‘I’ll try to make it to the newsroom today, but I’m not promising anything,’ I tell her when class is finished.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Nat says. ‘We’ve had to move out anyway.’
‘How come?’
Nat rips the paper off a stick of gum. ‘The place got broken into and there’s glass everywhere, and the police don’t want us to disturb anything.’
I stare at her. ‘The police?’
‘They’re taking fingerprints, DNA, all that. Some of the glass has blood on it so they reckon that whoever it was that broke in cut themselves on the way out. Not that we can work out what’s been taken.’
I finger the sleeve that covers my bandage.
Nat looks at me strangely, almost like she’s never been so pleased. It makes no sense.
Unless she knows about my involvement in Amelia Westlake.
Oh crap. That’s it. She saw Harriet at the Deep Fryer gig and worked it all out. And my question just now about Harriet confirmed it for her.
Of course.
She is revelling in her secret knowledge before confronting me.
I try to remember what Harriet told me about Nat’s recent investigations. I was trapped in the newsroom at the time and was kind of preoccupied. I didn’t get a chance to follow it up in the taxi, either. Something about handwriting? Nat collecting samples? Analysing our cartoons? I’m pretty sure that was it.
Shit.
If only I knew for certain. If I could just quiz Harriet for a minute, I could ask her exactly what Nat told her that night so I’d know how to handle her. Otherwise, Nat might trick me into telling her everything, just when I’d hoped to pack Amelia Westlake into a neat little box and send her off to deep-freeze storage.
I’m going to have to break my Harriet ban. Instead of wagging Biology to avoid her – our only class together now that our swimming rotation in Phys Ed is over – I’ll pull her aside and we can shore up our alibis.
I take my usual seat at the far right of the lab benches. I keep an eye on Harriet’s usual seat: at the front, in the direct line of Mr Van’s desk.
The class files in.
Palmer Crichton is sitting behind me. She leans over and murmurs in my ear. ‘Have you placed a bet yet?’
I turn around. ‘Is this the Amelia Westlake sweep I’ve heard about?’
She nods. ‘Even if you’ve betted, you may want to place a new one. Some new information has come to light.’
I wonder what’s she on about. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Prisha Kamala has come forward about a trip she took to her local newsagency last month to get some materials for a class project,’ says Palmer, close to my ear. ‘The newsagency was short on neon pink cardboard. Apparently another Rosemead student had bulk-bought fifty sheets of the stuff the day before.’ She tilts her head. ‘Want to guess where Prisha’s local newsagency is?’ But Palmer doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Mosman,’ she gloats.
Crapping maloney. Has Harriet really been so stupid?
Palmer is clearly pleased with herself. ‘It’s definitely shortened the odds on some of our contenders, let me tell you. There are only six people in our year who live in Mosman. Prisha, Beth Tupman, Lorna Gallagher, Harriet Price –’
I bite the inside of my cheek. ‘Does Nat Nguyen know about this analysis of yours?’
Palmer nods. ‘She’s crosschecking our findings against some tests of her own this weekend. She’s pretty confident we’ll be able to narrow it right down. Which means we’re only taking bets for another two days. Come on. It’s your last chance.’
‘I don’t have any change on me, sorry.’ I turn back to the front.
Beth Tupman, who is Harriet’s lab partner, is one of the last to arrive. Usually they arrive together, but she’s by herself.
Mr Van begins class. Still no Harriet.
Twenty minutes into the lesson, her empty seat stands out like a human ear grafted on a mouse.
Where is she?
She isn’t in Biology on Thursday. I do a few walk-bys of the year-twelve common room. Nothing.
Where the hell has she disappeared to? Is she sick? Injured? Did something happen at the airport after I left? Is that why she tried to call me eighteen times? Maybe she tripped over a baggage carousel and shattered her kneecaps. Maybe she was abducted by a drug cartel to smuggle illegal substances in digestible bags.
Or maybe she’s been at school the whole time but with a new haircut so I haven’t recognised her. Has she finally seen sense and ditched the Butterscotch BlondeTM?
The other possibility is I’ve forgotten what she looks like. I think about it. Other than the hair, I can’t remember any particular facial features. Has all her talk of Chuck Close triggered some kind of empathetic face blindness?
I want to ask somebody if they’ve seen her – Beth Tupman, Millie Levine, anyone – but with so many people on the Amelia Westlake trail, not to mention Palmer’s new damning clue, the question would be suspicious.
On Thursday afternoon, out of sheer desperation, I take a casual walk down to the tennis courts. They’re empty, so empty it feels like the sign of a coming apocalypse. I’m beginning to feel desperate enough to text her. Then I remember I deleted her number.
I climb into the umpire’s chair to think. From up here you can see the whole school empire: the gymnasium, both ovals, the classrooms, the Performing Arts Centre, the architectural-award-winning staff building, girls wandering down pathways and across lawns in pairs, in groups, alone. None of them is Harriet.
I take my phone out of my pocket.
To be clear, Instagram is for narcissists. The only reason I keep a personal profile there is to follow the feeds of my favourite art mags. Other than to check out Amelia Westlake’s feed, I haven’t been on it for months. I’m hopeful that Harriet does not share this mindset.
I
