Hastily adding the words ‘don’t tell anyone’ after discussing an overheard conversation during third period is a pretty risky move. Especially since Catherine’s biggest secret was leaked last term, which resulted in her attending four weeks of counselling and three girls who refuse to speak to her.
What usually begins as harmless talk always gushes into an incessant flow of spiteful rumours. Currently, I know Stacy’s weaving fabricated lies about me and intertwining her closest friends into it. Probably still jealous from last year’s dance competition – who knows? Obviously, Mia told me, so the gossip’s still in its early stages: classified, highly confidential, MI6 type information; incredibly dangerous if it ends up in the wrong hands. Or rather, mouth. According to Mia, Stacy told Catherine that I’m super ‘clingy’ and ‘annoying’.
I wish I could pretend it doesn’t irritate me, but, really, I don’t quite know how to feel. After I found out, the shock and disbelief simmered to rage under my skin, humiliation searing through my blood. Don’t tell anyone?
I had every right to tell who I wanted to. It wasn’t revenge – more like my way of balancing out the injustice. Olivia sat near Stacey in third period. She probably heard as well. As for me, I simply dropped a couple remarks throughout the day. Stacey’s new haircut? Tacky. Her bag? Basic. If she can drag others’ reputation through dirt, so can I. Somehow, by lunch, multiple opinions had been reconstructed to fit different versions. I heard people comparing, interpreting. The location changed. Somebody talked in the changing rooms. Six more people knew. Stacey’s motives changed. A new character was introduced altogether. Apparently, it was now Amy’s fault for ghosting Stacy and leaving her upset.
By the end of the week, what had really happened slowly evolved into a twisted figment of reality, gnarled with revenant, haunting grudges which never quite settled in their graves and tainted with false accusations which encroached like mould upon the distorted truth. People only took the elements of truth that would defend their opinions. The lethal venom from their stinging lies infused the rest, until there simply wasn’t enough truth left to sustain it.
Meanwhile, I was hit hard with the repercussions. The first round of bullets was brutal, and the ones after that only got worse. People wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t talk to me. One by one, my friends would retreat to some corner and huddle together, throwing accusatory glances in my direction. My cautious approach cast a hushed silence over all of them as they quickly fiddled with their uniform, cleared their throat, adjusted their uniform.
Two weeks later and the original truth is still buried under lies. But it felt good to listen to, right? I mean, it kept you hooked right up until the very last sentence and you didn’t question it once. Was Mia on my side? And the part about Amy?
I guess you’ll never know how much of that was real…