Thirty
My tears are
Salt on an old wound
Saline stinging harder
It tears me apart
To be without you
‘Salt On A Wound’ from Dreamers
Today’s Take: Stop throwing salt on old wounds
You know what I hate? People rubbing it in. I get it, your house is nicer. I get it, you got perfect marks in the test. I get it, you’ve got Rose Conrad tickets.
You know what? Nobody cares. Nobody wants to hear about your victories at their expense. I certainly don’t. So keep your smug stories to yourself.
Are you really the Secret Sender?’ asks Farah to Tori. I’m walking behind them on the way to English. Close enough to eavesdrop, of course.
Tori splutters, but nothing she says is really coherent. ‘Yes . . . but no . . . sometimes . . . ’
‘It doesn’t sound like you,’ says Farah. ‘When it came into the main inbox, I was surprised.’
It’s true. Why would Tori, queen of smug stories, write about being smug?
‘Well, if you must know, it’s not me,’ says Tori.
‘What?’ says Farah. ‘Why did you say it was?’
Tori shrugs. ‘Because I thought it was cool. And at the time, it was. But now . . . she’s just getting mean, right?’
I snort, and then pretend to be sneezing. But I know the only reason Tori thinks my latest piece is mean is because it’s directed at her. Also, it’s not really that mean.
‘Are you talking about the Secret Sender’s latest article?’ says Paula Thomas, passing by. She’s in our English class. I rarely speak to her, but she’s pretty nice.
‘Yeah, what do you think?’ says Tori.
‘It feels harsh,’ says Paula. ‘Don’t you think she’s getting harsher? Wanting to celebrate yourself isn’t the same as rubbing salt into other people’s wounds. You should feel able to be happy about your life, to celebrate it.’
What? Paula thinks it’s too much?
‘Yeah, I agree,’ says Tori. ‘If she keeps being like this, we’ll pull her from the newspaper.’
‘Don’t you think that’s an overreaction? She posted an opinion,’ I say, before I can help myself. ‘Thought you were pro freedom of press, Tori.’
‘Well, I am,’ she splutters.
‘And Secret Sender is the main reason people are reading The Common Room,’ says Mia.
‘They are reading it for quality investigative journalism too,’ says Tori. ‘Last week I did an exposé on the sausages in the cafeteria only containing fifty per cent meat.’
‘I think most sausages contain fifty per cent meat,’ I say, swinging my bag onto my desk as we get into class.
‘Either way, it’s an exposé,’ says Tori, her mouth curling. ‘What would you know about journalism anyway?’
More than you, I think. I’m your most-read feature by far. And my articles are only five lines long, not five pages.
And I know it’s true. All around me, people are talking about my recent take.
I feel a familiar buzz again, the one I get whenever I realise people are reading what I’ve written, that they care about my words.
After class ends, Ms Harkness calls me up to her desk.
‘Ms, I’m nearly done on my UCAS, I swear,’ I say. ‘I’m whittling down my final choices. I’m sure I’m going to stay in London—’
‘Amazing, Selena, but I need to ask you,’ she interrupts. ‘Are you the Secret Sender?’
Blood rushes to my ears. My first instinct is to deny it.
But then she says, ‘I should say, I know you’re the Secret Sender.’
‘How?’ I croak.
She pushes forwards the latest copy of The Common Room, and a copy of my essay from the week before.
‘Because in both of these there is a metaphor of salt in wounds. One when you’re talking about Tom’s interaction with Gatsby at the Plaza hotel, the other one obviously in the header.
Then I did some digging and found it’s also the name of a Rose Conrad song.
And, well . . . ’ She points at the Rose Conrad pin I have on my bag.
‘Doesn’t really prove anything though,’ I say, but my voice does not have the confidence of the words.
‘Selena, we both know Tori isn’t the Secret Sender. She’s confessed to it now, but I always knew. I know Tori’s writing. There’s no way she could ever be this concise. It’s very clearly your tone, your voice, your directness.’
I feel myself deflate. ‘Am I going to get into trouble?’
‘No, of course not,’ says Ms Harkness, looking surprised. ‘Selena, there are no rules against anonymous writing. It’s why I didn’t put a stop to it straight away. But if I were you, I would think a bit about the downsides to anonymity. Sometimes having your name attached can keep you accountable.’
‘You sound a bit like Kira.’
‘You don’t need me to tell you Kira is a smart person.’
‘Sure, doesn’t mean I want to go public,’ I say.
‘You never know, you might find you like having your name attached to your work,’ she says. ‘Which is why I also wanted to talk to you about the journalist work experience at the Croydon Post.’
‘What about it? I heard Tori talking about it.’
‘It’s taking place in the last week of term. The timing coincides nicely with the UCAS deadline. It would be great to put on your application.’
‘Now you’re really starting to sound like Kira.’
‘Selena, you’re a columnist,’ she says, pointing at the Secret Sender.
‘I might not agree on how you’re writing this, but you’re definitely capturing people’s attention.
’ She pauses. ‘There’re a lot of people like Tori writing in the world, fewer people with your point of view.
You should put that out there. But with your name. ’
‘I’d never get it,’ I say. ‘Tori said they take three people. There’ll be people from loads of different schools applying.’
‘You won’t know if you don’t try, Selena,’ says Ms Harkness. ‘There’s nothing to lose from trying. Have you thought about what you want to do next year?’
I nod, thinking about reading the prospectuses on the train.
‘I want to study English Literature and Language at university, in London,’ I say.
‘Great,’ says Ms Harkness, looking delighted. ‘How did you decide?’
‘I went to look at Liverpool university with a friend. A bit by accident, but I saw it. And when I was looking at the courses, it clicked that I did want to go, I just don’t want to go too far from home.’
‘That’s totally fair,’ she says gently. ‘And even though you’re not applying for Liverpool, it sounds like that experience was really useful.’
She pushes the papers towards me.
‘Think about applying, okay? Applications close on Sunday.’
‘Sunday is three days away!’
She gives me a small smile. ‘What would the Secret Sender do?’