‘Is there vodka in this juice?’ I hear him pick up the glass and slurp from it. ‘That’s vodka all right.’ An arc of liquid hits the grass. ‘Sit up and talk to me.’
Talking to Arthur is the last thing I want to do. He will only tell me that everything will be okay, when it won’t be, and that I will get through this, which is a lie. Even so, I struggle into an upright position, all the while keeping the hat brim over my face.
‘Look at me,’ Arthur says.
‘But the glare off the pool –’
Arthur swipes the hat from my head. ‘That’s better.’
I squint at him. Witchetty white he is, king of the darkened music halls, my band-man brother, my little troglodyte. Art Juice, player of tunes, wooer of snarly women.
‘Harri, you’re muttering. Drink this.’
I look at the glass with disdain.
‘Drink.’
Oh, the boredom of water. I take a teensy-weensy sip.
‘What are we going to do with you?’
I prop myself up on one elbow and face him. Why can’t he just act like a self-absorbed kid brother rather than trying to fix my life? If he wants to do something useful, he should break up with his new girlfriend. She is the one who sent her pup reporter to spy on Will Everhart and me, and then plastered the news all over the school paper’s gossip pages.
Natasha Nguyen. What a callous bitch.
Her only saving grace is that she hasn’t published her findings about Amelia Westlake yet. I wonder what the hold-up is. If she’s carried out the handwriting tests like she said she would then she knows the truth by now, or at least half of it.
Perhaps she has decided that ruining my life twice in one fortnight is a step too far.
Like she would ever be that thoughtful. Ruinous cow.
I pull my sarong across my shoulders. ‘Leave me alone, Arthur.’ I roll onto my back again.
‘Come on, Harri. Things aren’t that bad.’
‘Not that bad? My Tawney chances are ruined.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘My school marks – shitted on.’
‘The mouth on you, girl.’
‘Not to mention Edie and me –’
‘She didn’t deserve you,’ says Arthur, pushing the glass of water towards my lips again.
‘Nice try.’ I turn my face away from it.
‘Think of it this way. Now you’re going out with Will, you guys can double date with Natasha and me.’
I sit up again. ‘I am not going out with Will Everhart. We’ve been through this already. And I want nothing to do with Natasha Nguyen. She can rot in hell for all I care.’
‘Okay. You’re not going out with Will. But you could if you wanted to.’
I scoff. How little he understands. ‘Will didn’t kiss me because she’s interested in me. She had other motives,’ I say.
‘Like?’
‘It’s sort of complicated and difficult to explain. Anyway, I’m not in the mood.’
Arthur makes the awful cackling sound he always makes when he doesn’t believe me. Like an evil mastermind with laryngitis. ‘I like her,’ he says. ‘That night you brought her round? She seemed really great.’
If only Arthur knew how far off the mark he is! ‘Really great’ people don’t deliberately set out to ruin others. To think what Will did after all the ways I tried to help her! And how she repaid me for my generosity: by desecrating my entire existence.
‘She was about a million times more chilled with me than Edie’s ever been,’ Arthur adds.
‘So that’s what you’ve got against Edie.’
‘It’s one of the things. I know Mum likes her, but as far as I can see that’s just because she wants you to win Tawney. She hates that Edie’s your girlfriend.’
I shake my head. My vision blurs. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Sure it is. If you brought any other girl home … hey, don’t look so mortified. Who cares what Mum thinks anyway?’
I clutch at my hair. ‘Why is everything so terrible? Why?’
Arthur flicks my shoulder playfully. ‘It might all seem overwhelming now, but it’s term holidays. You’ve got two weeks to sort everything out before you even have to face anybody at school.’
I groan and reach for the bottle of vodka stashed beneath my chair. ‘What are you looking so smug about?’
‘No reason. Hang on. What’s that?’ says Arthur, pointing across the grass.
I follow his finger.
Suddenly I feel his arms beneath my knees and back, lifting me up.
The treetops blur. Cool air breathes at my feet.
Splash!
The world turns cold and liquid.
I grapple my way to the surface of the pool in the shade of his silhouette. I swear the little grub is grinning. Wiping the water from my eyes, I look up at him.
‘Arthur, you’re dead.’
Chapter 23
WILL
Dear diary,
Do people even write that? ‘Dear diary’? I’ve never kept a diary in my life. To be honest, I’ve always thought diaries were completely cheesy – the kind of thing people who like ponies and Hello Kitty are into. But that’s the amazing thing, diary! In the last seven days, cheesy things have felt right …
It makes no sense. It’s been a crappy week. The cut on my arm from the newsroom fiasco got infected and swelled up like a finger bun. Mrs Degarno gave me a lecture for being behind with my major work. Nat published a gossipy piece on Harriet and me without so much as a heads-up. I am no longer returning her calls.
But despite everything being fucked up, I feel so happy to be alive!
Take Thursday, for example: I smiled at a baby. A baby. On Friday I downloaded the Finding Dory soundtrack.
I know.
Then yesterday afternoon Mum was wearing a pair of those socks that are like gloves for feet – the ones with a separate bit for each toe, where each toe is a different colour. We’re talking more cheese than a four-cheese pizza here. But instead of making a snide remark about them, like, ‘There’s a five-year-old out there with frostbite,’ I said, ‘Cute socks.’
And when Mum asked whether I wanted to watch
