I was worried that everyone at school would have seen the missing person appeal online and worked out who I was.
‘Just lie,’ Cassie said. ‘Say it’s not you.’
I made a face. ‘Do you reckon?’
‘People believe anything,’ she said, as Michael Malone walked past. She held up six fingers and raised an eyebrow at me. I smiled. Maybe I could just brazen this out?
I walked into my French lesson and straightaway Mia, one of the girls I knew from the play, thrust her phone into my face.
‘Ohmygod, Jem, have you seen this?’
I knew immediately what it was. Sure enough, there was the social-media post claiming I had gone missing. My younger face stared out at me.
‘Woah,’ I said, crossing my fingers behind my back. ‘That girl looks a bit like me.’
At my old school we’d had to tie our hair back every day so in the picture I had a tight ponytail. The rules weren’t so strict in my new school, so I tended to wear my hair down with a stretchy headband holding it off my face, or sometimes – like today – I’d plait the front to hold it back.
‘She looks exactly like you,’ Mia said, frowning. ‘Is it not you?’
‘No,’ I scoffed, glancing at Cassie. ‘I’d never wear my hair like that. It’s so lame. And urgh, check out that uniform.’
‘It’s grim, isn’t it?’ Mia said with a giggle.
‘Totally grim.’
And that’s what I did every time someone asked me about it. I just straight up lied. I said it wasn’t me, that it was an amazing coincidence that she looked like me and was also called Jemima. Cassie pointed out all the completely fake differences between me and the girl in the picture. ‘Jem’s hair is much wavier,’ I heard her say. ‘And her nose doesn’t have that bump in it. And her teeth are straighter. Also,’ she added, ‘our Jem is right here, you weirdo.’
I even heard Callum telling someone that it must be to do with weird social-media algorithms matching faces and first names and going wrong.
‘It’s quite sinister what they can do,’ he said, with his brow furrowed as he looked at the phone being brandished by Micah, the captain of the rugby team. ‘They literally know everything about us. I’d delete all your social media if I were you.’
By the end of the day, I was exhausted with all the lying and making up excuses, but we seemed to have pulled it off.
‘They’ll all be talking about something else by tomorrow,’ Cassie said. ‘And no one’s made the connection between the name on the missing poster and your dad.’
‘I guess,’ I said.
We were walking out of school, bags slung on our shoulders weighing us down because we had so much homework.
‘Jemima?’ I looked round to see our form teacher – Miss Lenihan – calling me. ‘Can I borrow you for five minutes?’
I glanced at Cassie and Callum who both shrugged. ‘You go home,’ I said. ‘I’ll message you later.’
‘Sure?’ said Cassie and I loved her for looking out for me.
‘Sure. No idea how long I’ll be, and you’ve got all that science homework to do.’
Cassie made a face, but she nodded. Callum gave me a little grin. ‘Later,’ he said. They both wandered off and I went over to where Miss Lenihan waited.
‘Come into the classroom,’ she said. I went in and she shut the door and perched on her desk while I sat on a chair.
‘Have you seen this?’ she said, picking up the tablet she used for teaching. Suddenly my face was on the whiteboard at the front of the room, the old Jem with her stupid ponytail and ugly uniform looking at me sternly from the fake missing person appeal.
I made a face and she looked sympathetic.
‘I know that Robertson was your old name,’ she said. ‘Your mum explained it all when you joined us.’
I went cold. ‘Does everyone know? All my teachers?’
‘Just me, and Mrs Ahmed.’ Mrs Ahmed was the teacher who did the pastoral care. ‘And the head, of course.’
So it wasn’t all the teachers gossiping in the staff room then. I tried to smile but I couldn’t.
‘This is just a stupid joke,’ I said. ‘But it’s not very funny.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What does your mum say about this?’
‘She doesn’t know,’ I said. My voice was quiet.
‘Would you like me to call her?’
‘No.’ I was firm. ‘She really worries about me. This is nothing, Miss. No one’s bothered.’
Miss Lenihan looked concerned and I felt sorry for her. She was really young and new to the school and she probably didn’t want to have to deal with something like this. Which was good news for me.
‘We had loads of stuff like this happen before and honestly we found it was best to ignore it and it would go away.’
‘But …’
‘It’ll already be way down everyone’s news feeds. If we make a fuss about it, it’ll just bring it to people’s attention.’
Miss Lenihan leaned back on the desktop, tapping her toes on the floor as she thought. Then she nodded. ‘I’ll do a deal with you,’ she said. ‘I won’t do anything about this now, but only on the condition that if anyone gives you hassle about it, or you’re worried or upset, you come straight to me.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said, weak with relief that she wasn’t going to call Mum.
‘Is it a deal?’
‘It’s a deal.’
I grabbed my bag and scurried off out through the quiet corridors and through the deserted playground feeling antsy. I kept thinking people were looking at me as I walked towards home, wondering if I was the girl from the appeal. I walked past a man on a bench, his head bent as he scrolled through his phone and caught his eye accidentally when he looked up just as I glanced in his direction. He blinked at me, and turned his focus back to the phone. I ducked down a side road and hurried away. Had he been looking at the post just as I walked past or was I imagining his expression of surprised recognition?
I scuttled down the little lane I’d walked down. This was a longer way home but it was much quieter and better than having to walk past lots of people. I considered going into a shop and buying a hat or a pair of sunglasses but that wouldn’t help much.
And then I stopped outside a hairdresser. I had birthday money in my account. Perhaps I could spend it now? My hair was long – right down my back almost to my waist. It had a nice natural wave to it which stopped it looking so mousey. When I had time, I curled it more with my straighteners.
What if I cut it all off? Or dyed it? Or both?
Without stopping to think, I pushed open the door to the salon and went inside to see if they could fit me in.
*
Just over an hour later I left with my hair swinging round my face. I had a fringe and a wavy short bob. A French bob, the stylist had called it. I didn’t care what it was called, I just knew it made me look very different from the picture on the poster. Also I liked my fringe, and the way my shorter style made my hair even wavier than before. I felt lighter and less like I wanted to hide away. I stopped outside the salon window to take a selfie, pouting for the camera, and I sent it to Cassie. Then, wondering what Mum would think of my new ’do, I headed for home.
At the end of the street was an empty shop that was being done up, and parked outside was Rory’s van. I saw him going in and out of the shop, putting some bits of wood and tools into the back of the van. Maybe I should go and say hello, I thought. I’d been a bit rude the last time I saw him.
I crossed the road, and walked along to where the van was parked, one of its back doors open. Rory had gone – presumably inside to get more of his stuff, so I stopped on the pavement to wait for him to come out again.
The wind blew across my bare neck and I shivered. I’d have to get a scarf now I had short hair, I thought. Maybe Auntie Rachel could knit me one like my mum’s.
Rory’s van had those back windows that were mirrored on the outside but normal glass on the inside, so I wandered over to look at my reflection in the closed door. I liked my new hair a lot. It made me look older. Sophisticated. Or perhaps not sophisticated but definitely more mature.
I turned my head, admiring my side view and then through the open door, my eye was caught by something in Rory’s van. Tucked into the edge, beside a toolbox, was a pile of rags. And the rag on top was covered in red paint. It looked as though someone had cleaned a brush or their hands on it.
My heart pounding, I edged a bit closer. It looked just the same as the red paint on our house. I reached out, planning to take the cloth, but then a burst of laughter from the closed-up shop made me stop. Rory was coming, chatting over his shoulder to a man inside the store. Quick as a flash, I grabbed the rag and shoved it into my bag, then I slid round the side of the van door, ducked my head down, and ran.
*
Mum wasn’t home when I got back. I paced the living room backwards and forwards until she opened the front door.
‘Mum!’ I said before she’d even taken her coat off. She looked at me, and I couldn’t help notice the dark circles under her eyes and how her hair hung limply round her face. But she smiled broadly when she saw me.
‘Look at your hair!’ she exclaimed. ‘When did you do that?’
‘Total spur of the minute,’ I said. ‘They wanted models,’ I added, thinking the white lie would stop her asking more questions and mean she didn’t worry about how much it had cost.
Mum span me round so she could see it from all angles. ‘I love it,’ she said. ‘You look so grown up.’
‘Sophisticated?’ I said hopefully.
‘Definitely.’
‘Let me just go and get changed and then I’ll get dinner on,’ Mum said.
‘I’ll do it. Shall I just make some pasta?’
‘Perfect.’ Mum gave me a kiss. ‘Thank you.’
She went upstairs, hauling herself up on the bannister. She was so worn out, I thought sadly. Working and worrying about money and me and the horrible things that kept happening. I had definitely made the right decision not telling her about the social-media post claiming I was missing.
When she came down, I had the pasta bubbling on the hob and I’d poured her a glass of wine.
‘This is lovely,’ she said gratefully.
‘I need to tell you something,’ I blurted out.
She looked at me, her face pale and I felt awful. ‘I think Rory’s the one who’s been doing all the horrible stuff to us.’
Mum frowned. ‘Jem, I really don’t think …’
‘Look.’ I pulled the paint-stained rag out of my bag and showed it to her. ‘I found this in his van.’
She took it, still frowning. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s proof that he splattered our house with the red paint.’
‘Is it?’
Oh my god, why was she being so slow? ‘Yes,’ I said impatiently. ‘Look. There’s red paint all over it.’
‘And white paint,’ Mum said. ‘And black paint.’ She turned the cloth round in her hands. ‘And a bit of blue, too.’
I looked. She was right, the cloth did have lots of different colours on it. I’d only really paid attention to the red.
‘Jem, Rory’s a carpenter,’ she said. ‘He must paint lots of things. Doors and cupboards and all sorts. This is probably just a rag he uses to wipe his brushes on. It doesn’t prove anything.’
I felt totally embarrassed. ‘Shit,’ I said under my breath.
‘Jemima.’
‘Sorry.’
Mum sighed. ‘Sweetheart, I know things have been difficult but honestly, you can’t go around accusing people in this way. Rory’s set up our CCTV for us, hasn’t he? Why would he do that if he was the one tormenting us?’
That was a good point. I looked at my feet. ‘I just have a feeling about him, that’s all.’
‘I’m not in a relationship with him, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Urgh, no, Mum,’ I said. ‘That’s not it at all.’
She seemed as though she didn’t believe me, but she didn’t push the point, much to my relief. Instead, she looked at the cloth again. ‘Did you take this from Rory’s van?’
I nodded, ashamed.
‘Did he see you?’
‘No.’
‘Well let’s get rid of it shall we?’ She bundled it up and shoved it into the kitchen bin, pushing it down so it was hidden and I smiled. Mum had my back, I thought. Even when I leapt to silly conclusions and stole bits of rag from her friend’s van. For a second I thought I might tell her about the appeal online, but then I changed my mind.
‘I think the pasta’s ready,’ I said. ‘I hope you’re hungry, I made loads.’