As Edie descends on my neck, I do what I sometimes do on these occasions to keep focus, which is to imagine that I am Ryan Gosling and Edie is Emma Stone.
For a while it works well. I have a firm picture of myself as Ryan lifting Emma in my muscular arms before pulling her to my toned chest. Then the picture wavers. It is not Emma Stone I am pretending to be with, but Will Everhart. It is Will’s pressing hands that are getting me through this, Will’s bare neck, Will’s mouth.
Oh – her mouth.
I sit up.
‘What is it?’ Edie asks in an exasperated tone.
I let my head drop. ‘I’ve got to tell you something.’
Edie raises herself up on one elbow. ‘You’re behind on my National Public Speaking notes, aren’t you?’
The notes for her competition: I’d completely forgotten about them. The topic is ‘poverty is a state of mind’ and I promised I’d have a first draft to her by the weekend. I shake my head. ‘It’s not that.’
‘What, then?’
I inhale. ‘Principal Croon called me in today. She told me I can’t invite you to our formal.’ The words catch in my throat like a hook.
Edie looks at me blankly. Then she gets it. She laughs. ‘Are you serious?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘Apparently not.’
Edie combs her fingers through her hair. ‘What’s the story? Not even Blessingwood is that conservative, and we’re as toffy as it gets. And it’s not like Rosemead is a religious school.’
‘Apparently it has something to do with one of the school board members,’ I say. A sudden anger flames inside me. ‘He’s the head of a “family-oriented” association. He also happens to be a big financial supporter of Rosemead. And so the board passed a motion.’
‘This is unbelievable.’
‘Principal Croon has asked me to speak to everyone individually – all of us in our year who she thinks might bring girlfriends, that is.’
‘How many people is that?’
‘Not many, as far as I’m aware,’ I say. ‘Two. Maybe three.’ Although when I consider it, Natasha will probably bring Arthur. And I have no idea what Will is doing.
I taste salt in my throat. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
‘Bad hayfever? Here, blow on this.’ Edie digs into her blazer pocket and hands me a crumpled paper napkin.
The high-pitched ringing has started up again. I hope this isn’t the start of one of my migraines. I breathe out slowly. ‘There’s got to be a way to get them to reverse their decision, or, I don’t know, change their minds somehow.’
Edie takes her hair out of its ponytail and makes a higher one. ‘If it would be easier for me not to come …’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, if it’s easier if I don’t come to your formal …’
‘That’s not the point.’ I struggle to keep my voice calm. ‘I’ve been dreaming about the school formal ever since year seven. What’s more, I’ve organised the whole thing, practically by myself!’
Suddenly I’m thinking of Will again, and imagining how she would react. She would use crass language, absolutely. She would say something along the lines of we’re being crushed, far too loudly, before miming (badly) getting violently crushed by some form of heavy machinery. Then she would formulate a plan to do Rosemead over once and for all.
Not that it helps matters to be thinking about Will right now.
‘You and I have bought complementing dresses,’ I remind Edie. ‘And what about your ballroom dancing lessons? We can’t let them go to waste!’
‘Then let me know if I can do anything.’ Edie smooths her hair with a palm. She stands up and straightens her dress. ‘And about those public speaking notes. Any chance they might be ready by lunchtime on Saturday? I’ve got this family lunch to go to on Sunday and it would be good to look over them on Saturday afternoon.’
I line up my teeth, carefully. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Chapter 27
WILL
At four-thirty on the day of our planned gym staffroom break-in, I’m standing at the gym entrance, my whole body thrumming, taking in the heady scent of rubber, talcum powder and sweat. I’m in a tracksuit and sneakers, trying to look like wearing sports gear is the kind of thing I do all the time.
The tracksuit I have on, its pocket heavy with Liz’s staffroom key, is Harriet’s. I’m not going to lie: it’s a turn-on. Despite all the talks I’ve given myself, I’m having an extreme amount of trouble getting her out of my head – or getting anything else in there, for that matter. Right now, my cranial real-estate is pretty much wall-to-wall Harriet.
What was I saying again?
That’s right. My outfit.
I’ve borrowed the sneakers from Nat, who can’t be here due to a Messenger deadline, and whose feet are the same size as mine. As long as no-one who actually knows me wanders past, I look no more out of place than a Rosemead alumnus in the halls of an uptown law firm.
We’re finally doing this. It’s the perfect time in the afternoon because most of the staff have left for the day but security hasn’t yet locked the building. Soon, thanks to Liz leaving her key taped beneath a basin in the PAC bathrooms like Amelia Westlake asked her to, I’ll have the details we need about the printing company. Then we can pull off the prank to top all pranks. The Domestic Violence Australia network will have cash for their cause. Amelia Westlake will reign among the gods.
I think through the plan again.
We know from Harriet that the Sports Committee meets at four, which means Hadley will be out of the gym staffroom for at least another half-hour before returning for his things. The only teacher still around is the Head of Netball, Miss Kinton. As soon as she’s gone, I’ll go in.
I peer through the heavy glass doors. My eye is drawn to the school banner hanging on the foyer wall. I grin,
