One True Thing (16 page)

I count three seconds in my head before Caitlyn Napier breaks the silence and, slowly, something like the normal classroom hum returns. I hear snatches of conversation that I know are about me and Mum. Mrs Mac finishes rollcall and starts handing back essays from last month.

A shadow falls across my desk, and I find her standing over me, a worried frown creasing her forehead. ‘Everything all right, Francesca?'

‘Sorry? Yeah. It's fine.'

Mrs Mac hands me my essay without another word, but after I've noted my B+, I realise she's still standing there, her matronly hips effectively blocking out the rest of the class and their staring eyes. I consider asking her to stay there for the rest of the day but decide that's probably not practical.

‘Honestly. It's fine.'

Mrs McDonald studies my essay, which I'm clutching so tightly the grade is no longer legible amid all the wrinkles. ‘You're not on your own here, Francesca,' she says.

‘Thanks,' I mumble, even though she's kidding herself. No one else could possibly understand what it's like for me right now. Even Luke isn't old enough to get it. ‘I know,' I lie.

Mrs McDonald nods, then continues on her way through the class.

And from across the aisle, loud and firm and undeniable, Kessie says, ‘Yeah. You're not, you know.' I look at her, feeling the ground shift underneath me. ‘Or you don't have to be.' Kessie is angry and hurt – it's clear in her voice – but she means it. She always means it.

I blink back tears and focus my attention on the essay that I suddenly can't remember writing. I smooth the crumpled page with careful, even strokes, although the damage is done. The whole thing is ruined. I look up.

‘Let me help,' Kessie says simply.

I sigh. I'm too tired to hate her. A hot tear slides down my cheek but both of us pretend not to see it. Instead, I lay out my crinkled essay, nodding at it like it's the centre of the world, and ask her what mark she got.

At lunchtime I put in my earphones and drown my thoughts in some Powderfinger. I've already had multiple close-ups of my howling face clog my Instagram feed, and apparently there's a meme of me crying to the tones of Shannon Noll's version of ‘What About Me?' going viral.

All in all, a normal day.

When Kessie wanders in and plonks down in the seat beside me, she gives me a nudge and a slow clap. ‘I hear you gave Meathead a serve.'

I yank out my earphones. ‘Apparently.' But I'm quietly pleased it's made the rounds. I guess I landed a hit after all. One small victory in a largely soul-destroying day. ‘Like it will make a difference.'

‘Yeah. He's hardly worth it, but someone has to stand up to The Missing Link.' Kessie studies her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, then says, ‘I know about Jake.'

My heart lurches.

‘That must really hurt.'

‘I don't want to …'

‘Talk about it?' She laughs. ‘Did
not
see that coming.'

I smile. ‘You can be so annoying sometimes.'

Kessie winks and grins. ‘I do my best.'

It feels good to laugh.

Mrs Mac stops me in the corridor on my way to class to remind me that the school counsellor is in her office all day today and that she'll be staying late herself if I want to come by the staffroom. Mrs Mac does that meaningful staring thing that usually annoys me, but this time it just makes me feel sad.

I smile and offer an impression of someone coping brilliantly before I thank her for her kind offer and tell her I'll be fine. If I'm going to get through this revolting day, and all the revolting days to come, I can't burst into tears every time anyone's nice to me.

Then again, it's marginally better than bursting into tears every time someone's a dick to me. I refuse to do
that
.

I scan the corridor for Travis but, thankfully, he's nowhere in sight. Probably busy flushing a Year 8's head
down the toilet, or pulling the wings off a fly somewhere. Or maybe I really did shut him down earlier.

And then I stop cold, dread washing over me.

My locker is open. Wide open.

The Lollapalooza poster is no longer visible, though it's still there, buried under some new additions. As I note this change, I curse myself for not fixing that stupid lock. It takes some seconds for the whole thing to make sense. Staring out at me is a photo of my mum, naked, her whole body exposed and open for the world to see. She's on her knees in a full-on porno pose. Nothing is left to the imagination. The world is her gynaecologist. At least, that's what it looks like.

Anyone with a brain can see it's a fake – Mum's head on someone else's body. I rip the picture down, no longer caring about the poster of Eddie underneath. There's more, though. There are clippings of the words ‘paedophile' and ‘lover', ‘scandal', ‘affair', ‘sleazy' decorating every available corner of my locker. The words are all neatly cut out and stuck to the walls. ‘Boyfriend', ‘sex', ‘betrayal' … It goes on but my vision blurs with unshed tears. Someone's gone to a lot of effort to mess with me.

‘Shit,' Tyler says, appearing beside me.

I blink. Not ready to see her, I stare at the picture and then something snaps. White-hot anger tears through me and I rip the words down, dropping half of them and having to scramble on the floor to gather them in my
hands. Tyler crouches down beside me and hands me an errant ‘slut', careful not to look at me as I scrunch the scraps into a ball. I roll them up in the torn poster, squashing them into the smallest form possible.

‘They're dicks,' Tyler says quietly. ‘Just ignore them. They're not worth it,' she adds, her hand resting on my elbow as though to stop me from doing I don't know what.

I crush the obscenities into a tight ball, shove it into my locker and slam the door shut, fighting the hot swell of tears that threaten to spill.

I turn away and lean against the locker, battling to hold it together. Just staying upright seems to take most of my energy. I close my eyes, willing my body to move, or my brain to come up with a reaction, but it's like every part of me has gone numb.

‘What the …?'

My eyes fly open, recognising the voice, and I find Jake D'Angelo standing in front of us. A missed piece of my photoshopped mum crumpled in his hand, a torn shred of the word ‘paedophile' forgotten on the linoleum floor by his foot. I clearly didn't do a very good job of cleaning up.

I glare at him icily, daring him to say anything. I'm expecting to see shame or embarrassment when his gaze meets mine, but instead he looks fit to kill.

‘Who did this?' he says, his voice thick and unsteady.

‘Give that to me!' I say, snatching at the photo and falling to the floor to grab the remaining scrap. I shred
the last piece into tiny bits and scan the floor before I look at him again.

He's watching me like he doesn't know who I am. Tyler too.

I look like a lunatic. I can see it reflected in their faces. Humiliation, anger and hurt swirl crazily inside me, battling to take control, anger eventually winning out.

‘This is crap,' he says. ‘It's bullshit!'

‘I know that, Jake,' I snap. ‘But it's
my
bullshit.' I throw the bits of paper in the air and storm off.

‘Frankie, wait!' I hear Tyler calling after me, but I don't look back. I just keep going.

I'm bent double, half-coughing, half-sobbing in the middle of College Park, which is mercifully empty. I put my hands on my head, opening my lungs, forcefully slowing my breathing. Trying to get control.

‘Are you trying to get yourself killed?' Jake is crossing the park in quick strides, his face a picture of worry.

‘I don't need your help, Jake.' I turn my back on him and head towards the pergola at the south-east corner. I stop at the water fountain and drink in large gulps. I splash my face, the cool water bliss against my hot cheeks.

‘Please, can you let me explain?'

I wipe my chin and glare at him. ‘You betrayed me.' My chest heaves and I strangle a sob.

‘It's not what you think!'

I shake my head. ‘It doesn't matter.
You
did this. You took the photos.'

‘I didn't publish them.'

‘Did you take them?'

‘I told you already – yes.'

‘That's all I need to know.'

‘But I didn't publish them! I didn't want anyone to see them. I promise you!'

I hesitate, not sure whether to believe him. Jake moves towards me, and I step back automatically. The idea of him touching me is both terrifying and intoxicating and, ultimately, painful. The humiliation of that day is as sharp and clear now as it was then. I turn away, hiding my scarlet cheeks.

I feel his arm around me. His warm, kind voice threatening to undo all my resistance and refusals. ‘Please don't fight, Frank. Please. Just give me a chance?'

I take a long minute to let the warmth of his arms soothe me before I pull back and wipe away any errant tears. I study him closely and, I realise, bravely. Maybe I do know what courage looks like because right now I'm terrified. I want to lock myself away for another fortnight, or month. Or year. But there's no point. It will still be here, waiting for me. It's time I faced the truth.

‘Go on then. Tell me what happened. Tell me everything.'

The park bench is hard and dry, green paint peeling off the edges. My fingers automatically continue the process, giving me something to look at while Jake gathers himself. His large frame beside me, rigid with tension, or nerves, literally perched on the edge of his seat.

I drag my focus from the peeling paint and look at him. ‘Tell me.'

‘I took the photos.' His head dips and I can't see his face. He looks up. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Sorry? You think that will fix things? You've ruined my life. You humiliated me and
used
me!'

‘No. I didn't.' He clutches his backpack strap so hard his knuckles turn white. ‘I didn't use you.' He moves closer. ‘I want to fix this. It's all I want.'

‘You can't fix this!' I cry, the energy deserting me as fast as it comes. ‘Neither can I.'

‘At least know the truth then.'

I sink against the bench, too hollowed out to argue.

‘I know a waiter who works at the Grand Marin restaurant. He used to work with me, but the hotel pays more – better tips.' Jake glances towards the street. It's afternoon now and the spring sky is a pale blue with wisps of cloud. I have no idea what time I left school, but either way, I'm in deep trouble for bailing like that. So is Jake.

‘How is this relevant?'

‘I was working every night the week of the debate. He called me, told me to hurry and bring my camera. I didn't even know why, but when I saw the scene outside …' He takes a deep breath. ‘I shot off some photos without thinking – I didn't even know it was your mum at the start. I just knew it was something powerful – a moment I couldn't miss. Then I recognised your mum. She and that guy were yelling, crying …'

‘The night of our …' I swallow the word, refusing to connect it with this monstrous thing. ‘When we went to the gallery, you'd already taken them?'

He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Yeah.'

Acid rises in my throat, the sun suddenly too bright and harsh for my eyes.

‘I didn't tell anyone,' he says hurriedly. ‘No one knew I'd taken them.'

I clear my throat. I have to know the truth. ‘Then how did they end up on Seamus Hale's blog?'

‘Dad has a lot of media clients – journalists, TV hosts, radio stars …' Jake looks at me.

‘Including Seamus Hale?' I almost spit the name.

‘Yeah. Hale is his biggest client.'

‘And you didn't tell me?'

Jake looks stricken. ‘I didn't
know
. I'd just arrived here. I was trying to make it work, trying to keep out of Dad's way, to please him. He kept asking about you once he found out.'

‘So you were stalking me. You set me up?'

‘At the start. I didn't know you then. I just thought Dad would let it go after a photo or two.'

I hold up my hand to stop him, not wanting to hear any lies or to see his pity. ‘You gave them to your dad?' I say through gritted teeth. ‘Photos of my mum that would ruin her career?'

‘I didn't believe he'd do that. I mean, it doesn't make sense.'

‘Isn't that his job?'

‘After our dinner, I couldn't stop thinking about you.' He tilts his head, his expression pained. ‘I didn't want to hurt you.'

‘Too late.'

He turns his hands over, declaring his innocence. ‘I didn't want anyone else to see them.' He closes his hands, folds those long fingers into fists.

‘What made you change your mind then?'

Jake grimaces. ‘I didn't.'

‘You're going to have to spell this out for me,' I say slowly, ‘because English doesn't seem to be making sense right now.'

Jake shakes his head. ‘I know you hate journalists. I know you don't trust me. And I wanted this thing –' he gestures to me, to us – ‘I wanted it to work. I still do.'

I blink back tears.

‘I didn't give them to him,' Jake continues. ‘He took them.'

‘You're saying your dad stole your photos.'

‘Yes.' He looks almost sick.

I stand up, unable to listen a minute longer. ‘Yeah. Well,
maybe
you're full of shit.'

‘Please,' Jake says, his hand gripping mine.

I remember the first time he held my hand, running through the streets after our interview. Laughing and messing around. All of it fake. All of it a way to get to my family. My stomach roils and I yank my hand away.

‘I want to make it right, Frankie. Let me make it right.'

I turn to face him. ‘Actually, Jake, you've done plenty already.'