What's a Girl Gotta Do? (23 page)

thirty-nine

I woke late. My tongue fuzzy and my head heavy from last night's champagne.

Ouch. Bollocks. Ouch. I looked at my phone – I had less than half an hour before I needed to be at college for my special Cambridge training session.

Ouch. Bollocks. Ouch.

There was no time to wash my hair, so I scraped it back into a bun and dedicated the rest of my short amount of time to shoving on eyeliner and demolishing a banana. Then I flew out the door, in a whirlwind of bag and sheets of paper and clattering, glad Mum and Dad were already at work so they couldn't tell me off for being late.

I ran to college – head down, to avoid any new bus posters or other sexist items I really didn't have the time to object to.

Then I remembered…

I was in the national papers this morning…

Me. My face. My story…

But all I had time for was a quick pause and a moment to think how delightfully mad that was before I had to carry on running again.

Also, my thoughts were filled with other confusing things. I liked Will. Somehow, despite all my resistance. I really liked Will. He'd vanished last night in a way that suggested he'd sensed that I liked him.

And running away from it told me everything I needed to know.

But enough. The bell was ringing and I was still five minutes away from class on the wrong side of campus and HELLO – Cambridge interview. This was everything I was working towards, this was everything I wanted…I think.

I would not let a fit guy in spectacles, and the fact I was now a TV sensation, ruin that.

Everyone whispered as I pushed through other late students in the halls – some familiarish faces yelling, “I saw you on the telly!” and, “You were great!” I smiled but carried on dashing to class, trying to ignore the not-so-nice looks I was also getting. Finally, when I'd run to the point of hardly breathing, sweat all over my face, removing half my winter clothes as the blasting heat from the radiators hit my damp body, I got to the classroom and bashed through the door.

The quietness of the room hit me like several brick walls compared to my inner stressing.

“Welcome, Lottie,” said Mr Packson in a deadpan voice. “You're late. So you're not getting into Cambridge.”

He turned to the other four people in the room. Three boys I didn't know and a girl I vaguely recognized from my economics class. “It goes without saying that, if you turn up late to your interview, you're not going to make the best of impressions. Leave plenty of time. You and your parents may even want to stay overnight in a hotel beforehand to save worries about traffic on the motorway.”

“Sorry,” I panted. “I overslept.”

“At least come up with a lie, Lottie,” he laughed, gesturing to an empty chair which I fell into gratefully. “And I can't wait to hear why you weren't at college yesterday but we can discuss that afterwards.”

His laughter had stopped and he'd got his very best angry face out of the cupboard. Uh-oh. He was mad. Quick, Lottie, throw him.

I looked right at him. “I was on the television,” I said. “I bunked off because I was invited to go on television.” Then I beamed at him, and he grinned back quickly, despite himself, before fixing me with another glare. The others stared or glared at me. I couldn't figure out which. I took my water bottle out and sucked on it hard while Mr Packson brought the attention back to him.

“Right” – he clapped his hands – “the interview process. Now, you've probably heard rumours about how hard it is. And sorry, folks, but those rumours are true. That's why we're here…”

Half an hour later and my brain was melting as I tried to keep all the new information in. Mr Packson had done a lecture, then made us practise our questions and answers on each other, and now he was giving us his final top tips.

It was going to be hard.

I'd always known it was going to be hard, but I'd just sort of assumed it would be fine, that I'd be able to handle it. I mean, I always got top marks.

But, as Mr Packson kept pointing out, we'd be up against all the other brightest students from all the other schools in the country. Essentially, at Cambridge I wouldn't be bright. I'd be average.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that…

I couldn't not get in. I couldn't, Mum and Dad would go nuts. And it was what I wanted, wasn't it? It was what we'd always had planned. I'd worked so hard, and yes, I'd let things slide these past two weeks or so, but I was well over halfway through this project now. And it would all be finished by the time I had to put on my best posh weird suit thing Mum had bought especially and go charm my way in.

The girl, who I'd learned was called Agatha, put her hand up. “So you're saying that some of them may ask us questions that they KNOW we don't know the answers to, like, deliberately?”

Mr Packson nodded. “Yes, to try and throw you. To see how you're able to think analytically, even without all the facts.”

I put my hand up.

“Yes, Lottie?”

“That's not very nice of them.”

I could see him struggle not to smile again. “This isn't about being nice, Lottie. This is about getting into one of the most prestigious academic institutions in the world.”

“No excuse for bad manners.”

He put his hands to the pressure points at the side of his eyes.

“What are we going to do with you?” I beamed harder and he carried on. “They will, potentially, ask you very obscure questions on things you're unlikely to know about. Last year, a student of ours wanting to read English Literature got asked about Sigmund Freud's early works, which is obviously a totally different subject. Your correct response to these questions?” He clapped his hands. “Be honest. Say very simply, ‘I don't know' first. Cover yourself, don't try and blag it, that's what they're looking out for. Then try and answer the question based on lateral thinking. They're not always expecting you to have the answers, they just want to see what skills you have to figure things out. So this student said, ‘I don't know', but then went on to hazard a pretty good guess based on the small amount she did know about Freud.”

I put my hand up again.

“Yes, Lottie?” he asked wearily.

“So they deliberately ask us questions they know we don't know, to try and get us to admit to them we don't know the answer?”

“Umm…yes.”

I pulled a face. “What bell-ends.”

The other four looked at me like I'd just blasphemed. Even Mr Packson looked like he'd had enough.

“Lottie, let's have a chat at the end of this session, shall we?”

After a few more practice rounds, everyone else collected up their stuff and left. The bell hadn't rung yet, we'd finished about ten minutes early. My mouth was still dry from a slight hangover and I'd already downed all my water. By the look of Mr Packson's face though, I wasn't going to be allowed to go refill my bottle any time soon.

“Take a seat, Lottie.” He pulled a chair up to his desk.

I slumped down and fixed him with my best look. “I'm sorry about yesterday. I got all the calls from the media on Sunday, I didn't have time to ring the office…” I trailed off when he put his hand up.

“We'll get to that later. Let's just start with how today's session went.” He rustled some papers, then put them down and fixed me with a very steady stare.

“What about it?”

“It's your attitude, Lottie. Umm…well…are you sure you
want
to get into Cambridge?”

I found myself nodding before I'd even let the question sink in, such was my instinct to say yes.

“Of course I do! Why?”

It was everything – it opened the doors. The doors I needed to smash through – to get to the places, the places where you were in a position to change things…

“It's just – well – these places. Cambridge…Oxford… They're very well-established…establishments, I guess, for want of a better word. They're incredible places to study, don't get me wrong, but there can be some people there with a snobby attitude…and I guess I'm worried. Well, Lottie, come on…” He was smiling. “You're not very good at sucking up when you need to, are you?”

I stayed quiet for a moment, so I could digest what he'd said.

“You think I won't get in?”

He didn't say “yes” straight away, and my heart picked up its pace. No no no no. I had to get in, I had to, I had to. It was the plan. It had been ingrained in me for so long that I didn't even know what the alternative was.

“Well, you know your grades are excellent. Your extracurricular activities…they won't be put off by FemSoc, I don't think… As long as you don't rant at them in the interview. And you've obviously won all those prizes…”

I blushed. Not many people knew that. But when I was at my old posh school I'd been entered into all sorts of competitions – essay-writing ones, maths ones… I always won… I had the trophies stashed somewhere in my room in a box… I just didn't like telling anybody, in case they thought I was full of it.

“But they won't like it if you go off-piste in Cambridge interviews. You've got to play the game, Lottie. And I'm not sure, when pressed, if you're capable of that. Once you're in, great. I'm sure they'll celebrate that critical mind of yours. But will you be able to hold your tongue to get in? You know what I mean?”

I could feel the pulse in my neck thud all bulgily,
thud thud thud
, as the blood thumped around my body in panic.

Was he right? If I got a stuffy person and a stupid question, could I let it go? I mean, I'd left my old school and it was plenty like that.

All I'd ever known, all I'd ever been told by my parents, was that going to Cambridge or Oxford sorted you out for life. Yeah, there were exceptions, but everyone knew it opened the doors. It wasn't just about the prestige of the degree – it was the mates you made when you were there, those bonds. Inevitably this bunch of people would grow up and get jobs in all sorts of important places, and you'd all got drunk together in first year and pissed in a punting boat, or whatever it is you do to bond. Those friendships – they changed things.

I wanted those doors opened for me.

Not just for me. I wanted to smash through them, so I could leave them open. To let other people in after me.

Yes – maybe I sound like a wannabe feminist superhero. I guess maybe it was my ego at play a bit. I'm self aware enough to know I've got a hefty ego on me, and you can't feel much better about yourself than when you're changing the world…

“Are you okay?” Mr Packson said, and I realized I hadn't replied.

I picked at a piece of skin that had come loose around my thumb, digging my fingernail into it, trying to rip it.

“Is Cambridge…sexist?” I asked in a very small voice. “Am I… Is it…likely something sexist will happen in my interview?”

Mr Packson's face darkened. “I'd like to say no. Cambridge has a women's officer, they're pretty vocal. And King's College, where you've applied, is very progressive. Cambridge even started running consent workshops for Freshers, did you see? It was on the news a year or two ago?”

I nodded, remembering seeing it.

“But…” he continued, running his hands through the little hair he had left. “Those are the students – they're much more with the times. You may find, on your interview…the board that are talking to you…well…as I said…they're unlikely to appreciate you being a maverick. Yes, it may be only men who interview you. There are more male professors than female professors, I'm afraid.”

I opened my mouth, but said nothing. I closed it again.

Mr Packson tried to smile. “I saw you in the paper this morning.” His voice was softer.

“I've not seen it yet. I overslept. We were celebrating… being on TV yesterday.”

“Yes. Everyone was talking about it in the staffroom. They said you did well.”

I couldn't help but fill up with pride then.

“This project though. Does it run into the date of your interview?”

I shook my head. “No. It's the week after.”

I could see he was visibly relieved. “Ahh, well, maybe it will be okay then.”

All my thoughts were crowding in on my brain, bashing and pushing into one another. Trying to get my attention.

“I'm not going to stop calling out things that are wrong the moment this project is finished,” I said.

We were startled by the bell ringing. It was always so shrill. I had art with Amber and Megan next. The bell jogged Mr Packson into action and he started collecting up his papers.

“I know, Lottie,” he said. “But maybe this one day, this one interview… Perhaps you could let it slide? Pick your battles, you know?”

That's what I'd planned to do. But hearing him say it out loud made me feel all peculiar, like I'd suddenly eaten something funny.

“We'll see.”

forty

I hadn't looked at my phone since I'd woken up and when I glanced at it on my way to art, I had about ten billion notifications. Just as I was about to start opening them, I spotted Amber down the corridor.

“Lottie!” She waved. Her face was…odd… Pinched, but with a smile. “You're here! I've been messaging you.”

We caught up with each other and walked to class in step.

“So? Have you seen the news stories?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No! I drank too much bloody champagne and overslept. What are they like? Is it all good?”

Amber hesitated before she nodded, moving out the way for a group of stoners heading in our direction. One of them, Guy, the druggie prick who'd messed Evie around last year, turned as I stood aside to let them pass.

“WOAH – YOU'RE THE GIRL FROM THE TV!” One of his mates pointed at me like I was some kind of exhibit.

Guy – who I'd hung around with for a LOT of last year because of Evie – laughed in my face. “Watch out, dudes, it's the FemiNAZI,” he said, like we were strangers. They all creased up and made the Hitler salute.

“Grow up,” I told them, pushing past.

It didn't bother me, much. Well – it's not every day people compare you to Hitler but, umm, still.

“What is it, Amber?” I said, when they were behind us. “You hesitated. Are the newspaper stories bad?”

We'd vetted the journalists so carefully, and they'd seemed really on my side yesterday. I mean, yes, they were still journalists…but…

She smiled. “The stories were fine, you came across all smart and awesome as always.” Amber pushed through the double doors of our art room with her back and I followed her in. We walked over to our usual spot.

Megan was already sitting down, paintbrush in hand.

“All right? How's the hangover, Lottie?”

“Hey, Megs. It's okay actually. Apart from Amber here is freaking me out a little.”

Amber crashed into her seat. “It's fine. It's nothing.”

“So why is your worried face out?” I sat down on my chair, avoiding looking at my canvas. Our topic for this term was “Passion”, and I'd been attempting to make a photomontage/painting/3D thingy of all the women in history I admired. But, right now, it was only half-done and looked a mess.

Amber paused.

“Tell me…”

“It's just… Have you seen your phone? Have you been on our channel?”

“Not yet. I overslept and then I had this meeting… But it's been buzzing like crazy…why?”

“It's just…well… I guess I can show you.”

Megan and I raised our eyebrows at each other in a
what's-up-with-her?
way, while Amber got out her phone and pulled up the news stories. Saffron, our teacher, was late as usual. I leaned over eagerly, trying to see what they'd done, the headlines they'd used for me, whether my hair looked okay.

“Ohhh, it looks GOOD!” Megan squealed, looking over my shoulder. And my tummy started to fizz. It did look pretty good…

“Yeah, I told you. The stories are FAB. It's just well… I guess it starts with the comments.” Amber scrolled down to the bottom of the story, and I saw there were over two thousand comments.

“Oh my God, two THOUSAND? Don't people have better things to do?” I joked, but I felt instantly sick with apprehension. Comments sections under news stories weren't good – especially comments under news stories about feminism. Sure enough, looking over Amber's shoulder, the top one read:

What about men's rights? Does this silly teenager even think about those? We have less access to our children, our life expectancy is lower. But no, let's just focus all our attention on WOMEN – because that's equality, right?

It wasn't even that bad. It was to be expected…but still the fizzing in my stomach soured and white-hot anger coursed through me instead.

“Has he not read what I said?” My fists clenched in on themselves. “Did he ignore the bits where I said about how sexism impacts all genders? Did he not watch the video where I had a go at people using the phrase ‘man up'?
”

Amber winced behind her mass of hair.

“Hang on,” I said, butting her shoulder out of the way. “What's that say?” I read it out loud.
“This comment has been removed because it breaks moderating guidelines.
And there's another one. And another… Why are they all being removed?”

I was starting to guess though. Things had to be quite nasty to get removed by a newspaper's moderating team… The fizz that had become anger now morphed into anxiety. My guts had no idea what to do next.

“I, umm…well… Your story's getting a lot of attention – which is great!” Megan said, but the brightness in her voice was so forced I'm surprised she didn't snap an artery.

“The downside is,” Amber finished for her, “umm…as a side effect, you've drawn out some trolls.”

Trolls.

My phone.

I dived into my coat pocket and got it out, bringing up my accounts. I had more notifications than could even work on the counter. My vision went hazy. Maybe they'd be nice things? Maybe maybe…

I clicked on my notification page, and straight away my hand went to my mouth.

U R a slut bitch. Hope u burn.

Angry bitches like u deserve 2 get raped. Watch your back.

You gonna hollar when Im raping u whore?

Amber was looking over my shoulder now – she gripped me tight.

“Lottie…oh Lottie…it's stupid. Just ignore it.”

I was scrolling madly, hardly able to hear her. All my senses were on alert – the room seemed bigger, the noises of students seemed louder, my ears hurt, my eyes hurt. I kept scrolling.

Amber gripped tighter. “Lottie, stop looking at them.”

Bitch I know where u live. Watch it.

“Can they really know where I live?” I asked, somewhat desperately. “They didn't put my address in the story.”

“LOTTIE!” Amber actually grabbed me and shook me. “You need to stop looking at it. Turn your phone off!”

“She's right,” Megan said. “This is just what happens when a feminism story gets in the news. I mean, it's horrible, don't get me wrong. But it's normal. None of these comments mean anything! They're just trying to silence you because you're standing up for something good.”

Their words floated above me, not quite landing. Then they sank in, and I felt so terrified about what I needed to do next that I almost forgot to breathe.

“Lottie? Lottie? You're not talking. You're never not talking!” Amber said.

“Guys?” I looked up at them, tears in my eyes. My hands shook on my phone. “I can't ignore it – it's sexism.” I gasped for breath, looking at the door, our teacher still AWOL. “I have to reply to them, I have to call them out. It's the rules of the project…”

Amber's eyes widened. “Lottie, no! You'll make it so much worse.”

“She's right,” Megan said. “This is surely outside the project remit. Don't feed the trolls, remember? It's what everyone says.”

I ignored them and looked down at my phone again. I'd already received ten more notifications. Only two of them said nice stuff. The others were horrific. I hit
reply
to one and began punching in some words.

“Lottie, what are you doing?”

“What do you think I'm doing? What's the battery like on your phones? Megan, can you film me replying to them? Otherwise Will will get annoyed.”

They looked at me like I'd gone completely bonkers. Maybe I had. But I'd made a promise to myself and I was in the newspaper because of it. I couldn't turn back on it now.

You are a sexist pig.

I hit send.

Could they really find my house? Was I really in danger?

I copied and pasted what I'd just written and fired it off to the other people threatening me. Bish bash bosh.

“Look!” I pointed at my phone. “Some people are favouriting my reply!”

“Lottie…” Amber's eyes were filled with tears. “Please, stop.”

“You know what?” I asked, feeling full of energy, feeling on edge, feeling mad… “I don't think I have time for classes today. Not if I have to reply to all this scum…”

“Please, Lottie. Come on, let's talk about this.”

“Lottie, you can't let them get to you,” Megan said.

“I may just skip today and go home. This is going to be a full-time job,” I replied, mostly to myself.

“You bunked off yesterday. Lottie, stop hitting reply! This won't help anything.”

“I DON'T HAVE ANY CHOICE!” I yelled and the art room fell silent, as the whole class turned to look at me. One girl, this snotty girl we'd never liked, stage-whispered in her friend's ear, “Oh, look, it's the attention seeker again. Pathetic much?”

Attention seeker?

My phone was vibrating so hard it was making my hand itchy and hot.

I wasn't an attention seeker. I was just trying to do a good thing. A righteous thing. It was only a month, then I'd leave everyone alone.

Fifteen new notifications. People had begun to repost my replies. They were spreading through the internet like wildfire wearing posh running trainers.

I stood up. “I'm going to go,” I told the girls. “Will you tell Saffron I'm not feeling well?”

“Lottie, please. Stay. I can't follow you. Especially after yesterday. You know my attendance is down since I got tonsillitis. I'm almost below eighty per cent…” Amber said.

I smiled warmly at her, though by her shudder, it came out more manic than I'd intended.

“You stay put. I'm fine. I'm just going to go home and work on this. I'm totally fine.”

“Lottie?” Megan asked uncertainly. “Come on, sit down. Talk it through with us.”

“Lottie! Lottie? Lottie?!”

But I was already marching out of the door, just as Saffron came in.