Friday 19 August

When I wake up at six-thirty am, I read it again.

Could my life actually get any worse at this stage?

I am still numb.

I read it again again again again again . . . Heaps more comments have been added, are being added, as I read.

People are so happy to join in.

I like it up the arse?

It’s not true.

What’s true is I’m a virgin.

Not that being a virgin is a virtue. But it is a fact.

So the facts of my life get kicked away and I’m not a virgin anymore because someone posts lies?

I lose my virginity without getting to have actual sex?

Seriously?

I texted Rupert as soon as I read it last night.

He hasn’t talked to anyone about what we did or didn’t do together.

I believe him.

He doesn’t know who writes this shit.

Says it’s not fair that it’s always the girl who gets the slurs.

I agree.

And I’m left alone to deal with it.

So – I have to say something at school.

What though?

Eight forty-three. The usual homeroom buzz. I stand at the front of the room, staring down at the teacher’s chair upholstery fabric – turquoise tweed – trying to calm the thudding pulse in my ears. Silence drops like a blanket over the class. Unheard of. I’ve got maybe one minute before Yelland arrives. Winging it, totally. Breathe.

‘It’s all true. Like it up the arse? That, my friends, is the understatement of the century. Rupert and I actually broke up, for anyone who’s so out of the loop they haven’t heard, but when we were together, we were basically never out of each other’s bottoms.’

I look around and see a variety of reactions: blanks, shock and some amusement. Tash’s eyes are round with disbelief.

Making a joke of it is the biggest ‘fuck you’ I can come up with. I hope word gets back to them that I sent the whole thing up – that I couldn’t care less. Which of course isn’t true. I feel undressed, humiliated, disrespected, but I’m not about to show that in public. ‘And, hey – how come we’re not reading that Rupert likes it up the arse, or Bryce is a slut, or that Nick’s a frigid virgin? Why isn’t it about me sharing some “sweet Rupert arse” around? Because, misogyny, that’s why.’

‘Preach,’ says Jinx, as Ms Yelland walks in.

My perfect day? Easy: rewind this week. One, my father is still here and magically doesn’t have his addictions; and two, someone has destroyed PSST and caused great pain and public humiliation to its creators.

I’m going to art first period, but my usual favourite place at school is no longer an escape – I won’t even be here for much longer.

Things are the opposite of perfect for the foreseeable.

5 pm, text from Tash: Call me, lady.

5.03 pm, text from Tash: Like now

8.35 pm, text from Tash: Why the hell did you say that today?

8.38 pm, text from Tash: Adyyyyyyyyyy wtf???

10 pm, text from Tash: I mean it – call me!!! and we can figure out how to minimise damage

11.53 pm, text to Tash: Sorry couldn’t find phone tonight – many panics – in wrong bag ☹ We’ll talk soon, promise, feeling a bit tired and a bit sad and a bit angry still, nighty noodles xxxxxxxx

I haven’t told Tash about Dad being in rehab.

I didn’t talk to her about the PSST post.

She’s still acting as though we’re best friends, and we are, but are we really?