Blood Moon Read online

  But I say,

  “My essay,

  my reference

  and whether we’ll get

  that picture of

  the blood moon

  next week.”

  “Oh yeah, the blood moon!”

  she cries, clapping her hands,

  surprising me that she’s

  still excited about our

  joint love of

  astronomy

  and photography.

  I feel a bit bad that

  I thought she wasn’t

  interested in anything

  except boys.

  “I’ve been researching

  what we should do with

  this blood moon.

  I have loads of ideas

  we can try.”

  She pulls out her phone

  to show me.

  “See this one,” she says.

  “Wouldn’t the silhouette

  of the tree look amazing?”

  “Totally,” I agree.

  “I just hope

  the sky is clear.

  The forecast is really bad.”

  “Don’t worry,” she says.

  “I just know it’ll be

  the perfect night.”

  I love how Harriet’s

  always so positive.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I’m always right.”

  She grins. “Now,

  back to boys.

  Tell me who you fancy.

  Is it Benjamin?”

  “No,” I say,

  a bit too quickly.

  “Come on, I’m bored.

  Give me something juicy.”

  “I have nothing juicy,” I say.

  “Although, maybe there’s

  something you can tell me…”

  “Anything.”

  “OK … so say I did

  fancy somebody…

  Hypothetically.

  How would I know

  what to do,

  you know, if I ended

  up with them,

  intimately?”

  Harriet snorts. “Intimately,”

  she says, doing a horribly

  accurate impression of me.

  Then she breathes out dreamily.

  “Don’t worry,” she sighs.

  “When you’re with someone

  you really like

  you just k n o w what to do.”

  “I believe

  that’s true for you.

  You’re always so at ease talking

  to somebody you fancy.

  But you’re so much more

  confident than me.”

  “I’m not really,” she says,

  and for a moment she looks

  kind of young.

  Then she rolls back her shoulders

  and pushes her chest out at me.

  “I’m just faking it

  until I start making it.”

  She pouts and waggles her

  eyebrows at me.

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I don’t know,”

  she says, giggling,

  then she gets up

  and moves over

  to the telescope.

  “Right then, give us a look,”

  she says, nudging me.

  “And, Frankie,”

  she adds, putting her face

  to the eyepiece,

  “if you do like someone,

  just be yourself.

  Yourself is lovely.”

  SUNDAY

  LITTLE LIES

  On Sunday morning,

  Harriet messages me

  asking if she can use my printer,

  under the pretence that mine is better

  because you can print almost anything on it

  including something

  she says she needs for her French project,

  but I know she wants to

  do homework

  together.

  I’d rather do it

  on my own,

  because lately,

  Harriet is always

  distracting me

  or copying me,

  or talking about

  the latest person

  she fancies.

  I tell her she can use it later

  because I’m going

  to help Mum with work

  at her lab,

  and instead

  I slip out of the house

  and go down to the library

  to work alone.

  And while I work

  I think about the possibility

  of Benjamin

  popping in to get something

  and coming over to talk to me.

  Or sitting opposite me,

  and us doing our

  homework together

  and talking

  passionately

  about physics and stuff

  because Benjamin

  is sciency like me

  and maybe us

  ending up

  in between two quiet shelves

  kissing or something.

  #Hypocrisy

  MONDAY

  NON-SCHOOL-UNIFORM DAY

  Harriet opens her front door

  wearing a low-cut T-shirt,

  reeking of perfume,

  and with so much makeup on

  I wonder for a second

  if it’s Saturday,

  not Monday.

  “You’re not going to school

  like that, are you?” I ask,

  before I can stop myself.

  “We’re not allowed makeup.”

  “Good morning to you too,”

  she says, rolling her eyes.

  “We’re not in uniform.

  I can wear what I like.

  Anyway, it’s the natural look.”

  “RuPaul style.”

  “Frankie,

  in case you’ve forgotten,

  we’re allowed to dress

  however we want today.”

  “I don’t think that”

  – I point at her outfit –

  “is what they meant.

  You’re going to

  get into trouble.”

  Why does she have to

  be so reckless?

  I wonder whether she’s

  dressed like this for Mr B.

  I still can’t believe

  she fancies him.

  “For what?

  Wearing a T-shirt?

  Come off it.

  Still rocking the nun vibe,

  I see,” she says, taking in

  my skinny jeans

  and retro NASA hoody,

  which I was hoping

  made me look clever

  rather than nunny.

  “If nuns can be astronomers,

  then sure,” I say, laughing it off,

  but wishing I’d worn

  just a bit of makeup

  for non-school-uniform day.

  I wonder if I’ll see

  Benjamin today.

  Just then, Harriet’s mum

  comes out of their kitchen,

  drinking a green smoothie,

  her slinky dressing gown

  sliding over

  her bare legs.

  “Bye, girls,” she calls

  as she heads upstairs.

  “Give ’em hell.”

  DISTRACTIONS

  Our year is gathered

  for assembly

  in the auditorium

  with the head.

  The audience lights are

  on and Mr Adamson

  is going on

  and on

  about (the girls’)

  school uniform.

  #We’veHeardThisOneBefore

  “We must eliminate distractions

  to your education.

  Exams are soon.

  I don’t want anyone failing.

  I don�
�t want to see

  short skirts …”

  (he says this to

  three girls

  in the front row)

  “hair dye …”

  (to Bethany,

  who has dyed hers

  bright blue)

  “or inappropriate makeup.”

  (to Harriet).

  “They are all distracting.”

  “For who?” Harriet hisses in my ear.

  “Him? The crusty old perv.”

  I wish she’d stop

  drawing attention

  to herself,

  but she does have a point.

  I’m not sure who

  is going to find it hard

  to concentrate in class

  because of Bethany’s

  cobalt-blue bob.

  And if anyone does,

  I can’t help thinking

  that’s their problem.

  I glance around the room,

  wondering where Benjamin

  normally sits in assembly.

  Right at the end,

  I spot him,

  a few rows

  in front.

  He doesn’t see me.

  SHAMELESS

  Mr Adamson pushes past us

  as we leave assembly.

  “Excuse me, ladies.”

  “Sorry, sir,” I say,

  moving out of his way.

  Harriet flutters her lashes

  at his back and says,

  “I hope I don’t make anyone

  think about anything

  uneducational today.”

  “Harriet!” I hiss.

  She’s so reckless.

  “What?” she says.

  “That git has the nerve

  to suggest that my makeup

  might make someone fail

  their exams.

  I’m not having it.”

  “You are shameless.”

  “And you’re a coward.

  You hate him

  as much as I do.

  Don’t pretend

  you respect him.

  ‘Sorry, sir!’” she says,

  doing a mean impression of me.

  Then she trots off

  to catch up with Leylah

  and Bethany, saying,

  “Did your dad go mad

  about your hair?”

  But before they’re too far away,

  she turns around, hands in prayer,

  and says, “See you in physics,

  Sister Frankie.”

  CHANGES

  Me and Harriet

  have been besties

  since I can remember.

  When

  we were in year two,

  in Mr Parlow’s class,

  literally everything

  was a laugh.

  I wish we could go back

  to being silly all the time,

  but the feeling of it,

  the freeness of it,

  has gone.

  I wish Harriet would stop

  reminding me

  I’m not as fun as I

  used to be.

  Although now I wonder

  if I was ever as free

  as she seems to be.

  CHANCES

  Harriet wants to sit at the front

  of the physics lab,

  probably so that Mr B

  can see her smoky eyes,

  but it suits me

  because I want to know

  if he got my email asking him

  to write a reference for me.

  “Today, we’re looking at

  weight and mass,” he says.

  “Settle down now,

  let gravity guide you

  to your seats, ha ha.”

  Harriet laughs really loudly.

  All through class

  I scribble madly,

  taking in every word

  he says

  while Harriet drops her pen

  every five minutes

  and struts to get it,

  bending over

  o u t r a g e o u s l y s l o w l y

  right in front of Mr B.

  Before we leave,

  he intercepts me at the door.

  “I’ll write your reference

  and give it to you Friday.

  Do you want me to

  read your application too?”

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  “I think you have

  a really good chance,”

  he adds.

  I feel my face flush

  with pride that he has recognized

  this is my special thing.

  “I’ll email it later.

  Is that OK?”

  “Absolutely,” Mr B says.

  “Nice hoody, by the way.”

  Behind me I hear Harriet say,

  “Can you read mine too, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  But then he says,

  “You have it now?

  OK, stay behind.

  I’ll take a look at it

  right away.”

  I hear her say,

  “I just love the stars…”

  but I have to move to let

  the rest of the class

  file out.

  So it’s from outside

  that I watch her

  lean over his desk

  (so inappropriately)

  while he reads

  her application

  before mine.

  WE’D BE ALL RIGHT

  No chance of stars,

  it’s raining,

  but even so

  Harriet and I

  go up to

  the tree house

  after dark.

  “So did Mr B

  like your application?” I ask,

  while she gets her laptop

  out of her bag.

  “Yeah,” she answers, vaguely.

  “What did he say?” I ask,

  wondering if

  he thinks she’s got a

  really good chance.

  “Oh, you know.”

  “No,” I say. “What?

  Did he read your essay?

  Did he suggest any changes?

  Did he think it was a good topic?”

  “Frankie, can we

  just leave it?”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  If it were me

  I’d want to talk about

  it all evening.

  “I was just asking.”

  Harriet scowls at me.

  “Look, we’re not all

  Mr B’s favourite,

  you massive physics nerd,

  so it wasn’t exactly a shower

  of glory. And I don’t feel

  like talking about it.

  Least of all to you.”

  “I’m sure yours is brilliant,”

  I say, trying to sound

  encouraging

  but realizing I probably sound

  patronizing.

  She’s on her phone

  so I set up the laptop

  and wait for her

  as she laughs

  then sighs about something.

  “What’s up?” I ask lightly,

  hoping we can

  change the tone.

  “It’s Jackson,” she says.

  “He won’t stop messaging.”

  “I thought you liked him?”

  “I did,” she says. “But now

  it’s getting kind of boring.”

  “I told you not

  to get involved.”

  “No, you didn’t.

  And now he’s obsessed.

  And you know

  he told us he got with

  those two girls that night?

  They’re his cousins!”

  I burst out laughing.

  “That’s incest.”

  Harriet whacks me.

  “Obviously nothing happened.
/>
  He lied to brag.

  I’m not into that,

  know what I mean?”

  “Totally,” I say.

  But I want to stop talking

  about Jackson and get on

  with our evening.

  “How do I get rid of him?”

  “Tell him you don’t like him?”

  “Ooh,” she says, typing,

  “I’ll tell him I’m busy

  and I’m going out with you.”

  “Harry,” I say. “That’s lying!

  Just tell the truth.

  And then can we please

  watch The Walking Dead?”

  “Absolutely,” she says,

  hitting send

  and then turning her screen

  to show me.

  She has actually written

  that she’s with me with me

  and not to contact her again

  because of my jealousy.

  “Harry!” I gasp.

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “It’s fine,” she says.

  “Everyone lies a bit.

  He’ll know what it means.

  I’m saving him face.”

  I’m just glad

  she’s not taking things

  any further with him.

  She tucks her phone away

  and pulls the snacks out

  of her backpack

  then opens her laptop

  and presses play.

  We nestle into the pile of pillows

  and with the fairy lights twinkling,

  and us alternating eating

  tortilla chips and tangerines,

  we spend the evening

  scream-laughing at the

  incompetence of everyone

  except Rick Grimes.

  (Actual fanny flutters.)

  “You’re drooling!”

  “Am not.”

  “You can’t have the hots

  for Rick, and tell me

  Mr B is old.”

  “Different rules

  for the apocalypse.”

  “Stab it!”

  Harriet says.

  “You idiot.”

  “Shut the door!” I yell.

  “Use the machete!”

  Harriet shouts.

  “Run away!” I scream.

  “Use the machine guns!”

  Harriet says.

  “Lock the doors and hide!”

  I say, feeling safe

  up here, in our tree house,

  where no one can get us,