Back at school, Christmas presents forgotten, Kirsten resurrects Amy and word circulates about Luke. So, whisperings resurface - she's bad luck, got 666 on her scalp, blah blah blah. Heads turn in my direction like I'm an accessory. It's scary, the influence Kirsten has over others. How people who barely know me are certain I have this strange, evil connection to the Ruislip Avenger. It scares the shit out of me that maybe I do?
At lunch I search Priti out.
"Phe, let's go to the art room; it's not on Circe's radar."
Priti's as emotionally strung out as me but remains unwavering in her commitment as my best friend.
Henry is Henry: uncommunicative, distant and strange, but also tender and caring in unexpected ways; like my lunchbox. I pass a sarnie to Priti.
"Triple decker, crustless, filled with salad and egg mayo – the work of Henry?"
I nod and offer a weak smile.
"So, is Henry gay?" she asks.
"No, not gay."
I pass her the crudities and we dip them in humus.
"Tasty. Homemade?"
"Henry's secret recipe."
With Henry everything is secret.
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
"He's perfect: gorgeous, rich, cooks, says little. Shame you're related."
The truth's on the edge of my tongue, but its consequences silence me. As a rule, I am compulsively honest; I've never acquired the art of deception, yet here I am twisting and turning on my bed of lies, the weight of the world on my shoulders.
Who lies to their best friend? WHO!
On the edge of an uncomfortable silence, Kirsten appears in the doorway.
"You fuckin' loser," she spits, her lips curling cruelly. Her diction is excellent, she's not one to drop a vicious vowel or a cruel consonant. Under the light her face seems laminated. She's deceptively strong. An athlete; my height, gym freak. She breaks bones in a blink. I'm scared; not silly teen horror movie scared, but deeply fearful.
"You smell of Eau de Tramp."
As if she'd struck a match, my self-esteem is in cinders, just a few burning embers for her to poke. I choke out a reply.
"How 'bout you slut-up!"
One spitting snarl follows another; her hot, damp breath is like acid on my face. It could give me skin cancer.
Saved by the art teacher.
"You've got a common room. Use it."
Priti is already at ground level; those little feet are lightning. I'm swiftly behind. Kirsten slides down the staircase behind us, turning her head, opening her mouth. The hostile harassment continues. I put my arm round Pri's shoulders. My mind busily filters negative thoughts into my brain's spam folder. This way I'm less burdened by vindictive girls.
***
With Phoenix back at school I balance work, revenge and packed lunches. Phoenix's assailants need to suffer enormously. Do I want to kill them? Most certainly. Will I? I think I will.
***
The girl is a pathetic lump sprawled on the ground, its bones at right angles. I see it holding on to life by a thread. I hate how it's made me do ugly things.
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The Rebirth of Henry Whittle
Teen FictionPhoenix Whittle, orphaned at 11, has been in and out of foster care. She's systematically bullied at school and facing homelessness. Until she's offered a home by an estranged uncle, Henry Whittle. But that was the old Henry. Now a killer and id...
