‘Can you see anything?’ I murmur.
There is a second tinny crash through the phone speakers, and a third, and then Will is waving a piece of paper triumphantly at the screen. ‘An invoice from Parsons Printing for five hundred copies of the Messenger. Dated two months ago.’
‘Thank goodness. Now get out of there as fast as you can.’
Will swears again.
‘What is it?’
‘This bloody door. It won’t open!’
Oh God. This can’t be happening. ‘Can’t you use your card again?’
‘I’m trying that. It’s not working from the inside.’
‘Are you serious?’
Will’s face fills the screen. ‘No, Harriet. I’m pretending to be locked in the Messenger newsroom for your personal amusement.’
I feel a hand on my arm. ‘There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.’
I jump.
In the Deep Fryer hallway, Natasha Nguyen is standing in front of me. I quickly flatten the phone against my beating chest. ‘I’m just speaking to my mother. Won’t be long!’
Natasha glances at my phone. ‘You want me to buy you a drink?’
‘Sure!’
‘What would you like?’
‘Anything! You choose!’
‘Okay.’ She looks at me curiously. ‘I’ll be in the bar.’
When Natasha is gone I bring the phone screen back up to my face. ‘I’ve got to go. Just get out of there as fast as you can, okay?’
‘Piece of pie.’
‘Good-oh. Speak soon.’
I return to an extraordinary scene in the bar: Natasha Nguyen waving at me from a booth in the corner, almost as if the two of us are friends. ‘Here, I got you a vodka and lemonade,’ she says, chirpy as a budgerigar, pushing it across the table. ‘I figured it’s the kind of thing you drink.’ She is nursing a dark brown stout. ‘I want to apologise to you. I got the wrong end of the stick tonight. I thought you were involved in something you’re obviously not. Please. Sit down.’
I slide across the ripped vinyl, careful not to catch it on my skirt. Is Natasha bluffing? It is a distinct possibility. If she saw Will on my phone screen …
I decide to play along. ‘Is that why you were so hostile at the restaurant?’ I say.
‘Yep.’
‘And kept asking me all those strange questions?’
Natasha nods.
‘You were convinced I had something to reveal to you.’
‘Uh-huh.’
I think of slow-dawning things – the sun on the lip of the ocean, a rattling kettle, a tulip crowning through snow – and then speak. ‘You thought I was Amelia Westlake, didn’t you? You guessed I made up this whole “Art Juice is my brother” story as a cover for some Amelia Westlake activity.’
Natasha gives a hysterical cackle. ‘You? Amelia Westlake? How funny. No. God, imagine the headlines. “Harriet Price, Rosemead Grammar mascot, Tawney Shield prefect, throws perfect life down drain for anti-authoritarian hoax”.’ She swills the beer in her glass before taking a mouthful. ‘No, of course not you. But I figured you were going to tell me who Amelia Westlake is. My job at the Messenger is at stake if I don’t help Croon catch the culprit. So, are you going to spill? I’ve had my money on your friend Liz for weeks, you see.’
‘Liz Newcomb?’
‘That’s her.’
I pause. ‘We’re more acquaintances.’
‘Really? Anyway, when it comes down to it, Liz is one of the few people I can think of who is motivated and smart enough to pull off this whole Amelia Westlake caper.’
I bite hard on my straw. ‘That’s an interesting perspective.’
Natasha grins. ‘Tell me what you really think, Harriet Price, sister of Art Juice. I’m feeling uniquely open this evening. I’m in a positively generous mood.’
She really is. Someone has slipped aside the gift ribbon, torn off the paper and unwrapped her like a present. A shiny one, with an LED light that glows from within. I realise she has no idea what Will and I are up to. Even so, I have to be careful.
‘Apart from Liz, who else is on your list of suspects?’ I ask lightly.
‘So far, I’ve managed to knock out about sixty per cent of our year group based on who was in class when the essay swap happened,’ Natasha says.
Which leaves me in the other forty per cent. I gnash at the straw between my teeth.
‘And I’ve narrowed down the list further after considering who and what types of issues the pranks have targeted. It’s all a bit speculative at this stage, to be honest, but I’m hoping to change that.’
I try not to overreact to this expressed hope of hers. Polite interest is the key. ‘Really. How?’ I say.
Natasha leans forward conspiratorially. ‘Duncan’s uncle is a forensic handwriting specialist.’ She sits back and waits for me to respond to this startling piece of news.
‘He is?’
For someone usually stone-faced, Natasha looks ecstatic. ‘Yep. Talk about good luck. Between Duncan and me, we’ve just about finished collecting handwriting samples from everyone in the year, which his uncle will then cross-check against the cartoons.’
I freeze. Will may have penned the pictures, but it’s my handwriting on those cartoons. ‘How on earth have you managed to collect samples from everyone?’ The question comes out shriller than I was aiming for.
‘We’ve been taking photocopies of stuff people have put up on noticeboards around school. You drew up the Formal Committee sign-up list that’s in the year-twelve common room, didn’t you?’
‘Um, I’m not sure …’
‘The one with the handwritten paragraph at the top about the formal being the “pinnacle of the Rosemead experience”?’
I take a long drink of vodka.
‘Thought so.’ Nat grins. ‘If all goes to plan, we should have solved the puzzle by the end of term. Which not only means I’ll be in the clear with Croon, but also that I’ll be able to write my exposé for the Messenger over the holidays.’
I don’t want to hear any more. I need to tell Will about this latest development. Preferably immediately. ‘I just have to visit the bathroom,’ I tell Natasha.
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘I’ll get us another round.’
Will is still in the newsroom. Behind her head I can see the corkboard, with
