The Text

A short school story

By the same author

Over the Top and Other Stories

(Rebecca Series book 1)

Painting the Tank and Other Stories

(Rebecca Series book 2)

Sinking the Ship and Other Stories

(Rebecca Series book 3)

Taking the Plunge and Other Stories

(Rebecca Series book 4)

8 is Three Twos—Complicated

Araminta

The Text—A short school story

The Text

Stone de Roufﬁgnac

Copyright © Stone de Roufﬁgnac, 2015

First published in 2015 by

Paperweight Press

Springﬁeld House, 5 Spring Hill Terrace, Whitby, North Yorkshire, YO21 1EG

The moral right of the author, writing under the name of Stone de Roufﬁgnac, is asserted according to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Stone de Roufﬁgnac is a pseudonym

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of ﬁction. Names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination or have been used ﬁctitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

About Erin (Wednesday)

About Poppy (Thursday)

About Katie (Friday)

About Summer (Saturday)

About Suzi-Jo (Monday)

Thank You!

About the Author

Extract of Over the Top

Extract of Araminta

About Erin

Wednesday

I suppose it must have all started when I got the text message from Summer. I was a bit surprised because, although I’ve known her since we were at junior school together, we’re not best friends and we don’t even hang out with the same group of people.

We’re not really into the same kind of things, if you want the truth. Summer’s mates are all a bit, well, weird—in my opinion, I hasten to add—I don’t want to get done for libel. Or do I mean slander?

Anyway, Summer and Co. The thing is—what I mean when I say they’re a bit weird is… they sit under a tree—at morning break. And at lunch time. And they sit cross-legged so if you’re not careful you can see up their skirts. And they rest their wrists on their knees and just stare into space, not saying anything. Weird.

Summer’s friends are Poppy, Rosy and Flower. Honestly! What are the chances of getting four people with names like that? And in the same form, too. I suppose it was just natural for them to drift together. I think they must have been born out of their own time—I’m sure they would all have been happier in the 1970s. Or do I mean 1980s? Before I was born, anyway.

Hippies, that’s what they ought to have been. Peace, man. Free love. Not that I’d know anything about that of course. Hey! Perhaps their parents really were—hippies, I mean. No, if that were the case they’d be anything but. I know I would. Catch me trying to look like my mum when she was my age? No way!

But I suppose their grandparents might have been hippies…

Summer and Co. are the girls—the only girls—who wear skirts—no, not skirts, dresses—on mufti days. And beads—lots of beads. And ﬂowers in their hair. Flower wears so many ﬂowers you can hardly see her face. I suppose she feels under a bit of an obligation.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s all a wind-up. They do it because we sort of expect them to. They probably tried it once and then adopted it—a bit like a trademark. If they turned up for school on mufti days wearing jeans and hoodies I doubt whether anybody would recognize them.

There are three rather obvious groups of girls in our class—three groups of four. Best friend groups although, having said that, I think each four is really two pairs. Poppy is Summer’s best friend, and Flower is Rosy’s, for example.

There are some other girls of course—there are more than twelve people in our form, after all—and they probably do have friends but because they don’t stand out in quite the same way nobody really notices them. I feel a bit guilty now, saying that!

I’ve told you about Summer, etc. Next up are Katie and Sophie—best friends, and Lucie—don’t you just love the French spelling?—and Jodie. Notice there’s a bit of a common thread in their names too. These four are the Goth Group. At least, for the last few months they’ve been Goth. You only get one guess as to what they wear on mufti days, and if they happen to go into the drama studio—where the walls are painted black—you can’t actually see them. How black is that?

I don’t have a problem with their Gothness—is that right? Gothiness? With their being Goth, but it isn’t really me. I mean, black’s a cool colour in moderation, obviously, but I wouldn’t want to go too far with it.

Me and Alice, and Tiffany and Libby, we’re the third group, although naturally we prefer to think of ourselves as the ﬁrst. That’s because we’re normal girls. I mean, we don’t actually go around calling ourselves “The Normal Girls” or anything stupid like that, but we’re, well, normal. We do stuff girls our age are expected to do, like roll the waistbands of our skirts over, for example. (Have you noticed how it’s only the female teachers who tell you off for doing that?)

We’re the girls who go to our rooms to “do our homework” and then spend the next couple of hours gossiping to our mates, or logging on and trying to chat to as many unattached boys as we can ﬁnd.

We’re the girls who are so skilled at passing notes in lessons that we never get caught. We’re the girls who wear jewellery at school, because it isn’t allowed.

Anyway, Summer’s text. It came through while I was in French. Summer’s in a different set to me—probably because she’s actually good at it—so she couldn’t very well write me a note, but it caught me unawares even so. After all, we’re not supposed to use our phones during lessons and nobody wants theirs conﬁscated.

But it was almost the end of the lesson and we were packing up anyway, so I just put my bag on my knees, behind the desk, and took my phone out for a quick look.

‘WHAT ON EARTH IS THE MATTER WITH YOU, ERIN?’ Mrs Grimmings must have been well stressed-out because she spun round and actually shouted at me in English! (Normally she just witters on in French for the whole lesson and expects us to understand her.)

But I couldn’t answer. Mrs G. was getting redder by the moment and I just burst into tears, bolted through the door, down the corridor, and locked myself in the loo, sobbing.

I found out later that Tiffy and Libs calmed her down. Apparently I’d screamed—while she had her back to us, rubbing the board—and that’s what set her off. She’s got sensitive nerves and can’t stand loud noises, but she must have believed I was genuine because I never got into trouble for leaving the lesson before the bell had gone.

Alice came to ﬁnd me and tried to persuade me to go to English, but it was no use.

‘Erin, Mr Cartwright’s bound to notice when he calls the register.’

‘Tell him I feel sick and I’ve gone to the ofﬁce.’

‘Suppose he phones down and checks?’

‘Then tell him the truth. Just leave me alone!’

I stayed in the loo for the whole lesson, trying to make sense of what had happened. We have our English lessons in form groups so I knew Summer would be there and there was no way I could face her at the moment. English was the last lesson of the day so I did wonder about bunking off home before everyone else got out of class but I reckoned I’d be in serious trouble if I got caught so I did the opposite. I stayed locked in the loo for a whole hour after school ﬁnished, and even then I sneaked very carefully out the back way and walked—ran actually—all the way home, just in case she was waiting for me at the bus stop.

What was I supposed to have done? It couldn’t be anything to do with boyfriends, I was pretty certain of that. As far as I know Summer doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment. Nor do I, come to that, but that doesn’t mean I’d try and steal hers, even if she did have one.

To be honest I wasn’t convinced I’d ever even had a boyfriend. I mean, sure, I’d gone out with a couple of boys, but were they really boyfriends? Proper boyfriends? What is a proper boyfriend, anyway?

After all, when you’re in Year 8, and even Year 9, meeting up with boys is a sort of group affair, right? A group of girls meets a group of boys. Safety in numbers. One of the boys did pluck up the courage to ask me out, but then he didn’t actually do anything—not even holding hands! So that one didn’t last long.

Eventually, towards the end of Year 9, I met a boy who seemed a bit more positive—snogging occurred, in fact—but even then I didn’t get any of those feelings they tell you about. We just sort of drifted apart after a few weeks.

And, although I have spent a bit of time in chat rooms, nobody would be stupid enough to actually try and physically meet up with someone they met there, so here I was in Year 10 and still single.

So that couldn’t have been what Summer was on about.

When I got home I’d calmed down a bit. Mum was cross because she wasn’t expecting me to be so late but I made some excuse and she didn’t go on about it. That was a relief, because I really couldn’t have coped with an argument just then. Mum’s pretty OK as a rule but she does have a tendency to give me the third degree if I’m not home by the time I’ve said, but I suppose it wasn’t late at night this time.

But what was it with Summer and me?

+ + +

After dinner I went straight up to my room and phoned Alice.

‘Can you come round?’

‘When?’

‘Now, of course!’

‘OK.’

Well, bit of a dumb cuckoo, asking, “When?” I wouldn’t have been phoning if I’d meant next week, would I? But you can see why she’s my best friend. Wednesday is a pretty heavy homework night and although we spend a lot of time on the internet and gossiping we do usually manage to get it all done. After a fashion.

But Alice dropped everything to come and help me in my hour of need.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang. It said Alice in the display.

‘I’m outside,’ she said.

‘I’ll be right down.’

That was our system—understand? No messing about ringing the doorbell and alerting parents to the fact you’d got your mates round when you were supposed to be studying. I crept down the stairs and let her in really quietly.

‘Shoes off,’ I said.

‘Yeah. I know.’

We tiptoed up to my room and shut the door. I sat on my bed and Alice took the chair by my desk.

‘What’s going on?!’

‘Shhhhhhh!!!’

‘Sorry!’

‘What’s the point in creeping about if you go and shout like that!’

‘If you don’t want me I can always go home again. I’ve got plenty of work to do.’

‘No.’ It was my turn to apologize. ‘I’m sorry. I need to talk to you.’

‘About what happened today?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What did happen? And where did you go? I told Mr Cartwright you didn’t feel well in French and I thought you’d been sent home…’

‘Did he swallow it?’

‘I think so,’ she replied. ‘He didn’t phone down to check, at any rate. But where were you?’

‘I stayed in the loo.’

‘How long for? You weren’t at the bus stop. Me ’n’ Tiffy ’n’ Libs searched everywhere for you. And when I tried phoning you it went straight to voicemail. You only get that when someone switches their phone off.’

‘I had switched it off,’ I replied.

‘You did what?! Why?’

‘I didn’t want to risk getting another text.’

‘What? Why not? What are you going on about? All I know is that you screamed in French, Mrs Grimmings nearly went ballistic, and then you shot out the door like you were on a piece of elastic. What’ve texts got to do with anything?’

‘I got this text,’ I said. ‘During French. Just as we were packing up to go, actually.’

‘And?’

‘I had a quick look at it.’

‘So? Who was it from, anyway?’

‘Summer.’

‘Summer! What’s she texting you for? When was the last time any of us got a text from Summer?’

‘I’ve never had a text from Summer,’ I replied. ‘Until now, that is.’

‘Must’ve been a bit of a surprise, then. But I still don’t get it. Why didn’t you just read the thing? And why did you scream?’

‘Because of the text, dumbo! God,’ I groaned, ‘I might just as well be talking to a hamster!’

‘Right. That’s it!’ She got up and made for the door. ‘If all you’re going to do is insult me I’m off home. See you at school tomorrow—hopefully.’

‘No!’ I wailed. ‘I’m sorry, Ali—I’m still feeling a bit stressed, I guess. Don’t go. Please.’

She sat down again. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘but I think it might be best if you started from the beginning.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right—do you want some chocolate?’

‘What?’

‘Chocolate. When I’m stressed I need chocolate. There’s some downstairs—do you want any?’

‘Whatever. What I want is to know why you rushed out of French this afternoon.’

I ducked out of the room and crept downstairs to the kitchen. I’d put some chocolate at the back of the fridge—in the fridge to stop it melting and at the back to stop Mum nicking it. When I got back Alice was rearranging my cuddly toys on the shelf above my bed.

‘Sorry. I got bored.’

‘Are you ready,’ I asked her.

‘What for? Oh! Yeah. Sitting comfortably,’ she replied.

‘Right. I got this text.’

‘From Summer,’ she interrupted.

‘Yes.’

‘How did you know it was from Summer?’

‘Alice! Her name came up in the display!’

‘But that only happens if you’ve got her name in your contact list. Have you got her name in your contact list?’

‘Obviously I have! Or her name wouldn’t have shown up.’ Why hadn’t I asked Tiffany round to talk this through with me?

‘You have?’

‘Yes!’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, for god’s sake, Alice!’ I exploded. ‘I just have, OK?’

‘I was just asking,’ she replied, pouting. ‘If you don’t want to tell me why you’ve got Summer’s name in your contact list, then don’t.’

‘Alice! The only reason I’m not telling you is because it isn’t important right now.’

‘I’m not asking.’

‘Alice!’

‘I don’t mind if you want to keep secrets from your best friend.’

‘I don’t want to keep secrets!’

‘So tell me.’

‘Alice,’ I cried in desperation, ‘eat this!’

‘Oh! Don’t think you can fob me off that way!’ But she took the chocolate anyway. At last!

‘Listen. I got the text from Summer, like I said. Then I read it. And then I screamed.’

‘Mmmmm.’

‘I think you’d better read it,’ I replied.

‘God!’ she exclaimed, once she’d recovered from the shock and separated her teeth from the chocolate. ‘What did you do to her—nick her boyfriend?’

‘She hasn’t got a boyfriend.’

‘Not now.’

‘Ali!’

‘What? Did you nick her boyfriend?’

‘Of course I didn’t. I haven’t got a boyfriend.’

‘All the more reason to nick Summer’s.’

‘I mean,’ I said, trying very hard not to strangle her, ‘I haven’t got a boyfriend now.’

‘So you say.’

‘Ali! I haven’t got a boyfriend, OK? I want a boyfriend, but I haven’t got one. And certainly not Summer’s ex.’

‘Huh,’ she replied. ‘And what’s going to happen to me if you do get a boyfriend? Cast off like last year’s fashions, I suppose.’

‘No, you’ll be my best friend, just like always.’

‘But you won’t want to go around with me, will you? You’ll want to go around with him.’

‘Not all the time.’

‘Good. Summer has got a boyfriend, by the way. If you’re sure you haven’t stolen him.’

‘She has? Who? When? Why didn’t I know? How do you know?’

‘Saw her at the bus stop. So it’s quite recent.’

‘How do you know it was her boyfriend? It might have been her brother.’

‘You don’t snog your brother,’ she replied. ‘Not at the bus stop. Besides, she hasn’t got a brother. I thought you knew that.’

I did, actually. I’ve known Summer for years, don’t forget. She’s got a sister in Year 8. That’s it.

‘She snogged him at the bus stop? That is so gross!’

‘But it does prove she’s got a boyfriend.’

‘I guess,’ I replied. ‘Hold on a minute—if you saw her at the bus stop today, with her boyfriend, you must have known I couldn’t have stolen him. You were winding me up! Who is it, anyway? Anyone we know?’

‘Tom.’

‘Which Tom?’

‘You know. Tall Tom.’

Oh! That Tom. ‘Interesting,’ I said.

‘Don’t tell me you fancy him!’

I did, actually. But I wasn’t going to tell Alice. Best friends have to have some secrets. And I had no plans to nick him from Summer, either—well, not yet, at any rate.

‘I still think it’s mean of you to wind me up,’ I said, trying to sound really upset.

‘That’s what best friends are for,’ she said, a big grin smeared all over her face.

‘But Ali!’ I screamed at her—quietly, so as not to disturb Mum and Dad—‘What am I going to do about that text?’

‘Oh! Yeah. If you didn’t nick her boyfriend, we still don’t know what the text was about. I can see why you screamed, though—I think I might have done the same if I’d got a text like that. Are you sure you haven’t done anything else to upset her? Hidden her pencil case?’

‘Of course I haven’t! That’s just kids stuff. And do you really think she’d text something like that if all I’d done was play a trick on her? Summer?’

‘Mmm. See what you mean…’

‘I’m surprised she knows some of the words.’

‘Yeah. But if you didn’t nick her boyfriend…’

‘I didn’t.’

‘And you didn’t hide her pencil case…’

‘No.’

‘Then I think we’re going to have to get Libby and Tiff round. This is too big for just the two of us to sort out.’

In a way, I was glad she’d suggested it. I wished I’d got the whole gang round sooner, really.

‘You mean now?’ I said.

‘Sure. It’s only 7 o’clock. Phone them.’

So I did.

About Poppy

Thursday

The next morning I could hear the hubbub from the other end of the corridor. Our form isn’t usually so noisy—it attracts attention from teachers who then impose sanctions like locking us out at lunch times. Clearly, something was up. I approached our form room with some degree of trepidation and my worst fears were conﬁrmed the moment I stepped through the door—the room went silent.

So, OK. They had been talking about me. Well, obviously they had. By now the whole year group would have known about what happened in French, but since only Alice, Libby and Tiff knew the truth the rumours must have been spreading like wildﬁre. All eyes were on me as I headed for my seat and I felt myself starting to ﬂush.

Fortunately, our form teacher, Dr Byrne, chose that moment to enter the room and I was spared any further embarrassment. For now.

We all stood, as is the custom at our school.

Our teacher addressed us. ‘Good morning, girls,’ he said.

‘Good morning, Dr Byrne,’ we chorused, and then waited politely until we were told to sit down. It was at that moment when I noticed Poppy’s seat was empty. But I didn’t have time to wonder about it because Dr Byrne had opened his laptop and started to call the register.

Dr Byrne isn’t a medical doctor, of course. We have some seriously well-qualiﬁed teachers at our school, and our form teacher has a PhD in chemical engineering. I zoned out for a bit—my name comes part-way down the register—but I did keep half an ear open.

‘Erin.’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

Now, if you’re thinking my reply a bit informal, after all the standing up and good manners stuff, it’s accepted because it’s efﬁcient. There is, however, a ﬁne line drawn between what is acceptable and what is not. Jodie, from the Goth Group, once thought to see if she could get away with “Yeah”. She couldn’t. Dr Byrne didn’t say a word—he just looked at her. So did everyone else. It took no more than ten seconds before she turned bright pink and was stammering, ‘Sorry, Dr Byrne. I meant, “Yes”.’ And that was the end of the matter. Nobody has tried it since.

On the other hand, Summer and her mates sometimes get all posh and reply, ‘Present, Dr Byrne.’ The ﬁrst time they did it we all had trouble keeping straight faces. After all, it was obvious they were taking the mickey, but no teacher could tell them off for what was an absolutely correct, formal reply. My only hope was that the headmistress didn’t hear about it and decide we should all do it, all the time.

Dr Byrne marked me present and was about to call the next name, when suddenly the door burst open and there was Poppy, breathless, and with streaks down her face making it obvious she’d been crying.

‘I’m so sorry, Dr Byrne,’ she stammered. ‘Umm, can I talk to you for a moment?’ She remained by the door, clearly hoping they could talk outside.

‘Erin,’ he said, getting up, ‘Finish the register, please. Mark Poppy present.’

I got up from my seat and headed to the teachers’ desk. Wow! He trusted me with his school laptop, logged on as him. I could access all the teacher-only folders on the school network… But I didn’t dare. He was only just outside the door, after all, and anyway, that sort of thing just isn’t done at our school. I had a quick look round to make sure nobody else was missing and then marked everyone present. And why me, to be singled out for this task? Because it’s my turn to be form captain—a position which is nowhere near as important as it sounds. Basically it means I’m the general dogsbody for the whole half term.

Dr Byrne returned. Poppy didn’t. ‘Thank you, Erin,’ he said, as I walked back to my seat. He rummaged in a drawer and produced a key. I recognized it at once—it was a locker key. All our lockers are outside the classroom, in the stairwell. He took the key and passed it out the door.

‘Bring the old one back this afternoon,’ he said, obviously to Poppy. What was going on?

Although Dr Byrne is our form teacher and takes us for registration, our form room isn’t his teaching room. He closed his laptop and set off for the chemistry lab.

‘Don’t be late for class, girls,’ he told us, leaving us to it.

That’s one good thing about our school—we’re trusted to be in ordinary classrooms without a teacher present. On this occasion though, there was a mass exodus as we all rushed out into the corridor, looking for Poppy. But she was nowhere to be seen.

+ + +

I had no idea whether or not Poppy went to her ﬁrst lesson. I had geography, and she doesn’t do it. Second lesson though, that was maths, and she’s in the same set as me. So is Alice. And Summer.

Me and Alice arrived together and sat in our usual seats—next to each other, of course. Poppy sits next to Summer, as you would expect. But there was no sign of her. Summer was there, sitting by herself. She had her head down and wouldn’t look at anyone. That suited me—I didn’t have to confront her—but it did surprise me. Despite their weirdness, Summer’s gang are quite popular and they don’t turn their backs on anyone. What could have happened?

The teacher hadn’t arrived yet. Just as well, as it turned out, because I was just getting my books out when Poppy stormed in and marched straight over to where Summer was sitting. Summer looked up, puzzled, and then stood so Poppy could take her usual seat next to the window. But she didn’t.

Instead, she belted Summer round the face before sitting down at a spare desk near the back of the room. What?

Summer screamed. Nobody else said a word. We were all gobsmacked. That sort of thing just doesn’t happen in our school. Well, not in a classroom with a teacher due to arrive at any moment. I think we all felt we were hallucinating. Summer clutched at her face, desperately trying not to cry, and then Mrs Huntley arrived and we all stood up.

It was a relief, to be honest. I’m not the world’s best maths student but I do try, and that lesson I tried extra hard. Anything to take my mind off what had happened. The same was true of everyone else. Nobody spoke—except to answer a direct question—and that so isn’t like us. We’re not disruptive, I hasten to add, but we usually chat a bit and Mrs Huntley has to quieten us down every so often. Not today. She had to have realized something was up, and she couldn’t fail to have spotted that Summer and Poppy were sitting apart, but she affected not to notice. She didn’t fool me. This was going to be all round the staffroom at morning break, I was sure of it. And that wouldn’t do. It’s an unwritten rule at our school that the girls ﬁnd out about “issues” before the teachers do. I wanted to know!

After maths we had assembly. Yes, I know, it is kind of weird to have assembly mid-morning, but that’s how we do it. Finding out was going to have to wait a little longer.

Assembly is always followed by morning break. I rushed up to the form room, Alice close behind. Tiffy and Libs were struggling to keep up with us. None of us wanted to miss out on whatever revelations might be taking place. Pretty much everyone else was there as well. In fact, the only people missing were Summer and Co.

And then Rosy and Flower turned up, between them supporting a very upset Poppy. She was shaking, sobbing, tears streaming down her face. I didn’t understand. Surely it should be Summer who was crying. Where was Summer, anyway?

We knew better than to ask. But the whole class started whispered conversations. We were all speculating, but keeping our voices low enough that we stood a chance of overhearing what was said.

And get this. Poppy had received an abusive text. From Summer. Suddenly, I was no longer the centre of attention. The rest of the class didn’t know I’d had a text too, just that I’d screamed in French. This was much more exciting. Why would Summer do that to her best friend?

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. I got the gang together at lunch time and we headed outside to ﬁnd a place to talk where nobody else could hear us. On the way we had to walk past Reception, and there was Summer, sitting on a chair, and looking every bit as upset as Poppy had been. We found out later that she was waiting for her mum to come and take her home—because she wasn’t feeling well. I’m not surprised.

Poppy turned up as normal to afternoon registration, and handed a locker key to Dr Byrne. It didn’t take too much intelligence to work out what was going on. Poppy’s locker was next to Summer’s, as you might expect for best friends. Not any more. Poppy had moved all her stuff to a spare locker at the end of the row. I really couldn’t blame her.

Summer wasn’t there, of course, and Dr Byrne didn’t even call her name. Obviously something had been said in the staffroom, just like I suspected. But none of this made sense. Why would Summer send such horrible texts? Bad enough sending one to me, but to Poppy? Was she trying to alienate herself?

At least nothing else bad happened during the afternoon. After school I went home, caught up on all the homework I’d not had time for last night, and went to bed, dreading what might happen on Friday.

About Katie

Friday

Summer didn’t come to school on Friday. I found that out just before registration. Poppy was in her usual seat, but she’d turned the chair round so she could talk to Rosy and Flower, behind her. Me and Alice were chatting to Libby and Tiff. We still had no idea what was going on between Poppy and Summer. I had a thought—was the text Summer sent me a mistake? Had she intended to send it to Poppy all along? But why? It still didn’t make any sense.

We were still speculating when we heard a scream from the back of the room. That’s where the Goth group sit. All eyes turned in their direction, to ﬁnd Katie standing up and waving her phone around in front of her friends. She looked pretty upset. Sophie put an arm around her.

Dr Byrne came in. Had he heard Katie scream? I just had time to see Katie put her phone on her desk before we all turned to face the front. We stood.

Dr Byrne didn’t say anything. Whether he noticed Katie had her phone out I don’t know. Not that it really mattered. The school has come to terms with the fact they can’t ban phones. There would be complaints from parents, for one thing. So we are actually allowed them when we’re not supposed to be doing something else. Being caught using your phone when you should be paying attention though—that’s a different thing entirely. For a ﬁrst offence your phone ends up on the teacher’s desk and you get it back at the end of the lesson—after you’ve grovelled a bit. But if you’ve been caught before then the teacher takes it to the deputy head and you have to get it after school. That really isn’t fun. The deputy head is a bit of a dragon and well scary. Nobody ever gets caught twice.

After registration Dr Byrne called Katie to the front and spoke quietly to her. But my desk is in the front row and I have pretty sensitive hearing, so without deliberately eavesdropping I could tell what the conversation was about. And basically he was reminding her that she could speak to him in conﬁdence if she had a problem. Or any other teacher, come to that. So perhaps he had heard her scream after all.

As soon as he left, Poppy stood up and went to talk to Katie. Her friends followed close behind. It was obvious what had happened. It just had to be another abusive text and, although the two groups don’t usually mix, everyone knew that Katie and Poppy now had something in common. Not wanting to be left out, I grabbed my phone and headed over to join them. I heard a few gasps from girls who had ﬁnally put two and two together and realized why I screamed in French. Me, Poppy and Katie put our phones side by side on the desk, text messages on display.

They were all exactly the same.

+ + +

About halfway through second lesson a prefect came to the classroom with a note from the headmistress. There would be a full school assembly this morning. Miss Phipps had trouble getting us to settle after that announcement. We never have assembly on a Friday. Full school assemblies are Mondays and Thursdays, with upper school assembly on Tuesdays and house meetings on Wednesdays. Fridays are tutor time.

Something was most deﬁnitely up.

+ + +

The headmistress swept into the hall, academic gown billowing as she marched swiftly towards the stage.

‘Good morning, girls.’

‘Good morning, Miss Peterson.’

‘You may sit down,’ she commanded. We sat. She spoke.

I can’t quote verbatim her exact words, but the gist of her speech was to remind us that the school has a zero-tolerance approach to bullying, and that included the sending of offensive text messages. We were all shocked. Not by what she said, but at the fact she knew. How could she possibly have found out? One of the unwritten rules at our school—and probably every school—is that nobody grasses on fellow pupils. I hadn’t mentioned it, I would be surprised if Poppy had, and Katie only got her text this morning. Unless she did tell Dr Byrne. Somehow I doubted that would be the explanation.

‘What’s going on?’ I said to Alice, once we were back in our form room at morning break.

‘Dunno. Perhaps one of the teachers overheard us while we were talking about it.’

‘That makes sense,’ Libby agreed. ‘It’s easy to forget, if a teacher says we can chat, that they’re still in the room.’

‘But do you really think they listen in?’ I argued. ‘Surely they wouldn’t be interested in the things we talk about.’

‘Unless,’ Tiff remarked, ‘they’re gathering material so they can write school stories when they retire.’

Gulp.

‘What I don’t get,’ I said, ‘is why Summer would do this. Poppy’s already slapped her, and when she comes back it’s pretty obvious nobody’s going to talk to her.’

‘If she comes back,’ said Libby. We all looked at her and she continued, ‘After what Miss Peterson said about how seriously the school takes things like this, do you think she’ll actually be allowed?’

We all shivered. In the three and a bit years I’d been in the senior school, I’d never heard of anyone actually being expelled. Was that really what was going to happen to Summer? Had it happened already? Was that why she didn’t come in today? This was moving far too fast for me to keep up with.

We had physics next, then lunch. Me and Alice always have a cooked lunch on Fridays—the rest of the week we bring sandwiches. We found a table in the dining room and sat down to enjoy our meal. The school has recently got new caterers and the food is pretty good now. In fact, if I could persuade Mum to fork out a bit more money I might be tempted to have the school lunch more often.

Alice seemed to have forgotten all about the bullying problem—she was just thinking about the weekend.

‘Are we going shopping tomorrow?’

‘Er, yeah.’ My brain was working overtime trying to think about three different things at once. Something was deﬁnitely wrong, and I wanted to ﬁnd out. ‘After lunch,’ I told her. ‘I’ve got something important to do in the morning.’

About Summer

Saturday

I was up pretty early, for a Saturday. I headed out just before ten, telling Mum I was going to see some friends. She’s used to that—it’s what I do most Saturdays. But today it wasn’t quite true. I was going to see Summer.

She lives quite close—about ten minutes’ walk away. That’s the reason we ended up in the same junior school. I was bit nervous—I hadn’t been round to her house since we were about ten years old and I wasn’t sure how she would react when I turned up on her doorstep. I thought about phoning ﬁrst but then I decided it might be a bad idea. I had a gut feeling about it. I’d done some serious thinking about the texts…

And I didn’t think Summer was sending them.

Summer answered the door herself. That was a relief—I hadn’t been sure how I would explain this to her parents. She looked surprised though, but she didn’t seem upset by my presence—in fact she looked quite pleased to see me. The fact that Poppy, Rosy and Flower had stopped talking to her may have had something to do with that.

We went up to her room. I found I could still remember the layout of her house, even though it was more than four years since I was last here. She let me have the chair by her desk. She sat on the bed.

The bruise on her cheek was pretty bad. I wondered how she could have explained it to her mum. But it gave me a lead-in and I didn’t want to beat about the bush.

‘Do you know why Poppy hit you?’ I queried.

She shook her head. ‘No. And nobody will tell me. What am I supposed to have done?’ A tear started to slide down her cheek. She sounded genuine.

‘She got a text,’ I said. ‘Ostensibly from you. So did I.’ I pulled out my phone and showed her. Her eyes opened wide and her hand went to her mouth in shock.

‘No way! I never sent that!’

‘That’s what I thought. I believe you, Summer. But…’

The colour drained from her face. She ﬁnished the sentence for me.

‘Everyone else thinks I did?’

‘I can’t speak for everyone, but Poppy must do, otherwise she wouldn’t have hit you. And it looks as if Rosy and Flower are assuming it’s true. Katie got an identical text too, so it looks like the Goths are against you…’

‘Oh my god! What am I going to do? How can I convince them?’

‘I’m not sure they’re the people you need to worry about. I don’t know how, but Miss Peterson seems to have found out about it. We had an extra-ordinary assembly yesterday. It’s a form of bullying, is her take on it.’

Summer didn’t say anything. She just put her head in her hands and burst into tears. I sat on the bed next to her and put an arm round her shoulder.

‘Nobody will believe me,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m going to get into so much trouble.’

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ I told her. She looked at me. ‘To make sure you don’t,’ I explained.

‘How?’

‘We need to ﬁnd out who’s really behind it. Expose them, and you’ll be in the clear.’

She sniffed. ‘Yeah, right. How do you propose to do that? Have you been reading too many detective stories?’ She stood up, and started pacing.

‘I’m sorry, Erin. Thanks for coming round. At least I now know why I’ve been sent to Coventry. But that text on your phone clearly says it came from me. It didn’t, and I have no idea how this has happened, but all the evidence points to me. What chance have I got?’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Did you ever leave your phone somewhere where somebody could have tampered with it?’

Her jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide. ‘Oh my god, yes. Last week. My phone went missing…’

I looked at her, expecting more.

‘I had to go to Reception for something. There was a big pile of boxes on the ﬂoor just outside—you know how they just leave them there until the caretakers sort them out and take them away?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s like an obstacle course sometimes, getting to the window to talk to the receptionist.’

‘Exactly. So I just dumped my bag in amongst the boxes. When I picked it up again my phone had gone. I panicked. Mum would be furious with me if I lost it.’

I think she was getting her mum mixed up with mine. Summer’s parents aren’t short of cash. She has the latest iPhone and if she lost it there was no doubt in my mind they’d just buy her a new one. If it were me though, I’d never hear the last of it. I’d probably have to do without for at least a couple of weeks, and then I could imagine Mum grudgingly agreeing to go halves with me on the cheapest, most basic phone you can get. We live in different worlds. But she obviously got her phone back.

‘How?’ I asked.

‘There was a message on the screens. Rosy spotted it. Anyone who had lost a phone should go to Reception. I was asked to describe it, and there it was. Such a relief!’

‘How long had it been gone?’

‘It was the next day. I’d been worrying about it all night. Nearly twenty-four hours.’

I stood up. I felt we’d hit the jackpot. This was plenty of time for someone to do what I suspected. I turned to her.

‘Summer, you need to tell your parents. And then the police.’

She went white. ‘The police?’ she stammered.

‘Yeah. Don’t you see? It won’t be long before someone else does. Then you’ll be the prime suspect. But if you go to them ﬁrst, and I tell them what I think happened, there’s more chance they’ll take it seriously and investigate it properly.’

+ + +

Summer’s mum was out. Her dad was at home though, and he was shocked when we told him what was going on. But he agreed with me—anything to clear his daughter’s name. He drove us to the police station and we made statements. The police wanted to keep our phones for forensic examination—we could have them back on Tuesday. It made a lot of sense—if any more texts came through over the weekend it would be pretty conclusive evidence Summer wasn’t sending them.

Her dad dropped me off at home. I turned to Summer as I got out of the car.

‘You should go to school on Monday,’ I told her. ‘If you don’t, it will just strengthen the rumours. Anyway, the police might have solved the mystery by then.’

She nodded. ‘Yeah. Thanks, Erin. See you Monday.’

About Suzi-Jo

Monday

OK. Long story short. The police went round to Suzi-Jo’s house at the weekend. Oh, but you don’t know who she is, do you? I haven’t mentioned her before. Well, she’s in the year above me, so I don’t have much to do with her. We’re in the same house at school though, and Years 10 and 11 are grouped together for house activities so I sort of know her. I don’t understand why parents give their kids double-barrelled ﬁrst names—can’t they make up their minds? Or do they want to encourage them to act like two different people? It seems to have worked in Suzi-Jo’s case, because she’s always the ﬁrst to volunteer whenever the house captains ask for, well, volunteers, and that makes her a nice person, right? But it turns out what she’s been doing in her spare time is a bit illegal.

What did she do? Nicked Summer’s phone when she put her bag down. Then she took it home and gave the SIM card to her brother. He works in a rather dodgy phone shop and he came back with two SIM cards—Summer’s original one and a clone. Suzi-Jo put the original back and handed Summer’s phone in at Reception the next day, saying she’d found it lying around. Then she put the cloned card into another phone and sent all those messages.

And how did the police ﬁnd out? Simple. They switched Summer’s phone off and got the network operator to do a trace on her number. Of course, it picked up the clone instead. And apparently if the phone gets a signal from three different masts they can use trigonometry to ﬁnd its location. So maths can be useful after all…

They can also link into the GPS to get even closer. It led them straight to Suzi-Jo’s house.

She’s in trouble. The police told her parents and Miss Peterson. Suzi-Jo had to see the Head on Monday morning, and her parents were called in as well. Apparently Miss Peterson was not amused. Zero tolerance to bullying, remember? Suzi-Jo was told that, had she still been in Year 10, she would have been instantly expelled. As it was, with her GCSE exams coming up, she would just be suspended. But it sounded more like house arrest. With the cooperation of her parents, she was going to be deprived of her phone and iPad, and she would only be allowed to access the internet under parental supervision. Other than that she would be shut in her room to study, and fed a diet of bread and water.

Actually, I’m not so sure about that last bit…

She would be allowed in to school to take her exams, but that was it. She would not be welcome back for sixth-form. Not that she would want to come, I suppose. After what she’d done, I doubt anyone would talk to her.

But that’s just the school’s punishment. I told you the police were involved. It’s the cloning bit that’s the really illegal part, so her brother and the shop owner are going to be in serious trouble. But Suzi-Jo knowingly used a cloned SIM card, and that’s wrong in itself, quite apart from what she used it for. So they’ve given her an ofﬁcial caution. That’s the lightest penalty, because it’s a ﬁrst offence and previously she’s been of good character. It’s called a Youth Caution and it’s “spent” immediately, so she doesn’t have to disclose it on college or job applications. But, it’s already ﬁled away on the police national computer—she has a criminal record!

Of course, once the news got out, Poppy went and apologized to Summer. So did Rosy and Flower. Katie gave her a hug. And now it seems the three cliques in our form have started to intermingle so, although Alice is still my best friend, I’ve been spending more time with Summer, too. And that helped me ﬁnd out why Suzi-Jo was so upset with her that she thought up this crazy scheme.

‘It’s because of Tom,’ Summer told me, once I’d got her on her own.

‘Tall Tom?’ I remembered Ali telling me she’d seen Summer at the bus stop with him.

‘Yeah. He’s Suzi-Jo’s ex. He dumped her in favour of me.’

I understood. Suzi-Jo must have thought Summer stole her boyfriend, and sent the texts to get her own back.

‘But to be honest,’ Summer continued, ‘I only went out with him because he’s taller than me.’

Did I mention that Summer’s one of the tallest girls in the school? She towers over the sixth-form, and she’s even taller than most of the teachers. Obviously she’s going to want a tall boyfriend. But did I hear her right?

‘I don’t think we have a lot in common though,’ she went on. ‘I’m thinking of breaking up with him, actually.’

Really? My stomach did a little somersault. If I could only manage to be in the right place at the right time, then maybe, just maybe, I might be able to catch him on the rebound!

THE END

(But please turn over…)

Thank You!

Thank you for downloading and reading this very short book. If you enjoyed it, perhaps you would consider writing a review. Reviews help other people ﬁnd the books they want to read.

Digital Rights Management has not been enabled on this book—please feel free to share it with your friends.

You might also be interested in some of my other—much longer—books. Although in each case the main characters are young people the stories themselves are very different.

Over the Top and Other Stories (available as a free download) is the ﬁrst of four books in the Rebecca series. Each book contains a number of independent short stories about—mostly—the same group of characters. The Rebecca series is set in the 1990s and so, unlike The Text, the characters do not have mobile phones. However did they manage? What did they do instead?

Araminta Minty’s parents don’t trust her and she thinks that’s unfair. It makes her wonder whether she can trust them. And when she discovers the secret they’ve been keeping from her she ﬁnds herself in a very difﬁcult situation.

About the Author

Stone de Roufﬁgnac is a pseudonym.

The real Stone de Roufﬁgnac taught physics for more than thirty years, variously in a coeducational boarding school, an international school, and two girls’ day schools.

Now retired, Stone de Roufﬁgnac writes Young Adult ﬁction for fun, while the real Stone de Roufﬁgnac writes educational magazine articles for a small amount of proﬁt.

To ﬁnd out more visit his author proﬁle on Goodreads.

Extract of Over the Top

Overnight Sensation

January

‘Hey! Steady on!’ cried Karen as she cannoned into the back of my seat.

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Dave, changing down a couple of gears and easing his foot off the brake.

‘I should think so too! It’s all right for you—we haven’t got any seat belts in the back, you know.’

‘Remind me to get a new car,’ he retorted.

‘Be about time. What did you slow down for, anyway?’

‘Steep hill going down. That means we’re nearly there.’

‘If you knew there was a steep hill, you shouldn’t have been going so fast in the ﬁrst place! I said you should have let me drive.’

‘But,’ said Dave, in his Mr Reasonable voice, ‘you haven’t actually, you know, passed your test yet, have you?’

‘But at least I’m up to date. You started driving so long ago they probably didn’t even have a test.’

I hate it when Karen gets like this. Ever since she started driving lessons, you can’t take her anywhere without getting a running commentary. She was seventeen just before Christmas—that’s only about a month ago—but already she knows it all. I thought it might be prudent to intervene.

‘We have to turn off soon,’ I said. ‘Put your lights up so we can see.’

‘I can’t,’ Dave replied. ‘There’s someone coming.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Karen from the back. ‘That shows how much you know about driving, Zak.’

That’s me, by the way. Zak. Short for Zachariah. At least you can shorten Zachariah, which is some relief. Sometimes I think I could kill my parents! And my twin sister is Abby, short for Abigail. I think they must have used an A to Z of names with most of the pages missing when they chose ours. Abby was in the car too, squashed in the back between Karen and Serbian Sam. We all called him Sam because no one could pronounce his real name. And no prizes for guessing where he was from.

‘I can’t be expected to know about driving,’ I argued. ‘I’m not old enough.’

That was true. Abby and me had another six months to go before we turned seventeen, and Sam was only just sixteen. He was in ﬁfth form at our school, out in the back of beyond over the far side of the Vale of York, while the rest of us were in lower-sixth. All except for Dave, of course. Dave is our Venture Scout Leader, and the reason he’d been lumbered with driving us about seventy miles on a chilly January night was because we were going to take part in some sort of adventure game, together with teams from all over North Yorkshire. Exactly what the game involved, we had no idea…

‘There’s a signpost!’

‘Got it!’ cried Dave, and Karen slammed into the back of my seat again.

‘Mirror, signal, manoeuvre,’ she muttered. Then, ‘Why have you stopped in the middle of the road?’

‘Have you seen that signpost?’ he said.

We all looked. There was a tiny lane leading off to the right, and stuck on a post was a single arrow with the legend THIS WAY above it. Unfortunately, there was another arrow pointing down the main road. This one said THAT WAY.

‘Now what do we do?’ I said.

‘Turn right, obviously,’ Karen replied.

‘Obviously?’

‘Well, of course! We want to go This Way, don’t we? Nobody would be stupid enough to go That Way. I bet you get points knocked off if you do.’

Sometimes I think that girl’s too intelligent for her own good.

‘Your choice,’ said Dave. ‘I’m just the driver.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ I said to Karen. ‘This is a really thin road. We won’t be able to turn round if it’s wrong.’

‘Trust me.’

We trickled along, and suddenly there was a gate.

‘No,’ I said. ‘This has to be wrong. You don’t get gates across a public road.’

‘But it’s open,’ Karen replied. ‘Trust me.’

‘Trust her, Big Brother,’ added Abby.

She calls me that to try to wind me up, just because I was born ﬁrst. It doesn’t work, though. And in any case, she’s Karen’s best friend, so she has to agree with her.

‘Well, we must be somewhere,’ said Dave. ‘There are lights ahead.’

He was right. We could see the glow as we drove down an avenue of trees, but the road was curved so we couldn’t tell exactly where we were until it was too late to turn back.

‘Stop!’

He stopped. Karen and my seat met once more.

‘Dave!’

We stared out the front. The road widened into a large parking area, brightly lit by powerful street lights, and directly ahead of us, blocking the way, were two soldiers!

‘Karen! I told you! Now we’ve ended up in a secret army base, or something. It’s probably to do with the Early Warning Station. We are in serious trouble!’

‘Trust me.’ She was doing a very good job of keeping her cool, but I could detect a trace of uncertainty in her voice. Even Abby was having doubts.

The soldiers split up, one round each side of the car. Dave wound down his window, and the soldier on my side made it clear I should do likewise.

‘What’s he want to talk to me for?’

‘Because I’m just the driver,’ said Dave, with a smirk on his face. Did he know something?

I wound the window down, and this beefy bloke leaned in.

‘Passports!’

‘Passports?’

‘You heard what I said, sunshine.’

‘But, we haven’t got any…’

‘No passports?’ He called over to the guy on the other side, ‘Inform HQ about this, corporal.’

‘Right away, Sarge!’ and he mumbled something into a radio.

‘But,’ I stuttered, ‘surely we don’t need passports? We’re still in England, aren’t we?’

‘Hah! That’s what they all say! And I suppose you think you’re still in Yorkshire, too.’

‘Um…’

‘You have now entered the Ostensible Oligarchy of Od, and entered it illegally, I might point out.’

‘Od?’ I looked blank.

‘Who’s this old geezer, then?’ he went on, as if he’d only just noticed Dave.

‘Er, I’m just the driver,’ said Dave, sans smirk and ignoring the insult. Perhaps he didn’t know something, after all.

‘He’s our Leader,’ said Karen, dropping him in it.

‘A Leader, eh? A Leader who isn’t prepared to admit it! Right! Park over there!’

Dave complied, and we all had to get out.

‘Corporal!’

‘Sarge?’

‘Take this man and lock him up with the rest of the so-called “Leaders”.’

‘Right away, Sarge!’

Dave was led away, and we were on our own, with this sadistic sergeant.

‘You got us into this!’ I whispered to Karen.

‘Silence!’

‘What’s going to happen to Dave?’ cried Abby, in a shaky voice.

‘We have some Menial Tasks for him to carry out. You four, follow me!’

We were taken across the parking area and down a couple of steep steps into a long, low building. The steps were worn, and Abby stumbled.

‘Mind the step!’ shouted our tormentor.

In we went. The room was apparently an ofﬁce. Harsh ﬂuorescent lighting, a ﬁling cabinet, desks and chairs ﬁlling most of the space; calendars and charts on the wall, and there was paper everywhere.

‘The immigration ofﬁcer will be here in a moment,’ said the sergeant, taking off his helmet.

And then I realized.

Behind the façade; the camouﬂage jacket, the squaddie boots (I’m not talking DMs here) and the helmet with a tree growing out of it, our frightening fusilier was a girl!

Seriously! She had camouﬂage paint on her face, and her hair had been hidden under the helmet, but now, indoors, I could tell it was a girl. No doubt about it. I’m good at these things. And she wasn’t bad looking, either.

‘Hi!’ she said, in a completely different voice and holding out her hand. ‘I’m Becky. Welcome to Od!’

We all shook hands and introduced ourselves, breathing a collective sigh of relief. Becky wrote our team name down in a book. She caught my eye.

‘You had us worried for a bit!’ I said. ‘I thought we must be in some secret base, or something.’

‘Had you all fooled, did we?’ she grinned.

‘Didn’t fool me,’ said Karen.

‘Oh! An Unbeliever!’

‘So, Dave’s all right?’ This was Abby.

‘Yeah. Like I said, we have Menial Tasks for leaders.’

‘What sort of tasks?’

‘You know. Making tea, drinking tea, that sort of stuff. Oh, and helping with one of the Events.’

‘Events?’

‘You’ll see. I’ll have to leave you now. Guard Duty. There are three teams still to arrive.’

‘So, what do we do now?’ Karen wanted to know.

‘Wait here. You’re to see the immigration ofﬁcer.’

‘But, that was a joke. Wasn’t it?’

‘Wait here.’

And before we could say another word, she had put her helmet back on and was gone.

Extract of Araminta

The skin is turning white. Is that what’s supposed to happen? I thought… No, wait—I get it. It’s the pressure, forcing the blood away from the blade. But… Perhaps I’m not pressing hard enough—yes, that’s more like it. It hurts a lot more, and they’re right—it’s starting to make sense. If I focus on this pain, I don’t have to think so much about that pain…

But I thought you were supposed to get, like, high on this. Sort of. Not like doing drugs, but isn’t there supposed to be something… Endorphins? Oh! Got it. No wonder the stupid sharpener snapped my pencil lead—the blade’s too blunt. Perhaps if I drag it across my skin, instead of just pressing down…

+ + +

Nowadays, I’ve got the hang of it. And I’ve been doing it rather a lot, these last few months. It’s sort of calming—comforting, even. That probably sounds weird, but when you’re subjected to all the external stresses I am—things completely beyond my control—you soon realize how much it helps. It’s one of the few things I can decide about for myself. Something I can do in secret, privately, without the whole world giving its opinion and telling me what…

‘Araminta! Dinner!’

Oh my god! That went far too deep. And it’s bleeding a lot. She’ll kill me if I get it on the carpet. What if I need stitches? Why on earth didn’t I keep an eye on the time? Dinner is always at seven—to the second, usually. I could set my watch by it. I’m starting to not feel well…

Grabbing a tissue with my other hand I try to stem the ﬂow as I stumble towards the bathroom. There’s a ﬁrst aid kit in there, although getting it out of the cupboard is a bit of a challenge…

‘Araminta!’

‘Just washing my hands,’ I reply, scrabbling around to try and ﬁnd something suitable. No butterﬂy stitches or anything useful like that, but I ﬁnd a gauze pad and some tape. If I do it up tightly enough it might work.

‘Araminta! Dinner is on the table and we are waiting.’

‘Just coming, Mother.’

I rush back to my room. I can’t go downstairs like this. No way can I let them see it—I need to cover it up. But what with? I need something with long sleeves and if I wear my school shirt I’ll be sent straight back up to change.

‘Araminta!’ It’s my father this time. I grab a cardigan and head for the stairs. A cardigan will be acceptable, surely?

‘You’re ﬁve minutes late,’ I’m told, before I’ve even sat down.

‘Sorry.’

‘Well?’

I don’t answer. There’s no point. Anything I say will be taken down and used in evidence against me. But I know they’ll keep on and on anyway. My father has that look.

‘Explain yourself,’ he says.

Oh well. Here goes…

‘I’m sorry. I got distracted. I was trying to do my homework.’

‘Don’t lie.’ It’s my mother’s standard response to pretty much anything I say. OK, this time it really was a lie, but I could hardly tell her what I was actually doing. But even if I don’t lie, she still thinks I do. I just bow my head and hope they’ll leave it. Fat chance.

Mother is about to open her mouth to give me the third degree when my father interrupts.

‘What’s that stain on your sleeve? It looks like blood.’

And it is, of course. I couldn’t have done the dressing up tightly enough. But before I have a chance to respond or even do anything Mother has demanded I remove it immediately and show her. Then she rips the dressing off. It’s stuck, where the blood has started to clot, but she’s so rough it tears open again and blood drips onto the tablecloth.

‘You stupid child!’ Then she steps back, not quite comprehending what she’s seeing. But it doesn’t take long for her to recognize the older scabs—more than a dozen of them—for what they are. My secret’s out.

‘How long?’ she demands. ‘How long have you been doing this, Araminta?’

I can’t speak. The shock of being found out is just too much. Even when Father joins in and demands an explanation I just stand there, quaking.

‘Leave this to me,’ Mother tells him, grabbing my other arm and dragging me upstairs. Then she proceeds to turn my room upside down, looking for anything I might use to cut myself. I try to tell her I only have a pencil sharpener blade but, of course, she doesn’t believe me. I just stand in the doorway, trying to hold the torn skin together.

Eventually, she satisﬁes herself I don’t have any more sharps hidden away. My room is now a tip. She brings me the ﬁrst aid kit and tells me to sort myself out.

‘Hand over your phone.’ She wants my tablet, too. I try to tell her I have homework but she just ignores me.

‘I’m taking you to the doctor tomorrow,’ she continues. ‘I’m not having any daughter of mine start this sort of behaviour. Stay here. You’re grounded. Your father will bring you something later, after we’ve ﬁnished our dinner.’

She slams out of the room, and I collapse onto the ﬂoor. At least now I can have some peace.

Gingerly, I examine the cut. It isn’t as bad as I originally thought, and a fresh bandage should deal with it. Anyway, I read somewhere you have to lose at least half a litre of blood before any medical people will get worried so I’m not going to bleed to death.

I start to pick things up and put them back where they were before that woman came in here. I know I have well over an hour before they ﬁnish dinner and for once I’m out of it. Every single night we have dinner at seven—right in the middle of my evening. I wish I could make my own decisions about how to organize my time, instead of wasting an hour and a half of my life every single day, sitting down to a formal dinner with my parents.

I wouldn’t mind so much if we could have an intelligent conversation during the meal but that never happens. I’m expected to be seen and not heard, while Mother and Father sit there drinking wine and telling each other what a stressful day they’ve had. I don’t drink wine. They won’t permit it, and I would be wasting my time asking.

Anyway, tonight I’m grounded. It’s a joke—I’m pretty much grounded permanently in any case. I feel like a prisoner, and I haven’t done anything wrong. Apart from school, I’m only really allowed out for dance class, and that’s only because it was Mother’s idea in the ﬁrst place. I must have been about eight, I suppose, and Mother had got it into her head that I could be a professional dancer when I grew up. Honestly! I think she must be living in cloud cuckoo land. You have to be totally dedicated—and talented—to stand any chance of dancing as a career, and I’m neither.

But Mother insisted I kept going to the classes and after a couple of years I found I was actually enjoying it. It was good exercise, and it got me out of the house. I’m ﬁne with dance as a hobby, but a career? No. Just no. What I want to do is biomedical physics, and when I went to the sixth-form options evening I chose the subjects I’ll need for uni—maths, physics and biology.

Of course, my parents weren’t happy. Mother wanted me to choose subjects more “appropriate”. She seemed to think she had the right to tell me what A level subjects to take, without even considering it should be my own decision. Fortunately, Mr Le Page, my biology teacher, stepped in and somehow convinced Father I’d made the right choice.

And to appease Mother I opted for AS Dance as well. Just for fun, but she actually thinks she’s got her own way.

Mother. I’ve called her “Mother” for as long as I can remember. No other word seems appropriate. I suppose, when I was very small, she might have been “Mummy”, but I’m not convinced. I’ve certainly never called her “Mum”. She just isn’t.

My bestie, Thabi, she has a mum. A proper mum, who does mum things, like giving Thabi a hug when she’s feeling down. Actually, she gives me a hug too. I sometimes think of her as my second mum. She’s the one I go to if I have any problems—things I would never dream of asking Mother, who probably wouldn’t know the answer anyway. She and Thabi are two of the few people who know about the self-harm—at least, they were until tonight. Unlike Mother, they don’t judge me. They do think I need help to stop, and I actually agree with them. What they don’t do is try to push me into seeking help. They understand it has to be my own decision.

Actually, I spend quite a lot of time at Thabi’s. It’s only these last couple of months, since I turned sixteen, that I’ve been trusted with a key so I can get in the house when my parents aren’t there. But me and Thabi have been friends since Year 8, she lives just a few houses down the street, and she’s the only friend I’ve ever been allowed to bring home. Mother grudgingly considered her “suitable” and I’ve been going to Thabi’s after school as a regular thing for ages now.

To be honest, I’m surprised Mother does accept Thabi, considering the fact she’s mixed race. I think it’s because her dad has some sort of diplomatic job. Not an actual ambassador or anything, but he worked at the Irish embassy in Lesotho before it closed down, and that’s where he met Palesa—Thabi’s mum.

Anyway, it seems to have worked out well genetically—Thabi is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. I think most of the boys at school have a crush on her, but she and Travis have been together for the best part of a year now, and it’s looking serious. Thabi has a younger sister, too. Saoirse’s fourteen, and she’s not short of admirers either.

I could do with Thabi right now. Not that there would be any point in asking if she can come round tonight, and with Mother having taken my phone I can’t even text her. But perhaps I could message her—Mother didn’t take my laptop…

She’s turned the WiFi off. I give up!