Everybody knew about Rebekah. And I’m not just talking about the kids who went to our school. My former best friend, Michelle, had this older brother who worked at the IMAX theatre over on Castle Street, and he told us the staff all recognized her from this one summer when she watched an animated film about horses every day for six weeks straight, free of charge.
“How come she got in free?” I asked.
Michelle’s brother shrugged. “Guess the ticket guy felt sorry for her.”
This is a shitty thing to admit, but I liked having Rebekah around. Y’know, before I found out what happened to the people that wound up on her naughty list. Because of her, my goofy buck teeth flew under the radar. Bullies were WAY more interested in the girl who wore mismatched clothes and growled like an animal anytime the teachers asked her a question.
This one group picked on her non-stop—even jumped her in the park after school one afternoon and tore up her art piece. The Queen B of that troop was called Kelly. Before the incident, Kelly considered herself Insta-famous. Her bio used to say, ‘model and singer’, which was complete horse shit. Only her stupid cronies liked her singing. Or pretended to, at least. Go through her old TikTok’s and you’ll see comments from them swearing she’d be the next Billie Eilish, even though she sounded like a cat getting strangled with a leather belt.
Rebekah and I accidentally became friends because of Creepy Karl. Karl worked at our school as a caretaker, and he used to do this thing where he’d knock on the bathroom door and say, “Anybody in here?” right as he stepped inside. That way, if he caught a glimpse of anything, he could play it off like a mistake.
Even after half the school signed a petition to get him fired the slimeball kept his job, although Rebekah fixed that problem. Because of her he had to take what’s called ‘medical retirement’.
Anyway, late one evening after poetry club, I was washing my hands in the bathroom when Karl pushed his cart through the door, this big ugly grin plastered across his face. He went back and forth across the tiles using a mop, his ass pushed all the way to the wall so anybody who wanted in or out would literally have to rub against up him.
As I stood there nervous about what to do, the middle stall toilet flushed, then out popped Rebekah.
Straight away Karl started wiping a mirror, whistling casually all innocent like. I waited for Rebekah to finish washing up and then we left together.
The very next day, she handed out invitations to her birthday party. They looked like somthing a little kid would make–think clown pictures and balloon-style lettering. Most girls in our class celebrated their sweet 16’s at The Filthy Onion (that’s this dinky little bar where the doormen NEVER check I.D.s, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody older than 21 in there).
Anyway, Rebekah dished out these invites all around school. The problem was getting caught at her party would be social suicide. The idea of her sitting around all day, completely alone, made me feel queasy. I kinda felt like I had to go. She did rescue me from Karl, after all. Besides, not so long ago that had been me, because when I first moved here, I had nobody to invite to my birthday party either.
I tried to get my then-bf, James, and Michelle to tag along. Thinking back, it’s no wonder they said no. They were a really shitty boyfriend/best friend. James had already cheated on me this one time when he kissed a blonde girl on the dance floor in the Filthy Onion (I forgave him because it was his first-time drinking White Claw) whereas Michelle was really, really selfish. A thief once stole my handbag which had my iPhone and air pods inside, and she wouldn’t stop complaining about her £2.50 lip balm which also JUST HAPPENED to be in there.
Anyway, the day of the party, I cycled over to Rebekah’s place. Her face lit up as she pulled open the door.
The house was a mess, but not, like, a crazy mess. You wouldn’t see it on hoarders or anything.
In the lounge, a stereo played quiet classical music. A ton of food had been laid out on a long table—way more than just two people could eat. But there was literally no one else around. Rebekah wasn’t popular, but you’d at least expect her parents to show up at SOME point.
While eating chocolate cake and fizzy cola bottles, the two of us got talking. Rebekah told me she wanted to be an artist, I told her I’d like to become a writer.
“Your stories are always amazing,” she said, enthusiastically. “That’s why Ms. Duffield always gets you to read them out in class. I liked the one about the girl who got lost in a forest.”
I was surprised she remembered that. I wrote it a really long time ago.
When I asked to see some of her drawings, she raced across the room to fetch a sketchbook and said, “I’ve got a better idea, give me something to draw.”
“Like what?”
“Like anything.”
“Okay…a horse.”
Her hand flew across the pad. Less than sixty seconds later, she said ‘done’ and showed me a SUPER life-like sketch of a horse drinking from a river.
“That’s amazing,” I said, then reached over to grab the pad, eager to see some more of her work.
Quickly Rebekah cradled it tight against her chest, her expression suddenly serious. I didn’t think much of that reaction, since I sometimes got funny about people reading my stories.
Over the next few hours, we got to know each other pretty well. Really, once you got past the occasional animal sound, Rebekah wasn’t as weird as people said. She did drop a few lines about how wonderful I was that sounded slightly creepy, but only slightly.
Around six, she gave me a parting hug at the front door, and I went away all pleased with myself, my good deed done for the year.
I had no idea about the disaster headed my way.
The trouble started Monday morning when the birthday girl came and sat beside me during registration. Straight away other students gave us funny looks. Rebekah talked about the party, her mouth going a mile a minute as she told me how much fun she had.
That day, she sat next to me in every class, even if she meant moving her desk the whole way across the room and clocking an aisle. For some reason, the teachers never complained. At lunch, she followed me into the canteen and waited beside me in line, despite the fact she’d brought turkey sandwiches from home.
This went on for weeks. From first period until final bell, the two of us stayed joined at the hip. And it didn’t stop there: Rebekah must have stalked me online because whenever I hung out with James or Michelle—whether the three of us went to the cinema, gigs, or the park—she turned up out of nowhere, acting like part of the group. For some reason, this little ball of guilt deep in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t let me cut her off. I wasn’t totally sure why.
She acted all clingy. Insanely so. As in, she’d unload a barrage of messages if she didn’t hear from me for a few hours until I finally called her back, even if I didn’t really feel like it.
My so-called friends didn’t engage with her much; they called Rebekah social poison and canceled plans last minute just to avoid her. It was a shitty thing to say, but technically true. Every time people saw the two of us together my popularity took a hit. Within one month I became the second least popular girl at school.
All of a sudden, bullies started lining me up in their sights.
One Wednesday during study period, Kelly and her cronies sat around the table directly behind Rebekah and me. As her royal highness finished a toe-curdling rendition of ‘Royals’, I rubbed my throbbing temples and muttered, “Finally.”
Straight away Kelly spun round and, in her best Bugs Bunny impression, said, “Eh, what’s up doc?”
My front teeth hit puberty six years before the rest of my mouth, so the rabbit jokes started coming thick and fast the second Rebekah and I became friends.
Kelly and I got right in each other’s faces and wrestled around. At some point she grabbed me into in a headlock, her fake nails gouging my cheek, then a teacher appeared and calmed things down.
From across the room, Kelly held up a carrot, nibbled at it, and asked if I wanted some.
Upset by all the laughter, I ran outside around the back of the bike sheds and cried. Rebekah followed me and listened carefully while I ranted about my hatred of Kelly—about how she thought she was better than everyone because of her so-called ‘Insta-fame’.
“I wish there was a way to make her shut up,” I muttered, knees hugged into my chest.
Without saying a word, Rebekah grabbed the sketchbook out of her pack and spent a few minutes scribbling furiously. As she flipped the cover back and slipped it into her bag, I could have sworn I glimpsed a drawing of a girl who looked like Kelly.
Ten minutes later, as we settled into fifth-period Geography, an ambulance pulled up out front. Despite Mr. Gowdy’s protests, the whole class rushed toward the window side of the room, packed shoulder to shoulder, and watched paramedics wheel the school’s aspiring model/singer away on a stretcher.
Several WhatsApp groups confirmed Kelly bit through her own tongue. There was so much blood they had to close the study hall for three days so they could sterilize the carpet.
We later found out surgeons at the city hospital, probably unaware of the terror they’d inflict upon any living creature unfortunate enough to have ears, successfully reattached Kelly’s mouth organ, but then the second the anesthesia wore off she woke up and chomped through it again.
Last I heard, she was under psychiatric care 24/7. Kids around the school agreed the pressure of being an influencer made her snap.
The incident became a popular excuse for missed homework, unexplained absences, and failed tests. James and Michelle even used it to deflect blame when I caught them making out behind the dumpsters one time, after they didn’t turn up at the front gate to walk home with me.
“What the fuck?” I screamed.
Going on the offensive, they insisted their cheating was my fault—that I’d spent so much time with Rebekah they felt neglected and needed each other’s help processing what happened.
I stormed into the bathroom, sealed myself in the middle stall, and bawled my eyes out.
It wasn’t long before a male voice shouted, “Anybody in here?”
OF COURSE the scumbag appeared at that EXACT moment.
I waited in the cramped stall, not making a single sound, for what felt like hours. Eventually, I undid the latch and made a b-line for the exit.
As I passed a wet floor sign, creepy Karl grabbed at my chest. “Watch out, those tiles are all slippery, you might fall.”
Skirting his tentacles, I quickly sidestepped through the door.
A very concerned Rebekah found me in the corridor. Noticing my red, puffed-up eyes, she asked what happened.
I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I felt embarrassed that I’d gotten cheated on, so I only told her Karl tried to grope me. Immediately she pulled out her sketchbook and went to work.
She slipped the pad and pencil into her bag. A few seconds later, I heard screams from the end of the hall. A tidal wave of students charged in the direction of the sounds.
I couldn’t see what all the commotion was about from behind the crowd, but this little freckly kid told me the caretaker doused his own eyes with an entire bottle of bleach. He’d staggered out of the girl’s bathroom, blind and begging for help.
I thought back to Kelly—to how Rebekah sketched her right before she bit off her tongue.
I faced my friend and studied her expression. The way she smirked, it looked like she alone knew some wonderful secret.
Before she could react, I snatched the pad away and saw a picture of Karl, head tilted back as he poured a dark liquid into his own eyes.
Immediately I tossed aside the pad and sprinted all the way home.
I faked being sick to stay off school the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. What if I accidentally upset Rebekah? Would she hurt me like the others?
Avoiding her became more and more difficult: she called non-stop and sent a bazillion messages until, finally, mom marched into the room holding the house phone, eyes glazed over. “It’s your best friend.”
I swallowed a gulp and held the receiver to my ear.
“Is everything okay?” Rebekah asked, her voice all nervous. Funny how she sounded nervous.
“Yeah. I just haven’t felt up to going to school.”
“Because of me?” she asked.
My pulse skyrocketed. If I said yes, would she draw me as punishment?
“No.” Quickly scrambling for an excuse—any excuse–I said, “It’s just…I caught Michelle and James kissing.”
“Really?” she asked, shocked.
“I’ve been depressed about it is all. That’s why I was crying in the bathroom that day. But I’ll be okay.”
After a brief pause, she said she hoped I felt better soon, then hung up.
The next morning, Dad literally tipped me out of bed and drove me to school, saying I’d already fallen too far behind.
In first-period Maths, at the very back of the room, Rebekah took a seat beside me. There was no point avoiding her. I couldn’t hide forever.
After taking an extra-long breath, I said, “Okay…tell me what happened with Karl.”
“I made him blind himself,” she answered, casually.
“You…made…him?”
She nodded. “I can make people do whatever I want. Watch.”
She lay her sketchpad across the desk and drew the whole class, except for us.
The second her pencil went down the teacher’s voice trailed off, then everybody reached beneath their tables, grabbed wads of the gum previous students had stuck under there YEARS ago, stuffed said wads into their mouths, and started chewing.
“See?” she said, beaming.
I swallowed the huge lump that had suddenly formed in my throat. “So…Kelly…does that mean you?”
Rebekah flicked back a few pages, toward a drawing of Kelly on stage, a severed tongue in her left hand.
“But if you can make people do things, why not make everybody act…nicer to you?”
“Whatever people said never bothered me.” She thought for a moment. “Well, except my parents. What they said bothered me. But then I saw people hurting you, and that upset me. I think you’re really, really special. And I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“So…you only drew Kelly and Karl because they hurt me?”
“Yep. Same with James and Michelle.”
It suddenly dawned on me neither of my former companions turned up for registration that morning. “…James and Michelle?”
“When you told me they’d kissed, I knew I had to do something.” Flicking forward several pages, past doodles of us hanging out together and another of my mom handing me a phone, Rebekah said, “I don’t think anybody’s found their bodies yet. The principal will probably make some sort of announcement when they do.”
She handed me the sketchpad. “I worked extra hard on this one. Look.”
What she’d drawn, I don’t even wanna describe to you. It looked kinda like a tumor with bits of hair and teeth and the occasional eyeball. Their parents are gonna need to arrange a joint funeral. Probably closed casket too.
What was there to say? If I insulted Rebekah’s artwork, she might have added a picture of me to her collection. My only option was to continue acting like her friend and hope to stay out of her sketchbook. Forever.
Now on the verge of throwing up, I forced a smile, handed back her pad, and said, “Becks, I think that’s your…best”—the word took a second to slide up my throat—”piece yet.”