Watch Me. Angela Clarke

       Prologue

      She gets off the bus one stop early, opting to take the muddy back path over the busy main school gate. She could slip in unnoticed. A lie, but the greasy, stone-spiked, mouldering leaves and dog-wee-splashed track give her a few more seconds of cover. Mum doesn’t believe she’s sick. But she is. A heavy, squirming bacterium has multiplied inside her, thousands of poisonous sacs settling in weighty pockets of flesh. They could see it. They could sense it. She’d never be accepted. She knew that now. Adults say it’s because she’s clever: what a joke! It’s because she’s defective. Malformed. A broken pot which has bulged and cracked in the kiln. Her stomach is looped and low, her breasts sagging boulders pulling her down. The tops of her thighs burn through her straining tights. She can feel the welts forming: raw blisters on the skin. There’s a comfort in the pain: penance. Wincing, she thinks of the restraining hands. Pushing her down. She strokes the bruise on her arm, and tries to blot out what happened next.

      In the schoolyard two girls, younger than her, patent record bags slung over their shoulders, giggle. Their voices drop as she nears them. Why would they be bothered with her? There’s a shout from a group of year seven boys, she looks at the asphalt when she sees they’re watching her too. What’s going on? Her heart drums a warning in her ears. Gripping the strap of her school bag tight, she walks faster, almost running by the time she reaches her locker. The hallway and stairs teem with students, her year, the years above and below, a hundred eyes greedily turned on her. Someone shouts: ‘Slut!’ Her cheeks burn. Sweat pools under her arms, her breasts, her back, choking wafts catching in her throat. What’s happened? Anxiety surges through her. Her fingers slip as she enters the pin code for her locker. They’re waiting; the air is tense with expectation, and the joke she’s not in on. She steps back as she opens her locker, fearful something’ll burst out. What she sees is worse. Photos have been slid into the locker through the sides. Her with her shirt unbuttoned. Gelatinous mountains of breasts. Her skirt round her waist. Knickers pulled down. With clumsy hands, she tries to stuff the pictures into her bag. To cover them. To cover herself. They skitter across the floor. Panic fizzes like sherbet through her, foaming into her eyes. Falling onto her knees, desperate to hide them, she scrabbles for the photos as they slip and scrape across the vinyl.

      ‘Nice minge!’ a boy shouts. They’re all laughing.

      ‘Whore!’ a girl calls. Another spits at her. Jerking back to avoid it, her bottom bangs into the locker behind. A fresh wave of laughter. There’s a tight, jeering knot of friends around the spitting girl. All she can see are leering, cackling faces. Vicious monkeys that flood the stairs, swarm through the hallway. Someone waves the photo in the air. Another boy pretends to lick it. They all have it. She’s pinned, skewed like a caught butterfly, displayed for all the world to see.

      Inside, the sacs rupture, and she’s washed in a wave of black. Her heart breaks.