‘Awkward for her, I mean,’ Ms Bracken says.
‘The presentation will be done twice as quickly with me helping.’ I follow her into the detention room.
I hear Ms Bracken sigh quietly. ‘Good afternoon, Will,’ she says.
That is when I see Will Everhart sitting at the very back of the room, slouched over a notebook.
Oh dear. After what happened at the pool this morning, I really could have done without encountering her again today. She seemed terribly put out when I didn’t defend her to Miss Watson.
I was not comfortable with what Coach said to Ruby. Ruby was clearly upset, and understandably so. But I am sure he was only trying to make a joke, albeit one in poor taste. Anyway, how could I possibly have taken Will’s side? I am Coach’s chosen representative on the school’s Sports Committee. An incredible honour. And as a prefect I am duty-bound to uphold the authority of Rosemead’s staff.
Will Everhart’s problem is that insolence is her trademark. She is one of those girls who thinks asymmetrical haircuts are the definition of ‘edgy’ and who takes every opportunity to show her disrespect for teachers. I personally will never forget our Food Technology class in year ten when Mrs Lavender taught us how to cook pad thai with prawns. After everyone agreed it was the most delicious meal of their lives (it was important to be nice to Mrs Lavender that year. Her husband had just left her for a hand model), Will Everhart launched into a story about how prawn trawling kills kilos of unwanted fish that are accidentally scooped up by the nets. She finished by saying we were all morally obliged to be vegetarian, before scraping the contents of her plate into the bin.
That is just the type of impertinent person Will Everhart is.
Now I wish I hadn’t come to detention with Ms Bracken, after all. But it is too late to walk out. Instead, I make a point of greeting Will with a cheery wave.
She does not wave back.
Ms Bracken puts her laptop on the teacher’s desk and walks up to collect Will’s detention slip. ‘What have you done this time?’ she asks.
‘Why don’t you ask Harriet?’ Will says, eyeing me with contempt. ‘She was there.’
I feel a throbbing in my forehead. I hold my mouth in a firm smile and open Ms Bracken’s laptop.
‘Gone quiet again, Harriet – just like this morning?’ Will calls.
Really. Why does she have to bring up this morning? She is the most provocative person I have ever met.
Ms Bracken examines the detention slip. ‘Swearing at Coach Hadley. Why did you do that?’ she asks Will, and not in the weary, slightly cross way she usually asks questions, but more like she is genuinely interested. Her prescription painkillers must have just kicked in.
‘Because he’s a sexist creep,’ says Will, chin in hand.
I genuinely cannot believe the things that come out of that girl’s mouth. Yes, I can see how some of Coach’s remarks might come across as sexist, but I am fairly certain he does not mean them in that way. He is probably just trying to relate to us. He knows how important it is to hold up Rosemead’s core value of respect regardless of a person’s identity, background and abilities. Besides, he deserves veneration as our teacher, not to mention in his capacity as a former Olympian. There are photos of him wearing his silver medal in all the Rosemead brochures.
I wait for Ms Bracken to tell off Will. But instead Ms Bracken does something I have never seen her do in my entire Rosemead career: she smiles.
‘Give me your pen,’ she says.
Will hands over a black felt-tip. Ms Bracken signs her detention slip with it and looks at the wall clock. ‘Half an hour will suffice, I should think. Feel free to leave at four.’
She marches up to the front again, swipes the laptop from beneath my poised fingers, and walks out of the room.
Chapter 3
WILL
The look on Harriet Price’s face when Ms Bracken exits is worth five detentions. For a whole minute she stares at the door, as if expecting her to return. She glances at me. Then back at the door. Then at me again.
I watch her grapple to reinstall meaning and purpose in her life without a teacher to impress. She purses her lips. She readjusts her Butterscotch BlondeTM ponytail. ‘I suppose Ms Bracken wants me to stay and supervise,’ she says.
‘Ah, no.’
Harriet makes a weird huffing sound. ‘I’ve got a lot to do here anyway. Those chairs at the side need to be put back behind their tables, and the whiteboard needs cleaning, so I’m very happy to keep you company.’
I begin to collect my stuff.
‘Where are you going?’
You know what astounds me most? How this school manages to brainwash allegedly smart people. They say Harriet Price is topping the year in Maths. How can she understand quadratic equations but not the simple fact that Rosemead is a crackpot institution that entrenches blind obedience? Not even Ms Bracken expects me to stick around. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ I say.
Harriet looks pained. Of course she’ll tell. Not telling would conflict with her screwed-up moral universe. I think again about the scene by the pool this morning and anger burns my throat.
I try to calm myself. What should I expect? Harriet Price is a lemming who does everything by the book. All she cares about is being a disciple of Rosemead and clogging up her resume with useless committee memberships. She probably has a private-school boyfriend and a ten-year plan involving the usual marriage-mortgage-kids trifecta as well. Why would she risk a blot on her perfect school record for me?
More trouble is the last thing I need, and four o’clock is only half an hour away, so I resign myself to thirty more minutes in Harriet’s company. At least I can get some drawing
