Before Harriet and Bracken showed up, I was doodling ideas for my major work, the project that will make up fifty per cent of my final-year Art mark. I’m massively behind. Everyone else has started their pieces but I keep changing my mind. I considered doing something about world poverty or global warming, but Mrs Degarno says that the best type of art does two things at once: it speaks to current events as well as telling a story about the artist. That’s why my latest idea is to explore the dangers of air travel.
Every time I turn on the news these days I hear about another crash in which hundreds of people have died. It’s been four years since I flew on a plane, and after what happened that last time, I’ve vowed never to fly on another one.
I take up my pen.
I’ve just finished drawing three commercial jets of varying sizes – one exploding, one tearing in half mid-flight and one spiralling nose-first into a mountain – when I look up to see Harriet staring at me from behind a row of chairs she’s been straightening.
‘What?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’re staring at me.’
‘No, I’m not.’
I put down my pen. ‘Feeling guilty, are we?’
Her eyes widen. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She probably doesn’t even remember what happened at the pool. Why would she care about what Hadley said to Ruby Lasko? Harriet Price wouldn’t have a clue what it’s like to be picked on.
She begins dragging the chairs to the side of the room and stacking them loudly. I go back to drawing planes.
A minute later, she says, ‘What good would it have done? Me saying anything? Miss Watson would still have put you in detention.’
So she does remember. Interesting. ‘I guess we’ll never know, will we?’ I say.
Red blotches appear on her neck and I smile. She marches off to toss around a few more chairs.
I’ve just finished drawing my fourth plane when she pipes up again. ‘For the record, I don’t entirely disagree with what you said about Coach Hadley.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘That he’s a prick?’
Harriet gasps. ‘I wasn’t referring to that,’ she whispers. ‘I mean what you said to Ms Bracken. About him being … sexist. He doesn’t mean to be, but it’s definitely true that, very occasionally, he can be.’
‘Very occasionally?’
‘Yes. Not at all often. Hardly ever, really.’
It’s a record-breaking backtrack. I rock forward on my chair. ‘You don’t remember last term when he referred to the “non-supportive” bra Nakita Wallis was wearing?’ I ask.
Harriet looks uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes. But he was only kidding around –’
‘What about the time he told Anna Yemelin that she was too “top heavy” to be a competitive swimmer?’
She bites her lip. ‘Swimmers have to have a certain body shape. That’s the reality.’
‘Or how he once tried to get us to stretch before class by saying how guys appreciate flexibility?’
Harriet pauses. ‘I’m pretty sure that was a joke. Admittedly one in poor taste …’
‘Then what’s your explanation for how he slapped Trish Burger on the –’
‘Okay, you’ve made your point,’ Harriet snaps.
I let the back legs of my chair hit the floor. The sound makes Harriet jump. I pretend not to notice. ‘I’ve got loads more examples,’ I say. ‘It’s a common story. Given how much time you spend at the gym, I’m surprised you don’t have a few stories about Hadley yourself.’
The red blotches on Harriet’s neck darken. I wonder if I’ve hit the mark.
‘Even if it’s true that he can be somewhat sexist, girls know he doesn’t mean anything by it,’ she says at last. ‘People love him!’
If that’s her attitude, what’s the point of pressing further? Clearly if Harriet does have stories, she’s not about to share them with me. You can tell just by looking at her how carefully ordered she is: everything’s so neat and fitted, it’s like her whole being is guarding against the presence of a single loose thread that, if pulled, would unravel Harriet herself.
I leave the thread alone. Instead I say, ‘Some people love him. Of course, the other possibility is that they’re afraid of being told they can’t take a joke.’
‘In any case,’ Harriet says, ignoring my theory, ‘I don’t see what the point is of going on about his behaviour, frankly, unless you’re prepared to do something about it.’ She must see the disbelief on my face because she adds quickly, ‘Something apart from calling him a you-know-what to his face, I mean.’
I laugh. Harriet Price is really something – standing like a statue beside a tower of chairs, lecturing me about taking action. ‘What did you have in mind?’ I ask, loading on the sarcasm. ‘A petition? A meeting with Principal Croon? I tried both of those things last year to break the monopoly the school’s uniform shop has on school supplies. I got nowhere. I doubt she’s going to sack Hadley on my say-so. Or were you thinking we should have one of Rosemead’s famous charity cake stalls? Perhaps we could use a picture of Hadley’s face with the word “misogynist” in red icing beneath it.’
‘Cake stalls can be very effective,’ Harriet says, clasping her hands together like an earnest Maria von Trapp. ‘When I organised our homeless person’s cake stall –’
‘I was being sarcastic.’
‘I know that,’ she says crossly. She strides across the room in an attempt to look purposeful. I’m unconvinced.
‘How about you write an article for the school paper then?’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘You’re friends with Natasha Nguyen, aren’t you?’
I’m surprised Harriet knows this. Still. What a crappy idea. Nat’s the editor of the school paper but that doesn’t automatically mean she’d publish something I’d written. She’d bang on about her editorial integrity first. ‘What would be the point of a stupid article?’
‘To draw attention to the issue, if that’s what you’re so keen on doing.’
I snort. Doesn’t Harriet know that drawing attention to issues is what I’ve been trying to do since I arrived at this school over two years ago?
