by Erin Gough
Out on the covered walkway, a blustery wind is throwing around sticks the size of bullets. I jog back toward the main building, shielding my face with a hand. I hear footsteps coming toward me, and I look up just in time to avoid a head-on collision with Harriet Price.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, glancing back toward the newsroom.
“Looking for you,” she says, urgency in her voice. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
If Nat sees us together, there’ll be no end to the questions. There’s a study space ten meters down the walkway, so I herd Harriet toward it. When we’re inside, I pull out a chair and sit down. Harriet perches on the sideboard beside it. I watch her pat her windswept hair like she’s soothing a pet cat.
She looks around. “What’s that table doing in here? It belongs in the debate room.”
Does Harriet have interior design ambitions? Is that why she’s so obsessed with furniture placement? I wouldn’t be surprised. Interior design is just the kind of superficial career wealthy kids aspire to.
Without waiting for a reply, she asks keenly, “Did you see the cartoon?”
“Of course I saw it,” I bark at her.
She looks wounded. “Everyone’s talking about it, you know. Beth. Millie. Liz Newcomb…”
Is that all she’s got? Two rich brats and a jock? “That’s who constitutes ‘everyone,’ is it?”
“Not just them.” Defensiveness has made her voice high-pitched. “Everyone in my phys ed class. And everyone in the cafeteria line.”
This is interesting news. “That was what we wanted, wasn’t it? To make a splash?” I laugh at my pool-related joke.
Harriet doesn’t join in. “I guess so,” she says. She looks worried.
I decide to cut her some slack. “The people who were talking about it. What were they saying?”
Harriet leans back on her sideboard. “Some didn’t get it. But others thought it was a great comment on Coach Hadley’s, you know, perverted ways.” She looks a little shocked by her own statement. “There was also a view that when he finds out, he will sue.” Drawing her hands behind her head, she divides her hair into three strands and begins to braid it.
I watch her work at her hair. The tip of her tongue sticks out of her mouth as she concentrates. I wonder if she knows she does that. “Nat thinks it’s a brilliant cartoon,” I tell her, feeling suddenly generous. “She said it’s really important.”
“She did?” Harriet smiles briefly before her worried look returns.
“We nailed it, Harriet. You should be proud. It was a great concept.”
“It was a great drawing,” she says, flustered. “The concept had nothing to do with it.”
I laugh. “Okay, fine. Look, I’ve got some paintbrushes to return to the Art Department before my next class.” I stand up.
“Will, wait.” Harriet’s hand shoots out and grabs me above the elbow. “We should talk about what happens next.”
I look at her hand on my arm. Seeing my glance, she hurriedly removes it.
“I don’t have time right now,” I say. “I’ve got to get these paintbrushes back. If Mrs. Degarno finds out I’ve borrowed them, she’ll report me, and I’m already in trouble today for losing it over an English mark.” I flash my Virginia Woolf essay at her.
“I just wanted to, well, check,” Harriet says. “We’ve agreed to keep the, ah, details about the cartoon’s conception to ourselves, haven’t we? Because people are going to start asking about Amelia Westlake. Maybe even some of the teachers. It could create quite an uproar.”
So that’s what this is about: her precious reputation. “I’m not going to tell anyone you had anything to do with it, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say.
She pauses. “You promise?”
“It’s fine, Harriet. I won’t be jeopardizing your Rosemead career for the sake of a laugh.”
This appears to satisfy her. She stands up and moves to one end of the table that so disgusted her a minute ago. “I need you to grab the other end.”
Seriously, how did she get so demanding? She’s probably grown up with a nanny and a cook, paid to meet her every need. Or maybe it has something to do with astrology. Star signs are a load of crap, but I’m willing to bet she’s a Leo.
She looks at me impatiently. “The debate room is just around the corner. It will take a few minutes, maximum.”
“Do we have to go past the newsroom?”
“No. It’s in the other direction.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
I steer the table to follow Harriet as she backs out the door. Outside, fat drops of rain are splashing on the railing beside the covered walkway. Puddles are forming on the study lawn. Two girls carrying umbrellas hop over them.
“If I ever meet that Amelia girl, I’m going to pin a medal on her,” says one to the other. “She definitely deserves one more than he does.”
Harriet catches my eye. I wink at her, and her cheeks turn pink. If the temperature wasn’t a factor, I would swear I just made her blush.
We reach the debate room. “Let’s set it down toward the back,” she says. “Can you grab two chairs from that pile in the front?”
I consider mouthing back at her, but at this point I just want to get out of here. I drag the chairs roughly across the carpet, at the same time trying to figure out how I can get to my locker, where I’ve stashed the brushes, and across campus to the art rooms—all in ten minutes. When I reach Harriet, she is flipping through my Virginia Woolf essay. She looks up. “She gave you seventy-two for this?”
Stickybeak. I snatch the essay back.
“That’s ridiculous. It’s worth at least a seventy-five,” Harriet says. “Possibly an eighty. Did you hand it in late?”
I don’t want to explain the whole story. Not to Harriet Price. But I feel strangely touched by her outrage. “Miss Fowler always gives me seventy-two. It’s her standard mark for me.”
Harriet wrinkles her nose. “That makes no sense.”
“It’s what she thinks I’m worth. I’m an average student. I argue with her in class. And my parents never kick up a stink about my marks.”
“And is this something she does with other people, or just you?”
“She does it with everyone.”
Harriet’s eyes are wide. “How is that possible?”
Did Harriet blow in from Perfect Land yesterday? She needs a lesson in Real Life 101. “You get lower marks if you challenge her in class,” I tell her with deliberate slowness. “You get higher marks if your parents are the type to march up to the school and threaten to withdraw you. Brown-nosing also works. That friend of yours, Beth? She’s in Fowler’s other class, and from what I hear, she’s a complete sycophant. Gets better marks than she deserves, most of the time. It helps that Fowler’s a fan of her father’s newspaper, of course.” I slot the chairs into place. “Look, are we done?”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” says Harriet. “The Rosemead way is about nurturing every student equally to fulfill her potential.…” She sees my incredulous expression and stops.
“Is it possible you missed handing in a page or something?” she asks next. “Or wrote about the wrong topic?”
“I’ve got to go.” I head to the door.
“Will!” Harriet calls out.
There’s a crease in her brow, an intensity in her gaze. It’s just enough to halt me in my tracks.
“Do you really think something will happen with Coach Hadley as a result of the cartoon?” she says. “That they’ll, you know, at least talk to him about his behavior?”
“In a fair and moral universe I don’t see how they can ignore it,” I say, and it’s impossible to tell whether she is pleased or terrified by this answer. “Look, I’ve really got to—”
“Just one more thing, Will.” She looks nervous. “You know how you’ve promised not to tell anybody about the cartoon?”
I sigh. “Yes, Harriet.”
“Is that a promise that’s, y
ou know, extendable?”
“Like a dishwasher warranty?”
Harriet hesitates. “Possibly. I’m not exactly sure how dishwasher warranties work.”
No surprises there.
“What I mean,” says Harriet, her eyes shining, “is I think I have another idea for you.”
I look at her again in the peculiar light. Outside, the clouds have a tint of green—hail is coming—and the approaching storm has given her, has given everything, an irregular glow.
She grabs my hand. This time, I let her. The hint of a smile plays on her lips. “An idea for another cartoon you can publish.”
“That I can publish?” I say, feeling light-headed. “If it’s your idea then you’re a part of it, too. You know that, don’t you?”
Harriet pauses. “Officially neither of us is involved, are we?” Her fingers are warm. Her sneaky tone makes the breath expand in my chest.
I let it out with a laugh. “So what you’re saying…”
Harriet nods. She smiles shyly. “I think Amelia Westlake should publish another cartoon.”
PART TWO
chapter 8
HARRIET
I am ridiculously late for our first Tawney training session after Easter break.
“It’s four twenty,” says Edie as I push open the court gate. “Where have you been?”
She is looking fabulous as usual: Chanel sunglasses on, hair drawn up high, the Tawney Shield sweatshirt over her tennis gear giving her an elite-athlete charm. I unzip my bag and draw out my racket: a Wilson Blade 104, the same one the Williams sisters use. “The library,” I tell Edie. “You want this end or the other one?”
Edie bounces a ball on the court. “You never go to the library. What were you doing up there?”
I begin a quick warm-up stretch. “An assignment,” I say, drawing one arm then the other across my chest. “I’m happy to go up the other end. I brought a visor, so the sun won’t bother me.”
“What assignment?” says Edie, smacking the ball methodically.
“Just a little class thing for Ms. Bracken, that’s all. On Egypt under Hatshepsut. I had to wait until the librarian got the book I needed out of storage. Sorry.”
This is not what I have in fact been doing at the library. What I have been doing is creating an Instagram account for Amelia Westlake on my tablet: entering some basic information, then uploading a picture for her—a silhouette of a schoolgirl sitting by a window.
Then feeling a sudden tightness in my throat.
Then looking over my shoulder to make sure no one’s been watching.
Then calming myself down with a few breathing exercises.
Then looking back at the screen and noticing my new profile’s zero follower count.
Then noticing my new profile’s zero following count as well.
Then putting “Beth Tupman” into the search box and finding her feed and hovering the cursor over the FOLLOW button.
Then thinking: No. Beth will remember the cartoons from the school paper, and if Amelia Westlake follows Beth and Beth looks at Amelia’s profile and sees she has no followers, she will know she isn’t a real person. Real people have followers. Most real people, anyway. Certainly the real people Beth hangs out with. And if Beth gives anyone a hint that Amelia Westlake isn’t a real person, people will start asking who Amelia Westlake really is, and Natasha Nguyen will refuse to publish our next cartoon.
Then going to close the screen window.
Then not in fact closing the screen window.
Then typing “Will Everhart” into the search box.
Then wondering, Why on earth am I looking up Will’s feed? What interest could it possibly hold? She probably isn’t even on Instagram. She probably isn’t on social media at all. She is probably one of those privacy crusaders who has taken herself completely offline and communicates with people via carrier pigeon instead.
Then pressing ENTER.
Then seeing four Will Everharts pop up: three of them male and one of them female with a bio that reads, “Bios are bullshit.”
It was Will, all right.
I studied that awful uneven haircut of hers, her dark hair all short on one side and long on the other, like her hairdresser had been called away to a family emergency midjob, and her brown eyes, which were glazed over like she had never been so bored in all her life.
In all her photos she wore the same expression: Will Everhart looking bored in a park. Will Everhart looking bored in a canoe. Will Everhart looking bored on a beach. Will Everhart looking bored with a groovy-looking older man—probably her boyfriend. It would be just like Will to have a boyfriend who wore a leather jacket. Will Everhart looking bored with Natasha Nguyen, who had her arm tight around Will’s shoulders and was leaning in very close.
My heart rate quickened. It was probably the sugary cookies I had eaten for lunch. I was taking some deep breaths to calm myself down when my phone buzzed.
What hole have you fallen into, Bubble?
I’m at the courts
I am not sure why, exactly, I don’t tell Edie any of this. I am not sure why I have not told her anything at all about Amelia Westlake. I know she would be incredibly supportive of the project. Possibly she would be concerned I was putting my future at risk, but once I assured her there was no way anyone could find out I am involved, she would absolutely applaud it. She would understand that the aim is simply to provide some gentle commentary to remind people about Rosemead’s genuine values.
Still. I’ve never mentioned the cartoon about Coach Hadley that Will and I published in the Messenger. Nor have I mentioned the two cartoons we have published since.
We published our second cartoon a week after the first one. It centered on the practices of Rosemead’s uniform shop. The idea came to me after a remark Will made that day in detention about how unfair it is to require students to buy all aspects of their uniform there. The rule doesn’t just apply to our dresses, but also to accessories like socks, gloves, and scarves. As Will pointed out, it gives the uniform shop a monopoly, meaning it can set its prices as high as it likes.
This was not something that had occurred to me before. I wondered if the school’s administration had properly thought through the consequences of the rule. I knew that if we pointed it out to them, they would see the problems it caused. So I agreed to work up a few ideas with Will.
The cartoon pictures two Rosemead students in conversation. “I love your new regulation Rosemead hair ribbon,” says the first girl. The second girl says, “Thanks! I got it from the uniform shop for just $200!”
The cartoon was wildly popular, and we followed it up with another in the week before Easter, one about how female authors are underrepresented on Rosemead’s English syllabus. It depicts a Rosemead student reading a book by Jane Austen. Another student walking by remarks, “Jane? That’s a funny name for a fella.”
I have to say that the whole process of producing these little creative pieces has been remarkably satisfying.
Our fourth cartoon is due to be published on Monday, and I am particularly nervous about it.
It is the one about Miss Fowler’s marking practices that I came up with on the day our first cartoon was published. Given how critical it is of Miss Fowler, I got cold feet about it, and convinced Will we should delay sending it in. In the cartoon, a woman with a notable likeness to Miss Fowler is holding up a piece of paper. On the paper it reads:
HOW TO BOOST YOUR ENGLISH MARKS
Tip 1: Express the same views as your teacher (extra marks for quoting them verbatim).
Tip 2: Suck up to your teacher in class.
Tip 3: Do not under any circumstances express an original thought.
Will thinks its message is too important not to publish, and now that we are into a new school term, I agree it is time.
I have it in my bag right now. It occurs to me that I could show it to Edie and ask her what she thinks—it would be the perfect entrée for her to Amelia Westlake. But then I decide
this really isn’t the right moment. We haven’t long until the Tawney Shield, and we are woefully behind in our training schedule.
Telling Edie about the cartoons would also mean mentioning Will, which would be tricky. Not that Edie knows anything about Will. But I feel somehow this fact in itself could make things awkward.
“We’ve got serious ground to make up,” Edie says, shaking her head so that her high ponytail dances. Edie’s hair is the most divine chestnut, with a hint of red that happens to coordinate perfectly with the Tawney Shield stripe on our uniform. “And today I heard some seriously bad news. St. Margaret’s has a new player. Apparently she’s incredible.”
I gasp.
Edie gives her ball another bounce and catches it on the ascent. “Her name is Bianca Stein. She was the under-sixteen champion in Queensland last year.” She leans against the net post like she does after hitting a particularly impressive volley. “Apparently St. Mag’s shipped her in at the start of last term and has been training her in secret. Today they announced their team, and she’s the captain. Anyway, Sophie, from our squad, recognized the name. She’s seen Bianca on court in Brisbane. She says she’s one of the best junior players she’s ever watched.”
“This is completely unfair.” I resist slamming my racket on the net.
Our other competitors are a known quantity. Edie and I have a profile of each of the top New South Wales players up on a wall in Edie’s bedroom. On this Bianca Stein person from Queensland, we have nothing.
“I guess the question is whether she’ll be playing in the doubles,” I say. “There is no one else of any caliber at St. Margaret’s. If she’s from Queensland, she may not have connections with any other players down here.”
Edie flicks her ponytail. “That’s wishful thinking, if you ask me. She’ll find someone to play with, or someone will find her. There’s no reason to assume she won’t play in the doubles.”
“So what do we do?”
I must sound overly panicked because Edie puts down her racket and comes over. She presses her forehead gently against mine, which is one of our pregame rituals. I drink in the smell of her floral perfume. “Train hard,” she says. “Learn what we can about her. Find out about her strengths, her weaknesses,” she murmurs, her lips very close to my lips.
