I nearly laugh at the very idea he thinks he’s someone I want to talk to right now. No surprises that Jack is at the epicentre of this massive scandal. I’ve also got ten missed calls from him. I bet he’s lapping up all the drama.
And then there’s Tariq:
I’m so sorry, Nate.
I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Really want to talk.
Nate?
I really messed up. I’m sorry. Understand if you don’t want to see or talk to me again. But hope you might give me a chance to explain.
I feel myself start to well up again, because however angry I am, however much I hate Tariq, the gentleness in his messages is why I loved him so much to start with. And what’s all this about wanting to “explain”? That sounds like it’s not straightforward, but why? Was Tariq somehow seduced by Dylan? Did something happen which he immediately regretted? Maybe Tariq made a mistake, and was trying to find a way to break it off with Dylan and then come clean to me, but the whole thing… Uh. Not now. I can’t do this now. I put my phone back on the table, face down, and head out of the back door to see what Rose wants.
Rose has dug a small hole in one of the flowerbeds that doesn’t have any flowers in it because this is the back garden, and most of the neighbours only ever see the front, which, literally, rivals Kew. There’s an Action Man figure on the lawn, which I assume is meant to be Tariq. Not accurate, he’s not that toned, but anyway. It’s kind of sweet of Rose, if you discount the weird voodoo doll element to this, and the fact her first thought was to kill Tariq – you know, she’s looking out for me, she’s loyal … but then she raises the huge spade she’s been using (which she’s only a little bit taller than) and brings it crashing down on Tariq’s – I mean, Action Man’s – torso, slicing him clean in half.
And now all I can see is me on one of those tacky documentaries in a few years’ time, called When Cute Kids Go Bad.
And as she kicks the two halves into the hole, haphazardly shovels on some soil and sings, “Goodbye, Tariq!” I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream.
And then I remember what day it is tomorrow and I’m very nearly sick right there and then.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACK
“Jack?” my mother shouts up the stairs. “You’d better be up and dressed!”
I do not reply.
I’m boiling over with rage.
Dylan the Judas has set up his own Instagram account.
That would be the same Dylan who hates social media. Or, at least, that’s what he’s always told me, but since everything about him is apparently a lie, maybe that was too.
And the abominable twink hasn’t just posted some predictable pic of a cappuccino on a wooden table – oh, no. He’s posted a picture of him and Tariq, holding hands, but looking mournful. The caption is so appalling I want to exterminate him:
We know we didn’t handle things right. We know we’ve hurt people we cared about, and for that we’re sorry. But life is about making mistakes and learning. It’s also about loving, and with each other’s love we both hope to grow.
I can’t even look at the hashtags because the caption is bad enough. Anything else is going to make me smash my phone to bits.
It has already been liked by one hundred people.
He already has five hundred followers.
How has he managed to make this all about him when I’m the one who has been shafted?
I am not going to let him play this game. He is not going to come out of this looking good. I take a selfie. Not one of my usual ones where I look fabulous, well groomed, with flattering lighting. My hair’s a mess, my eyes are red. I look wrecked.
It’s perfect.
No witty caption. No hashtags. Just plain and simple:
Gave everything. Wasn’t enough.
It’s maybe a little OTT, but I need it to really capture the sense of what Dylan has done. I’m not as upset as the post implies. I haven’t got to that stage yet. I’m still blinded by white-hot anger towards both of them – partly at their disgusting duplicity, partly because Dylan hasn’t even bothered to so much as message to express a modicum of regret about what has happened, and partly because they have completely humiliated me in front of the whole year. Should I have seen it coming? I think I’d put Dylan’s coldness down to exam stress, or something – everyone went weird around GCSEs – even me! I’m normally pretty Zen, but even I had a meltdown in a bookshop when they’d sold out of a revision guide I was looking for. My point is, you have to give people some slack around exam time. I assumed Dylan was under pressure, and all would be well afterwards and we’d have a great summer Instagramming our love. It didn’t cross my trusting mind that he was “Netflix and chilling” with Tariq. I tried messaging Nate. Would have been good to talk to someone who understood. He didn’t reply. Which is not a surprise.
Mum slams in through my bedroom door, all dressed up in her office outfit. “You’re supposed to be there for nine.”
“I can’t go. I’m sick.”
“You’re going. It’s compulsory if you want to do A levels there next year.”
“Mum, I am literally sick. If you just call the school they’ll understand and waive the compulsory thing.”
Mum smiles at me. “No time, I’m already late. Up to you, Jack, you’re a big boy now, you can take responsibility for your own actions. Call Mrs Carpenter yourself.”
“No, she scares me, she always makes you feel like you’re not sick, just lying.”
“That’ll probably be because you are.”
“OK, just, you need to remember these words when you get the
