‘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 jeopardising 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 debating 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 had just made her blush.
We reach the debating room. ‘Let’s set it down towards 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 nut 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 sixty-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 sixty-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 when I’m almost there.
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 behaviour?’
‘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, you 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 are 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
