Like anyone could possibly know that many people.
I look at her profile picture. She’s in her Tawney Shield tennis whites with her arm around a girl in matching gear: presumably School Captain Edie.
Harriet’s face looks so familiar on the screen I wonder how I forgot it. I study Edie. She is pretty, but to be honest – okay, honest and extremely superficial – I reckon she’s punching above her weight.
See? This is why I hate social media: it turns you into a horrible person.
It’s probably just a bad photo of her and a really good one of Harriet. Or maybe it’s because I know Harriet and that makes me see her as more beautiful.
Beautiful in a bland, preppy kind of way.
After dinner at home I look at a few more Instagram photos of Edie and Harriet, just to be sure.
Then I look at a few more photos of just Harriet.
Then I log out of Instagram and image-search Harriet through a couple of different search engines and look at those pictures. Harriet on skis. Harriet in tennis gear. Harriet with Arthur and their horrible-looking Ken and Barbie parents.
I hear the key in the front door, which means Mum is home after a night out with Graham. I check my watch.
How can it possibly already be eleven-thirty?
I hit ‘follow’ under Harriet’s profile and go to bed.
I check Instagram as soon as I wake up the next morning. Nothing. At lunchtime, in a last-ditch effort to hunt Harriet down, I decide to go to the storeroom on the off-chance she’ll swing by. The first thing I do is check out the shelves for any sign she’s been there recently.
Everything looks to be in order: my tea and coffee, my novelty mugs and my art books. Harriet’s weird little collection of trinkets: air freshener, a selection of health bars, a fire extinguisher and a fire blanket with the price tag still dangling from it. On the bottom shelf are the embroidered cavalry jacket, vest, pants and shirt in a pile that have been there all along. I settle into my usual chair to wait. I start eating my falafel roll.
It’s strange being here by myself. As infuriating as Harriet is, I guess I’ve become used to her.
I’m dabbing hummus off my chin when I have a thought. I look at my pile of art books again. American Portraiture in the Twenty-First Century is missing. It was definitely there last week.
Okay. This can’t be a coincidence. If I remember correctly, there’s a chapter on Chuck Close in it. Harriet must have taken it to research her little taxi speech.
Why haven’t I thought of this before? Harriet clearly has no personal interest in art. She must have looked up all that stuff. What Harriet did was work out a topic that would interest me as a way of getting me to think about my phobia.
Which is completely deluded. But kind of nice.
Something on the bookshelf catches my eye. A set of note cards. The top one is stained on the corner. It looks like vomit.
I pick them up and take a sniff.
Definitely vomit.
I read the twelve cards one by one.
Cards for Will
Topic: How to Fly on a Plane in Ten Simple Steps
1. Arrive at the airport
2. Go through security
3. Buy a coffee and drink it slowly.
4. Go to the boarding gate.
5. Complete this crossword (see over).
6. Board plane.
7. Read magazine (enclosed).
8. Listen to playlist on iPod (enclosed).
9. Eat snack (also enclosed).
10. Get off plane.
I can see what she’s done. Or tried to do. She’s broken it down for me just like Chuck Close breaks down his paintings. It’s nice. Really nice. In fact, I can’t think of a nicer thing anyone has ever done for me.
She was nice, too, when I pretended to sprain my ankle. And the night of the newsroom break-in: offering to come around and administer first aid. Texting me to make sure I made it home all right.
I finger the bandage on my arm.
If I wasn’t so certain that we weren’t friends, I’d say Harriet Price is one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Over the last couple of months I have shared more with her than I have with anyone.
Suddenly I can’t think why I’ve been angry with her. I overreacted when she was simply trying to help me out. What I want, I realise, is to make things up to her, and it’s burning a hole in my chest.
I hear a click and the door opens.
In the summer before year ten, Dad took me to see the Great Barrier Reef. I insisted we needed to visit before the shortsighted interests of successive money-grubbing governments made it extinct. On the second day, I snorkelled too far down and had to paddle like a demon to reach the top before I ran out of breath. I still remember breaking the surface, that first clean taste of air: it’s the kind of relief I feel now.
She’s wearing tracksuit pants and a polo shirt with the Tawney Shield emblem on it. Now I understand why I haven’t been able to find her. Tawney Shield pre-matches take up a good part of a week and are held off-campus. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’ I say.
She opens a Tawney Shield sports bag and begins to fill it with items from the shelf.
‘Harriet, wait.’
I put a hand on her arm. She flinches.
‘I wanted to apologise. I overreacted on Saturday.’
Harriet is still facing the shelf.
‘What you tried to do for me at the airport – it was completely ridiculous and embarrassingly naïve. But also sweet.’
Harriet throws her air freshener into the bag.
‘More than sweet. Really sweet.’
Harriet throws her health bars into the bag.
‘Kind of amazing, actually.’
Harriet throws her fire blanket into the bag.
‘Can you look
