8

When I first notice the looks and whispers following me around at school, I try to ignore them.

Following that, I try to convince myself that I’m being paranoid. I remind myself that when I get stressed, I get anxious, and when I get anxious, I spend most of my time thinking that everyone hates me. After the past few weeks, I’m certainly both stressed and anxious. The whispering is probably all in my imagination.

Oddly, though, this time I’m certain that there’s something going on. I’ve even noticed a few side glances from people I thought were friends. My first thought is that maybe someone has found out about the car accident. Or, maybe, the fact that I’m self-harming. But there’s something in their looks that makes me sure I haven’t worked out what it is that they’re saying about me yet.

I don’t like it.

One break time, I sit on a table with a few of my friends in our tutor room. There are a few other groups dotted around the classroom, and the room is abuzz with noise. My friends are deep in a discussion about something, and I should be paying attention, but I’m too aware that the group in the far corner keep stealing glances over to us. Every time I look over at them, I’m sure that they are looking straight at me.

I try to focus back on my friends’ conversation. Something about homework, or a teacher? I’ve lost track of what they’re talking about. Usually I can orientate myself in these conversations pretty quickly; maybe I’m just too distracted today.

I’m lost in thought when I hear someone call my name. I look up; but to my surprise, it isn’t any of my friends. Self-conscious, I quickly snap my gaze to where the voice has come from, fixing my eyes instead on the girl who’s said my name. Her name is Paula; I know her pretty well. We’ve been in the same tutor group for three years, and we get on OK. I’ve never had any problems with her.

I notice as I wait for her to speak that she looks slightly nervous. What is she approaching me for, that she has to be nervous?

“Can I ask you something?” she says, in a bright tone, though with a definite hint of nervousness still in her voice.

I frown, but I nod. “Yeah…” I say slowly, chancing a glance back at my friends. They look nervous too, and it can’t be a good omen that their conversation seems to have very suddenly petered out. Is there something I’m missing?

Paula smiles, but it’s not quite right. “Is it true,” she begins hesitantly, “that you’re gay and you fancy someone in our year?”

For a moment, I’m totally frozen.

How can she… how can she know that? My mind is racing and my face flames as I feel several pairs of eyes on me. I blink a few times, my heart pounding. I feel like I can’t connect my brain and my mouth. Everything inside me is screaming, deny it, for fuck’s sake deny it!

Finally, after a few seconds, the initial panic settles enough for me to put a fake smile on my face. I shake my head. “Um, no?” I answer, as if it’s an odd question. I even add a small laugh. It’s a ridiculous question. Of course it’s a ridiculous question.

I don’t dare to look at my friends’ faces, but I feel relief wash over me when Paula smiles back, a small laugh of her own. “So it’s not true?” she confirms.

I shake my head again. It’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true…

Paula retreats to her friendship group and I force myself to turn away too, even though I can feel all of their eyes on me as they discuss in mutters what Paula has just found out. Logically, I know I have dodged a bullet – no one can know yet, I haven’t even told my parents yet – but nonetheless I feel a huge wave of anger come over me. I am so weak. I am so useless. I can’t even admit the truth.

I feel choked up, but right now I don’t want anyone to see. “I’m just popping to the loo before next lesson,” I mumble in the direction of my friends, still not meeting anyone’s eyes. I don’t want their questions either, right now.

I don’t give them a chance to say anything in response before I gather up my school bag and some loose folders and walk smartly out of the room. I keep my head down, forcing myself to stay impassive, just someone walking to their next lesson. The last thing I want, at the moment, is more questions. From anyone. Well meaning or not.

I wonder how long it will be before some of my friends won’t want to be around me anymore. There are a few people in my friendship group who are religious – will God tell them to drop me? To pretend that all the time we have spent together means nothing? I wish I could say for certain that I’m being silly, that I must mean more to them than that – but, frankly, I know that there’s no guarantees. I’ve seen how uncomfortable they get whenever homosexuality is mentioned. I could be facing cold shoulders very soon, even if I convince them that the rumour isn’t true.

And who is this girl that I’m supposed to fancy? That bit is genuinely untrue; there’s no one, really, who I would go so far as to say I fancied. Obviously there are girls that I find attractive, but I wouldn’t say there was anyone I found special. Even Mrs Fletcher – I joke to myself that I have a crush on her, but really it’s just that she’s fit. There isn’t anyone, yet, who I feel strongly enough about to say that I have romantic feelings for.

No, it feels like that bit has been added; maybe to make the story more salacious, but maybe to start a kind of witch hunt. Everyone will be asking who it is, who the victim is, who has to watch out for me. That’s the attitude towards homosexuality that I’ve encountered so far. The idea that lesbians are predatory is rife in this school.

Even if whoever started this rumour wasn’t trying to hurt me, they have almost certainly added this element of the story to make the rumour have more value. A rumour like this will have had a high-ranking social currency. Whoever started it is probably on their way to moving into a more ‘popular’ friendship group. Good for them.

What makes it worse – there are only three people who could have done this. And I know this because there are only three people that I’ve told.

Granted, one of them could have mentioned it to one person who then spread it on… but something tells me that it was one of these three people who are responsible for this. I knew I should have stayed quiet. I knew I shouldn’t have let anyone know what I was thinking.

I guess it’s a lesson moving forward. If I can’t even trust my friends to keep something like this secret, I can’t let them know about my self-harm, or the things that’ve happened that make me need to do it. Ironically, right now, the thing I want to do most is hurt myself. I’m so fucking angry; but already I’m turning it in on myself.

There’s no time, though, now, to do anything. Even though I left a little early from break, my head hasn’t been paying attention to where my body has been walking, and I’ve somehow ended up on the opposite side of the school to where I’m meant to be. The familiar urge to walk out and not come back niggles at me. Today, of course, I would have a reason. Still, I put it to the back of my mind. I don’t want to have to explain my sexuality to my parents or teachers yet, or why I’m so upset at a silly rumour.

I arrive at my Italian class at roughly the same time as everyone else. I must be the only one entering the room who is relieved that we have a test today and the teacher has separated the desks out so everyone is sat alone. I fall into a chair silently, taking out a pen and a spare, in case it runs out. I sit near enough to my friends that it doesn’t look suspicious, but I don’t join in the conversation. Luckily for me, it’s barely a few minutes before the teacher arrives and starts the exam.

I thought that having a test to focus on would be the best thing for me right now, but the questions circle around my head. I can’t focus. Once again, my mind mulls over what would happen if I just walked out of this classroom, along the hall and down the stairs, until I am in the car park and out the gates. I have this fantasy at least ten times each school day. I never act on it.

But today I can’t concentrate back on my work. I have been hoping for such a long time that things are going to get better soon, more manageable; that I’m going to stop feeling depressed and lonely and angry all at the same time. Today just seems to be proving that things are just going to get worse and worse. My friends are going to leave me; I’m going to be even more alone than I am already. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t want the last few bits of sanity I have left to flow through my fingers.

There’s something hard, in my chest, now, that won’t go away as I sit in my Italian lesson, staring down at a blank test that I know I’m clever enough to answer. I feel like crying. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

Finally, I take enough deep breaths that the urge to sob becomes controllable. I don’t want to attract the teacher’s attention, so I turn the page in my exam, as if I’m having a look at the later questions. I pretend I’m reading, though the words don’t even look like words anymore today.

Who was it? That’s the main question going around and around in my mind as I sit there silently. Who sold me out? Who decided that being popular was a fair trade for my life being turned upside down? I have no idea how my parents are going to react – but what’s really getting me is that the person who spread this rumour had no idea either. My safety was less important than them becoming popular, and that really stings.

I twizzle my pen between my hands agitatedly; I know I need to get cracking on this exam. Everything is falling to shit, but at least I can pride myself on my grades. I’m not sure that should be as depressing as it makes me feel.

But I turn back to the first page of the paper, and I take the lid off my pen. One last deep breath, and then I force myself to actually read the question. All I have to do is answer some questions about the passage given in Italian. I can do that. Come on, I urge myself. You can do this.

Weirdly enough, actually sitting the exam makes me feel calmer. I can answer all the questions without too much difficulty. I feel a little bit more in control. At least this is something in my life that I can do. I get through the Italian lesson, and then another lesson, by focusing on answering the questions put in front of me.

In fact, I am so invigorated by this that when the bell rings for lunch, I head to the quiet corridor where my friends eat lunch every day. My heart is pounding and I’m no end of nervous, but I do it. Where I’ve got this sudden courage from, I don’t know. I haven’t been spending lunchtimes with my friends very often even on normal days; I don’t know how I’ve suddenly got the courage to do it today.

When I see my friends, I can tell from their expressions that they’ve heard. Even the people who weren’t there this morning have clearly been filled in. I don’t say anything, dropping my gaze to the floor. Still, when I sit down, they don’t move away. I sit down on the scratchy school carpet and take out my sandwiches. After an awkward second, I finally meet Amelie’s gaze.

“Are you alright?” she asks, uncertainly but not unkindly.

I nod. I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it, but I appreciate it being asked.

To my relief, Amelie doesn’t push it, only nodding herself as the rest of the group continue eating their lunch. For a moment, there is a short silence. But to my relief, it isn’t long before conversation starts back up and I can blend quietly in the background whilst I eat my sandwich. Usually being alone recharges me; but today I can’t bear the thought of being as alone as I feel.

It’s a little later, when everyone has eaten and a few people have dispersed to go elsewhere, that Amelie turns to me again. She knows me well enough to know that even if I didn’t want to talk about it with everyone, I’m still probably upset.

“I heard what happened,” she tells me, a little awkwardly. “What Paula said to you.”

Amelie wasn’t there this morning, so clearly it has been talked about in my absence. Not that it will have been a surprise for her; she was one of the three people who I told about this. Maybe the fact that she knows should be a red flag. It doesn’t feel like it, though. I trust Amelie. Despite everything I can’t tell her, I know that she’s not the kind to spread round the things that I have. I don’t for a second think that it’s Amelie who has told.

I sigh. “I didn’t want everyone to know, yet,” I admit. I can hear how tired my tone is.

“I know,” she says, sadly. “It wasn’t me, I swear.”

I nod quickly. As I say, I don’t for a minute suspect Amelie.

But, I realise, Amelie has a different viewpoint to me in this situation. Though I trust that she hasn’t told anyone, I also realise that she may know who has. I look up at her. She holds my gaze; and she seems to very quickly guess what my next question is going to be.

“Do you know who it was?” I ask quietly.

Amelie hesitates. She looks down at the carpet that we’re sitting on. I suspect she’s deciding the best way to break the news to me. “I think so,” she says slowly, eventually. She sighs. “I mean, I know that the story got round on a sports trip,” she admits. “So, I guess…”

She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. It’s just as clear to me who we’re talking about.

Charlotte is the only one of the three who is on any sports teams; but more than that, recently, it has started to become obvious that she thinks she can do better than us as friends. Even though I had expected that the motive for someone spreading the rumour was popularity… well, it hurts. It looks like, once again, I have been used as something dispensable.

I rub at my collarbone. Today feels like it is just another blow. I’m not sure how long I can keep doing all of this.

I look over to the other side of the corridor, where Charlotte is sat with a few other friends, out of our earshot. I allow my eyes to rest on her for a moment; and as I do, she looks up and over to me. But she can’t meet my eyes. She quickly flicks her gaze away from me and down to the floor. Does she feel guilty? Or does she just want to avoid a confrontation with me? Maybe she just doesn’t want me to tell the rest of our friends what she’s done.

Maybe, though, she just doesn’t care. That’s fine, I guess. I know where I stand. I know I’m never going to trust Charlotte with anything else again. At least I didn’t trust her with something more serious. At least I didn’t tell her about what happened when we crashed—

I cut myself off from even thinking it, too aware that Amelie’s eyes are on me. I can’t even think about that right now. If today has taught me anything, it’s that I need to keep my mouth shut.