by Erin Gough
“I’m glad to hear it.” Mum pats my hand.
After dropping off Arthur at Deep Fryer, I walk to the restaurant strip around the corner. I have just ordered some rice paper rolls and a prawn crepe in a sweet little place halfway down the block when a shadow looms across the tablecloth.
“Harriet Price.” Natasha Nguyen puts her palms on the table. “What a lovely surprise.”
She is dressed in a leather jacket and drainpipe jeans. Her jacket is covered in zips. The metal studs along the sleeves look sharp enough to puncture a bike wheel. I nervously dab the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “Natasha! What are you doing here?”
She looks around. “This is a Vietnamese restaurant. Where else would I be on a Saturday night?”
“Oh,” I stammer. “Right!”
Natasha’s expression darkens. “That was a joke, Price. I could probably tell you my father runs this place and you’d believe that, too. Because what else could a Vietnamese refugee do other than run a restaurant? For your information, Dad’s a management consultant, and his spring rolls taste like shit.” She rolls back on her heels. “The bigger question is, What are you doing here? Alone? Wearing—oh my—a retro-punk T-shirt? Off to the opera, are we?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to see the Sphere at Deep Fryer tonight,” I say calmly.
“Is that right.”
“Yes. It is.”
“What an amazing coincidence.”
“Are you seeing them, too?” I ask, feigning surprise.
Natasha smirks. “Like you don’t already know.”
“Why on earth would I already know?”
Natasha straightens her shoulders. Leather creaks. “Christ, Price, you’re a piece of work. Just come out and say it. Isn’t that why you asked me here? For the big reveal? Or have you changed your mind?”
Why didn’t we think of this? Natasha thinks my presence here has something to do with her invitation from Amelia Westlake! “I didn’t ask you anywhere. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She considers me broodily. “Fine. Play it that way. Because your pretense at being a garage punk fan has me completely convinced.” She starts on a slow lap of my table. When she has done a full circle, she starts on another, like a matador psyching out a bull. The whole performance is making me a tad light-headed.
“All right. I’m not a garage punk fan,” I admit.
She stops in front of me again. “Does this mean you’re going to talk turkey? Or that you’ve come up with an excuse? Don’t tell me: You’re going to the gig to test out some new earplugs. Or for a sociological experiment. Oh, I know. You’re an undercover cop, and you’re doing a sting. That I would believe.” She bares her teeth.
“My brother’s in the band. He plays the guitar.”
Natasha Nguyen does something I’ve never seen her do before—she giggles. “Your brother is the guitarist in the Sphere?”
“Yes.”
“Are you seriously trying to tell me that you’re related to Art Juice?”
“It’s a stage name, obviously.”
“Oh, this is perfect. You’ll have to introduce me, then, won’t you?” Natasha Nguyen smirks.
Outside Deep Fryer, a cold wind rattles the awnings along the street. Shivering in the line, Natasha zips up her front zip, her arm zips, even her pocket zips. “Why did I forget my Pussy Riot balaclava?” she complains. “Hey, if your brother’s in the band and everything, shouldn’t we be able to skip this damn queue?”
Maybe she’s right, but I don’t want to interrupt Arthur’s preparation time. He likes to sit in a corner, think of his power animal (a squirrel), and hum the tune of Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Heads Will Roll.” Then again, it is only eight o’clock. The Sphere won’t be on until ten at the earliest. If I call Arthur now, he will still have plenty of time to prepare before playing.
I try his mobile. No answer. “Come on,” I tell Natasha.
A security guard I have not encountered before—a six-foot muscle man with a shaved head and metal-tipped boots—stops me with a hand. I explain who I am. He reaches for his phone. “I’ve got a Harriet Price downstairs,” he says into it. “Says she’s related to Art. Yep, the Juice Man.” There is a pause. “Yep. Nah. Yep. Nah. Yep.” He hangs up. “Okay. You can go in.”
“How the hell did you pull this off, Price?” says Natasha as we climb the stairs to the greenroom.
“I told you. My brother’s the guitarist.”
“Yeah, and I’m the Dalai Lama.”
“Then maybe you are.”
“What, because I’m Asian? We all look the same to you, don’t we?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Harri!” calls a voice from above.
Arthur is leaning over the banister. He already has his show gear on: a leather jacket over a white shirt, army pants, and commando boots. I run up and give him a squeeze.
Natasha, wide-eyed, looks from me to Arthur. “Well love me tender and call me Elvis.”
“Natasha, this is my brother, Arthur. Arthur, Natasha.”
Arthur smiles, and a funny thing happens to Natasha’s face. All the pinched parts suddenly go smooth.
“Natasha Nguyen?” says Arthur. “You’re the one who knows Duncan.”
Her eyes look glazed. “Everyone knows Duncan.”
“Right.” He gives her his goofiest grin. “You want to meet the rest of the band?”
With Natasha safely occupied meeting the Sphere, it is time to call Will. I go downstairs and into the hallway. Along the walls, which are painted black, a series of large canvas paintings hang in intricately gilded frames. They depict various gory scenes: the sacrifice of a goat, a man being gutted by a giant sword, a human head on a stick, etc. Above a polished oak hallstand and a crystal vase of fresh, long-stemmed crimson roses is a gigantic beveled mirror. I stop in front of it, tidy my hair, readjust my T-shirt, and take out my phone.
Within seconds Will’s face is on my screen, up close and furious. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Who did you think it was?”
“Never mind. Why are you FaceTiming me? Wouldn’t it have been simpler to just—? Um—okay, wow.” Her face looms on the screen as she tries for a better view.
“What?”
“Your outfit.” She grins. “You should wear that T-shirt more often.”
My T-shirt is certainly getting a variety of responses this evening! I pat my burning cheeks. “I can switch to audio if you don’t like FaceTime.”
“Nah. Don’t do that. FaceTime is fine,” Will says quickly.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” I ask. “When I first called, you looked like something bad had happened.”
Will groans. “Nothing worse than usual. I’ve just been on the phone to my dad, that’s all. He’s having a big birthday bash for his fiftieth.”
“Oh, that sounds fun.”
“Yeah, if I were going.”
“Why aren’t you going?”
“It’s in Perth.”
“Oh, Will.”
Will looks away from the screen. “Are you at Deep Fryer yet? Is Nat there? Should I do it now?”
“Yes, to all of the above.”
“Okay. Here goes.”
The screen wobbles. I hear the sound of a car door slamming. Will holds the phone up so I can follow her along the school path to the newsroom. With the gardens in darkness and the solar lamps between the camellias casting ominous shadows, it’s a bit like watching a police raid on Australia’s Most Famous Hoarders. When the door comes into sight, Will wags her plastic photo ID before the camera. “Watch this.”
I watch as she slots the card between the door and the frame.
“Hang on. You don’t have a key?” I ask.
“Why would I have a key?” The screen view dips to show the dimly lit walkway. I hear a grunt and a click. “Bingo,” says Will as the door swings open.
A group of punk fans stalk past me in the Deep Fryer hallway. I
turn around so they can’t see my phone screen, which now shows Will going through the shelves of the newsroom cupboard. An International Roast tin twice the size of her head crashes onto her shoulder and she swears. I quickly turn the volume down.
“Can you see anything?” I murmur.
There is a second tinny crash through the phone speakers, and a third, and then Will is waving a piece of paper triumphantly at the screen. “An invoice from Parsons Printing for five hundred copies of the Messenger. Dated two months ago.”
“Thank goodness. Now get out of there as fast as you can.”
Will swears again.
“What is it?”
“This bloody door. It won’t open!”
Oh God. This can’t be happening. “Can’t you use your card again?”
“I’m trying that. It’s not working from the inside.”
“Are you serious?”
Will’s face fills the screen. “No, Harriet. I’m pretending to be locked in the Messenger newsroom for your personal amusement.”
I feel a hand on my arm. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
I jump.
In the Deep Fryer hallway, Natasha Nguyen is standing in front of me. I quickly flatten the phone against my beating chest. “I’m just speaking to my mother. Won’t be long!”
Natasha glances at my phone. “You want me to buy you a drink?”
“Sure!”
“What would you like?”
“Anything! You choose!”
“Okay.” She looks at me curiously. “I’ll be in the bar.”
When Natasha is gone, I bring the phone screen back up to my face. “I’ve got to go. Just get out of there as fast as you can, okay?”
“Piece of pie.”
“Good-oh. Speak soon.”
I return to an extraordinary scene in the bar: Natasha Nguyen waving at me from a booth in the corner, almost as if the two of us are friends. “Here, I got you a vodka and lemonade,” she says, chirpy as a parakeet, pushing it across the table. “I figured it’s the kind of thing you drink.” She is nursing a dark brown stout. “I want to apologize to you. I got the wrong end of the stick tonight. I thought you were involved in something you’re obviously not. Please. Sit down.”
I slide across the ripped vinyl, careful not to catch it on my skirt. Is Natasha bluffing? It is a distinct possibility. If she saw Will on my phone screen…
I decide to play along. “Is that why you were so hostile at the restaurant?” I say.
“Yep.”
“And kept asking me all those strange questions?”
Natasha nods.
“You were convinced I had something to reveal to you.”
“Uh-huh.”
I think of slow-dawning things—the sun on the lip of the ocean, a rattling kettle, a tulip crowning through snow—and then speak. “You thought I was Amelia Westlake, didn’t you? You guessed I made up this whole ‘Art Juice is my brother’ story as a cover for some Amelia Westlake activity.”
Natasha gives a hysterical cackle. “You? Amelia Westlake? How funny. No. God, imagine the headlines. ‘Harriet Price, Rosemead Prep mascot, Tawney Shield prefect, throws perfect life down drain for antiauthoritarian hoax.’” She swills the beer in her glass before taking a mouthful. “No, of course not you. But I figured you were going to tell me who Amelia Westlake is. My job at the Messenger is at stake if I don’t help Croon catch the culprit. So, are you going to spill? I’ve had my money on your friend Liz for weeks, you see.”
“Liz Newcomb?”
“That’s her.”
I pause. “We’re more acquaintances.”
“Really? Anyway, when it comes down to it, Liz is one of the few people I can think of who is motivated and smart enough to pull off this whole Amelia Westlake caper.”
I bite hard on my straw. “That’s an interesting perspective.”
Natasha grins. “Tell me what you really think, Harriet Price, sister of Art Juice. I’m feeling uniquely open this evening. I’m in a positively generous mood.”
She really is. Someone has slipped aside the gift ribbon, torn off the paper, and unwrapped her like a present. A shiny one, with an LED light that glows from within. I realize she has no idea what Will and I are up to. Even so, I have to be careful.
“Apart from Liz, who else is on your list of suspects?” I ask lightly.
“So far, I’ve managed to knock out about sixty percent of our year group based on who was in class when the essay swap happened,” Natasha says.
Which leaves me in the other forty percent. I gnash at the straw between my teeth.
“And I’ve narrowed down the list further after considering who and what types of issues the pranks have targeted. It’s all a bit speculative at this stage, to be honest, but I’m hoping to change that.”
I try not to overreact to this expressed hope of hers. Polite interest is the key. “Really. How?” I say.
Natasha leans forward conspiratorially. “Duncan’s uncle is a forensic handwriting specialist.” She sits back and waits for me to respond to this startling piece of news.
“He is?”
For someone usually stone-faced, Natasha looks ecstatic. “Yep. Talk about good luck. Between Duncan and me, we’ve just about finished collecting handwriting samples from everyone in the year, which his uncle will then cross-check against the cartoons.”
I freeze. Will may have penned the pictures, but it’s my handwriting on those cartoons. “How on earth have you managed to collect samples from everyone?” The question comes out shriller than I was aiming for.
“We’ve been taking photographs of stuff people have put up on noticeboards around school. You drew up the Formal Committee sign-up list that’s in the year-twelve common room, didn’t you?”
“Um, I’m not sure…”
“The one with the handwritten paragraph at the top about the formal being the ‘pinnacle of the Rosemead experience’?”
I take a long drink of vodka.
“Thought so.” Nat grins. “If all goes to plan, we should have solved the puzzle by the end of term. Which not only means I’ll be in the clear with Croon, but also that I’ll be able to write my exposé for the Messenger over the holidays.”
I don’t want to hear any more. I need to tell Will about this latest development. Preferably immediately. “I just have to visit the bathroom,” I tell Natasha.
“Sure,” she says. “I’ll get us another round.”
Will is still in the newsroom. Behind her head I can see the corkboard, with page drafts hanging limply, and a decrepit-looking couch.
“Oh dear, Will! You’re still stuck in there?”
“I think I’ve found a way out.”
“Thank goodness. Listen, I’ve got some bad news. It sounds ridiculous, but Natasha says she’s employed a forensic specialist to analyze our cartoons. They’ve already got my handwriting sample—What on earth are you doing?”
The picture is shaking, and Will is grunting like she’s lifting weights. I bring my face closer to the screen.
“I’m pretty sure this window isn’t actually locked,” Will says. “Some crappy painter has painted it to the frame. If I can… just…”
Will upends the phone onto a flat surface and the screen goes black. I hear another grunt and the sound of breaking glass, followed by Will screeching.
I hold the screen to my nose. “Will? Will! Are you all right?”
“I think I’ve cut my arm.”
“Oh my God!”
Finally her face fills the screen. She is breathing deeply, and I realize I am, too. “You’re still there,” she says.
I nod. “Are—are you okay?”
“There’s quite a lot of blood.”
I feel a pulse in my throat. “Will,” I say as calmly as possible. “I’m going to come and pick you up. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Will runs a hand across her gleaming forehead. “Don’t be silly. It’s just a graze.”
“I can see that’s not true,” I say, suddenly breathless. “I’m leaving now.”
“Really, Harriet, you don’t have to do that,” Will says as I’m about to end the call. “I’ve got a handkerchief. I’ll put pressure on it to stop the flow—”
“It’s not enough—”
“And as soon as I get home, I’ll get Mum to look at it. She’s a nurse.”
I hesitate. “I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. Don’t worry.” She smiles reassuringly.
“I really think I should come. And I need to talk to you about this handwriting issue—”
Will interrupts me. “I’ll be fine,” she says firmly. “I need you to stay there. Just make sure Nat stays within sight.” The screen goes blank.
When I return to the booth, Natasha is halfway through her second beer. A fresh vodka and lemonade stands on my half of the table.
“Feeling better?”
I wave a nonchalant hand, hoping she can’t see it shaking.
She rests her cheek on her palm and gazes at me quizzically. “Art Juice’s sister. Who would have thought?”
I’m getting tired of this refrain. “Why do you find it so surprising?”
Natasha laughs. “Are you kidding me? Because he’s awesome! He and the rest of the Sphere are musical genii. They’re pushing the boundaries of punk the whole time. You don’t exactly have a reputation for pushing boundaries, Harriet. All that blind faith you place in Rosemead…” Seeing my expression, she peters out. “I’ll give you this. You’re not as bad as those evil twins you hang out with.”
“You mean Millie and Beth?”
Natasha nods.
“They’re not twins.”
“They may as well be. They’re a pair of stuck-up, racist brats.”
