I barely sleep all night. I’m still sure Poppy is behind the death threat and the other SweetFreak messages and I alternate between bewilderment that she could be so cruel to poor Amelia, fury that she has set me up and fear that no one other than Mum will believe I’m innocent.
My worst fear is that Amelia herself won’t believe it. Why hasn’t she replied to my call? Or responded to my texts? I told her the police had my mobile, but could she be calling it by mistake? And what has she said to everyone else? Has she told anyone else that the police traced the SweetFreak message to my laptop?
No, surely she wouldn’t have said anything without talking to me first.
Would she?
In the end I fall into a fitful sleep, waking late and foggy-headed. Poppy has already left for school and Mum is rushing with Jamie. She says nothing about the accusations in front of my little brother, but while he is putting on his shoes, she whispers in my ear that she loves me and believes in me and that she’s sure we’ll get a call today from the police explaining it’s all been a terrible mistake.
She knows that I haven’t spoken to Amelia yet and gently warns me not to pester her when I see her at school.
‘Remember this will have been a horrible experience for her,’ Mum says. ‘She won’t want to think you could have done this, but there’s bound to be doubt in her—’
‘Why?’ I flare up again. ‘I wouldn’t believe it of her.’
‘Sssh.’ Mum points through the door, to where Jamie is sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, his little tongue poking out as he carefully places the velcro strap across his left shoe. ‘Just don’t go blundering in, pushing Amelia to make you feel better. Honestly, sweetheart, give her time to think it through. I’m sure she’ll realise you couldn’t possibly have done such a terrible thing once the initial shock has settled down.’
I nod, but inside I’m unconvinced. Surely the sooner I can face Amelia the better? I need her to know I would never hurt her. I need to know she believes me.
I hurry to school, preoccupied all the way. I can’t see Amelia in our form room which is still half empty when I arrive. I scuttle over to my normal seat, putting my bag on the chair next to me, where Amelia usually sits.
I wait for her to arrive, looking up every time there’s movement by the door. But Amelia doesn’t come. Gradually the class fills up. A few girls smile at me or say hello, but the vast majority avoid meeting my eyes, then huddle in corners, having whispered conversations that I’m certain, from the occasional glances in my direction, are all about me.
By the time Mrs Marchington strides in, the register tucked under her arm, it is obvious that at least three-quarters of the room know exactly what I’ve been accused of.
What does that mean? That Amelia has told people? I frown, unwilling to believe it. Who else could be gossiping?
Of course. The answer washes over me like ice-cold water: Poppy.
Up until this point I’d imagined my sister’s aim was to upset Amelia and break up our friendship. But suppose Poppy wants me to suffer even more than that. She could be trying to spread rumours about me, hoping to turn the whole school against me.
Before we head to our first lesson Rose and one of her stupid Clones (her hair styled into a careful copy of Rose’s long bob) wander over and stand in front of me. Rose speaks loudly, her mouth twisted into a superior sneer.
‘Poor Amelia is so upset she can’t get out of bed.’
My head jerks up.
The Rose Clone – a sullen-faced girl called Minnie – nods, an expression of exaggerated concern on her face.
‘It’s Not surprising,’ Rose goes on, giving me a sideways glance. ‘What an evil cow that SweetFreak is.’
I hesitate. This is typical Rose, making snide comments rather than a direct accusation. It makes it almost impossible to react . . . if I say something in response I’m kind of admitting I know she’s referring to me. Which feels like it would be an admission of guilt.
I look away, still unsure what to do. By the time I look back, Rose and Minnie have gone. The situation gets worse through the day. Rose posts one of the SweetFreak private messages on YouTube: the one with the pig with Amelia’s face landing on a house that Amelia shared with a few of us the day she received it.
Rose says she’s done it in order to show everyone how nasty SweetFreak is, but I think the real reason is to put herself right in the middle of the whole drama. Whatever her motive, everywhere I go I seem to see people in small groups watching the horrible thing then looking at me with appalled faces and whispering behind their hands.
I’d seriously rather they challenged me directly.
It’s always a bit odd when Amelia is away from school – we spend so much time together and always partner up in our shared classes. But this is in another league. I don’t think I’ve ever had a day feeling so isolated and miserable in my life, and that includes my first day at secondary school – which was awful up to the point halfway through the morning when I met Amelia. We’ve been inseparable ever since.
As I leave school there’s only one thing on my mind: I have to talk to Amelia right now. And if she won’t answer my calls, I’m going round to her house. I’m aware, somewhere in the back of my mind, that this flies in the face Mum’s warning about not pestering Amelia, but if Mum had seen what it was like for me at school she’d understand. I have to make sure Amelia knows I’m innocent. At this point she’s the only person who can make the rumours that are swirling around me disappear.
I head straight for Amelia’s house. I don’t exactly know what I’m going to say, but I don’t stop to worry about it. I stand on her doorstep and ring the bell. There’s no answer at first. Which often happens. Amelia’s house is twice the size of ours.
Her mum and stepdad are away from home on work almost all the time – the Wilsons have always had someone living in: when I first met Amelia she still had a nanny, but for the past few years there has just been a succession of au pairs.
I’m anticipating one of these opening the door right now, though I’m hoping it will be Amelia, so it’s a shock when I come face to face with Amelia’s mother. She’s wearing leggings and a designer-looking smock top – she’s about half Mum’s size and wears twice as expensive clothes – and there are dark rings under her eyes. Her mouth drops open as she sees me.
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she snarls.
Her tone is so ferocious I actually take a step back along the slate path.
‘I want to speak to Amelia,’ I say. ‘Is she in?’
Amelia’s mum shakes her head. ‘You’ve got no idea, do you? Amelia’s devastated. I’ve been up with her all night. Her brother’s upset. Her father’s furious. I’ve had to take the day off.’
‘Oh, poor you.’ The sarcasm shoots out of me before I can stop myself. How typical of Mrs Wilson to be more worried about the impact of the death threat on herself than on her daughter. ‘I understand Amelia’s upset. But I didn’t do anything. I want to talk to her, make sure she understands that, because—’
‘Go away,’ Amelia’s mum spits.
I stand my ground but inside I’m quaking. Mostly from shock. I’ve only met Mrs Wilson a few times – she’s normally at work when I’m over – and she’s never been warm or friendly, but this is outright hostility.
‘I need to see Amelia.’ I sound more upset than I want to, almost close to tears. Mrs Wilson is unmoved. She’s actually shutting the door on me, when Amelia herself appears in the background. She looks paler than ever, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy.
‘Carey?’ she says, her voice breaking. ‘What are you doing here?’
I step forward, pushing the door back against Amelia’s mum. ‘I had to see you,’ I gabble. ‘I didn’t do anything. You have to believe me. I’d never do—’
‘Amelia, go to your room,’ her mum snaps.
Amelia shrinks back.
‘Wait.’ I push my way into the hall. ‘Please.’ Tears prick at my eyes. I can’t bear this: my best friend so upset. The enormity of the situation boils up inside me – our whole friendship is at stake. ‘It wasn’t me,’ I plead. ‘I think maybe it was my sister.’
Amelia’s mother shakes her head. ‘I’d like you to leave, please, Carey.’
‘Come on,’ I urge Amelia. ‘You know why Poppy might have done it.’ I meet her gaze, trying to convey, without spelling out, what Poppy’s motivation might have been in front of Amelia’s mum.
Amelia’s lip trembles. It feels like she wants to believe me. If only her stupid mother would get out of the way, but she’s hovering beside me, radiating anger.
‘Please leave,’ Mrs Wilson snaps again.
‘Wait, Mum.’ A tear trickles down Amelia’s cheek as she faces me. ‘I just don’t know, Carey.’
‘Know what?’ I ask, bewildered.
‘It’s . . . well . . . yesterday, when I got to school and showed you that horrible, horrible message . . .’ She shudders, looking down at the polished wood floor at her feet. ‘When you saw it you . . . you said “she” when we were talking about SweetFreak. How did you know it was a girl if it wasn’t you?’
‘I didn’t know . . . I just assumed because . . . I don’t know.’ I stare at her, feeling desperate.
‘And calling me Princess in the message.’ Her voice drops so that her mother can’t hear her. ‘I know you’ve called me that behind my back.’
I shake my head. But it’s true, of course, though how Amelia has found out I can’t imagine. One of the girls at school, I’m guessing.
‘Getting that last message was so awful because it was you,’ she continues softly. ‘I can’t bear the thought that you were laughing at me behind my back the whole time.’
‘I wasn’t.’ Tears bubble into my eyes. ‘And I can’t bear you thinking I would,’ I say, my voice cracking with emotion.
There’s a long pause. Amelia’s lip trembles. I hold my breath, sensing I’m getting through to her. Her mum stands between us, arms folded, tense with repressed anger. She’s clearly itching to resume her attempt to throw me out of the house.
‘I didn’t send those messages,’ I plead. ‘I’d never do anything like that.’
‘Please go upstairs, Amelia,’ her mother orders.
Amelia turns away obediently and walks towards the staircase.
‘Wait,’ I call out. ‘Please.’ My hands are clenched tight. ‘Please, Amelia. I wouldn’t believe this if someone said it about you.’
Amelia stops at the foot of the stairs. She puts her hand on the bannister as if to steady herself. For a moment I think she’s going to turn around, then her mum lets out an exasperated sigh and Amelia trudges up the stairs.
I watch, misery sinking inside me like a stone. Amelia’s mum takes the front door, ready to shut it on me. She towers over me in her heels.
‘Out.’ Mrs Wilson speaks with an icy finality.
Tears blind me as I stumble along the path, away from the house.