A Girl Called Whisper

Four

The next morning I wake up with a mixture of happiness that I get the day off school, and shame for the day before. I got called a pervert and pushed a girl all within two hours. I am a disgraceful human being and barely slept as a result, going over my altercation with Laura in my head approximately five hundred times, each time imagining it from someone else's point of view and envisioning different reactions that perhaps would have been more appropriate. My eyes are decorated with deep blue circles to match my bruise, evidence of my sleepless night and physical altercation.

On the bright side, as a consequence for my actions I have effectively been gifted a week to lie-in for as long as I want and draw as much as I want. Of course, I'd never let my parents know these feelings and am sure to paint the picture of guilt onto my face as I come downstairs with my proverbial tail between my legs. Mum purses her lips at me, but pours me a cup of coffee nonetheless.

I'm just spreading Marmite on my toast when my phone lights up with an unknown number flashing on the screen. I freeze, butter-knife suspended in mid-air. My chest begins to seize up and tighten, panic flooding into my veins. My free hand clenches tightly. Who is it? Why are they calling me? How did they get my number? Is it because of what happened yesterday?
The rational side of my head tries to combat with logic; perhaps it's just a wrong number, or it could be a telemarketer... but it's soon drowned out by the panic that grips me.

The thought of answering a call without knowing who it is or what it's about makes me feel sick, so I leave it and watch it flash until it rings out. When it stops buzzing on the table I let out a sigh of relief and resume spreading Marmite. My mother eyes me suspiciously.

"Telemarketer," I lie as explanation. "Keep calling about an accident I may or may not have been involved in." She nods and walks out without comment, The Morning Show switching on in the background.

A few moments later as I sit eating my toast at the table, my phone screen lights up again, only this time it's a message.

I peer at the screen and see it's the unknown number again, but I can read the start of the message and it starts with 'yo!,' so I figure it's probably safe to read. Very few life-threatening messages are thought to have begun with 'yo!', after all.

Yo! It's Whisper.

(My stomach flips when I read that, but in the good way, not the barfathon way. Then I remember she thinks I'm a pervert and it flips in the barfathon way.)

Yo! It's Whisper. I hope you don't mind me tracking down your number - it was pretty hard to do. Bit of a lone wolf aren't you? I'm messaging you for 2 reasons.

1st is to apologise for how I spoke to you that other morning, I thought you were making a dig at me. You're not a perv, I'm just a psycho.

2nd is to say thanks. I heard what happened between you and Laura and I think what you did was super nice and brave. Nobody has ever stood up for me like that before. It was so cool what you did and I really appreciate it. I don't know why you did it, but I'm grateful.

3rd is maybe when you're back we can hang out or something? (Told you I was bad at math.)

W x

I think for ages about how to reply. So long that my toast goes cold. I have to play this cool, I can't mess it up now. The beauty of texting is I can come across as much more confident because I have a chance to think about what I'm saying and analyse how it might be taken by the recipient.

I chew my lip, I sweat a little (okay, a lot) and eventually I end up with this:

Hey Whisper. That's okay, sorry if I hurt your feelings anyway. I did what I did, partly because Laura is a bitch, but partly because I'd like to be your friend. I'd like to hang with you when I'm back on Monday. See you then, Cooper x