‘Some may say it’s quality over quantity.’
Out of the corner of my eye I can see people’s heads move between us, like they’re watching a tennis match.
‘Some may say it’s not real journalism,’ she says, and I can see she’s getting riled by me. Good. I won’t let her walk over me.
‘Some may say you published me in the student newspaper. It’s journalism.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘What would you know about journalism?’ she says.
‘Well I got onto theCroydon Postwork experience too,’ I say. ‘So I’m clearly equal to you there.’
‘What?’ says Tori, looking visibly disbelieving. ‘You got onto thePost? By yourself?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘With the help of the Secret Sender. I told them all about it.’
I look around the room, seeing everyone captured by me. And for once, I don’t think there’s any point shirking away.
The secret is out; I am not the person they thought I was.
‘Oh, and I’ve been getting the highest marks in English,’ I say, whacking down my paper in front of her. ‘So I think I know something about writing.’
She looks at my paper, back at me, back down again, as if shecan’t believe what she’s reading.
‘Don’t underestimate me,’ I say, grabbing the paper off the desk and walk out of the class.
Yup, Kira was right. The truth needed to come out, and I needed to see what would happen, and to own my words. The question is, will she let me explain that to her?
Forty-Two
Hey it’s me, calling up
To say I’m sorry
I’ve tried to get through
A hundred times
‘A Hundred and One’ fromDreamers
It’s been nearly a week since the day my life blew up. Or I turned eighteen. However you want to see it. Normally on a Thursday I would be excited to see the reaction to my article. But today there won’t be one.
Kira is still not talking to me, despite me reaching out and trying to apologise to her. The Neapolitan group chat is a ghost town. I’ve told her I don’t even mind that she outed me out as the Secret Sender. But I’ve got no reply.
I focus on showing Mum I’m sorry. She can’t give me the silent treatment like Kira, but she’s noticeably frosty. I don’t remember her ever being this angry with me before.
‘I’ll forgive you eventually,’ says Mum, as I scrub the hob. ‘Seeing as you’re my flesh and blood, which does mean more than material possessions.’
‘Can we cut to forgiving me now?’ I say, turning to face her, and I see a glimmer of a smile pass across her face.
‘Patience is a virtue,’ says Mum. ‘Much like truthfulness.’
‘And what does cleaning the hob come under?’
‘Penance for your sins.’
‘When did you get all religious?’
‘When did you get all deceiving?’
