However, the absence of gunshots and the fact girls are running after him rather than away from him makes me ponder an alternative reality: aggressive facial acne and extreme short-sightedness have been declared a lethal combination by GQ magazine, and Duncan has become the sexiest man alive.
Nat sets me straight in sixth period. ‘I organised a few strategic leaks late last week to inform the public we were publishing another Amelia Westlake cartoon today,’ she murmurs as we walk out of class. ‘People have been lining up in front of the newsstands all morning. As they should be. The new cartoon is fantastic.’
‘Really?’ I say, careful to conceal my pleasure. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Fowler’s unfair marking practices. Seriously Will, you should see it.’ Nat’s eyes give an almost invisible twinkle, like someone’s dropped a teeny-tiny diamante onto her retina. Then the diamante slips out, the twinkle disappears and her expression turns dark. ‘But you can’t.’
‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t you just say it’s in the latest Messenger?’
‘It was,’ Nat sighs. ‘We had to pull it at the last minute. When Duncan distributed the paper at lunch and people found out the cartoon wasn’t in it, they went feral. Everyone’s been rioting, basically, since noon.’
My heart speeds up. ‘Why did you pull it? Has Croon come to see you?’
‘Not yet,’ Nat says grimly. ‘Come to the newsroom and I’ll show you why.’
We have to push through a crowd to get to the door. Duncan stands on the other side of it, peering through the mottled glass. ‘Back off, everybody,’ shouts Nat, causing the crowd to scatter instantly. She barges through the door, jamming Duncan between it and the bookshelf. ‘Give us a minute, will you, Duncan?’
Duncan edges his way out. The door clicks shut.
‘Fancy that,’ Nat says, one eyebrow raised. ‘You and me in a locked room. Whatever will we do with ourselves?’
I grin and reach for her.
‘Mmm,’ she murmurs as our lips meet. ‘Easter in Hanoi with the rellos was fun, but not as fun as this.’
From the other side of the door I hear a shriek. I try to ignore it and focus on kissing Nat. She sucks at my neck. I grab a handful of her hair.
There’s another shriek.
‘I think he’s getting mauled out there,’ I murmur.
Nat takes her mouth off my neck. ‘Should we let him in again?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe we should.’
‘I mean, only if you’re sure,’ she adds, looking at me carefully.
An uncomfortable feeling has crept into my chest, just like the last time we kissed. ‘It is kind of hard to concentrate with all that racket,’ I say uneasily.
‘Agreed,’ Nat says quickly. She shoots me a grin and I relax.
Nat grabs the door handle and tries to turn it. ‘Goddamn door’s jammed again. DUNCAN. YOU CAN COME INSIDE.’
The door crashes open and Duncan reappears, his hair pointing in multiple directions. He closes it, steps forward and trips over a pile of old editions.
‘You guys need to seriously consider going digital,’ I say.
Nat rattles the mouse beside her computer. The screen lights up. ‘Speaking of digital, this is what I wanted to show you, Will.’
I peer over her shoulder. ‘What the fuck?’ I cry.
On the screen is an Instagram feed. The profile picture is a silhouette of a girl, the creepy kind they use in current affairs programs when they’re not allowed to show the person’s face for legal reasons.
Amelia Westlake, says the name beneath the picture. Beneath that are the words ‘Sydney schoolgirl’.
‘Duncan found it last night.’ Nat gives him an aggressive nudge. ‘It’s pretty suss, wouldn’t you say? Just the one photo and that bio. She’s not following anyone. And she has no followers, either. What kind of actual living, breathing human doesn’t have a single follower? Doesn’t this Amelia Westlake have any friends? Or, barring friends, any random acquaintances who would follow her just to improve their own follow count? Even Duncan has some of those, don’t you, Duncan?’
Duncan’s ears turn pink.
‘Seriously. The picture screams “fake person”. But –’ and here Nat does her fingers-on-chin investigative journalist impression, ‘this isn’t enough evidence on its own to prove Amelia Westlake isn’t real.’
Nat strolls over to her whiteboard, which is not so much white as a kind of moody grey marbled with flecks of green from all the times she’s accidentally used permanent marker on it. She writes:
Possibility #1
AW is a real person with an Instagram account but no friends.
Possibility #2
AW is a real person who has no Instagram account, and an entirely different person has created a fake account for AW for the sole purpose of screwing with my head.
Possibility #3
AW is a fake person who never existed and never had any friends and has created a fake account using a fake picture for her fake, fake self.
‘My money’s on number two,’ I say.
‘That’s what I love about you, Will. Your sense of humour.’
‘I’m serious. What kind of a pseudonym is Amelia Westlake?’
At the same time as these words are coming out of my mouth, I’m trying to work out who has done this. Given the interest Amelia Westlake has attracted, it could be anyone. The most likely candidate, though, is Harriet. I understand why she’d be tempted – only this morning I thought it would be fun to scrawl some Amelia Westlake-themed graffiti in one of the toilet blocks. I also, on a whim, signed Amelia up for the year-twelve tetherball team and the Formal Committee. But creating a social media page for her? That’s like getting a billboard erected outside Nat’s bedroom window that says ‘Amelia Westlake is a pseudonym’, and then adding neon lights to make the word ‘pseudonym’ flash against her closed eyelids all night, and then coming into her room and writing the
