Another failure of a Friday night and a long and empty weekend stretches ahead of me. This has to stop, I decide, as I flip open my laptop. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine when each week pushes me closer to the edge of summer and whatever comes after it. I can’t keep avoiding Callie. Texts aren’t enough. I need to see her.

She’s been my best friend since our first tutor time in Year 7. We had to bring in something from home that would show everyone who we were. We both brought in a snow globe. When I went back to her house for the first time and saw all the snow globes on the shelves in her bedroom I knew I’d found her, found my ONE. I felt ‘Here you are’ as if I’d been waiting for her but hadn’t realised it. I can remember Mum asking if I’d made any new friends and my answer was always the same. ‘I’ve got Callie.’ I really miss her. I miss the others, too, but not in the same way. She’s not ‘the others’. We’re an us.

I scroll through my newsfeed. There’s lots of photos from the audition weekend and links to more photos and stories on Instagram. Their pages are full of comments about RADA and Dublin and jokes about being the next members of the RSC or the NT. There’s funny photo-shopped pictures on Callie’s timeline about her picking up a Bafta. Niall’s standing outside the Old Vic: his parents have taken him for the weekend to treat him and I skim through over twenty sickening pictures of the backstage tour he’s on. Aisha’s page is full of congratulatory messages – she must have got into LIPA. I really want to write something positive on her wall, ‘Well done’ or ‘Congrats!’ But I can’t make myself. I can’t even click the like button. My finger hovers over the angry face. I’m angry with all of them, and it feels right. I should be angry.

Aisha’s tagged me in on lots of photos from Dublin. I rub at the tension building in my temples, something surging underneath my skin. I know I shouldn’t look but I can’t stop myself. Most of them are rubbish, out of focus or too close up. I can see Callie, Aisha and me standing outside with hope all over our faces – utterly pathetic. Callie and I are together in another photo, holding hands in excitement, as Mr Davis talks in the background – totally embarrassing. Niall must have been behind the camera.

I study my face, clicking on the photo to make it bigger. I look like a phoney. I’ve got my fake smile on but I can see the truth in the corner of my eyes. I was nervous. I skip to the next photo: Niall and Aisha have their arms wrapped around one another in the bar on the ferry, Niall commiserating over her rejection by Dublin, Aisha taking full advantage of the situation. There’s a lot of photos of them later down The Boathouse with other friends sat on benches framed by outdoor heaters and fake palm trees that skirt the edges of the beer garden. Aisha’s sat on Niall’s lap and she looks like she’s won something. So many close-ups of them smiling, kissing one another, hugging and laughing. They look happy and so they should. They deserve it. There’s nothing wrong with them, textbook teenagers with their perfect smiles shining out from every carefully filtered selfie.

Callie’s posted on my page about the next gathering for this weekend and my head pulses. Too many ‘How did you get on?’ posts with smiley winking faces after them from friends who hadn’t heard but would have by now. I switch to Messenger. There’s loads of new posts in my inbox. As I read through them the pulsing in my head changes to fierce pounding.

Sarah-Dawn Nicholls Soz babes, just heard the news☹don’t worry there’ll be others ;)

DavinaJones Aisha’s just messaged me, cannot believe it. Bunch of idiots to say no to you.

Emma Delbridge You must be gutted. Chin up, chick. Something better will come along.

Kate Bartlett There’s loads of other drama schools out there. Try again.

Cassie Marsden Sorry you didn’t get in. I still remember you in Grease, you were fab;) You’ll get another place somewhere else.

Laura Horwood Just heard from Callie. Come out anyway, it’ll def make you feel better H!

Caroline Bates Bad luck. Keep the faith, don’t give up. You’ll get there.

Aisha Begum Hope Baldi! Get yo butt down The Boathouse now.

Claire- Lou MacAllister You know you are too good for them anyway. Somewhere else’ll snap you up.

And another one from Callie

Callie Morgan Otis Please come? Not the same without you Hope, I miss you :…(

C <3 <3 <3

And it

Is all

Too much.

Their kindness undoes me.

I delete all my messages. Posts about the audition, my nerves, how excited I am and the countdowns to how many days left before the big day are gone in seconds. Facebook asks me, ‘Do you really want to delete this post?’ Yes! I want to delete the whole fucking thing.

I

want

to

just

disappear.

Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat are easier to get rid of. I can see the yellow envelope symbol and the number 3 next to it but I don’t click on it. I want all of it gone and with a few clicks of the keyboard it is. I am officially deactivated.

I feel

lighter,

lesser,

empty

no more holding heavy.

I google myself one last time. There are 4,060,000 results but only a few actually apply to me, mostly links to youth theatre productions, my face on the front of the Limelight Stage School prospectus and a few touring professional companies who list my name along with so many others. Just a musical footnote, a brief mention, nothing concrete or set in stone.

No

true traces

of

me.

I need to take something for my PMS pains. I reach to the back of my bottom drawer where I keep my song books and my tablets and scrape my arm on the broken wooden runner – Mum’s been promising to fix it but she never gets round to it even though I keep asking. I push and pull to dislodge it, but it won’t budge.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ I start to cry. I ram the drawer into the runners.

‘Why won’t it work? Why does nothing ever work in this stupid shitty little house?’ I scream. At first I feel the roar inside me rather than hear it. My blood pulses hot and hard as I start to shake, making a sound like an aeroplane about to crash land. The drawer shatters, splinters fly up into the air and shards of wood fall at scattered angles.

When my skin tears open, it happens as if it is distanced from me, in the background. Despite the ripping flesh, I keep on pushing the damaged drawer into a place it will never fit again.

The front door opens. Mum thuds up the stairs, past my room, walking into hers, calling out,‘Forgot my mobile. Knew I’d forget something! Hope?’ she says with laughter in her voice, pushing my door open.

My blood drips onto the beige carpet. I don’t move. My arm feels numb, buzzy but dead at the same time, like pins and needles. There’s something sticking out of it. I’m panting, out of breath.

‘I probably won’t need it but… Oh bloody hell!’ She gasps and drops to the floor. There’s a thin splinter of wood coming out of my wrist.

‘Hope! What happened?’ She doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘What have you done? I’m taking you to A&E.’ She sounds panicked. Mum doesn’t do panicked. I lean on her as she pulls me to my feet. We stagger down the stairs, knocking some of the photos of all the family off the wall. One of the frames smashes but I don’t look back to see which one.