I shuffle past people, edging closer to the door, to my escape. I cradle a loaf of brown bread and a two-pint of semi-skimmed milk in my arms. Mum thought it would be good for me to get out the house, get some air, now that I’m not attending school anymore. ‘Authorised Absence.’ That’s what they’re calling it. I no longer have to skip classes or hide in the girls’ toilets until the bell rings. My avoidance of homework, peers, lunch in the cafeteria, is no longer deemed ‘truancy’. I don’t feel any different though; my head isn’t any clearer, I’m not happier. I feel worse if anything. I feel even more detached from everyone, from everything. From myself. Now I have even more time to replay the past few months in my head, and to text Steve and wait for a reply that never comes.
I don’t hear the taunts from my classmates or see sympathetic glances from those who were on my side. But I can still imagine what they’re thinking of me at school, what they’re saying about me when I’m not there. The silence, the distance, the not knowing.
It’s worse this way.
And now, with these discussions about me repeating my final year at school, it’s only going to get worse. I can’t handle this anymore. I’m so exhausted from crying, from thinking about it. I just want – I want – I don’t know what I want, but I know that something needs to change or else…
‘Sophia?’
I turn and clip my elbow on the doorframe of the newsagent’s.
Mr Mason, my history teacher, stands not too far from me, a bag of shopping in one hand. ‘How are you?’ He twists his lips into an awkward smile.
I contemplate potential responses to make this exchange less awkward for both of us – maybe ‘I’m good, just taking a few days off to recover from the flu.’ Is that believable?
He sets his plastic bag down on the floor by his feet and shifts his hand up to his waist. He’s getting ready to say something, I can tell. And I already know the general outline of this upcoming conversation. It’ll be like this:
‘Sophia, do you know you’re failing my history class?’
‘No, Sir. I didn’t know that.’
‘Really? Well, do you know why? No, well I do. It’s because you don’t apply yourself…it’s because you don’t submit your assignments on time…it’s because you’re not smart…or a problem-solver…or an analytical thinker… it’s because you fail at absolutely everything you put your name to…it’s because—
‘Sophia?’
I glance up and see Mr Mason still standing there, tiny creases in his forehead like my dad gets when he’s worried about the football score.
OK, here we go. ‘Um, I’m OK.’ The milk feels heavy in my arms.
‘We heard you’d taken some time off. I think that’s good.’
‘We?’
‘The teaching faculty.’
‘Oh.’ Now everyone knows. Tomlinson must have told his staff why I was no longer attending school, not that they needed to be told. My photos were in their hallways for them to see for themselves. I wonder how many looked, how many recognised my face, how many were relieved it wasn’t their own daughter taped up on the wall.
He lowers his gaze and clears his throat. ‘Listen, I… just want you to know that I’m really sorry about what you’ve been going through at school.’
‘What do you mean?’ I’m trying too hard to sound surprised. I hear it in my voice. The fakeness. High pitch, the inflection at the end. He’s probably seeing right through it. I’m not a good liar. I haven’t had much practice. Until now.
‘Sophia, how are you?’
‘Fine.’ (Lie)
‘Sophia, have you eaten today?’
‘Yes.’ (Lie)
‘Sophia, where’s your homework?’
‘I forgot it. I’ll bring it in tomorrow though.’ (Lie)
‘Sophia, are you still texting Steve?’
‘No.’ (Lie)
‘Sophia, you have to get over him.’
‘I am.’ (Lie)
‘Don’t worry, Sophia, people will soon stop talking about you and the photos.’
‘I know they will.’ (Lie)
Lie.
Lie.
Lie.
I just can’t stop it now. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I think that no one wants to hear the truth, that the truth is too sad for them, too difficult to hear. Because then they’ll know what I’m really thinking, how I’m really feeling. And they’ll want to help. But they can’t.
‘I’m obviously aware of what’s been happening and I want you to know that you are not to blame.’
My eyes drop to the floor by his feet and I wonder what supplies he picked up today. I see a newspaper sticking out, and maybe some sandwich rolls.
‘How did the meeting go with your parents?’
‘It could’ve been worse, I guess.’ I shift to let people pass, and immediately feel their stares on me even though I know they don’t know me, or what I’ve done.
Mr Mason’s hand is on my arm now. But it’s gentle, comforting. ‘Sophia, it might not seem like it now, but this will pass. People get bored of gossip quickly. Just remember that you have a lot of support here at school, even if you’re not feeling it from your peers. There are a lot of people there who can and want to help you in any way.’
His words linger in the air, like Trina’s. But again, I leave them there, where they belong. Because like her, like my parents, like everyone else it seems, he wouldn’t understand. And because I’m too embarrassed to speak about it anymore. He looks at me, eagerly waiting for my response.
I’ve always liked Mr Mason. He did his student teaching at Birchwood and quickly became one of the more popular teachers. He treats us like we’re adults, like we’re his friends. I’ve never seen him yell, or scold us as if we’re toddlers having a tantrum. He’s well respected. And I like that, which is why I feel so guilty failing his class. Of all my teachers, he’s the one I didn’t want to disappoint. But I can’t help it. His class is in the afternoon, after lunch, after the cafeteria circus where I usually see Steve and his friends, so I can’t concentrate. I don’t listen. And I don’t do the work. I want to apologise, but I can’t. I don’t know how to say sorry for something that I know I’m doing, for something that’s just such a low priority for me. I can’t think of anything else right now. I know he wants to help. But he can’t. No one can.
‘I should go. My mum will be wondering where I am. But thank you.’
‘You know where to find me, Sophia,’ he adds quietly, nodding his head as if defeated by my actions, or lack of them.
I shuffle closer to the door again. Hand on the knob, I look over my shoulder in his direction but don’t meet his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mason. I’m honestly doing much better.’
Lie.
***
‘Sophia?’
My head whips back and Ulana’s slim frame and loose-fitting head scarf comes back into focus. Then I notice the silver metal table we sit at outside Jo’s BusStop, the plastic chair beneath me, the napkin dispenser tugged by the wind, and then finally the cold sharpened by the wind.
‘You were totally away with it there.’ She smiles. ‘Can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.’
I nod slowly but suddenly can’t remember what question I’m saying yes to. What did she just ask me again? I roll a stone under the ball of my shoe, imagining what it would feel like on my skin, under my skin, inside my skin.
‘Sophia?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘I bet you’re glad to be out of school for a few days. Has anything new happened?’
I shake my head and look out past the red Toyota hurling down Schoolhill Road. My fingers grip the coffee cup, pressing into the cardboard sleeve even though it’s no longer warm on my skin. It’s still full, the contents barely touched. It’s my favourite. A sugar-free vanilla latte made with coconut milk. Jo even remembered to make it extra-hot for me. But today it’s doesn’t taste right. Today, nothing feels right. Everything is alien to me, nothing has any level of familiar comfort. It’s new, different.
I look up at Ulana, her eyes actively searching my face for any clue as to why I’ve hardly said two words to her this afternoon. I know she had a fight with Aiden, but I can’t remember if I asked her about it, and I’m too tired to find out. ‘Can we go?’
A faint smile softens her face and she nods her head slowly. ‘Sure.’
I trudge up the bus steps, my body tired and heavy. I slide the coffee onto the wooden counter, not wanting to toss it in the bin in case it spills out and makes a mess. Jo, the owner, pops up from behind the counter, a sealed box of stirrers in her hand. She smiles at me and reaches for my cup. ‘You didn’t like your latte today?’ Jo asks me, gently shaking it. The liquid splashes up the edges and sloshes around.
I came here with Steve too. When the weather was nice, we’d sit outside and sip our coffees while we made plans for the weekend. He switched between a mocha and a cappuccino, while I always stuck to my latte choice. He added sugar to his. Two packets of brown. Three packets if he got the large size. And we sat there, right where I was just sitting. But I don’t remember those moments now. I can’t seem to recall our conversations, our weekend plans. I don’t remember much these days. Just fragments detached from what’s real, and what’s not.
The latte cup still sits in Jo’s hand, her fingers pressing into the sleeve that I once touched. ‘No, it was fine…I mean, it’s good…Sorry, I just let it get cold.’
She turns and pops the plastic lid off. ‘I can heat it up for you?’
‘No, it’s fine. But thank you.’
She squints and inspects me, and I wonder if she has a Facebook account. I wonder if she has a son or a daughter at Birchwood. I wonder what she knows. Because she will know something. Everyone knows.
I pick up the bag from the ground by my feet, for once empty of notebooks and papers, and swing the straps over my shoulder. ‘Bye, Jo.’ I try to smile, but it feels fake on my face. Ulana waits for me outside, her phone in her palm. She frantically types with her left thumb, but when she sees me walking towards her she stops typing and quickly slides her phone back into bag.
‘It’s just my mum,’ she explains. ‘She wants to know what time I’ll be home.’ She feels like she needs to justify why she’s on her phone, who she’s talking to. She wants me to know that she’s not on Facebook. She feels like she needs an explanation for every time I see her with her phone in her hand. My cheeks warm slightly.
We start walking down Schoolhill Road, our shoulders almost touching.
‘I hope they expel Steve formally so it’s noted on his school records; no university will accept him then, I’m sure. It sounds harsh, but he really does deserve it. What he did to you was so—’
‘I don’t really want to talk about it,’ I say, turning my head away from her. ‘I’m sick of talking about it all the time.’
‘Oh sorry.’ Ulana tugs at her head scarf, her fingers fumbling. She’s uncomfortable, I can tell. I make everyone around me uncomfortable.
‘No, it’s fine. It’s just everyone wants to talk about it and I’m sick of being reminded about it.’
‘Are your parents trying to talk to you about it?’
‘Them, you, teachers and I don’t even go to school anymore. I even had one girl come up to me outside Jo’s on Monday and tell me how sorry she was and that I should get Steve arrested. I should just stop coming here.’
‘Don’t. This is your town too.’ She pauses then turns to me. ‘Can you though? I mean, get him arrested?’
I shake my head. I’m not having this conversation again with her. ‘I don’t know, but I would never do that.’
‘I can’t believe that after all this, you still defend him.’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ I mutter. I walk a little faster, a little further from her.
Ulana jogs a couple of steps to catch up with me. She touches my arm but I shake her off. ‘A lot of people want to help, Sophia. You should take the help. You don’t have to go through this alone. You can—’
‘I don’t need to talk to anyone. No one can understand how I feel,’ I say, closing my eyes so I can’t see Ulana’s expression. I don’t want to know what she’s really thinking underneath all the kindness. Is it pity?
‘Then tell me. Please. I want to understand. Sophia, I want to help but you won’t let me.’
‘You can’t help. No one can!’
‘You keep saying that, but it’s not true.’
‘What about my parents? Are they helping? They can barely look me in the eye. They’re embarrassed probably. I’ve embarrassed them in front of their friends, in front of the neighbours.’
‘People will soon get bored of this and move on to something else, something more exciting. That’s what happens.’
‘No one’s forgetting about this! There’s new comments every day, more likes, more dislikes. More people know about this each day. I’ll never be able to live this down. I’ll never be able to live a normal life! These photos are out there and will stay out there for my whole life. Everyone I ever meet will be able to go online and see naked photos of my body…I…I…’ The words get stuck in my throat. My chest tightens and my jaw aches as I clench to hold back the tears. ‘I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t. It hurts too much.’
I don’t look back to see Ulana following me. But I hear her. She’s calling me. I don’t turn back. No point. I know what she’ll say. And I know what I’ll say. Because nothing changes.