‘Raising money for a new swimming pool is not exactly evil,’ Harriet says.
‘Self-interest, then.’
Harriet’s brow creases. ‘Let me get this right. You’re saying we call up the printing company and ask them to replace the text on the envelope?’
‘Exactly. We choose a worthy cause, describe it on the envelope, leave the usual space for people to fill in their card details, and include the charity’s address so that people can post donations to them directly. I was thinking we could choose the Fund for Australian Women. Its focus is on supporting women and children who are victims of domestic violence. And its initials double as Amelia Westlake’s calling card. By the time the mail-out has happened it will be too late for the school to do anything about it. Sure, a lot of people will ignore the envelope, but some will donate. And it will send a message to Rosemead that its uncharitable ways haven’t gone unnoticed.’
‘But how are we going to convince the printers to change the envelope details?’ Harriet asks.
‘We’ll call them up and pretend to be someone from the school. I’m pretty good at putting on a mature voice,’ I say, in a mature voice.
‘I guess all that leaves is finding out who the printing company is.’
‘Oh. I assumed you’d know,’ I say, disappointed.
Harriet shakes her head.
Damn. This could be the one detail that holds us back. ‘Are you sure you’ve never heard a name mentioned in a Sports Committee meeting?’
‘Not that I remember,’ Harriet says. ‘Although it would make sense for Rosemead to use the same company it uses for other projects. Has Natasha ever mentioned who prints the Messenger?’
‘Possibly, but the name doesn’t spring to mind. Although I bet the information is somewhere in the newsroom.’
‘Why don’t you look around next time you’re in there?’ Harriet suggests.
I try this on Wednesday. I figure I’ll find the name on the boxes of undistributed Messengers, or the contact details on one of Nat’s Post-its. But I don’t. I even try casually opening the filing cabinet, but Nat’s warning stare stops me. ‘Don’t touch my shit, Will. It’s taken me months to arrange those files.’
‘We need to find a way to get into the newsroom when Nat’s not there,’ I tell Harriet when we meet up at the storeroom later on.
‘How about when she’s in class?’
‘During school hours is too risky. She’ll skip class if she has a deadline to meet, and anyway, there’s too much foot traffic in that corridor. Someone will see us.’
‘Then we sneak back one evening.’
I shake my head. ‘Nat’s there most nights.’
In fact, the only time of year you can depend on Nat not being in the newsroom is during September, the month before deadline for Rosemead’s annual literary journal, Falling Leaf. It’s the time of year Nat hates most. For four weeks, Nakita Wallis and her team of budding literati take over half the newsroom to sort through poetry and short stories, sip piccolos, and argue the comparable merits of haiku and pantoums.
Exam time aside, it’s the only time of year Nat spends more hours out of the newsroom than in it. But it’s only June. So how are we going to get in there alone?
It’s Harriet who works out a plan.
My mother is standing in the door to my room. She’s been doing this a lot lately – loitering there with her hip on the frame. Sometimes, to mix things up, she’ll pick at one of the nuggets of Blu Tack on my door. Sometimes she’ll hum a line or two from a Paul Kelly song. When I finally stop whatever I’m doing and bark ‘What?’, she always says the same thing.
‘How’s your major work coming along?’
This has been going on for weeks.
The truth is, my creative juices are not exactly flowing – not in the direction of my major work, anyway. Yes, I’m thinking about its subject matter, but this is less from conscientiousness and more from my anxiety disorder. Every time a plane flies over the house I think about it. For example, I think about how supposed experts always claim that air travel is ten times safer than other modes of transport when actually this is only when you measure deaths per kilometre. When you measure deaths per journey it becomes clear you’re safer playing hide-and-seek with a jaguar in heat than getting on a plane.
Luckily, the fundraising prank has me preoccupied. The potential impact of our latest operation is bigger than the others put together. We’ll be hitting Rosemead’s coffers directly, possibly to the tune of thousands of dollars. It’s the Robin-fucking-Hood of heists.
I hear Mum’s fingernail scraping at the timber.
‘What?’
I ready myself for the major work question.
Mum’s lips part.
Here it comes.
‘Who’s Amelia Westlake?’
‘What?’
‘Amelia Westlake. I’ve never heard you mention her before.’
‘Who told you that name?’
Mum looks at me strangely. ‘She did. She’s on the phone for you. Or should I tell her to call back?’
I grab the phone from Mum, heart slamming in my chest. ‘Hello, Will speaking?’
‘Hi,’ murmurs a voice. ‘It’s me, Harriet.’
I breathe out.
‘I know we promised not to call each other. So I thought I better use a … well … fake name.’ She gives a half-laugh.
‘Where did you even get this number?’ Nobody calls our landline except for Dad, Mum’s boyfriend, Graham, and a persistent market researcher named Atari.
‘On the year-twelve contact list.’
‘There’s a year-twelve contact list?’
‘I needed to talk to you urgently, and you weren’t answering your mobile. I just checked the Rosemead student’s Instagram account,’ Harriet says. ‘The swimming pool picture and the comments beneath it are gone.’
I had a feeling this would happen. ‘But the account’s still there?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ Harriet confirms. ‘Do you think we should send her another message?’
Mum is still loitering. I give her the thumbs-up before closing the door. ‘If you think it would help.’
‘What should
