Nobody in Particular(96)

That’s how this week has felt. Like I have no one. Or almost, anyway.

Plenty of assholes have popped up like weeds, either commenting or messaging me directly, or talking about me where they assume I can’t see. Videos, essays, in the comment section of the articles discussing me.

Disgusting. I throw up in my mouth whenever I see her face.

I feel sorry for her parents, they must be dying of embarrassment.

They need to get her out of that school before she hurts the children there. Don’t they have communal bathrooms?

What is she wearing? Who told her she should leave the house like that?

I’ve always found her annoying as heck. You can tell from that smug smile she always gives she thinks she’s above everyone else.

Seems like the kind of girl who’ll be everywhere playing the victim narrative next week. Boohoo my life is so hard because everyone found out I’m a sicko.

Can’t we get some actual news instead of this privileged little slut? “Rich kid with bad skin is a fucking queer” who the fuck cares?

And, god, one night I stumble across an anonymous comment from someone who says they knew me at my last school, and everyone there hated me. And it’s the truth, and that rattles me so badly I have to sit with my head over a toilet bowl for fifteen minutes until my stomach stops twisting so violently. And then I go back to my bed and sob.

But then there’s the people on my side, messaging me and commenting on my photos with support. I don’t trust a single one of them, either. Is it all a trap to get me to reply to them? If I do, will they know they have me, and shoot back something vile? If I say thank you, will they screenshot it and send it around to their friends, so they can all laugh at the fact that I was na?ve enough to take their words at face value?

For goodness’ sake, please stop searching your name, Rose says.

Who cares what those idiots think? Eleanor asks.

I get haters, too, it’s just what happens when strangers find out you exist, Molly insists.

But I can’t.

And I do.

And not like this.

One day, while I’m going through my message requests like they’re a car crash I can’t look away from, I find a message from a woman named Thea Brunswick.

Hi Danni! You don’t know me, but I’m a reporter for the Midday Spectator, and I was in the crowd the day you spoke to us about your sexuality. I am so very sorry that happened to you. That kiss should have been a private moment. The reason I’m reaching out is, my friend is responsible for the profile section of the paper, and she is always looking for new people to highlight. If you were interested, I would be happy to pass your name along to her. It could be a chance to regain control of your own narrative? You could rest assured that the utmost care would be taken around the topic of your sexuality and private life. She would only share what you feel comfortable with.

I spend a whole day thinking about that message before I send a reply. I’m not sure. I think I’m happy to talk? But would it be possible to see the piece before it’s published?

Her reply comes through quickly. I’m sure we can arrange that.

The thing is, I’m scared to death. I’m scared that agreeing to an article might expose me to more abuse, and I’m scared that if the article says the wrong thing it might trigger the royal family into getting me farther away from Rose, and I’m scared that if I say nothing at all, people will fill in the blanks about me, and I won’t like the story they assign on my behalf.

But what I do know is that the media and the tabloids have used me as a chess piece in their war against Rose for months now. I’m so sick of hiding from it and hoping it goes away while article after article calls me all kinds of names, and speculates on what I do in private, and what kind of person I am. If I keep letting them talk about me, instead of to me, nothing’s going to change. I don’t know what’ll happen if I make a move for once. But at least it will be my move. At least, if people hate me, they’ll hate me for something I can actually own, instead of nasty things they heard about me from some bully.

Hiding and trying not to bother anybody won’t stop people from talking about me. Maybe I didn’t learn that lesson the first time I was meant to learn it, last year. But I think, maybe, I finally have.

Like Rose said. If I don’t take a step, I’ll stay where I am forever.

When I’m called out of class by the headmaster’s personal assistant on Monday morning, instead of assuming he’s finally checking in on my well-being after being outed a week ago, my first thought is he’s found out I’m working with a columnist on an article.

He’s waiting for me when I arrive, wearing all black, suit, shirt, and tie. I almost ask him if he’s just been to a funeral or something—because I’m so full of adrenaline I’m losing my entire mind—but I manage to shut myself up just in time.

“Danni, good morning. Take a seat.”

Does he want to tell me I can’t mention the school in the article? Or maybe he wants to shut it down altogether. Or maybe it’s unrelated to that, and the faculty’s been receiving some of the same death threats I’ve been getting or something.

“I apologize for taking more than a week to meet with you regarding the events of last weekend,” he says. “I’m sure you can appreciate, there were some discussions that needed to be had behind the scenes as we took stock of where we stood.”