‘Of course.’
‘He’s in year twelve at Edwin Street, isn’t he?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Does he have a girlfriend?’
I frown. ‘Not that I’m aware of. But then I wouldn’t really know. Arthur and I don’t talk all that much about his friends’ romantic pursuits.’
‘Could you make some inquiries? I was thinking of inviting him to our formal.’
‘All right. I’ll talk to Arthur.’ I walk past her to the noticeboard.
There are only two new names on the Formal Committee volunteer list. Liz Newcomb’s is one. Amelia Westlake’s is the other.
This isn’t good at all.
I find Will Everhart midway through lunch exactly where I expect to find her: coming out of the Messenger newsroom. When she sees me, her face sort of spasms, as if it is spinning through a giant carnival-wheel of emotions and doesn’t know where to land. Horror, doubt, anxiety, suspicion and anger: all of them flicker past. Unless I’m mistaken, there is also briefly something in the neighbourhood of pleased, but within seconds the carnival-wheel needle has caught on vitriolic outrage and I find myself firmly attached to Will Everhart’s hand, being towed down the hallway at a threatening speed.
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘I’m not the person abducting someone in broad daylight,’ I say, breathless.
‘We need to talk.’
‘We certainly do. I’ve just been to the bathroom!’
‘You’re telling me this because?’
‘Because of what’s written there!’ I am not going to let her pretend she doesn’t know. ‘Not to mention what’s written on the list of Formal Committee volunteers! And you’ll never guess who just signed up for tetherball.’
I expect some remorse, a small shrug of acknowledgement at the very least, but instead Will Everhart’s outrage seems to balloon. ‘What a coincidence,’ she says. ‘You’ll never guess whose Instagram profile Nat Nguyen was just showing me.’
I get a constricted feeling in my chest and regret eating boiled eggs for lunch; they may be high in protein and amino acids but they always give me indigestion.
Will’s grip on my hand tightens. Is that a fresh love bite on her neck? Has she somehow smuggled her groovy older boyfriend onto campus? I wouldn’t put it past her.
‘At least tell me where you’re taking me,’ I gasp.
‘As far away from the newsroom as possible.’
We are at the edge of the second oval and in front of us the pathway forks. If we follow Cassowary Path to the left, we’ll end up at the gymnasium. Bronte Path, to the right, takes us to the southern block of the Performing Arts Centre.
Will turns right.
When we reach the PAC, instead of heading up the ramp to the front entrance, Will swerves to the side and follows a path I’ve never noticed before that takes us down some steps and between the pillars at the base of the building. We go around the side until we come upon a door. Will presses the keypad beside it. I hear a click. She leans against the door and it opens.
Inside is a narrow room, about the size of my walk-in wardrobe. One wall is lined with shelves. On the bottom shelf is a neatly folded pile of clothes – an embroidered cavalry jacket and vest, as well as pants and a shirt – presumably a costume left over from one of Rosemead’s annual musicals. Otherwise, the shelves are empty. At the far end, beneath a row of windows and streaked with sunlight, is a stack of padded chairs, like the ones populating the PAC foyer.
How perfect for an illicit rendezvous. Is this where Will brings her boyfriend? She lifts two of the chairs off the stack and places them facing each other on the carpet.
Of course. This is probably what she does with him. They probably put the chairs together, lie down together and …
But enough of these completely irrelevant thoughts. God, my collar feels tight all of a sudden. I undo the top button of my shirt.
‘What is this place?’ I ask.
‘One of the PAC storerooms,’ says Will. ‘Not that they’re using it to store anything right now. They shifted everything out about two weeks ago.’
I gaze around. ‘How do you know the door code?’
‘I watched Mr Tipper plug it in one time.’ She sits down on one of the chairs. Her eyes become slits. ‘You don’t know who Mr Tipper is, do you?’
I rack my brain. Tipper, sounds like ‘clipper’. An image comes to me of a sailing ship. I wonder if he is a boatswain of some sort?
‘Of course you don’t. He’s the janitor.’ Will gives me a scathing look.
The intensity of her outrage sends a strange heat through my veins. It is vital that I change the topic at once. ‘You’ve heard about Coach Hadley’s suspension, I expect.’
Will’s eyes widen. ‘They’ve suspended Hadley?’
I try, somewhat unsuccessfully, to tone down the triumph in my voice. ‘He hasn’t been at school since Easter break.’
Will looks thoughtful. ‘Of course, he could just be on extended holidays …’ She meets my eye. ‘But if you’re right about the suspension, it means Amelia Westlake really is getting the message across.’ She pauses to glower at me. ‘What a shame you’ve just sabotaged the whole project.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I cry.
Will throws up a hand and slaps the air. ‘Nat is refusing to publish any more cartoons because she knows Amelia Westlake is a pseudonym because you posted that bloody Instagram profile.’ She is staring at me again like I committed armed robbery.
Her stare is making me deeply uncomfortable and short of breath, and undoing another button would be entirely inappropriate. So I attempt to appease her. ‘Okay. I made a mistake,’ I say. ‘But for God’s sake. Your graffiti, Will? It practically announced Amelia Westlake is a hoax. Amelia Westlake woz here – or woz she??? If Natasha had seen that before she saw the online profile it would have taken her three seconds to work everything out. Might I also remind you that
