Maeve shakes her head, but Leesa is already up and out the door.
• • •
As soon as Leesa’s gone, Maeve sits up, opens her laptop and clicks into Google. She stares into space for a moment, then starts hammering keys:
How to kill your friend. How to murder a bully. How to get the best revenge on the worst person in the world.
She won’t do any of it, obviously, but it feels better to look it up than to sit here crying. Fucking Nika Geary. How could she do this? A flashbacknow, to another July day, five or six years earlier. Lying on their stomachs in Nika’s garden, baby oil on their backs like Maeve’s mum used to do when she was their age. Listening to Spotify on Maeve’s phone. Licking Magnums before they melted. Sharing gossip, sharing secrets, sharing everything. How could Nika do this to her? She types again:
How to kill your best friend without being caught.
The first search results bring up a novel, something calledHow to Kill Friends and Get Away with It.
She types again:
How do you kill someone who has a tree-nut allergy? If you stuff nuts in her lunch, will she die? Will the fucking bitch die?
She lets out a breath that turns into a sob just as Greta sticks her head around the door.
“Can I come in?”
A nod. Maeve has never said no to her aunt and she doesn’t now either. She adores Greta, but she’s a tiny bit…intimidated by her. Leesa is much softer, and Susan, bless her, mostly hasn’t a clue. But Greta is strict. She still remembers her mother up at the till in the bookshop in Blackrock a few years ago, about to buy her a copy of Colleen Hoover’sVerity, until Greta tapped Leesa on the shoulder and said it wasn’t suitable for thirteen-year-olds. Of course Leesa put it back on the shelf. Leesa and Susan did everything Greta said, like they were all still kids. It was Greta who talked Leesa out of letting her go to Tribe, the local disco, when she was twelve, and Greta who suggested Snapchat could wait until secondary school, that it only ever led to tears.Nowthere’san I-told-you-so moment if ever there was one, Maeve thinks, rubbing her eyes.
Greta takes the laptop from Maeve’s hands and sets it aside, then sits on the bed.
“Maybe give yourself a breather from screens?”
Maeve’s shoulders hunch lower.
“It’s not the screen causing the problem, it’s the people behind the screens.”
Greta gives a non-committal nod and Maeve waits for the “back in our day” speech. But she goes a different route.
“That little weapon, Nika, is in my hockey camp. Want me to stick my leg out and trip her up?”
Maeve laughs in spite of herself. “Yes, please.” Then in a quiet voice, “I hate her.”
Greta pats her knee. “I know. Me too.”
Maeve eyes her. “I thought you and Mum always said we should never hate anyone?” She mimics her mum. “ ‘Hate’ is too strong a word, just say ‘dislike.’ ”
“I’m making an exception for Nika.” Her voice softens. “Maeve, this will pass. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but something new will come along and they’ll all forget it. And, just to say, having a crush—”
Maeve shoots her hand up. “Stop, no. Please.”
Oh god, if Greta starts telling her about her own schoolgirl crushes she will literally climb out of bed, walk over to her window and throw herself out.
“OK. Your mum is worried about you.”
“What am I supposed to do? I’m sorry Mum is worrying, but there’s only so much I can handle right now.”
“I know, I know.” She looks around the room with what appears to be fake nonchalance. Then she pats the pocket of her hoodie. “Damn, I left my tablets downstairs. Maeve, will you be an absolute doll and get them for me?”
Maeve stares at her. Why is Greta making her go when she could getthem herself? It’s either to get Maeve to go downstairs so Leesa can trap her into eating, or it’s so Greta can have a proper snoop in her room, making sure she doesn’t have seventeen packets of paracetamol stashed under her pillow. She wants to say no. If it was her mother, she’d say no. But she’s never talked back to Greta in her life, and today is not that day, apparently. Politeness wins, and she swings her legs out of bed.
“What are the tablets called and where are they?” she asks, injecting negative levels of enthusiasm into her voice.
“Naltrexone, in my bag, hanging on a kitchen chair. Thanks, Maeve.”
