You Don't Know Me (14 page)

It wouldn't do to let him get up himself, like his brother. There's a long pause, while my heart rate speeds up again. It's the first time since #dropthefatgirl started that I've looked forward to a message, instead of dreading them.

For a girl who has just been Coked in public, I suppose I could be feeling a lot worse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Catch My Breath

S
ure enough, I'm all over the internet again the next morning. The picture of me, shocked and dripping, is going all around FaceFeed and several people's Interface pages. Everyone thinks it's
hilarious.

Everyone except Dan, who messages me a smiley face to cheer me up, and Elliot, who's mortified when he sees me in school, and Jodie and Nell, who are waiting outside my locker to give me a big hug and a bar of chocolate.

‘You poor thing,' Nell says, squeezing me.

‘Yeah. Harsh,' Jodie adds, looking apologetic. ‘I know it's been tough.'

They've decorated my locker with stickers of hearts and sunglasses, to cover up the graffiti there. I'm sure the stickers must have been Jodie's idea. That's the thing about Jodie: her life is a drama, but she's good at the good stuff, as well as the bad.

‘I'm OK. This is beautiful. Thanks, guys.'

‘It's so good to be talking again!' Nell squeaks. ‘I hated avoiding you.'

Jodie kicks her, surreptitiously. I wasn't supposed to know they'd been avoiding me, but it was obvious enough. Anyway, it doesn't matter now.

‘Has Rose been in touch?' Nell asks, ignoring Jodie's kick.

‘No.'

‘What? Not even after yesterday?' Jodie says, appalled.

I shrug. ‘She's given up on me. I'm not surprised, I suppose. Anyway, she's busy.'

Jodie rolls her eyes. ‘You're telling me. Did you know they're doing a Rose Ireland Special in the summer? They're filming it now. A whole TV programme about how wonderful Rose is.'

She doesn't make it sound very wonderful. Right now, it doesn't feel it. It would have been nice if Rose had texted. Or something. Just once. I take out my new phone, just to check. Still nothing.

‘What happened to your phone?' Nell asks, confused. ‘Your last one was white. This one's black.'

So I tell them about Dan – the basic details, anyway.

‘Oh. My. God.'

When I get home, I do as much GCSE revision as I can face before getting back to the guitar. Working on my new song, ‘You Don't Know Me', is much easier whenever I picture the smug faces on that threesome in town when they laughed at me. They thought they were being so clever. How would they have felt if some stranger suddenly poured cold liquid over them? Anyway, at least that's all they did. It could have been worse.

When my fingertips are sore from the guitar strings, I sit at my desk and idly check for messages from Dan. There's one to ask if the new phone's working OK. I assure him that it mostly is. Then I remember what Jodie said about the ‘Rose Ireland Special' and look it up. Sure enough, Rose is having an hour-long programme made about her sudden rise to fame, narrated by Andy Grey. I wonder if it will feature pictures of Coke Girl. It probably will.

On her Interface page, there's more news about the ad. It will be launched in May, and from our school, of all places, because Interface are big on getting schools involved with their projects:

Which is not strictly accurate, of course. Rose was born in a hospital in Trowbridge. And as soon as Interface got their hands on her, she left school and hasn't been seen
there since. But how weird will it be, standing in a crowd of students from St Christopher's, watching Rose cut a ribbon or whatever it is she's going to do?

At least we'll get to see her, though. She still hasn't been home since Killer Act, except for one night, to pick up some clothes. Her gran told Mum sadly that she's just too busy to spare the time. She's recording her first single. She's working on an album, or doing interviews. There are videos of her on Interface News, working with some famous visiting musicians who've asked to meet her. And pictures of her being ushered into the VIP area of some smart restaurant in London, or shopping for designer clothes on Bond Street, or squeezing herself into yet another belted shift dress for the pages of a magazine.

Rose looks OK in belted dresses, and they show off her amazing waist, but they're a bit frumpy and they were never her style. What's happened to the stripes and flowing skirts and boots she used to wear? Maybe I can ask her when she comes to cut that ribbon. Or maybe not. Perhaps they'll explain it on the Rose Ireland Special. Oh God this is hard.

When a new message pings through, despite everything, I wonder if she's decided to get in touch at last. However, when I check it, my heart sinks. It's from the journalist, Fiona Kennedy, again:

Which translates as: ‘Please tell me how you cheated.'

Sorry, no luck,
I reply. Meaning: ‘No.'

She types fast. The next message pings through quickly.

I catch my breath. Yes she's right, of course. I'd love nothing more than to get my own back on Linus Oakley, Ivan Jenks, and everyone in that big, rich company who made a news item out of our broken friendship and just left us to deal with the pieces. But something makes me hesitate. I trusted a lot of people in order to get into the mess I got us into. I'm not so quick to trust anyone now.

What is your story, exactly?
I ask.

Rose dropped
us?
Nobody's suggested
that
before. It's true, though, and reading it in black and white gives me a shiver. It's not as if I haven't tried to apologise in every way I know how. Rose acts as if we never existed.

Don't you agree?
Fiona writes.

I realise I've gone silent for a while. I've been thinking.

I can make it financially worthwhile, if that helps,
she adds.

That's what pulls me out of my reverie. I was honestly starting to waver, but now it's clear what sort of journalist Fiona is. My first serious bribe. If it didn't make me feel nauseous, I'd be tempted to have it framed.

Sorry, I can't help you
, I type.

She instantly shifts her tone.

Don't you think the public have a right to know what happened? If I have to do this story without your help, I'm afraid it won't reflect very well on you.

Suddenly she's not my new best friend any more. In fact, she's pretty intimidating. She messages me six more times during the evening. The only way to avoid her seems to be to shut down my computer.

At school next day, I share my worries with Nell and Jodie over lunch. It's such a relief to be back together again.

‘She won't leave me alone.'

‘I wonder why she picked on you,' Nell muses.

‘You mean, she didn't contact you too?'

‘Not that I know of. Mum doesn't pass on the messages from journalists. She just puts the phone down on them.'

Jodie agrees.

‘Mine does too,' I say. ‘But this was on Interface. Don't you get messages like that?'

They shrug and share a bemused look. Obviously not. Why me? Why did Fiona have to pick on me?

‘Can't you block her?' Nell asks.

‘I don't know. Can I?'

Nell sighs.

‘I thought you were all techie.'

I did too. But I must admit, I tend to use stuff without worrying too much about all the background details.

‘You should get Elliot to check out your account,' Jodie says.

‘
Elliot?
You must be joking!'

She shrugs. ‘He has his uses. He did mine when he was round with Sam. It took him about five seconds.'

‘He does owe me, I suppose.'

I catch Elliot at school and tell him about Fiona. This time, he seems more upbeat.

‘If she's getting threatening like that, it means she doesn't have any proof and she's desperate. I think we're OK. Interface won't co-operate and they're the only ones who could work out what I did.'

‘OK,' I say, ‘but how do I stop her pestering me? She's a nightmare. Jodie said you might be able to help.'

‘You do have proper privacy settings on your Interface
account, don't you?'

‘Ye-es.'

By which I mean ‘no'. Elliot can tell.

‘So
that's
how she got hold of you. I did wonder. I've got some time on Saturday. Can I come over then?'

‘Sure,' I tell him.

In fact, I've been having problems getting my new phone working properly with my new SIM card, so having a computer genius around will be no bad thing. He may have slightly ruined my life, but I can't help liking Elliot. He is the most motherly geek I've ever encountered. Nobody's ever worried about my privacy settings before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Practically Perfect

O
n Saturday morning I spend a happy three hours back in the warm white attic of Living Vintage, sorting out a new delivery of clothes collected by Mr Venning during his travels in Wales.

‘There'll be nothing there,' Mrs Venning assures me airily. ‘Welsh vintage shop owners are far too canny. They'll have had the best stuff already.'

But she's not entirely right. I find a few pearls to show her: a perfect fifties prom dress, an original eighties jumpsuit (which would have been perfect for the band), and a pair of plastic Vivienne Westwood shoes. With
access to music again, I have the soundtrack from
Pretty in Pink
blaring in the background, to suit the vintage vibe. It's safe here, and beautiful. It's the kind of place to skip around with a feather boa round your neck singing ‘Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want'.

Rose would have loved it here today. She'd have done a whole little playlet on the prom dress and re-enacted her fabulous Molly Ringwald impression. The shoes would have been perfect for her and we'd have gone down and pleaded with Mrs V for them.

Or maybe not. She loved it here once, but I suppose it can't compare with going to movie premieres and fashion shows. Old Rose would have loved the clothes. New Rose could probably meet the real Molly Ringwald in Hollywood if she wanted to, and wear real pearls, not cast-off shoes that have been moulded to someone else's feet.

Suddenly I find myself on my knees on the floor, feeling stupid for missing her so much, when it's so one-sided. Mrs V catches me there, ages later, staring into space, and sends me home.

When I get in, I double-lock the door behind me – a new habit, since those scary texts started arriving – and go upstairs to go over my notes on English Literature. Except what I end up doing is trying to learn a new chord, and reminding myself of some of the songs I've been working on. I'm in the middle of trying to work out how to play D minor, so I can get the sad tone I want for the chorus of ‘You Don't Know Me' when I notice a new message on my computer screen.

Hi. What are you up to?

It's Dan Matthews, polite as always, checking I'm still OK. I tell him about the whole D minor problem and he tries to explain to me how to turn it into a complicated chord progression involving 7s and 9s that I don't really understand. He seems to assume that I'm way further ahead than I am. We progress to Skype, so he can show me, and then he offers to come round on his bike, because I am really, really bad at copying people doing stuff on a fuzzy computer screen, and it turns out his house is only a ten-minute cycle ride away.

So that's nice.

Ten minutes. It's enough time to do your hair, check your hair, realise you've overdone your hair, undo your hair, put on some lipgloss, try out the D minor chord again and notice you're in your oldest, saddest pair of jeans, but not have time to do anything about it. That guy cycles fast, even with a guitar in its case on his back.

I welcome him in and he comments on the double-locked door thing, but I say nothing. Instead, I offer him a cup of tea and he comments on the your-kitchen-is-full-of-incredible-cake thing. This, I'm happier to talk about. I tell him about Mum and the café. He realises he's been there a few times with friends from school. I tell him about Mrs Venning next door.

‘We get our gig gear from that place,' he grins. Like we're two musicians just shooting the breeze about our bands.

OK, I would like my life to just run on a little loop of this moment for a while. Me and Dan in the kitchen, sampling cake and talking music. Until he takes his guitar upstairs and he shows me the chord progression he was talking about, plus how to tune the guitar properly. That's
all, but it's so good. If he finds me half as interesting as I find him, he doesn't show it. Boys at school tend to want to tease you in class or get up close and personal at parties, and there isn't much in between. That's been my experience, anyway. A boy who doesn't tease or fumble within seconds of meeting you is a pleasant change. One who can play guitar like an angel is practically perfect.

An hour goes by in a moment, and then he has to go.

‘That was fun,' he says, clearly meaning it with his smile. ‘You made great progress. D'you want to come round tomorrow?'

He means hanging out with Call of Duty at his house. Not that I've been picturing Dan often, imagining what he's up to, including his rehearsals with the band. OK, so I have. A part of me wants to go, but the rest thinks it's a bad idea. There's his brother, who's nasty, and that girl, who's so perfect. Plus, it's all about playing music in front of people, and my recent experiences of that – today aside – have been . . . not so wonderful.

I look up to tell him no. His storm-cloud eyes look straight in to mine.

‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks,' I say

‘OK. Great.' He grins and gathers his guitar.

Sasha Bayley, what are you getting yourself into?