Girl Online (4 page)

I take my phone from my bedside table and turn it on. There’s a few seconds’ silence before it starts going crazy with email alerts. I go to my inbox and see that it’s crammed full of notifications from my blog. There have been loads of comments overnight. I pick my laptop up from the floor and open it, my heart pounding. Even though I’ve been running Girl Online for a year now, and even though my followers are really lovely and always post really positive things, I still have this crazy fear that one day it might all go wrong. What if they thought my post last night was too much—too heavy?

But it’s fine—in fact, it’s way better than fine. As I quickly scroll through the comments, I see words like “thank you,” “brave,” “honesty,” and “love” popping up again and again. I take a deep breath and start reading them properly. And what I read brings tears to my eyes.

Thank you for sharing this . . .

It sounds as if you’re suffering from panic attacks. Don’t worry, I get them too . . .

I thought I was the only one . . .

Now I know I’m not alone . . .

You’re bound to be shaken up after the accident . . .

Thank you for your honesty . . .

It will get better . . .

Have you tried relaxation techniques?

You’re so brave for sharing . . .

On and on they go until I feel as if I’m wrapped up in a toasty-warm blanket of love. In a way, it’s nice to know that “panic attacks” are an actual thing and not just my mind going crazy. There are things I can do to help myself feel more in control. I make a mental note to look them up later.

Downstairs, I hear my parents’ bedroom door opening and the soft thud of footsteps across the landing. I smile as I think of my dad on his way to make “Saturday Breakfast.” Elliot and I always give my dad’s “Saturday Breakfast” capital letters and speech marks because it is such a major event. I don’t think there’s a pan in the house that goes unused as he whips up bacon, three kinds of sausages, hash browns, and all kinds of eggs, with grilled herby tomatoes on the side and a stack of the fluffiest pancakes ever. My stomach starts rumbling just at the thought.

I knock on the wall five times—code for
Are you awake?
Straight away, Elliot knocks back three times—
Can I come over?
I knock back twice to say that he can. Now my whole body feels as if it’s grinning. Everything’s going to be OK. My panic attacks will go once the shock of the accident wears
off. I’ll feel back to normal again soon. And in the meantime it’s “Saturday Breakfast”!

•  •  •

“Poached eggs or scrambled, Elliot?” Dad looks at Elliot expectantly. He’s wearing his usual Saturday-morning chef-ing gear: grey hoodie and sweatpants and a blue-and-white stripy apron.

“How are you scrambling them?” Elliot asks. In any other context this would be a pretty stupid question but not when it comes to my dad—he’s known for being able to scramble eggs in about two hundred different ways.

“Wiv some finely diced onions and a sprinkling of ze chives,” Dad replies in a fake French accent. He talks in a fake French accent a lot when he’s cooking—he thinks it makes him sound more chef-like.

“High five!” Elliot says, holding his hand up. Dad high-fives him with a wooden spoon. “Scrambled please.”

Elliot is wearing his pajamas and dressing gown. His dressing gown is silky and covered in a dark burgundy-and-green paisley pattern. He looks like he’s stepped straight out of an old black-and-white movie. All that’s missing is a pipe. I pour myself a glass of juice just as Tom trudges into the room. Further proof that Dad’s “Saturday Breakfast” is awesome—it actually gets Tom out of bed before 9 a.m. on a weekend day. Whether or not he is actually awake is another matter.

“Morning,” Elliot says just a little too loudly—for Tom’s benefit.

“Hmm,” Tom grunts, slumping into a chair and plonking his head on the table.

“Caffeine for Mister Tom,” Elliot says, pouring him a mug of rich, dark coffee from the cafetière.

Tom lifts his head just enough to take a sip. “Hmm,” he grunts again, his eyes shut tight.

There’s the most gorgeous smell of sizzling bacon coming from the stove. I start buttering myself a slice of bread to take my mind off my hunger. I think I might actually be about to drool.

“Hello! Hello!” Mum cries, wafting into the room.

She’s the only one of us who’s actually dressed, as she’s going off to open the shop as soon as she’s finished eating. As always, she looks stunning. She’s wearing an emerald-green shift dress that goes perfectly with her auburn curls. Whenever I wear green, I have the horrible feeling that I might look just like a walking Christmas decoration, but Mum always manages to style it out. She walks around the table, kissing each of us on top of the head. “And how are we all this fine December morning?”

“We are all just tickety-boo, thank you,” Elliot replies in his poshest voice.

“Splendid!” Mum replies in an even posher voice. She goes over to Dad and kisses him on the back of his neck. “It smells amazing, darling.”

Dad spins around and grabs her in a hug. We all avert our eyes. I guess it’s good that my parents still get on so well—that they don’t sit in bitter silence for hours on end like Elliot’s—but sometimes their PDAs are a little bit cringey.

“Are you still OK to help Andrea out in the shop this afternoon?” Mum asks, coming to sit next to me.

“Of course.” I turn to Elliot. “Do you fancy a trip around the Lanes this morning?”

Tom immediately groans. He hates anything to do with clothes and shopping—which is probably why he’s currently wearing a vile orange football top and red pajama bottoms.

“Of course,” Elliot replies. Elliot is most definitely my soul brother.

“And a trip to the 2p machines on the pier?” I add hopefully.

“Of course
not
,” Elliot replies with a frown. I flick him with my napkin. As Mum gets up to fetch some maple syrup from the cupboard, Elliot leans in close to me and whispers, “OMG, your blog last night was amazing. Did you see all the comments?”

I nod and grin, feeling stupidly proud.

“I told you it would go down well,” Elliot says smugly.

“What went down well?” Mum asks, coming back to the table.

“Nothing,” I say.

“The
Titanic
,” Elliot says.

•  •  •

Two hours later, Elliot and I are on the end of the pier playing the 2p game.

“I’m sorry,” Elliot says, raising his voice over the sound of ringing slot machines, “but I just don’t see the point of this dumb game. At. All.”

I insert another coin and clench my hands together as I watch the tray of coins slide forward. The coins on the edge of the tray quiver—but stay put. I let out a loud sigh.

“I mean, it’s a bit like Myspace, isn’t it? Or porridge? There’s just no point to it!”

I insert another 2p and start singing “la, la, la” inside my head to drown out Elliot’s moaning. The truth is he loves to hate the 2p game as much as I love to play it. The tray slides forward and at first it looks as if I’ve lost again. But then one of the coins hanging over the edge drops and this sparks an avalanche. I clap my hands for joy as a load of coins clatter down into the tray.

“Yes!” I cry, hugging Elliot just to annoy him even more.

He frowns at me but I can tell from the way his eyes are twinkling behind his red-rimmed glasses that he’s trying really hard not to grin.

“I’ve won!” I scoop the money from the tray.

“So you have.” Elliot looks down at the coins in my hand. “Twenty whole pence. What on earth are you going to do with such a life-changing sum?”

I tilt my head to one side. “Well, first I’ll make sure that my family is all taken care of. Then I’ll buy myself a mini convertible. And then I think I’ll buy my good friend Elliot
a sense of humor
!” I shriek with laughter as I dodge his play-punch. “Come on; let’s check out the Lanes before I have to start work.”

•  •  •

The Lanes are my favorite part of Brighton—apart from the sea of course. Their labyrinth of cobbled streets and quaint little shops make you feel as if you’ve turned a corner and journeyed two hundred years back in time.

“Did you know that the Cricketers’ Arms used to be called the Laste and Fishcart?” Elliot says, as we walk past the old pub.

“The Last Fishcart,” I say, absentmindedly, as I watch a
girl walking toward us. She’s wearing an amber trilby hat with a full-length printed jumpsuit. She looks amazing. I instantly want to take a picture, but I’m a second too late and she disappears around the corner.

“No, not the Last Fishcart—the Laste
and
Fishcart,” Elliot says. “A laste is the measurement they used for ten thousand herrings—back in the day when Brighton was a fishing village.”

“All right, Wiki,” I say with a grin.

Elliot truly is a walking, talking Wikipedia. I don’t know how he manages to store so much random info in his head. His brain must be the equivalent of a six-terabyte hard drive. (A six-terabyte hard drive is currently the biggest hard drive in the world—another random fact I learned from Elliot!)

I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It’s a text from Megan. I instantly think of what happened yesterday in JB’s and my mouth goes dry. But her text is surprisingly friendly.

Hey, are we still on for tonight? Xoxo

I’d totally forgotten about tonight. Earlier in the week I’d suggested we have a sleepover like we used to. I was partly joking, and partly trying to get our friendship back onto its old, easier ground, when everything seemed so blissfully uncomplicated.

“Who is it?” Elliot asks as we make our way past one of the Lanes’ many jewelry shops. The window curves out from
the front, as if it is literally bulging with trays of silver necklaces, bracelets, and rings.

“Megan,” I mutter, hoping Elliot won’t hear—or won’t care.

“What does
she
want?” he says.

My heart sinks. “Oh, just to see if we’re still on for tonight.”

Elliot stares at me. “What’s happening tonight?”

I look down at the cobbled street. “I asked her to come over for a sleepover.”

“A sleepover? Er, hello, we are in Year Eleven now.”

I look at him, my face flushing. “I know. I didn’t think she’d want to come, to be honest.”

“So why did you ask her?”

“I thought it would be fun,” I reply with a shrug.

“Hmm,” Elliot says. “About as much fun as a night in with my parents, which is what I’m now doomed to.”

“I’m sorry.” I link arms with Elliot. He’s wearing his vintage woolen coat. It feels all warm and snug.

“Never mind,” Elliot says with a sigh. “I’ve got a massive history project to finish by Monday so it’s probably best I stay in. Hey, did you know that the house over there used to be the Sussex and Brighton Infirmary for Eye Diseases?”

That’s one of the things I love the most about Elliot—he can never stay cross for more than about ten seconds. If only all friends could be like that!

We walk past Choccywoccydoodah, just as a couple is coming out, bringing with them the sweet smell of cookies baking.

“Shall we pop into Tic Toc for a hot chocolate?” I ask. I still have half an hour before I have to be at the shop.

“Er, shall the moon rise tonight?” Elliot says theatrically. He opens the door and waves me in.

Inside the café is steamy and warm. There is no denying Tic Toc does the best hot chocolate in Brighton. And Elliot and I ought to know, we’ve conducted a scientific survey into it. As Elliot checks out the cakes on the counter, I sit down at a table and quickly text Megan back.

Sure. Come round about 8 Px

“OMG!” Elliot says as he gets back to the table. “They’ve got a new flavor cupcake!” His eyes are as wide as saucers. “Raspberry and Mocha.”

“Oh wow.”

“Do you want one?”

I nod. Even though I’m still pretty stuffed from breakfast I
always
have room for a cupcake.

“Cool. I’ll go and order.”

As Elliot heads back to the counter I lean back in my chair, letting the warmth of the café seep into me. Then the door opens and a boy walks in. I recognize him immediately as Ollie’s older brother, Sebastian. Ollie comes strolling in behind him. I grab the menu card and pretend to study it, hoping that he won’t see me and they’ll go and sit in the far corner. But then I hear the chair at the table next to me being scraped back on the wooden floor.

“Penny!”

I look up and see Ollie grinning down at me. There’s no denying it—his grin is puppy-dog cute. He sits down in the chair next to me. Across from him, Sebastian stares at me coldly. Sebastian is two years older than us and he’s one of the most popular—and arrogant—people in sixth form. He’s also a regional tennis champion. Rumor has it he once told Andy Murray he ought to work harder on his backhand. I can believe it.

“What do you want?” he asks Ollie tersely.

“Can I get a chocolate milkshake?” Ollie says.

Sebastian scowls at him like he’s just asked for a cup of vomit. “Seriously? Please don’t tell me you want sprinkles and a flake too?”

Ollie nods, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look embarrassed.

Sebastian shakes his head and sighs. “You’re such a kid.”

“All right. I’ll have a coffee then.” Ollie’s cheeks are bright red now. It’s weird seeing him so unconfident. I feel really sorry for him.

Sebastian goes over to the counter and queues up behind Elliot, and I start panicking about what Elliot will do when he sees our table has been crashed by the Walking Selfie.

“It’s so strange bumping into you like this,” Ollie says, taking off his scarf. “I just texted Megan about half an hour ago asking for your number.”

“Really?” My voice comes out in a squeak. I cough and try again. “Why’s that?” My voice now sounds as deep as a man’s. I look down at the tablecloth and wish that it would
magically come to life and wrap itself around me to hide my shame.