‘I wish you were right, Will. No-one wants her to be a real person more than me. I want to publish her cartoons in every edition until the end of time. But if Amelia Westlake isn’t real and Croon finds out that I knew she was a fake and kept publishing her, she’ll have the perfect excuse to dump me as editor. Which means no journalism job for me once school is finished. And the simple fact is that Amelia Westlake doesn’t exist.’ Nat wrenches opens her bottom drawer and pulls out a manila folder. The cover is blank, but the way she slaps it on the desk and flips it open with the lightest of touches means it might as well be labelled key evidence to blow open the case. ‘Duncan did a bit of digging on the staff intranet, didn’t you, Duncan?’
Duncan nods. His face, apart from the tips of his pimples, changes from pink to dark crimson.
‘It took him a while to work out the password, but after trying RosemeadStaff1 and RosemeadStaff2, he cracked it with RosemeadStaff3. These pages –’ she thumbs through them, ‘are the rolls for every single class in the school. There’s an Amelia al-Assad and an Amelia Prior. There’s even an Annabelle Eastman. But nowhere – and I’ve read each roll twice now – can I find an Amelia Westlake. Which means …’
‘The rolls are out of date?’ I offer, thinking fast. ‘Or incomplete? Someone’s lied about their name to the school’s administration? Amelia Westlake is in a witness protection program? There’s been a spelling error? The system’s broken? We’ve got to fix the system?’
‘We’ve definitely got to fix the system,’ says Nat. ‘And I’m going to fix the hell out of whoever’s behind these cartoons for trying to pull one over me.’ Her words are sharp with fury. ‘Believe me, Will, it’s way too risky for me to keep accepting these cartoons. Amelia Westlake’s publishing days are over.’
Chapter 10
HARRIET
As a general rule, I enjoy the bathrooms at Rosemead. The paper canisters are always well stocked, as are the supplies of perfumed soaps and hand creams at the sinks. A small wall-mounted machine emits pleasant scents into the air – Mountain Breeze, Baking Bread, or Scent of New Car. The whole aesthetic is so agreeable that I sometimes forget I’m in a school toilet block and not in one of our en suites at home.
So you can imagine my surprise when, on the very day our fourth cartoon is supposed to be published, I enter a bathroom cubicle and find the words Amelia Westlake woz here – or woz she??? scrawled on the back of the bathroom door in what looks suspiciously like black art pen.
A sudden thrill goes down my spine, quickly overwhelmed by a firmer, more reliable sense of indignation. Who would be perverse enough to vandalise school property using that name?
It is a rhetorical question; given the precise brand of humour on display, I already know it was Will.
Taking out my nail-polish remover, I quickly scrub off the graffiti. I have five minutes until Maths, so I hurry to the year-twelve common room to check on the volunteer list for the Formal Committee. We already have a core membership, but a few extras wouldn’t hurt. Then we can get started with the preparations, which I am incredibly excited about.
I was elected chair of the committee in February, but organising our year-twelve formal is something I have basically been doing on a pro bono basis for years. Every time I see an innovative table setting in a magazine I cut it out to add to my collection. I have a list of top venues, which the committee recently narrowed down to one: a haute cuisine restaurant at Circular Quay, called Dish. I cannot wait to hit the dance floor with Edie – she has learned ballroom dancing and has some really terrific moves.
On my way to the common room I hear the sound of familiar heels behind me in the corridor.
‘Hello, Harriet.’ Principal Croon is beaming. ‘How lovely to run into you.’
‘Principal Croon!’ What a pleasure it is to see her! Is that shirt made from kimono silk? The woman’s taste is flawless. ‘I didn’t realise you had returned! How was Japan?’
‘Simply wonderful,’ she says gravely. ‘The cherry blossom at this time of year …’ She sighs luxuriantly. ‘And how is the Tawney training coming along?’
Her mention of Tawney training makes me think of the Sports Department, which makes me think of Coach Hadley. I consider asking Principal Croon about his suspension, but decide not to. Now that she is back, she will announce it soon enough. ‘On track, I’m pleased to report,’ I tell her.
‘Keep up the good work.’ She briefly places a hand on my shoulder before continuing down the corridor.
I am still basking in the warmth of this encounter when I reach the common room. Beth is at the kitchen bench, stirring Milo into a full glass of milk. ‘Hey, lover,’ she greets me, bending over to take a sip without moving the glass from the bench.
‘Hi, Beth.’
She laughs and chokes on her Milo and coughs, and a cloud of chocolate comes out of her mouth like a speech bubble.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ says Beth, wiping her lips. ‘I just realised I called you lover, that’s all.’
‘You call everyone lover. It’s your new thing.’
‘Ye-es,’ says Beth, stirring her drink, looking at me with low-level amusement, the way she might look at someone with food in their teeth or a grossly deformed nose. Beth is so good at deadpan humour. ‘But with you it’s not as, you know, wacky.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a lesbian, stupid.’ Beth picks up her glass. ‘Hey, I wanted to ask you something. You know James, that friend
