don't friend me

By Khyiah Angel

This award-winning (Aust Society of Authors Mentorship Award) YA novel is an evocative tale about the way in which social media diverts and dictates the interpersonal communication of teens. It is a raw & engaging story that speaks directly to 21st-century friendship and the challenges it presents. A must-read book for anyone who uses social

• Language: English
• Publisher: Typology Publishing
• Release date: Jan 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994477613

Khyiah Angel

Khyiah Angel is an Australian author. She began her career as a High School teacher in the Blue Mountains area of New South Wales. She spent some years in the country in the south-east of the state before moving to Sydney in 2009 to take up a job in the public service. She hated it and resigned after a few months. She now writes full-time. Writing fiction is her first love, but teaching writing and cybersafety pays the bills. Khyiah is a 2010 recipient of the Australian Society of Authors Mentorship for her novel Fake Profile, has recently completed her second novel and is now working on her third, all of which are for the young adult market. She has undergraduate degrees in Education; History, Philosophy & Politics; and Masters degrees in Gender Studies; and Creative Writing. She is currently completing her PhD in Creative Writing.

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don’t friend me

Khyiah Angel

Typology Publishing

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

Copyright © Khyiah Angel 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten percent of the book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Typology Publishing

Sydney, Australia

Email: [e-mail]

Web: typologypublishing.com.au

Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

from the National Library of Australia.

www.trove.nla.gov.au

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover design ©2015 by Bill Elia

ISBN 978-0-9944776-1-3

Contents

Chapter 1 Sophie

Chapter 2 Sophie

Chapter 3 Sophie

CHAPTER 4 Sophie

CHAPTER 5 Mitch

Chapter 6 Sophie

chapter 7 Sophie

chapter 8 Sophie

CHAPTER 9 Mitch

chapter 10 Mitch

CHAPTER 11 Sophie

chapter 12 Sophie

chapter 13 Sophie

chapter 14 Mitch

Chapter 15 Mitch

chapter 16 Sophie

chapter 17 Sophie

chapter 18 Mitch

chapter 19 Sophie

chapter 20 Mitch

chapter 21 Sophie

chapter 22 Sophie

CHAPTER 23 Mitch

chapter 24 Sophie

chapter 25 Mitch

Chapter 26 Sophie

EPILOGUE Mitch

Chapter 1

Sophie

I DON’T KNOW HOW it got to this point. It was never meant to go this far. I can’t even remember how it started, but it just seems so stupid now. It was supposed to be a bit of fun. No one was meant to get hurt. No one was meant to die.

I pace the four by three metre room, random thoughts and images from the past few months flit in and out of my mind. Fear pulses just beneath the surface. My guts are twisted, my legs feel jittery, I can’t believe what’s happened. Can’t believe I’m in this situation. I feel like puking.

I wonder where the others are; wonder what they’re saying. Not that I really care; I just want it all to be over. I wish I could turn back time to before everything started. Back to when we were all still friends, and life was normal.

I flop into one of the three chairs. I pull my knees up under my chin, hug my legs and stare out the small window set high in the wall. Thunderous grey clouds loom beyond the bars. It seems fitting. I wonder how long I’ve been here. Feels like forever.

The door bursts open. I jump. A burly man carrying a clipboard ushers in a woman who walks straight across the room and stands in front of me. Sophie Jacobs?

I nod. They know who I am anyway.

My name is Grace Peterson. They’re ready for you now. I can’t move. My heart begins pounding. I start shaking. Miss Jacobs, you need to come with me. Now.

There is no kindness in her voice. She is cold and bossy, and I am obviously just another client. Dread threatens to drown me and I choke on my tears.

The man, still waiting at the door, beckons with his clipboard. Come on, Sophie, he says. It’s better that you don’t argue with her.

I look past Grace Peterson to where he stands. He’s got gentle eyes despite his frame. I didn’t notice before. I nod and stand up. My legs are wobbly. I walk slowly, but Grace bustles past me and leaves the room first.

Follow me, she says without looking at me. The man marks something on his clipboard and walks down the corridor in the opposite direction. I watch him go. I’d rather follow him than Grace Peterson.

The hallway seems to go forever. My feet are heavy and I wonder how much further it is, and who’s going to be there and what’s going to happen. I wish my parents were here, but I know they won’t come.

Grace Peterson stops in front of one of the many doors that line the hall. She knocks once and opens it without waiting for a response.

Sophie Jacobs, she announces, and then turns to me. In you go.

A man in a suit gets up from behind the desk. He steps around it and holds his hand out toward me.

Hello, Sophie, he says. His handshake is firm, authoritarian. I’m Detective Sergeant Ashford and this is Detective Constable Wainwright.

He indicates the woman sitting at the desk with him. I look across at her. She has lank, mousy hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes are close together. She looks down her big nose at me and nods. I look away.

Sit, barks Grace.

Easy there, Grace, Detective Sergeant Ashford says. Have a seat here, Sophie. Are you okay? Can I get you something to drink? Coke? Coffee? Water?

I shake my head. I don’t think I’d be able to swallow anything.

Okay, well, I’m going to get water for the rest of us. He leaves the room.

I sit. No one says anything. Grace Peterson is staring straight ahead and Detective Constable Wainwright is leafing through a pile of papers on the desk, pausing every now and then to read.

I am invisible. I look down at my hands clasped in my lap and notice that I’m clenching my fingers together so tightly that they’re going blue. I release the grip and start wiggling them. My knuckles crack. Wainwright looks up from her papers and glares at me. I go back to clenching my fists in my lap.

Detective Sergeant Ashford comes back with a jug of water and four polystyrene cups. He sets one in front of me and fills it.

Just in case, he says, with a hint of a smile.

Right, let’s get started, says Detective Wainwright. You know why you are here, Sophie?

I nod.

Ms Peterson is here as your advocate in lieu of your parents.

What? I hope that doesn’t mean she is the one on my side. I sneak a sideways glance at her but she just sits there, expressionless, staring straight ahead. I thought she was just going to escort me. Dammit. I wish my Mum could be here. I fight the sob that’s pushing on the back of my throat, but lose. It bursts out of me in a spluttery cough.

Yes... well, Detective Sergeant Ashford glances over at the ‘advocate’. I wipe my nose with my sleeve. Let’s not worry about that, it’s only because you’re under eighteen that we have to have an advocate in the room. We’re just going to talk, okay?

I nod again.

Now, Sophie, this interview has to involve more than just shaking or nodding your head. This is a very serious business, and we need to know exactly what happened. Do you understand?

Y... yes, I say to my hands. Good. Well, that’s a start, he says.

Do you know Mitchell Jamison? Detective Constable Wainwright is direct.

Yes.

Detective Sergeant Ashford frowns at Wainwright. It seems to me that he doesn’t like her manner much. Nor do I. She is abrupt and a bit mean, like Grace Peterson.

Tell us about Mitchell, Detective Sergeant Ashford says. How long have you known him?

Um, well, I’ve known Mitch since kindergarten. He’s... well, we’re still... kind of... I mean... we’re friends.

I wonder if Mitch knew that I still thought of him as my friend even after it all started. I remember when I met him. It was the first day of school and we were line buddies. It was because of our surnames. The teacher paired the kids alphabetically and Mitch and I were the only ones in our kindy class at school whose last names both started with J. I poked my tongue out at him and he pulled my plait. We’ve been friends ever since.

Friends? Detective Sergeant Ashford raises one eyebrow.

I suppose it does seem strange after everything that has happened. After everything that people said about me.

Sophie, Wainwright pushes an A4 sheet across the table. Tell us about this.

Oh My God! I want to sink into a hole in the ground. I can feel the blood rush into my cheeks and burn a path across my face and down my neck. Where did they get that? The humiliation bubbles just under my skin and makes it feel like it’s crawling. Lucky my parents aren’t here to see it. I reach out to turn it over, but Wainwright beats me to it. She snatches it from my fingers and holds it up for everyone to see.

I fight back tears and look away. I can’t believe I let that stupid cow Brittany talk me into doing it. It had just been for a bit of fun — a dare. The humiliation sinks deep into my gut and battles the brewing anger.

When did you take this photo?

I didn’t take it!

And yet here it is, Wainwright says.

I didn’t take it, I say again. Brittany did.

You don’t look like you are protesting.

I look at the photo. It’s true. I was lying on my stomach looking back over my shoulder smiling and blowing a kiss at the camera; well, not so much smiling as pouting. I was on Brittany’s bed, wearing a black bikini bottom and, well, not much else. It wasn’t real though. It’s not as if you can see anything. We were just mucking around. I wasn’t really into it, but Brittany thought it would be fun to take ‘model shots’ and post them on Facebook. No one argues with Brittany.

Wainwright put the photo of me down on the table. Did you take this one? She placed a photo of Brittany next to it, and one of Lauren next to that, and then one of Natasha.

We took photos of each other that night. All of us. All in similar poses. It was just for fun. I didn’t know what Brittany was going to do with them. Honest. And when I saw mine on Facebook, I took it straight down. I was paranoid that my parents would find out somehow. They probably will now!

I lean forward and let my forehead land on the table with a thump. I can’t look at them anymore. I can’t stand the embarrassment.

Sit up, barks Wainwright. And tell us how these photos came to be.

She is mean. I seriously feel like I’m going to be sick. I can’t tell them. It wasn’t my idea, Brittany started it all.

Sophie, Detective Sergeant Ashford is kinder than his partner is.

How about you start at the beginning?

I lift my head off the table. It feels like it weighs a ton. I use my sleeve to wipe off the wet patch left by snot and tears. Detective Ashford slides a box of tissues across the table to me. I blow my nose and stare into my lap.

I wonder how much they already know. All of us are here at the police station, except Mitch. Poor Mitch. The tears start again. I can’t stop them.

I can’t do this.

I get up out of the chair, but before I can even take a step, Wainwright leaps up.

SIT DOWN.

She scares the life out of me, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Nobody else says anything. I want to leave. I’m pretty sure they can’t keep me here against my will. But I can’t make my legs move. The silence threatens to suffocate me. I can’t breathe.

Sophie, Ashford is much sterner than he has been. You are not under arrest. Yet.

Arrest? Nobody said anything about arrest!

You may leave if you wish, but know this. We will get to the bottom of this mess. We will find out exactly what happened, how it happened and to whom it happened. If we cannot find out exact details, we will fill in the gaps with circumstantial evidence. And we have plenty of that. And then charges will be laid.

My blood turns to ice sending chills through my nerve endings to every part of my body. My knees give way and I collapse onto the floor, powerless to do anything else.

Can they do that? I pull myself back into chair and turn to Grace. Just make stuff up?

Grace Peterson ignores me.

Chapter 2

Sophie

ON THE NIGHT OF the sleepover, Tasha came over to my place in the afternoon and we went over to Brittany’s together. We often had sleepovers at Brittany’s. She was an only child and had a huge bedroom. She also had a rumpus room all to herself, with the biggest screen Smart TV I’ve ever seen outside the cinema, the latest Wii and Playstation, and an iPad pro, as well as her laptop. And her parents mostly left us alone.

That night, we watched a few DVDs and then played SingStar before mucking around with Photobooth on Brittany’s Mac. We all crowded around the 27-inch monitor to take the photos; the weird effects were hilarious.

I’m gonna Instagram these, Brittany said. And share them to Facebook.

I sat on the floor leaning against the wall and leafed through a Cosmo mag. Tasha was swiping through the movie collection on the iPad. Brittany was at the computer posting the photos on her Instagram account.

Let’s put some other stuff up as well, she said.

What do you want to post? Lauren asked, scrolling through the playlists on her iPod.

Dunno...

How about doing a photo shoot? Tasha dropped the iPad she was looking at and jumped up on Brittany’s bed. She put her hands on her hips and turned to the side, looking