Sunny Side Up

by Holly Smale

  Harriet Manners.

  “Hello, Harriet Manners.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “About half an hour,” I lie.

  “Why?”

  Because I wanted to see you again. “I’m hiding from Wilbur. He’s using me as bait. He keeps chucking me into the crowd to see how many pretty girls I can come back with.”

  “Like a maggot?”

  I laugh. Spot on. “Yes. Pretty much exactly like a maggot.”

  “And have you … caught anything yet?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” I open one eye and look straight at her. Her eyes are warm, and my stomach feels exactly the way it does when I’m surfing: as if I’ve gone aerial, as if it’s flying through the air, weightless. I hope so. “It’s too early to say.”

  “Oh.” She glances at a watch with a knife and fork on it instead of hands. “It’s not that early. Actually, it’s nearly lunchtime.”

  Quickly, I close my eyes before I laugh again.

  That’s literally the best watch I’ve ever seen.

  “Do you often hide under furniture?” she asks curiously after another few seconds.

  “I don’t make a habit of it,” I admit, grinning widely. “You?”

  “All of the time. All of the time.”

  Then she sucks in her breath loudly.

  I open my eyes a tiny crack: just wide enough to watch with curiosity as something flickers across her expression, diving in and out, struggling to the surface and dipping away again.

  Then there’s the sound of clipping and two red, glossy high-heeled shoes suddenly appear next to us, also paired with football socks.

  “Harriet?” their owner says.

  The girl next to me closes her eyes.

  It looks like for the first time today, she’s been rendered speechless.

  *

  I don’t know who the red heels belong to.

  But she’s clearly very important: Harriet Manners now has cheeks so pink she looks like a little Russian doll.

  “I don’t know whether you’re under some kind of impression that you’ve become invisible in the last thirteen minutes,” the voice continues drily, “but you’re not. I can still see you.”

  “Oh,” Harriet says with a tiny wince, eyes closed.

  “Yes, oh. So you may as well come out now.”

  There’s a beat, then Harriet opens her eyes and looks directly at me so I clamp my eyes shut once more for a moment. “Thanks for sharing the table,” she whispers.

  Then she clambers awkwardly back out, leaving my stale chewing gum offering lying on the floor.

  Probably for the best.

  I suspect it would have been totally inedible.

  “What are you doing, Harriet?”

  Instinctively, I shuffle to the right and lean towards them so I can hear better. The girl’s voice is a bit deeper and huskier than Harriet’s, but it’s strong, warm and direct.

  “I … It’s not what it—”

  “I can’t believe this. I know you don’t like shopping, Harriet, and I know you didn’t want to come today, but hiding under this table … I mean of all the tables …”

  There’s a silence while I lean a little further, trying to figure out what’s happening.

  I’m clearly not the only one.

  “Well?” the voice says with a small wobble. “What’s going on, Harriet?”

  A throat clears. “I was … looking for unusual … table joints. For woodwork … homework.”

  “Huh?”

  “Woodwork homework. They said … local craft can be very interesting … and we had to look in other parts of the country. Like … Birmingham.”

  “What?”

  “So I thought … from a distance that this particular table looked very solid. In terms of construction. And I thought I’d have a closer look. You know. From … underneath.”

  “And?”

  “A-and?” Harriet stammers. “And what?”

  “What were they? What kind of table joints? I mean, you were under there quite a long time. You must have been able to tell.”

  There’s another long silence.

  I’ve genuinely never heard anyone lie so badly. It’s like watching someone clutching at apples as they fall out of a tree: they’re just basically smacking Harriet on the head one by one.

  A sudden wave of protectiveness rushes through me.

  I have to do something.

  “I think that …” Harriet mumbles as she grabs for another imaginary apple. “They’re …”

  “They’re dovetail,” I say, abruptly clambering out.

  “Nick!” Wilbur declares. “There you are! How many more of you are there under there?”

  Weirdly enough, the girl who isn’t Harriet is also wearing a football kit.

  She’s about an inch taller than Harriet and dark-skinned, with dark, long hair, a strong nose and long-lashed, narrow brown eyes. There’s no doubt about it: she’s good-looking. I just don’t think it would translate well on camera, and – judging by the way he’s gazing at a sparkly balloon on the neighbouring stall – Wilbur obviously doesn’t either.

  And as I glance at Harriet’s horrified face I realise that’s exactly the problem.

  I finally understand what’s happening here.

  “Dovetail?” her pretty friend says, frowning and glancing at me, then at Wilbur, then at Harriet again.

  “Yep,” I say as firmly as possible, trying to subtly block the table and flashing her a bright smile in an attempt to distract her from the half-filled-out modelling forms, lying all over it. “Dovetail.”

  “Mmm.” Harriet flicks me a grateful glance. “That’s what I thought too.”

  Then I glance in horror at Wilbur’s hand.

  There are three Polaroid photos of Harriet clutched in it, just developing: one eye shut in two of them.

  I pointedly clear my throat but it’s too late: the brunette has spotted them. She makes a sudden, heartbreaking sob and Harriet’s face crumples.

  “Oh no, Nat,” she says desperately, taking a step forward and reaching for her. “I didn’t …”

  “No,” the pretty friend says, sharply blocking Harriet with a hand.

  Her eyes fill with tears.

  And, with a smooth, swift spin, she twists and jumps off the stage into the crowd of girls.

  Leaving Harriet standing behind her.

  *

  We each have our own language.

  Our own way of thinking, of talking to ourselves, of making sense of the world and putting it in order. A narration style that is ours and ours alone.

  That’s why some of us connect and some of us don’t.

  Because even though we can only live in our own heads, sometimes – every now and then – we meet a person we can talk to without speaking at all: whose story we can read, without even trying.

  And as I watch this girl’s face, quivering in front of me – as I feel her myriad of emotions, starting to tug through me – I realise that Harriet speaks a secret language I think I understand.

  “Harriet …” I say slowly.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she blurts distractedly, still staring into the crowd. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  Guilt spins through me.

  I did this. This tidal wave came from me, and it’s already pulling her away from – judging by their bizarre matching outfits – her best friend.

  “Darling-pudding,” Wilbur says, still totally oblivious. He’s started grabbing the pink paper forms from the table. “We are going to launch you like a fashion rocket, honey. Whoosh! Into outer model space! You won’t know what’s hit you, baby-baby-mongoose! Fame and stardom, here you come!”

  I scowl at him: read the room, Wilbur.

  Harriet’s eyes are getting larger. “No,” she whispers, taking a step towards the edge of the stage. “You’ve made a mistake.” She’s beginning to sound almost angry. “You should have picked Nat.”

  “Nope, no mistake,” Wilb
ur chirps happily, pinning the photos together. “To paraphrase Grease, you’re the one that we want, sugarmuffin. So if you just drop your deets here, and here, and here …”

  He thrusts the paper under her nose.

  For just a fraction of a second, I see her waver: hope and need, coursing through her face. She actually wants this, I realise with surprise. She just didn’t know she did, and she doesn’t know where that desire has come from.

  Something buried deep inside her wants to step out of the shadows, away from her pretty, fierce best friend and to take this kind of spotlight.

  To change her life.

  Then it’s gone and something else comes slicing through.

  Something steely, tough and inflexible.

  “No,” she says firmly, suddenly lifting her chin and looking us both straight in the eyes. “Thank you very much, but this isn’t my dream and I don’t want it. Please give it to somebody who does.”

  She picks the pile of coats back up.

  Then she sits down on the stage and swings her legs on to the floor.

  She takes a deep breath.

  And before I can stop her, or even say goodbye, the girl with the green eyes takes one small glance backwards.

  Then disappears.

  *

  There’s a surfing term for what’s just happened.

  When you’re caught inside a wave – when it’s barrelling over your head and you’re about to wipeout – you make a quick, evasive movement that takes you away from it and saves you just in time.

  It’s called a bail.

  That’s what Harriet’s just done: the huge wave came and she bailed with a strength and grace I didn’t have when it came for me.

  I am beyond impressed right now.

  “Chickpea, we’re going to lose her!” Wilbur says urgently as my T-shirt gets tugged on for the second time today. “Nicholas, do something!”

  I watch Harriet, trying to wade through the middle of a gang of girls who have no intention of stepping out of the way, with her mass of puffy coats and flailing red curls caught on somebody’s handbag.

  “Just let her go,” I say quietly.

  I’d rather she was happy even if it means I don’t see her again.

  “But,” Wilbur stutters. “But … I don’t understand what just happened. Nicholas, she’s my winner.”

  “She certainly is,” a somewhat nasal voice that sounds like the owner has a persistent cold says from behind us. “Of many things, actually. The biology award last year. Maths club in Year 9 and a debate competition just last month. Then there was that yellow teddy at the fair when she was eleven although strictly speaking I’m pretty sure she knocked the coconut off its post with a foul throw, although the evidence is circumstantial.”

  Wilbur and I turn round.

  There’s a boy standing behind us: only a little shorter than me, with fluffy blonde hair tufting out in every direction and a red T-shirt that reads THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE 127.0.0.1.

  I frown. “And you are …?”

  “You’ll find out in due course,” he says in a knowingly mysterious voice. “Let’s just say I am epic and usually three steps behind Harriet Manners.”

  “That doesn’t sound healthy,” I joke.

  “Actually you’d be surprised at how much exercise is involved,” he disagrees chirpily. “I have a very low resting heart rate.”

  Then he reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a notepad and pen. “Here.” He starts scribbling on it. “This is Harriet Manners’ home phone number, as well as her fax and email. Her stepmother is called Annabel and her father is Richard. She also has a dog called Hugo, but you’re not going to be able to speak to him if you call. He’s rubbish on the phone.”

  I can feel my mouth start to twitch again.

  Even her friends are funny.

  Then he hands over a couple of numbers with:

  written neatly on top.

  Wilbur grabs it victoriously and kisses it. “Yessssss,” he says, punching the air. “In your face, Stephanie.”

  “You’re going to want to call,” the boy says decidedly. “She’s going to change her mind and your life will never be the same again.”

  Then – with what appears to be an awkwardly executed wink over his shoulder – the boy drops to the floor and rolls behind the stand.

  Wilbur and I stare at each other.

  Then at the piece of paper.

  Then at the redhead, finally emerging from the crowd: unruly curls bobbing into the distance.

  A surge of happiness rushes through me.

  You know what?

  This isn’t my choice: it’s hers. This is her fork in the road, and whether she takes it or not is up to her. It’s not for me to try and control. Something tells me that whatever happens next, she’ll be able to handle it.

  Although that doesn’t mean I can’t be there beside her.

  Or try to be, anyway.

  “You know what?” Wilbur says happily, kissing the paper again, before folding it up and carefully slipping it into his shirt pocket. “Nikolai, I think that’s her. I think we’ve just found our girl.”

  I watch as the last strand of her bright hair disappears round the corner. Something’s starting to tell me I probably won’t quit modelling just yet. I might give it a little while longer, after all.

  A grin starts to stretch across my face.

  “Yup,” I say as the wave begins to crest and I start speeding through the air. “I think we just did.”

  Harriet Manners knows a lot of things.

  * Cats have 32 muscles in each ear

  * Bluebirds can’t see the colour blue

  * The average person laughs 15 times per day

  * Peanuts are an ingredient in dynamite

  But she doesn’t know why nobody at school seems to like her. So when she’s offered the chance to reinvent herself, Harriet grabs it. Can she transform from geek to chic?

  Click here to read more!

  Harriet Manners knows a lot of facts.

  * Humans have 70,000 thoughts per day

  * Caterpillars have four thousand muscles

  * The average person eats a ton of food a year

  * Being a Geek + Model = a whole new set of graffiti on your belongings

  But she doesn’t know why nobody at school seems to like her. So when she’s offered the chance to reinvent herself, Harriet grabs it. Can she transform from geek to chic?

  But clearly she knows nothing about boys. And on a whirlwind modelling trip to Tokyo, Harriet would trade everything she’s ever learnt for just the faintest idea of what she’s supposed to do next …

  Click here to read more!

  Harriet Manners knows a lot of facts:

  * New York is the most populous city in the United States

  * its official motto is ‘Ever Upward’

  * 27% of Americans believe we never landed on the moon

  But she has no idea about modelling Stateside. Or, even more importantly, what to do when the big romantic gestures aren’t coming from her boyfriend …

  Click here to read more!

  Harriet Manners has high hopes for the new school year: she’s a Sixth Former now, and things are going to be different. But with Nat busy falling in love at college and Toby preoccupied with a Top Secret project, Harriet soon discovers that’s not necessarily a good thing …

  Click here to read more!

  Harriet Manners knows almost every fact there is.

  * She knows duck-billed platypuses don’t have stomachs.

  * Fourteen squirrels were once detained as spies.

  * Snakes and Ladders and Chess were both invented in the same country.

  * Astronauts’ hearts become rounder in space.

  And for once, Harriet knows exactly how her life should go. She’s got it ALL planned out. So when love is in the air, Harriet is determined to Make Things Happen! If only everyone else would stick to the script …

  Has GEEK GIRL overstepped the mark, and is
following the rules going to break hearts all over again?

  Click here to read more!

  Harriet Manners knows a lot about winter.

  * She knows that every Christmas Santa climbs down 91.8 million chimneys.

  * She knows that snow isn’t white, it just looks that way.

  * She knows that Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer was almost definitely a girl.

  But Harriet’s favourite season is extra special this year because four days ago she had her First Ever Kiss.

  Now she just needs to work out what’s supposed to happen next …

  A romantic festive GEEK GIRL special! Click here to read more …

  Read on for a sneak peek of Head Over Heels …

  y name is Harriet Manners, and I have friends.

  I know I have friends because this is by far the busiest I’ve ever been.

  Honestly, my calendar is manic.

  Between group study sessions and movie nights, pizza-eating competitions and crossword round robins, it’s all I can do to keep my epic new social life in some kind of order.

  So now I’ve got two diaries: one to make sure I’m in the right place at the right time, the other for making sure everyone else is.

  What can I say?

  Winnie-the-Pooh was Friendship Ambassador in 1997: I have an awful lot to live up to.

  The other reason I know I have friends is that I have a badge that says this in bright blue ink:

  Team JINTH!

  “Harriet,” Nat said when I presented her with one. “Is this totally necessary?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed, pinning it to my Best Friend’s coat. “We don’t want our brand-new additions to feel left out, do we?”

  Then I gave badges to Jasper, India and Toby.

  Along with the key-rings and magnets I made on my laminating machine.

  That’s right: I am now in an official gang.

  A clique, a posse, a fellowship.

  A group of five happy kindred spirits, never to be parted. Just like the Famous Five or Scooby Doo, except one of us isn’t a big brown dog.

  And it’s literally changed my life.

  Studies have shown that people with a large network of friends tend to outlive their peers by up to twenty-two per cent, but I’m having so much fun I expect I’ll last even longer.