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  She smiles.

  ‘Mm . . . the Moores? Oh! The ones with the little boy and two girls – one about your and Seb’s age? The other in college? Well she must be out of college now, probably grown up, with her own job and—’

  I cut her off. ‘Yes. Them. Do you know anything more about . . .’ I pause, trying to work out how to phrase this. ‘I spoke to Ren the other day, in the gym. I think that was their son, but I wasn’t sure. Do you remember the family? Was he . . . nice?’

  ‘Nice?’ Mum wrinkles her nose, then gives a little laugh. ‘You ask such strange questions sometimes! Yes, he was nice. Fine! They all were. Well . . .’ She glances at me. ‘Well he did have a bit of trouble at school, from what I can remember, but I think that got sorted out.’

  ‘Trouble? What kind of trouble? Did he seem like the type to – did he – did we get on? When we were kids, I mean—’

  At that moment, there’s an ear-splitting ring from the telephone on the stand beside us. Both of us nearly jump out of our skin.

  ‘Your bloody father and his hearing!’ mutters Mum, grabbing the phone before it explodes both of our ears again.

  She immediately starts chatting animatedly into the receiver. I flick my eyes to the ceiling and turn round. Slowly I make my way back down the stairs.

  Great. I found out absolutely nothing, apart from that Ren may or may not have been a bit of trouble at school when he was five.

  As I’m tracing my feet down the soft steps, the back door rattles. Seb is bounding in through the kitchen. There’s the familiar sound of water trickling from the tap, the bash of cupboards rapidly opening and closing, then silence.

  I glance back up the stairs. Maybe later, when she’s had a glass of wine, I can ask Mum about Ren again. She might not tell me anything new – but every little thing is useful at this stage.

  Seb’s loud, deep voice echoes up from the kitchen, vibrating through the walls.

  ‘Amber! What the hell have you been looking at?’

  A trickle of ice runs down my spine.

  I bolt downstairs so fast, even Mum can’t catch me up.

  CHAPTER 21

  Amber

  When I reach the kitchen, Seb is standing there, holding my phone in his hand and squinting at my laptop screen. He’s closed down my maths homework page to reveal multiple tabs of Ren’s social media accounts.

  ‘No, no, no!’ I scream, trying manically to grab the tablet off him and slam the laptop shut.

  He steps out of the way but stands up, holding them out of my reach.

  ‘Christ,’ he says, his eyes skimming the tabs. ‘Someone’s got a serious crush.’

  ‘No – don’t!’

  I’ve got the laptop shut now, tucked under my arm, but I make another grab for my phone. He holds it out of the way and starts reading from one of Ren’s Instagram captions.

  ‘Deadlifted 100kg at the gym last night. Buzzing,’ Seb reads out drily. ‘Oh man, what a lad.’ He starts reading more of them, in a stupid, high-pitched voice, collapsing with laughter each time.

  My life is spiralling out of control. I can see Seb telling Mum, Dad, everyone at school. I can see people thinking I’m even more of a freak than I am now. I won’t be able to find out anything else about Ren getting fired – people will just think I have this stupid girly crush.

  My knees slip to the floor as Seb keeps reading out the captions. Now he’s started doing muscle-man poses and laughing loudly at his own jokes. I put my head in my hands.

  Tears prick the back of my eyes. For the first time in I-don’t-know-how-long, I felt like I was actually doing something important. I was looking forward to going to school tomorrow to find out more about what was going on. I felt like . . . I don’t know . . .

  Like I had a purpose.

  Seb has stopped talking now. I blink hard, trying not to cry, but a tear leaks out and courses down my cheek. I brush it away roughly.

  After a couple of seconds, I feel a rough squeeze on my shoulder. Seb is bent over, staring down at me.

  ‘Hey.’ His voice has changed now. It’s not stupid and high-pitched; it’s low and soft. When I look up, his brow is knitted together. ‘Sis. Don’t be like that. It’s OK – everyone stalks people. You think I haven’t looked at Chloe’s Instagram? Danny has made a whole bank of –’ He shakes his head suddenly, like he’s just realized he’s speaking to me and not one of his mates. ‘You all right?’

  I turn my head away from him. ‘I’m not – I’m not stalking him,’ I say, my voice so quiet, even I can’t hear it. ‘I’m . . . I think he was framed. I’m trying to help.’

  When I look up, Seb’s lips are pursed on one side. ‘He was framed?’

  ‘Yeah, um—’ It sounds so stupid saying any more out loud that I just shut up. As we’re looking at each other, there’s the thud of Mum coming down the stairs.

  My eyes widen. I take my phone off Seb, and he doesn’t put up a fight.

  ‘Don’t – please don’t tell Mum,’ I say, my eyes swivelling upwards.

  Seb almost looks uncomfortable. Then he gives my shoulder another squeeze and smiles with his lips closed. ‘Don’t worry.’

  He starts walking past me, back into the hallway. As he leaves the kitchen, he turns back. ‘If you really think that dick Ren Moore is innocent, though, you might want to read Jemma Okeke’s Facebook post first.’

  My mouth falls open. Seb knows about Ren and the rumours? Well of course he does. He knows everyone. I’m not sure why I’m even surprised.

  At that moment, Mum comes back into the kitchen. Quickly, I gather up my phone, laptop, tablet – lock the screens – and hurry out of the room.

  Jemma Okeke.

  The second girl who made a claim about him. She wrote about Ren? On her Facebook? As fast as I can, I start clicking through people’s Facebook profiles until I find her. She’s in the year above at school, in Year Twelve . . . but all her accounts are private.

  With a sinking heart, I stare at the screen. I’m almost tempted to google how you hack into people’s social media accounts, but I bet I could never manage it. And it feels like doing that would cross some sort of invisible line.

  At the bottom of her Facebook page, it says, One mutual friend Sebastian Nighy.

  ‘Mum! Where are my stud boots?’ shouts Seb from upstairs.

  He’s about to go out for football training, and he almost always leaves his Facebook signed in. As Seb bashes around in the hall, throwing every boot he can find out of the coat closet, I quietly slip upstairs.

  I hover outside the door to his room. I can hear Seb ringing his friends, smashing his studded boots against the hard laminate floor in the hall, Mum screaming at him to put them on outside. Then I hear him skidding, clattering across the floor, shouting bye to Mum, and slamming the door shut in a cacophony of noise and colour.

  Once he leaves, there’s silence.

  A prickling sensation sweeps across the back of my neck. Slowly, I start walking into Seb’s room. If anyone asks why I’m in here, I’m looking to check my maths homework against his. Mum probably won’t remember we’re in different sets. I tiptoe towards his computer and tap the mouse to flicker on the screen. It’s not locked.

  I pull up Facebook.

  In a couple of clicks, I’m on Jemma’s page. There’s the profile picture of her posing in the mirror that I’ve seen before – but now the whole page is full of comments, photos, statuses. I can see everything.

  It doesn’t take me long to find the status post I’d been searching for.

  BEWARE OF REN MOORE!

  I went on a date with him, and it turned into the worst night of my life.

  I never wanted to write this. I’ve written and deleted this post so many times, I’ve lost count, but now I’ve decided:

  I need to tell everyone the truth.

  We met at the gym, at the start of school, and immediately hit it off. We messaged almost constantly for a few weeks before he asked me to the cinema.

  I was so
excited. It feels so stupid to say it now, but I was. The date went well. After the cinema, we were walking along the pavement, and he put his arm around me.

  Then we found a little alcove by the bike railings, and he leaned down to kiss me. I didn’t feel quite ready, but it was OK. I mean, I thought it was OK. After a couple of minutes, I tried to twist myself away, but he became forceful.

  He grabbed my bum, my breasts. I laughed and shrugged him off. I feel like an idiot now, because I laughed. But I didn’t know what else to do.

  I said I wanted to go home, but he kept saying, ‘No, we’re having fun.’ I think he thought I was teasing him. But I wasn’t. He kept kissing me, holding my head still, even though I asked him to stop.

  After the date, I told him I wasn’t happy, that I didn’t want to see him any more. He said I had led him on. He kept messaging me for weeks and weeks until I blocked him.

  I wasn’t sure if this story was worth sharing, when some people have so much worse experiences, but if it helps just one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it.

  I finish reading, and I feel like all the air has been punched out of my lungs.

  CHAPTER 22

  Amber

  I realize I’d been gripping the edge of my chair so tightly while reading Jemma’s post, I’ve left nail marks in the wood. I try to smudge them away with my palm, but they stay etched into the arm.

  I scroll further down. Almost a hundred girls, most of whose names I recognize from school, have posted messages and reactions in the thread.

  Joss Lang You are so brave for sharing this. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.

  Evie Fuller This is so, so important. You’ve exposed him and saved other girls from this fate.

  Mischa Thompson We all love you, Jemma. Stay strong, beautiful lady.

  There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. I keep thinking of all these people, all condemning Ren . . . And yet, he didn’t go on a date with her. At least not on October 1st, according to that Instagram post. He was staying in with his friends.

  I keep trying to picture Jemma’s story. Would Ren really be forceful like that? Ren was always so kind in the gym, rushing around, helping people.

  But this isn’t just one story. This is two girls – three, potentially.

  I clutch my head in my hands.

  How could all three girls get the wrong guy?

  I scroll back through Jemma’s Facebook page. I want to find that dark-haired guy again. The one she was with – does he play football? Could it possibly be the same guy who Seb saw with Chloe?

  I’ve clicked back through her photos when I finally see him in the corner of a full-room house-party shot.

  And he’s tagged.

  My heart gives a little leap.

  Biting my lip, I click on his name.

  Jerome Femi.

  Damn! His account is private.

  My eyes flick back to Jemma’s status. There’s got to be another clue. Something to prove she’s got the wrong guy.

  Scrolling through Jerome’s Facebook, I realize not all his photos are private. There’s a few pictures of him out with his mates, several with girls. In one, there’s just him and another girl outside the multiplex cinema. Ansh Laghari has tagged them both with the caption Lovebirds.

  There’s a metallic taste in the back of my mouth as I hover over the girl’s face.

  Maisie Evans.

  Maisie! The first girl. Something is seriously up here.

  But whose photos are these?

  Ansh Laghari.

  Wait a minute. I know that name. I know that face.

  It’s the Ansh. From the gym. He’ll know what really happened, won’t he? He’ll know whether Ren actually went on that date with Jemma, or whether it was Jerome.

  Mum starts crashing around downstairs, so, with a jolt, I lock Seb’s computer and tiptoe back into my room.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I unlock my phone and open Ansh’s Instagram, immediately clicking follow. Then I start typing out a message from my own account and, almost without thinking, hit send.

  Amber0789 Hey, I was wondering, are you in the gym tomorrow?

  I start to feel an uneasy clutch in my stomach. I shouldn’t have sent that; it looks weird. Oh, God, what if he thinks I’m a complete and utter freak? What if he realizes I’m not Ren’s sister? Also, there’s nothing on Ren’s profile about his sisters, but if Ansh thinks we’re family, won’t it look odd that Ren doesn’t follow me, and I’m Nighy, while he’s Moore?

  No, it’ll be fine. He’ll never guess. My handle is Amber0789. I could be Amber Moore, for all he knows.

  With a swallow, I click back to the tagged photo of Jerome with Maisie. It could be a coincidence. Maybe one of them just got their dates muddled?

  Maybe he really did harass her.

  Ren’s kind face flashes before me. The way he gently brushed my shoulder; the prickling feeling that swept up my arm.

  Whether he’s innocent or guilty, I need to know.

  CHAPTER 23

  Chloe

  I push the thought of Sven’s messages to the back of my mind for the rest of the week, but every so often, when I’m not quite paying attention, one word rings in my ears.

  WHORE.

  After school on Friday, I’m standing in the sixth-form toilets, applying lipstick with Louise and Rachel, when my hand slips, and there’s a tiny swipe of red on my front tooth. I sigh and start dabbing it off. We’re about to go join the guys on this cornfield nearby, where we usually sip cider, and a couple of the guys bring Bluetooth speakers to play music and add to the atmosphere.

  Usually, I love our Friday nights on the field, but tonight I keep ruining my make-up. My hand, no matter how long I take to draw on eyeliner or outline my lips, won’t hold steady.

  In the mirror, I survey my face with a critical eye.

  My lips are too red. My eyeshadow isn’t dark enough. My eyebrows are filled in, but too smudgy. My concealer is so thick, it’s going cakey on top of my primer.

  I almost want to dunk my head in water and scrub it all off. Go out to see everyone with black marks smeared all over my face and my gaping pores and whiteheads on full view – have everyone look in horror at my natural, imperfect face.

  I let out a sigh, and Louise slides a glance at me as she applies mascara. She’s barely said a word to me all day.

  ‘Everything OK?’ says Rachel.

  ‘Yeah. I just can’t get my sodding lips right.’ I pout in front of the mirror and pull down my top so my cleavage stands out a bit more.

  ‘Why don’t you try mine?’ says Rachel, nodding at her pale pink lipstick.

  I carefully dab off my red lipstick with a tissue and start applying hers.

  The problem is I can’t stop thinking about all the comments Sven posted on my Instagram. Baby Chloe <3 is the one that sends a shiver down my spine. I deleted them, of course. And reported him and blocked his account. But I can’t scrub them out of my mind – not completely.

  I bite my lip, which looks even worse with Rachel’s pale pink lip colour, and reapply my dark red.

  ‘Mm, think I prefer the red,’ I say, smiling.

  Louise doesn’t smile back. I feel a flicker of annoyance, but then shake myself. She’s just being Louise, and I’m being paranoid.

  ‘Let’s go.’ I swing my bag over my shoulder and push open the door. At least tonight we’ll all drink and laugh, and Tom will be there.

  Everything will be fine.

  * * *

  The evening passes in a blur of noise and colour. The guys keep being loud, showing off – everyone giggling, flirting. At one point, Tom plants a kiss on me in front of everyone, and I feel so light, so free, that I begin to slip back into my old self.

  Sven doesn’t even cross my mind as I take hundreds of photos of us all together – gathered in a circle, pouting at the camera, the girls huddled in front, and the guys behind, reaching their long arms up to the night sky. At one point, one of Tom’s mates,
Rishaan, lifts me right up onto his shoulders and starts spinning me round and round. I clutch onto his head, giggling madly, my long hair swinging either side of his face.

  When he puts me down, Tom runs over and charges head first into me – nuzzling his happy eyes-half-closed face into my neck. I kiss his hairline and wrap my arms around him. He goes to kiss my lips, but that’s not what I want to do in front of everyone. Not now.

  My limbs uncoordinated, I untangle myself from him and flop down on the cool grass next to Louise. I’ve barely spoken to her all night, but now I pass her a cider and pick up another can. The night air is loud and warm with our laughter.

  Louise is looking at the ground but struggling to hold her gaze. She’s squinting so hard, her eyes look tiny and cat-like in the darkness.

  ‘I’ve barely seen you tonight, girl,’ I say, linking my arm in hers.

  Louise’s unfocused eyes lift to mine, but she doesn’t respond.

  The moonlight is reflecting across her pretty face, but there’s a tightness in her jaw that the soft light can’t hide.

  She takes a sip of cider. ‘Why did you do it?’ she says quietly.

  I frown. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Why did you get with him?’

  ‘Who? Tom?’ My thoughts are slow, foggy. It takes a second for my brain to catch up. ‘That guy at the party? Joshua? John?’

  Louise curls her lip. ‘No! You know exactly who I’m talking about.’

  My mouth falls open. ‘What are you on about? You know everyone I’ve got with. I tell you everything. I don’t know who you are talking about—’

  ‘Look, if you’re not going to tell me, that’s fine,’ cuts in Louise. ‘But please, don’t insult my intelligence.’

  ‘Louise—’

  She shakes her arm out of mine aggressively and tries to stand up, trips slightly, then starts walking off.

  ‘Wait!’ I stand up too fast, stumbling over my trainers. I grab her shoulders. ‘You’re just drunk. Stop. Stop!’

  Louise turns round. In the moonlight, tears are glimmering in her eyes.

  ‘You could get with anyone you wanted. Anyone,’ she whispers. ‘Why couldn’t you have left him for me?’