wanna play? ;-)
Itâs Harry. Just his name makes my stomach give a little flip, like it always does when I see him or catch him looking at me.
I sit staring at the screen.
He likes me. He must do. Imagine if he was my actual boyfriend. Holding hands for the first time, first kiss, first . . .
I start to tap out my reply: Okay. Lets meet upâ
Then I stop. Dad wouldnât be happy about me going out this late. But we donât need to meet, do we?
I delete the message and try again.
Canât get out right now .
Send.
I cradle the phone, waiting for his reply. It doesnât takelong for one to come back.
S ok. We can play here .
?
Thereâs another pause, then, ping .
Itâs getting hot in here .
What does that mean? A minute later, ping .
Two words . . . and a photo.
A photo of Harry with his shirt off.
You next .
I canât help looking at the screen. He looks flippinâ amazing and itâs just for me.
For a moment another image comes into my head. Another topless boy â the boy in the pool.
The phone pinging again interrupts my daydream.
Iâve shown you mine . . .
Of course, he wants me to send a photo back. Thatâs how it works.
I donât have to take everything off, right? I look down at my body. Iâm wearing a T-shirt, which hasnât got much scope. I mean, itâs either on or off. I fling the phone on to the bed and jump up. I flip the hangers along the rail in my wardrobe until I find a thin shirt. Just a few buttons undone â no harm in that, right? Iâm just playing along.
I strip my T-shirt off, drop it on the floor, and look in the mirror. I havenât got much up top, but Iâm wearing quite a nice bra today, which gives me a bit of shape. White with a pink ribbon threaded through the top. The necklace hangs down between my breasts.
I strike a couple of poses. Will Harry like me like this? Or this? Thereâs nothing really bad about it, is there? I mean itâsjust like a bikini. So maybe I donât need the shirt . . .
I pick up my phone and take a few selfies, but theyâre too close up. You canât see enough. So I flip the screen and take a shot into the mirror. I check the picture. My face is disgusting. My body looks good, though. I delete it and try another. Yes, thatâs better. Heâll like this one. Heâll really like it.
Iâm melting .
Attach object.
Send.
And wait. Whatâs next, Harry?
My mouthâs dry. Iâm caught up in the game, but right now Iâm not sure what game it is Iâm playing, or where itâs going to stop.
Itâs too hot to sleep. The windows are open but there isnât a breath of air. My top sheet is a screwed-up bundle on the floor. The sheet below me is damp where my body makes contact.
My headâs full of pictures, words, feelings. Itâs like a tornado in there, churning restlessly, throwing out thoughts at random. Harryâs bare skin. Dad holding that little lad up by the scruff of his neck as the damp patch on his shorts spread out. Mum: âTell the truth.â A screen full of names, dates, a map of locations. Drowned girls.
And a face, a voice. A boy who can breathe and talk underwater. A boy who knows my name.
Sweat trickles down the side of my face.
If I go to sleep whoâll be in my dreams? Harry? The other boy? Or girls . . . desperate, panicking, drowning?
I sit up. I canât sleep, donât even want to.
So . . .
So maybe this is the moment to try and find the answer to some other questions. Time to look for my birth certificate. Mum and Dad are both asleep, or at least safely behind their closed bedroom door. I could look downstairs if I was really quiet.
I pad across the room and ease my door open. The house is dark, but Iâve known it for thirteen years. I donât need light to get myself along the landing and down the stairs. The step next to the
Itâs Harry. Just his name makes my stomach give a little flip, like it always does when I see him or catch him looking at me.
I sit staring at the screen.
He likes me. He must do. Imagine if he was my actual boyfriend. Holding hands for the first time, first kiss, first . . .
I start to tap out my reply: Okay. Lets meet upâ
Then I stop. Dad wouldnât be happy about me going out this late. But we donât need to meet, do we?
I delete the message and try again.
Canât get out right now .
Send.
I cradle the phone, waiting for his reply. It doesnât takelong for one to come back.
S ok. We can play here .
?
Thereâs another pause, then, ping .
Itâs getting hot in here .
What does that mean? A minute later, ping .
Two words . . . and a photo.
A photo of Harry with his shirt off.
You next .
I canât help looking at the screen. He looks flippinâ amazing and itâs just for me.
For a moment another image comes into my head. Another topless boy â the boy in the pool.
The phone pinging again interrupts my daydream.
Iâve shown you mine . . .
Of course, he wants me to send a photo back. Thatâs how it works.
I donât have to take everything off, right? I look down at my body. Iâm wearing a T-shirt, which hasnât got much scope. I mean, itâs either on or off. I fling the phone on to the bed and jump up. I flip the hangers along the rail in my wardrobe until I find a thin shirt. Just a few buttons undone â no harm in that, right? Iâm just playing along.
I strip my T-shirt off, drop it on the floor, and look in the mirror. I havenât got much up top, but Iâm wearing quite a nice bra today, which gives me a bit of shape. White with a pink ribbon threaded through the top. The necklace hangs down between my breasts.
I strike a couple of poses. Will Harry like me like this? Or this? Thereâs nothing really bad about it, is there? I mean itâsjust like a bikini. So maybe I donât need the shirt . . .
I pick up my phone and take a few selfies, but theyâre too close up. You canât see enough. So I flip the screen and take a shot into the mirror. I check the picture. My face is disgusting. My body looks good, though. I delete it and try another. Yes, thatâs better. Heâll like this one. Heâll really like it.
Iâm melting .
Attach object.
Send.
And wait. Whatâs next, Harry?
My mouthâs dry. Iâm caught up in the game, but right now Iâm not sure what game it is Iâm playing, or where itâs going to stop.
Itâs too hot to sleep. The windows are open but there isnât a breath of air. My top sheet is a screwed-up bundle on the floor. The sheet below me is damp where my body makes contact.
My headâs full of pictures, words, feelings. Itâs like a tornado in there, churning restlessly, throwing out thoughts at random. Harryâs bare skin. Dad holding that little lad up by the scruff of his neck as the damp patch on his shorts spread out. Mum: âTell the truth.â A screen full of names, dates, a map of locations. Drowned girls.
And a face, a voice. A boy who can breathe and talk underwater. A boy who knows my name.
Sweat trickles down the side of my face.
If I go to sleep whoâll be in my dreams? Harry? The other boy? Or girls . . . desperate, panicking, drowning?
I sit up. I canât sleep, donât even want to.
So . . .
So maybe this is the moment to try and find the answer to some other questions. Time to look for my birth certificate. Mum and Dad are both asleep, or at least safely behind their closed bedroom door. I could look downstairs if I was really quiet.
I pad across the room and ease my door open. The house is dark, but Iâve known it for thirteen years. I donât need light to get myself along the landing and down the stairs. The step next to the
Similar Books
