Over the next few days, comments from Rosemead students pour in:
‘Nice paper bag, Amelia.’
‘Is the animal mask a clue? Should we be looking for a cat person?’
‘Does this mean Amelia has brown hair?’
‘WHO ARE YOU???’
‘Wilhelmina Everhart.’
I’m sitting on a designer chair in Principal Croon’s air-conditioned office for the chat about my marks that Fowler so kindly arranged. Around me are the spoils of her reign: fancy furniture, framed photographs of pivotal moments in Rosemead history with Croon in the foreground and, on the sideboard, a porcelain doll, presumably a gift from our Japanese sister school. Croon is behind her wide desk.
‘With respect, Principal Croon, Miss Fowler under-marked my essay. I’ve brought it to show you …’
Croon waves the essay away. ‘I trust Miss Fowler’s judgment in these matters. She is the literature expert, not me. Your marks are consistently poor, Wilhelmina, which is not what I was led to expect when we accepted your transfer two years ago.’
‘I don’t know why my marks have dropped. I have honestly tried –’
Croon silences me with a shake of her head. ‘It’s not just your marks I’m concerned about. They point to a broader malaise.’ She pauses. ‘There was that horrific history-of-war video project you produced that left your classmates traumatised.’
‘But war is by its very nature –’
‘Not to mention the havoc you wreaked in poor Mrs Lavender’s Food Technology class,’ tuts Croon. ‘And need I remind you of the unauthorised refugee placard you erected on the Pacific Highway directly in front of campus?’
Of course I don’t need reminding. It read Bring Them Here in metre-tall letters and took me a whole week to paint.
‘Your enrolment was conditional on the cessation of this type of activity. It was the basis upon which we agreed to help you settle in. As I recall, your mother was adamant about your needing help with settling in. Wasn’t she?’
I mumble incoherently.
‘Sadly, the ways in which we can help you are limited if you are unwilling to help yourself,’ Croon says. ‘Given that you’ve clearly made no effort to change your behaviour, it is frankly very difficult to see any advantage for you or Rosemead in keeping you enrolled.’
I dig my fingernails into the underside of Croon’s mahogany desk. Advantage for Rosemead? How about the hard-earned fortune in fees my mother is paying, for starters?
‘We have a very impressive year-twelve final average and marks like yours bring down the reputation of the school. The way I see it,’ Croon continues, massaging her fingers, ‘is you have two choices. One. You stop all this nonsense. You knuckle down, study hard and improve your marks. Two.’ She thins her lips. ‘Rosemead bids you farewell.’
I’m going through the motions of nodding numbly when I wake up to myself. This is an outrage. Croon is considering expelling me because I’m bad for Rosemead’s bottom line. Never mind nurturing underperformers or encouraging independent thinking. If you can’t rise to the top of the pile, and in a suitable manner, the school has no place for you.
I know she’d turf me out on the spot if I said any of this, so I grit my teeth and hold in the words. That’s when something on the top of Croon’s in-tray catches my eye.
‘Oh yes,’ says Croon, following my gaze. ‘I almost forgot the other matter I wanted to raise with you.’ Delicately, she lifts a copy of the Messenger out of the tray and hands it to me. ‘The cartoon on page three. I’m assuming it is your handiwork,’ she says. ‘Not to mention the others that have appeared since. I know from Miss Watson that you insulted Coach Hadley last term. And that you and Natasha Nguyen are close. Was this your idea of revenge, perhaps?’ She fixes her gaze on me.
I gaze back just as steadily. Does Croon really think she can get a confession out of me that easily?
I shake my head. ‘Not mine.’
‘And what about the other cartoons?’
‘Believe me, I’d love to claim responsibility,’ I say with fake disappointment. ‘Everyone knows Coach Hadley has a reputation.’
Croon’s nostrils flare ever so slightly. ‘I understand that Coach Hadley is very popular.’
‘With some girls, sure. But others find him to be somewhat of a, um, sleaze.’
Something flickers behind the principal’s eyes. ‘Well, I’ve had no complaints.’
‘Oh?’ I swing one leg across the other. ‘I can think of three instances of inappropriate behaviour off the top of my head.’
Croon pushes back her chair and stands up. Clearly, this is my cue to leave.
‘You know what I’d do if I were you, Principal Croon?’ I say, staying in my chair. ‘Get Nakita Wallis in. She’ll tell you how last year Hadley actually took her by the –’
Croon leans so far across the table that I can make out the impeccable condition of her nose cavities, and the smooth lines of her eyebrows. I wonder if she tints her eyelashes or whether they’re naturally that colour.
‘As I said, Miss Everhart. You have two choices.’
She holds the door open.
Chapter 12
HARRIET
Will and I agree that the best time for me to execute our operation is during my free period on Thursday. I leave Maths as soon as the bell rings and duck into the bathroom for some quick affirmations, which I always find helpful during tremulous times.
You are a winner! I whisper to the mirror.
You are a success!
You can do this, Harriet Gwendolyn Price!
I am about to begin a couple of energising breathing exercises when Kimberley Kitchener and Palmer Crichton walk in.
Kimberley skids to a stop in front of me. She has a notebook on a string around her neck. She flips the cover open. ‘Want to place a bet, Harriet?’ she asks.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
Kimberley and Palmer exchange a sly glance. ‘Don’t worry,’ Palmer says. ‘It’s all above board. We’re just running a small gambling thing,
