She had no idea where the blood on her pink silk shift dress had come from.
She had no idea why was she being exposed to the prying of strangers in their stuffy kitchen.
She had no idea why her head hurt and she was struggling to recall anything more than fearful scraps. Why she had not been able to tell the policeman what else the boy had done, only that 'he had touched her 'there''.
She did know there was dread growing in the pit of her stomach. She did understand that the whole thing was getting out of control. Instinct told her she needed to be somewhere more forgiving, more understanding.
The summer holidays had begun so differently. She had been filled with happy anticipation of sunny days spent with her new mates, maybe at the lido or even hanging out at theirs. She had fitted in much better this year; she had even made the school netball team. New friends, new talents!
The only cloud as far as she could see was that she would not get to see 'him' again until next term. 'He' was her first crush. He was in lower six and so cool. OK so they hadn't spoken yet or anything and he probably didn't even know of her. Yet. Next year . . . next year would be different.
So where had the notion that he was going to invite her to a party during the holidays come from?
Nowhere. It had been a fantasy playing out in her head. A dream she had shared laughing with Mum as she had acted out different dating styles. Trying them on to see what fitted. It was only wishful thinking though, daydreaming. Hadn't she laughed at herself all the while and said she knew she was being silly.
So how come this other boy who lived on the estate called one afternoon with his 'bird' and said that 'he' wanted to know if you fancied going to a party Saturday. What? 'He' wanted to take her to a party? You could have knocked her down with a feather. She was so excited she thought she would explode. Un-bloody-believable!
It had taken three endless days to persuade her sister to lend her that pink silk Biba dress. Mum had faffed about with warnings and do's and don'ts, none of which had filtered through the bubble of nervous anticipation. And then it was the time to go, the other boy had called to collect her, they were meeting him at the chippy in the precinct. She would faint, she was sure of it.
She told the policeman that there were loads of kids in the house and it was very loud. She hadn't been in other people's houses much. She had felt intimidated, totally out of her depth but it was ok she was with him and felt so cool on his arm. A small glass of cider wouldn't hurt would it?
'Come on, it's too loud in here, let's sit on the stairs and talk,' he had said. What else? He had kissed her. What else? His hand had fumbled places she knew shouldn't be fumbled. What else? People kept falling over them to get to the bathroom. What else? She had stumbled home helped by that that other boy. It was cold and dark.
But, she couldn't remember how she got to be in the dark street. She can't have been at the party long. She had no idea how she got so much blood on her dress. Why she looked such a mess.
It is stifling in the kitchen but she daren't move, she just wants to disappear, for everyone to go away and leave her alone. Her head is pounding; panic is rising, where is all this going?
'No sir, I can't remember drinking loads, just a small glass of cider when I got there'.
'No he wouldn't, he's not like that.'
'Mum, please . . . tell him . . . please. Please, don't press charges.'
She calms a little when the policeman goes. He had made her feel dirty. There is still a fearful knot in a stomach that tightens when she sees her parents' pinched faces. A terror that has no name is swirling in her head. She is only thirteen for heaven's sake! What does she know.
But she isn't allowed to hide away in her room. 'He' is now stood in the kitchen, ushered in by his mum and dad. He looks younger, lesser. She feels like a child, embarrassed and lost. She desperately wants to talk to him on her own. Tell him she has pleaded with her parents not to not press charges, tell him she is not a silly little girl, but it's the blood, see, that's all they talk about, the blood.
Through the fog in her head she hears the boy talking softly, faltering at first then quicker. Too quickly, her head is throbbing, she has to lean forward slightly to hear, to understand. He is talking about a drunk, fat kid that had fallen down the stairs on top of them and knocked her head against the wall.
'Bang! She was out cold,' he says. Then there was something about an ex-girlfriend telling him not to use water on the dress 'because it was real silk'. He was telling them that he knew she looked a mess what with all that blood and pus. 'The fat kid's boil had burst when he fell. It must have been the impact or something. We got most of it out of her hair.' He looked up for recognition of this good deed. Nothing. 'The dress was silk.' He shrugged and stopped, like there was no more in him. He was spent and utterly bewildered too.
The grown-ups are conferring amongst themselves now and she got to give the boy a faint apologetic smile, to try and collude with him against the adults. He looked away. There was a lot of sighing and tutting. Adult faces maintaining stern looks holding onto the gravity of the situation . . . This was still a serious matter wasn't it?
Her parents had given in and agreed that it was a good thing that the kids had got her home after she had regained consciousness. And that it was good of his friend to walk her home even though it hadn't been out of his way. They all agreed too that it was a shame he had decided to just leave left her on the doorstep. It was a shame he had not stopped to explain what had happened.
Yes, it is all a bloody shame. Her shame. The whole story is going to be round school like wild fire. She won't ever be able to show her face again. She will be an outsider again. She will lose her place in the netball team because they won't want to throw her the ball. How could she have been so un-cool? She is and always will be just a stupid, stupid little girl.