“Out?” she repeated. “You?”
I hadn’t showered in weeks. My hair was hanging lank and greasy past my shoulders, and my face was shining with sweat. The most I did anymore was wash at the sink when the smell got too much to bear. I’d been wearing the same pyjamas for four days now; any more than that and Mum would quietly place a new pair at the foot of my bed.
“I’m having a shower,” I said, as if that wasn’t obvious. “I’m going out for the day.”
“You’re what?”
“Don’t tell Mum and Dad,” I said quickly. “It’s just something I have to do. Please.”
“So you’re the one who gets all the attention at the moment and I’m still doing favours for you?”
Yeah, that one hurt, I’ll admit. Because it was true. Wendy has been practically forgotten about, Mum and Dad are so worried for me. And it makes me feel awful. But it won’t be for much longer now, and then she can have all their attention.
“Please, Wendy.”
She weakened at that. “Fine, whatever. Go. But you need to make sure you’re back before Mum and Dad get home. I can’t cover for you then. They’ll go crazy at the thought of you out of the house.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“Poppy . . .” She chewed her lip. “You are going to be alright, aren’t you? This isn’t going to be how you are forever, is it?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I couldn’t lie to her.
“Please tell me what’s going on,” she said.
I’m sorry, Wendy. You deserve better than a sister like me.
By the time I stepped out of the house, nerves had tightened my belly. I didn’t know what to expect when I got there. But I knew where I was going.
Tanya’s house looked the same as ever, an ordinary Victorian terrace with an overgrown front garden. The lights were off as I walked up and for a terrible moment I thought she might be out and the entire journey a waste, but when I knocked on the door I heard movement from inside.
She opened the door herself, mouth falling open in shock at seeing me standing there. Even though I was washed and dressed, I knew that couldn’t hide the months of damage I’d done to myself. My jeans had had to be tightened with a belt to the smallest loop, as everything was hanging off me. I’d lost so much weight, and I looked tired too. Defeated.
Oh, Tanya.
Sorry. I had to take a break and calm myself down. It’s hard to write in a diary when you’re crying so hard you can’t see.
It’s funny how clear my memories are of these horrible moments. Well, not funny ha-ha, more like funny tragic. But all I have to do is close my eyes and think for a second, and it all comes flooding back. Each stabbing word, each terrible gesture or action.
“Jesus. Poppy?” she said when she saw me standing there. “What are you doing here? Are you ill?”
“I’ve been better,” I replied.
She shook her head, still in disbelief. “I can’t believe it.”
“Can I come in?” I asked.
I don’t think she wanted me to, but she nodded, opening the door for me. She was so different on her own, without the influence of the others. We went into her living room.
“Is anyone else home?”
“My parents are at work.” Tanya did not look happy. “Why are you here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“About the exam.”
She closed her eyes at my question. Then, just when I gave up expecting her to answer, she said, “It’s only an Art A Level. Nobody died.”
“Only an Art A Level . . .” I echoed. “You know being an artist has been my dream ever since I was little. We used to talk about it together. You being an actress, me being an artist. You all knew I got into Slade. I was going to make my dream happen.”
“It’s not a big deal. You’ll get into somewhere else.”
“No, I won’t. They think I broke the rules. There’s no chance of me getting in anywhere. And it was—Slade.” My voice broke, threatening tears.
She rolled her eyes at that. “Whatever. You’d have had to join the real world at some point. As if you were ever actually going to be a famous artist.”
I gasped at her attack. “You don’t know that. I could have made it. And instead now I have nothing. No A levels at all.”
“Well, that’s your own fault there.”
“I think Chloe recorded it. What you four did. I’ve seen people saying online there was a video.”
“Did she?” Tanya pulled a face, as if it was nothing. “That’s such a Chloe thing to do. I don’t know anything about that.”
I tried not to let the hope I was feeling shine through in my tone. “But if there was a video it would prove I didn’t do it. Maybe I could get my place back.”
She didn’t deny it. “What do you want from me, Poppy?”
It burst out of me. “I want you to take responsibility. Help me get the video from Chloe and take it to the teachers. Maybe I could get my place back and we could forget this ever happened. I could still get to go to London and we’d never have to see each other ever again.”
“Chloe has probably deleted it,” she said dismissively. “It wasn’t that interesting.”
“But we could just check—”
“And then we’d get in trouble,” Tanya says. “No chance. I’m not helping you do that.”
I tried a different tack. “Someone had to have let you into the art room. None of you take Art, you wouldn’t have had access. You can blame it on them, say it was their idea. Who was it?”
She looked smug. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I did tell you. It was their idea, you know. They let us in with their card key, returned it to Miss Wersham whilst we were still in the room and then kept watch while we did it.”
It was hard to breathe when I heard what she said. I had my confirmation.
“Who was it?” I whispered, barely able to speak.
“You’ll never hear that from me.”
“Tanya, I’m . . .” Out of everyone, it was her in the end who I said everything to. And I need to write it down here. “I think I’m going to kill myself. I can’t do this anymore. I need you to help me, or there’s no other way out from this.”
“Kill yourself?” She tried to hide her shock, but it was there, I’m sure of it. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Look at me. I can barely function. You thought I was sick. I am.”
“Sick in the head,” she said. “Don’t talk about killing yourself, that’s stupid.”
“I mean it,” I said. Tears spilled from my eyes so easily, and soon enough I was sobbing my heart out. “Please tell me who helped you get into the art room. If I just knew who they were, I might be able to do something. Okay, you don’t have to show the video. I get that. But if you told me who they were, the school could investigate. They might be able to prove something. Please.”
She turned on me, anger coming in a flash. “You must be joking. I won’t tell you who helped us. You’re on your own.”
“Tanya . . .”
“Get out, Poppy. Get out and don’t come back. And if you’re going to kill yourself, you might as well just get on with it and do the whole world a favour.”
I had my answer.
“We haven’t been friends since we were eleven,” she said bitterly. “Stop pretending we had anything resembling a real friendship. We were children. Your dramatics don’t fool me.”
Tanya. My only friend in the whole world.
I don’t know why it hurts so much, why I’m still surprised.
So where does that all leave me? Here, writing in you, diary. I never did give you a name. Probably for the best, otherwise you’d turn into someone else I’d feel guilty about leaving.
Oh, Mum. Dad. Wendy. I’m going to miss you.
The antidepressants are next to me on the bed. There’s so many of them.
The knife is there too. I have to make sure.
In ten years, will those four even remember me? Annabel, Chloe, Esther, Tanya.
I don’t think they’ll remember me in ten months.
And whoever that mystery person was. The one who let them into the art room. Who was it? Sally? Jayla? Ollie? It could have been any of them. I thought the people who did Art liked me. We weren’t friends, but I thought they at least saw me as a good person. I know I did with them. And yet one of them had to have betrayed me. Maybe they were all laughing at me behind my back with those four for years. I’ve been such a fool. Even art has failed me in the end.
I’m scared.
I don’t want to die.
Yes, I do.
I have to do this.
And I’m really sorry.
Thirty-Five
Annabel
May 22, 2023
Everything swims around me. “What are you saying?”
“I’m not sure why you’re pretending to be so surprised,” she says.
“You’re Poppy! You’re standing right in front of me! You just faked your death.”
“I wish Poppy faked her death,” she murmurs. “You’re so stupid. I’m not Poppy at all.”
“You’re not . . .”
My vision clears and I look at the woman we all thought was Poppy Greer. The drastic change in appearance, but there was still Poppy underneath it all. I don’t get it. She looks so much like her.