We're Not in This Together

Sylvia fell halfway up a rope ladder and slid, almost soundlessly, on to the varnished hardwood floor. Miss McCourt rolled up her giant sleeves, lifted Sylvia like a baby and carried her through to the changing rooms. Some girls, the kind who genuinely believed that wall-bars were fun, didn’t dwell. The rest of us turned. We watched Sylvia, borne away like the dead Ophelia in the teacher’s arms, long hair trailing behind like an ash-blonde veil. Some swore they saw a smear of blood on her thigh; others, a flat dark stain on her knickers that refused to stay hidden. We watched till she disappeared through the elbowed-open space between the outside doors, chill gusting in to fill the place she had been. That could be me next . Nobody spoke out loud, but you could hear the words. They hung like drizzle in the air. One girl just kept walking across the high beam, her eyes focused on the path ahead. The rest of us stayed just where we were, listening. That could be me, the voices were saying. Any minute now, that could be me.

Next morning, it was. I woke up in a henna-coloured puddle and knew but said nothing, just went to wash. When I came out of the bathroom, Mum was stripping sheets. She took a KitKat out of her dressing-gown pocket and handed it to me without speaking. I ate it, wishing I could think of something to say. Mum snapped open a fresh top sheet.