Liz rolls her eyes, and Inez grins. They seem to be implying they don’t particularly like Beth, which is strange. Beth is one of the most popular girls in our year.
‘So I get my essay back from Beth,’ says Daphne, ‘and it’s got her student number on the front but it’s my essay. And I look through it and there are all these complimentary comments in the margins, like “Bravo Beth!” and “Beautifully expressed, Beth!” and “I love you like a daughter, Beth!” Okay, I made up that last one, but you get the picture. Anyway, I turn to the back page, and Miss Fowler’s given the essay – my essay – eighty-five! I like, never get eighty-five.’
Liz whistles.
‘And it’s the same with me,’ says Inez excitedly. ‘I get my essay back from Eileen Sarmiento, who Miss Fowler is totally in love with because she’s always regurgitating whatever comes out of Miss Fowler’s mouth, and I have an eighty, which is at least twenty marks more than I’ve had for an essay all year.’
‘Wowsers,’ says Liz.
‘And then there’s a kind of wailing sound at the other end of the room where Beth is standing and it turns out she got a seventy for her essay – the one that had my student number on it – which is actually a pretty good mark for me,’ Daphne says confidentially, ‘but for someone like Beth, who is used to high distinctions, it’s like, now she wants to just, you know, kill somebody.’
‘So who do you think did it?’ Liz asks. ‘Who swapped the essays?’
Inez and Daphne look at each other.
‘Oh, we know who did it,’ says Inez.
‘You do?’ Liz says.
‘Uh-huh. Her initials are on the back of all the coversheets.’
‘It was Amelia Westlake,’ says Daphne.
I resist another fist-pump.
Liz smiles. ‘I’m starting to really like that girl.’
The following day at the lockers I find Beth telling Millie the same story.
‘It’s a complete outrage! Eighty: okay. But seventy? Only imbeciles get seventy. I mean Binkie could get that mark, and he’s a labradoodle. And dead.’
‘Have you heard about this, Harriet?’ Millie asks.
I nod. I have no intention of lying to my friends. Not directly, anyway. ‘Inez and Daphne were talking about it yesterday.’
‘Isn’t it appalling?’ says Millie. ‘This could affect people’s university entrance scores! It could mean the difference between getting into their first choice of degree or their second.’
This is a horrifying thought. Just last week when we filled out the form I put medicine down first and, on a whim, a bachelor of arts second. All I can say by way of explanation is that I am confident I’ll get the marks I need for medicine, so my second option hardly seems relevant.
Millie looks at her watch and panic contorts her face. ‘Is it ten to two already? Coach Hadley will tear strips off me.’
‘He’s back?’ I ask, trying to conceal my shock.
Millie nods. ‘Since Tuesday. We spent half the lesson looking at his photos from Seoul. They had an Olympic reunion thing there. His wife and kids got to go, too. It sounded amazing.’
I stand very still. I can hardly believe what I am hearing. There I was, imagining Coach Hadley was having some quiet time to reflect upon the thoughtlessness of his actions – alone in a room, perhaps; a dark room without any natural light – when in fact he has been living it up with his whole family in the sunshine overseas!
‘World to Harriet,’ says Beth, waving a hand in front of my face.
‘Sorry, were you saying something?’
‘I was asking whether you’ve had a chance to talk to Arthur yet about You Know Who.’ She plays an imaginary keyboard with her fingers.
I am so distracted by the news about Coach that it takes me a second to work out what she is talking about. ‘James? Oh! No. Sorry, I forgot.’
This isn’t strictly true. It has occurred to me numerous times to ask Arthur about James and whether he might be available for an invitation to the formal from Beth, but something always stops me. ‘I’ll ask tonight,’ I promise.
I open my locker, still thinking about Coach Hadley. So, he was never suspended. Quite the opposite, it appears.
‘Seventy per cent. It’s unbelievable,’ I hear Beth mutter.
If he wasn’t suspended, has Rosemead addressed the cartoon’s concerns in any way at all?
I put a hand on my chest. Breathe, Harriet. Principal Croon is doubtless conducting an investigation behind the scenes. Innocent until proven guilty – isn’t that the rule?
‘The problem is teachers like Miss Fowler have so much power,’ Millie remarks. ‘It’s like being in a concentration camp or something.’
‘Exactly,’ Beth says.
An idea occurs to me: something that – unlike our cartoon, apparently – is bound to result in an immediate response from the school. I draw my head out of my locker. ‘Why don’t you get your parents to complain about what happened with your marks?’
At this suggestion, Millie grows enthusiastic. ‘You should definitely do that. Or get your dad to write an article in his paper about it. Or I’ll tell my dad to mention it in parliament.’
Beth nods, thinking it through. ‘I should, shouldn’t I? I can’t just let this go. I’m one of Rosemead’s top students!’
The two of them begin an intense discussion.
I gather my books.
Chapter 13
WILL
You know how in crime shows the police pin up all the information they’ve collected about a murder victim and draw lines to connect them to possible suspects? On Thursday morning that’s what Nat’s whiteboard looks like, except the name that all the lines run from is not some murder victim’s. It’s Amelia Westlake.
‘Everything I’ve heard suggests Fowler had no idea about the essay swap until it was too late,’ says Nat, pacing in front of the whiteboard. ‘Which means whoever Amelia Westlake is got her hands on the essays before Fowler marked them. But how?’
I haven’t seen her this worked up since the Messenger’s printing
