’s her when actually you are the girl with the fucked-up bruises all over your body. ”
“I don’t… I don’t know w-what you’re talking about,” I breathe, unable to hold eye contact. “No one knows who it is.”
“You can’t fool me,” she hisses, taking a step toward me. “I’m the one who took it.”
My eyes widen, and my hands clutch the straps of my school bag.
“My friend steered you into the shower with the hole down the bottom, and I slipped my phone underneath and took a picture of you.” She laughs cruelly. “I didn’t know about the bruises. I just wanted a photo to hold against you, but man, those bruises. That’s fucked up and disgusting.”
My breath comes out harshly. I reach for my chest, struggling to breathe. “What do you want?”
“It’s simple. Stop talking and hanging out with Conner if you don’t want anyone to know that it’s you. Break off this thing you two have going on, and I’ll keep your secret safe and hidden.”
“But it’s not hidden,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “You sent it to everyone in school.”
My hands move to my stomach. I feel sick.
“That was Stage One. Stage Two, you were meant to stay home today so I could convince people it’s you without outright saying it.
” She places her hand on my shoulder and leans in, a smirk settling on her face.
“I don’t want this coming back to me. I’m going to the best university, and if I claimed outright that it was you, people would know I took the photo, and then I’d be expelled.
” Her grip tightens on my shoulder. “I don’t want that. ”
I glare at her. Taking a step forward, her eyes widen when I grab a bunch of her hair and slam her face into the mirror, shattering it on impact. Then I take her phone and toss it into the toilet bowl.
“Hey, weirdo,” Sarah Jane snaps, ripping me from my maladaptive daydream, “are you listening to me?”
The daydream was cruel, but it’s better than me cowering here, seeing my future fade away because a vindictive, wicked girl doesn’t like that I’m talking to Conner. I need to do something. Anything besides crouching here, feeling undeniably sick to the stomach.
A low, harsh breath escapes my dry lips. I clutch the phone in my hand and think, I need to stand up for myself.
“Conner is the best thing to happen in my life. I can’t stop talking to him,” I say.
“Then I’ll tell everyone it’s you.”
“How are you going to do that? You already said you didn’t want people to know you spread it.”
“I have other ways of getting your fucked up, beaten picture out.”
I got you.
“Then why not do it rather than threaten me?” I speak. “You don’t want to do it because you’re afraid I’ll tell Conner you were the one who spread it, thus resulting in him hating you more.”
Her jaw clenches, and she glares at me. I smile and arch my chin, feeling more confident than I had moments before.
“The worst thing you could have done was tell me you took the photo.” I raise my phone, and the red light flashes as I record everything Sarah Jane says. “Sometimes, Sarah Jane, words are more damning than actions. If you take me down, you’re coming with me.”
“You slut,” she snaps while reaching for my phone. I step back, but she grabs my arm, squeezing her fingernails and digging into my flesh. I grab her hand and rip it away from me. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Didn’t that hurt?”
I slip my phone into my pocket. While I wash the blotches of blood in the sink, I say, “You saw the photo, Sarah. Did it ever occur to you that someone hurt me more than you ever could?” I go into my bag, grab the jumper I keep in there and shrug that on.
“Have a nice day,” I say while walking past her.
Adrenaline pulses inside me. I have never stood up for myself before. And maybe the reason is that she doesn’t scare me. Her words were empty threats, and I’ve witnessed true cruelty. I live it every day. So, as soon as I realised she was just a girl, I felt empowered.
Nothing is frightening about her.
She won’t be able to tell anyone that it’s me now.
I’ll go to the principal’s office and reveal the recording if she ever does, damning everything she claims she is working hard for.
She knows, as well as I do, that spreading that photo around draws the wrong type of crowd.
More people will hate her than love her.
I sigh, feeling the adrenaline ease. It was close. I nearly agreed to her terms until I thought about Conner and everything we’ve built and shared—our future.
I wasn’t giving that up for her.