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FORTY

DANNI

There’s something I’d forgotten about what it’s like to be hated by more people than you’ve ever actually hurt. It’s this super-insidious thing where you start to expect the worst from everyone.

So, for example, if someone says they like your shoes, you start assuming they secretly mean they don’t like your shoes, and then everything goes into overdrive. If they’re saying it to make fun of you, and you say thank you, you’re playing into their trap, and boom, the whole room’s snickering. To avoid that, you get cautious and suspicious, and you give them a tight smile and maybe a nod. If they were being cruel, you keep your dignity. But the trap is, if they were giving you a genuine compliment, you come off like an asshole, and soon even the nice people start to avoid you. And the worst part is, you can’t even blame them, because you’re the one who gave them a reason not to like you in the first place.

Then you’re left with no one.

That’s how this week has felt. Like I have no one. Or almost, anyway.

Plenty of assholes have popped up like weeds, either commenting or messaging me directly, or talking about me where they assume I can’t see. Videos, essays, in the comment section of the articles discussing me.

Disgusting. I throw up in my mouth whenever I see her face.

I feel sorry for her parents, they must be dying of embarrassment.

They need to get her out of that school before she hurts the children there. Don’t they have communal bathrooms?

What is she wearing? Who told her she should leave the house like that?

I’ve always found her annoying as heck. You can tell from that smug smile she always gives she thinks she’s above everyone else.

Seems like the kind of girl who’ll be everywhere playing the victim narrative next week. Boohoo my life is so hard because everyone found out I’m a sicko.

Can’t we get some actual news instead of this privileged little slut? “Rich kid with bad skin is a fucking queer” who the fuck cares?

And, god, one night I stumble across an anonymous comment from someone who says they knew me at my last school, and everyone there hated me. And it’s the truth, and that rattles me so badly I have to sit with my head over a toilet bowl for fifteen minutes until my stomach stops twisting so violently. And then I go back to my bed and sob.

But then there’s the people on my side, messaging me and commenting on my photos with support. I don’t trust a single one of them, either. Is it all a trap to get me to reply to them? If I do, will they know they have me, and shoot back something vile? If I say thank you, will they screenshot it and send it around to their friends, so they can all laugh at the fact that I was na?ve enough to take their words at face value?

For goodness’ sake, please stop searching your name , Rose says.

Who cares what those idiots think? Eleanor asks.

I get haters, too, it’s just what happens when strangers find out you exist , Molly insists.

But I can’t.

And I do.

And not like this.

One day, while I’m going through my message requests like they’re a car crash I can’t look away from, I find a message from a woman named Thea Brunswick.

Hi Danni! You don’t know me, but I’m a reporter for the Midday Spectator, and I was in the crowd the day you spoke to us about your sexuality. I am so very sorry that happened to you. That kiss should have been a private moment. The reason I’m reaching out is, my friend is responsible for the profile section of the paper, and she is always looking for new people to highlight. If you were interested, I would be happy to pass your name along to her. It could be a chance to regain control of your own narrative? You could rest assured that the utmost care would be taken around the topic of your sexuality and private life. She would only share what you feel comfortable with.

I spend a whole day thinking about that message before I send a reply. I’m not sure. I think I’m happy to talk? But would it be possible to see the piece before it’s published?

Her reply comes through quickly. I’m sure we can arrange that.

The thing is, I’m scared to death. I’m scared that agreeing to an article might expose me to more abuse, and I’m scared that if the article says the wrong thing it might trigger the royal family into getting me farther away from Rose, and I’m scared that if I say nothing at all, people will fill in the blanks about me, and I won’t like the story they assign on my behalf.

But what I do know is that the media and the tabloids have used me as a chess piece in their war against Rose for months now. I’m so sick of hiding from it and hoping it goes away while article after article calls me all kinds of names, and speculates on what I do in private, and what kind of person I am. If I keep letting them talk about me, instead of to me, nothing’s going to change. I don’t know what’ll happen if I make a move for once. But at least it will be my move. At least, if people hate me, they’ll hate me for something I can actually own, instead of nasty things they heard about me from some bully.

Hiding and trying not to bother anybody won’t stop people from talking about me. Maybe I didn’t learn that lesson the first time I was meant to learn it, last year. But I think, maybe, I finally have.

Like Rose said. If I don’t take a step, I’ll stay where I am forever.

When I’m called out of class by the headmaster’s personal assistant on Monday morning, instead of assuming he’s finally checking in on my well-being after being outed a week ago, my first thought is he’s found out I’m working with a columnist on an article.

He’s waiting for me when I arrive, wearing all black, suit, shirt, and tie. I almost ask him if he’s just been to a funeral or something—because I’m so full of adrenaline I’m losing my entire mind—but I manage to shut myself up just in time.

“Danni, good morning. Take a seat.”

Does he want to tell me I can’t mention the school in the article? Or maybe he wants to shut it down altogether. Or maybe it’s unrelated to that, and the faculty’s been receiving some of the same death threats I’ve been getting or something.

“I apologize for taking more than a week to meet with you regarding the events of last weekend,” he says. “I’m sure you can appreciate, there were some discussions that needed to be had behind the scenes as we took stock of where we stood.”

“No, I get it,” I say.

The headmaster has a vaguely uncomfortable look on his face as he goes on. He looks almost nauseous, actually. “Now, as I’m sure you’re aware, the scholarship under which you attend Bramppath is subject to a number of conditions. The most pressing of which being that you agree to follow the school rules as outlined in our handbook. You would have received a copy of this along with your enrollment packet last year, correct?”

I do not like where this is going one bit. “Yeah,” I say, wary. “Yes.”

“I’m sure this goes without saying, but underage drinking while under the care of the school is a gross violation of the rules. And Bramppath College has a zero-tolerance policy in this area.”

My hand finds the hem of my cape, and I roll the material between my thumb and forefinger, trying to keep myself calm. “I’m really sorry about all of it,” I say, and I couldn’t be more honest. “I really, really am. I wish I could undo the whole night.”

“Yes, I rather imagine you do,” he says. He sounds sad and regretful. I don’t like that, either. “I know this has been a difficult week for you. I want you to know that you do have my sympathies.”

“Thank you. It means a—”

“Though I’m afraid I am about to add to the week’s difficulties.”

Please, don’t say it. Please don’t. Let him tell me he’s punishing me harshly. As harshly as he wants. Detentions every night, fine. Kitchen duty every Sunday for the rest of the year? I’ll take it on the chin. A suspension? It’ll suck, but I probably deserve it.

“I’m sorry to inform you that, based on this extreme—and public—breach of the school’s policies, we have no choice but to expel you from Bramppath. Your expulsion from class will be effective immediately, though you may use today and tonight to pack your things in preparation to leave tomorrow.”

This morning, it hadn’t seemed possible that things would get worse. I thought there was no way to feel any more terrible than I already did.

I was wrong.

“Please don’t,” I manage.

“The alumni association felt very strongly. It’s done, Danni.”

“Please undo it. Please. I haven’t broken any rules before, it was a mistake, and I’ve learned my lesson, really, I promise, I’ve been punished plenty—”

“Zero tolerance means zero tolerance. No exceptions.”

“You can punish me. I—I deserve to be punished. Anything you want, I’ll agree to it. But I have to stay. Caroline, and piano, and all my friends are here. Everyone I know in the whole country is here, sir.”

“You fit in quickly when you arrived here. I have every confidence you will do the same at your new school.”

But there won’t be a Molly at my new school. I’ll be joining a class full of strangers, who all know me as the girl who was outed online and then got herself expelled. Eleanor won’t be there. Rose won’t be there. I’ll be alone. Actually, totally alone, not just almost .

I can’t handle this. I’ve lost too much, and there hasn’t been enough time to catch my breath between it all. I can’t breathe .

“I’m sorry,” the headmaster says again.

I almost don’t hear him at all.

Instead of going to my room to pack like the headmaster wanted, I make a beeline for the bathroom block nearest to the class I just left and text Rose to meet me there. She saw me get taken out of class, and I’m sure she was wondering what it was all about, so she reads the message right away. While I wait, I grip the edge of the sink and try to slow down my breathing, but it gets faster and faster the more I try. Then the tears come.

By the time Rose gets there, I’m pretty much hysterical. There’s a half wall separating the sinks from the doors, so we’d have time to separate if anyone walked in on us, which is good enough for Rose, I guess, because she swoops in to wrap me up in her arms as soon as she sees me.

“Hey, hey, what happened?”

“I’m expelled, he says I’m expelled, and I have to go, I have to leave tomorrow, he said I have to go pack now.”

“Wait, slow down.”

“It was something to do with the, um, the alumni association, and he kept saying he’s sorry, but there’s nothing he can do, and I’m expelled. He said it’s done and it’s too late, and I can’t leave, Rose. I can’t. I can’t.”

I trail off into a high-pitched keening as she tightens her grip on me. “Okay,” she says, her voice soothing and honeyed. “You’re not getting expelled. You’re going to call your mum, and then you’re going to have a shower or something, and you’re gonna put on a movie or read a book and distract yourself. I’m going to handle this.”

“N-no, I can’t, I have to pack. He said I have to leave tomorrow. I—my whole room, I—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she says, holding my face so I look right at her. Her green eyes scan mine, and there’s a self-assurance in them that makes me want to believe her. But I don’t know how to.

“I don’t think this is fixable,” I say.

“No? Watch me.” She pulls out a wad of paper towels and dabs them on my cheeks. “I don’t want you to spend another second worrying about this, okay? You’re with me, and I’ve got you, and I’m telling you I’m not going to let this happen. Do you trust me?”

“I… of course I do, but—”

“I’ve got you,” she repeats, and this time I nod.

“What are you gonna do?” I ask her, sniffling and rubbing my eyes. I look like a hot mess. I go to the sink to splash some water on my face.

“Whatever I must.”

I pause and lift my head to catch her eye in the mirror. She looks back at me, and there’s a determined grit in her expression that, just for one second, sends a chill across my shoulders and down my back.

Now, I’m pretty sure, I believe her.