“Oh, no, my mum doesn’t get home until way later, she works all day. She’s a paediatrician. She split up with my dad and said I have to change my surname to her maiden name.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugs. “It’s fine. I prefer seeing my dad on weekends. It makes it more special, you know?”
I lean back. Chew the end of my pen. Wonder how I can get this girl out of my classroom.
“I do have some work to do now, Destiny. It was nice to talk to you.”
She smiles. A really wide, big smile.
“You really mean that?”
“Mean what?”
“That it was nice to talk to me.”
“Sure,” I muster.
Her body moves back and forth, like she’s unknowingly doing a little dance of happiness.
“Well, it was very nice to talk to you too, sir.”
I force a smile.
“I will see you tomorrow,” I say, once again hoping I can prompt her to leave.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll look forward to it.”
And she finally leaves.
What a strange girl, I think — then I retrieve a load of books and begin marking.
11
Harper
An alert pings on my phone.
I have another reply to my comment.
I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to go back on that message board ever again. But curiosity tempts me, and see that I have a reply from a different user.
Author: @HeyThere01
Subject: RE RE RE The Death Club
Wow. I am ever so sorry to hijack this thread, and I am sorry if this is too forthright, @SmallGirl22 — but @PussyMagnet69 appears to be an absolute bellend.
Firstly, let’s start on your username. I could forgive the blatant and unfunny use of 69 in your username if it weren’t for the preceding claim that you are a pussy magnet.
In truth, I do not imagine you to be a pussy magnet. Honestly, I picture you either as a middle-aged man with little hair who hasn’t had sex in at least six years, or a pre-pubescent child who probably isn’t old enough to know what a ‘pussy’ actually is.
Secondly, I think you should learn to write before you throw accusations around. Your use of ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’ in the ‘Hope your crying’ part of your message does not only demonstrate your lack of ability to use the English language, it also indicates that you must have an IQ almost low enough to rival anyone with a mental deficiency.
Lastly, your comments are needlessly vile and abusive and can only suggest that you are some sort of psychopath. @SmallGirl22 was giving her sincere condolences on what is a tragedy that has affected all of us, and your treatment of her can only lead one to conclude that you are a monstrous, nasty, piece of shit, who does not deserve the oxygen you are granted.
Go back to jacking off, you complete tool, and don’t reduce this message board to bullying. No one cares about what you have to say.
I can’t help but smile.
I don’t know who this guy is, but he has left a huge grin on my face.
No one has ever stuck up for me before.
Ever.
And here he is, not only telling this horrible, nasty person where to go, but doing it in such a smart way that there is surely no comeback.
He didn’t just put him down, he tore him to shreds.
And this stranger will have no idea how happy I am.
I want to message him. I want to say thanks. I want to say something. I want to tell him what he did was cool, and that I can’t believe he did it, and… and a million other ways of saying thank you.
I click on his username, then click on a button that says send private message, then my thumb hovers…
What do I say?
I’ve never private messaged anyone before.
I consider backing out of it, but I can’t. When someone is this nice, you can’t just leave it. I have to say something.
I take a big, deep breath and type.
Hey.
Just wanted to say thank you. So much. That guy really bothered me and I’m really grateful.
You made me smile.
Harper
I sound like a dork.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
Then I stare at the message.
And I feel stupid.
It is a really pathetic message.
You made me smile? I actually wrote that?
What was I thinking?
And I can’t delete it now. It’s done.
God, I’m ridiculous.
I stand up. Huff. Feeling awful again. Feeling like I just want to be buried in the ground and—
A ping.
He’s replied.
I open it, quickly.
Glad I could make you smile ;)
My breath catches.
Then I get another reply.
So how are you, anyway?
Danny.
His name is Danny.
And he wants to know how I am.
I picture him. Short, brown hair. Tall. Good dresser.
I know that may not be what he looks like, but it still intimidates me. He wants to talk to me, and he has no idea how pathetic I am. If he knew, he wouldn’t bother sticking up for me. He wouldn’t bother asking how I am.
At first, I decide not to reply. Then I think… what if he’s a nice guy? What if he’s not like any of the kids at school?
What if he’s actually genuine, and wouldn’t mind it if I’m a dork?
I pick up my phone. Click reply.
Butterflies flutter around my belly. I feel sick.
But I also feel excited.
I begin typing.
12
Will
I cook tea as soon as I’m home.
I say I cook tea — I put pie and chips in the oven and boil some tinned carrots.
I call Harper and she joins me at the table, staring at her phone. Even when I place her tea in front of her, she does not put it down.
Natalie joins us. She looks pale. She’s thirty-eight, same as me, but you would think she was over fifty. Her hair is matted and, from the smell of her pyjamas, I’m pretty sure she’s only just gotten out of bed.
She sits opposite Harper and pours the wine I didn’t even realise she’d brought to the table.
“Are you sure—” I go to say, but the look she gives me shuts me up.
She drinks a few large gulps of wine then devours the pie. I prod at my chips, not feeling too hungry, and notice Harper hasn’t touched hers yet; she is still on her phone.
“Honey, could you put that away while we’re at the table?”
She ignores me. I stay calm.
“Honey?”
She still ignores me. I feel rage firing through me.
“Harper?”
When she ignores me again, I slam my fist on the table.
Natalie laughs.
And I know I’m pathetic. The only time I can show my anger and act like I’m in charge is with my daughter, and even then, I’m undermined by my wife.