Page 118 of Don't You Forget About Me

‘It’s the truth but no one ever wants the truth. I’ve never told anyone the truth. I’m sick of being the person who tries to fit in and tells people what they want to hear and acts like nothing bothers her, it’s not got meanywhere.’

‘So tell them the truth,’ Karen says, shrugging. ‘Fuck the fuckers. Worst day at school, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not funny or light or easy or whatever. Worst. They asked for worst, give them worst.’

‘Should I? Even if everyone sits there saying oh that’s grim, you’re grim, thanks for ruining my evening?’

‘They’ve all turned up to hear people talk about their worst days at school. As far as I remember it, school was fucking awful. If you had to live through your worst day and they only have to hear about it, in the name of entertainment, I’d say they got off lightly.’

I nod, slowly.

‘I should just hit them with it?’

‘Yeah. Pull no punches. Why the fuck should you? Why is it your fault that your worst day was that bad?’

With Karen saying that, something clicks.

‘Yes. OK. Thank you. You’re right. I’ll write it my way.’

‘Right. Glad that’s sorted. I’ve had the worst train journey of my life and when I got halfway, my mum calls to say they’ve been snowed in and to turn back round. Pile of piss.’

No one is as wedded to the using of swear words as Karen, and I include myself here.

‘Karen,’ I say. ‘Thank you. You’ve really helped.’

‘Have I? OK.’

She looks nonplussed and a little self-conscious.

I offer to make some Ovaltine, and a newfound camaraderie settles between us, until Karen screams: ‘WHY IS THAT CREEPY TERRAPIN WANDERING ABOUT, PUT IT BACK IN ITS BOX!’

When she goes up to bed, I spend an hour writing, barely pausing to take my pen from the paper. The words flood out of me.

Mrs Pemberton taught me the word for what I’m feeling. Catharsis.

Now all I have to do is find the courage to read it.

41

A stage. A microphone. A long walk to the stage. A quiet in the room that feels greater and more intimidating than any quiet in any room I’ve ever known.I can’t do it I can’t do it I can’t do it.

I can do it. I have to prove it to myself by starting speaking. Deep breath. Jump.

‘When I first tried to prepare something for tonight’s show, I knew what my worst day at school was, without a moment’s hesitation. But I didn’t write about it. Instead I was going to tell you about the time me and my friend Jo drank a bottle of Malibu and pineapple and pierced each other’s ears with ice cubes and safety pins. Jo got a staph cocc infection, hers swelled up to the size ofThe BFGand I was grounded for a month. Only one of mine actually worked so I went around wearing a single large hoop, like a pirate.’

A ripple of laughter.And breathe.

‘I’ve never told anyone about my worst experience at school. Not my best friend, not my sister, not my mum, not any boyfriend, then or since. Not the counsellor I saw in my twenties. But I’m going to talk about it now.’

I glance up. I shiver when I see Lucas, standing against a wall by the bar, eyes fixed upon me with intensity. I knew he might watch, knowing the subject matter, but the confirmation gives me a thunderclap of the heart. I have no time, no space, to be more terrified.

‘It was the night of the sixth form leavers prom. I went to that do on a cloud of excitement and hormones, shoe-horned into a red dress I’d saved up for. It cost £55, which seemed a fortune at the time. I was reeking of vanilla and tonka beans, whatever they are, having snuck three large squirts from a perfume bottle in my older sister Esther’s bedroom. And I had Durex in my handbag, hidden in the zipped compartment. I bought them in a pub vending machine, and had never felt so grown up in my life. I hadn’t told anyone but I’d started seeing a boy, another pupil. We planned to stay together after the party, for the first time.’

I glance up at riveted faces and gather myself, careful not to look at Lucas this time. I see Jo, her eyes glued to me, frowning. Talking about condoms feels so personal that I question whether I should be doing this. Too late. I turn the page.

‘I wasn’t popular, exactly, at school. I was popular enough. I didn’t get picked last for netball, I wasn’t bullied, the cool kids knew my name. I felt as if popularity was something you had to work for, and rigorously maintain, and I spent every day aware of it. I clowned around when I thought it would win me approval, I didn’t always admit to knowing the answer in lessons. I made sure if I got A grades, I didn’t show off. I knew who not to cross. And I knew who I had to impress.

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