Suddenly there is movement. Miss Kinton appears carrying a sports bag and a pile of netball bibs. She leans on one of the heavy glass doors until it opens. The air fills with the stench of sweaty athlete.
‘Hello …’ she says when she sees me. She looks uncertain, as if she’s never seen me before in her life. This makes sense. Two years ago I managed to wag our entire semester of compulsory netball by feigning a condition called labyrinthitis, which I thought I’d made up but, it turns out, actually exists.
I’m glad she has no idea who I am. ‘It’s Wendy,’ I say cheerily.
She gives an embarrassed smile. ‘Of course. Good night, Wendy.’
‘Night, Miss Kinton.’
I wait until she’s disappeared down the path before messaging the others.
Coast clear. I’m going in.
Nat messages back with a thumbs-up. Harriet’s reply comes through soon after.
Thank you, Will. Much appreciated. Coach Hadley is here with me at the Sports Committee meeting. Standing by for further reports. Harriet.
Have I mentioned she’s killing me?
Once I’m inside I make a beeline across the foyer for the gym staffroom. It takes three seconds to lift the key from my pocket, slot it into the door and turn the handle.
The door swings open and I step inside.
I’m in.
Man, it stinks in here. I guess sportos are immune to the reek of stale perspiration. I scan the room for what I’m looking for. Not the stacked hockey sticks in the corner. Not the regulation Rosemead sports caps in a pile on the desk. Not the halved oranges in a Tupperware container on one of the chairs. If the printing company details are going to be anywhere, they’re going to be with the paperwork on the bookshelf.
The problem is, the shelf is full of paperwork, spewing out of rows and rows of plastic binders, many of them unmarked. It could easily take me hours to sift through it all.
My gaze drifts to a corkboard hanging up by the window. It’s worth a look.
I walk over and scan the notices pinned to it: some class rosters, a list of emergency phone numbers, and an invitation to Miss Watson’s thirtieth birthday party (no thanks). Then I see it.
There, on a tiny square of paper sharing a pin with a flyer about the swimming pool fundraising dinner, is a handwritten note:
Newsletter printer: Peak Printing. 9828 7354
Bingo.
From the other side of the foyer, I hear the sound of the heavy glass doors creaking open.
Shit. I grab the note, pin and all, and make a dash for the door. In my rush I clip the chair with the container of oranges on it; the chair spins. The container slides off and lands on its side on the carpet.
There’s no time to pick it up. I can already see Miss Kinton walking across the foyer.
I slip back through the staffroom door, close it behind me and quickly stash the note and Liz’s key back in my pocket.
Just in time.
I try to look casual as I walk towards the Head of Netball.
‘Hello, again,’ she says when we reach each other, her voice loaded with suspicion.
‘You’re back.’ I shoot her a friendly grin, as if the opportunity of seeing her twice in the space of ten minutes has made my day.
‘I forgot the oranges for my evening game,’ she says.
I nod. ‘Orange you glad you didn’t leave without them?’
She doesn’t laugh.
The oranges belong to her? That means as soon as she sees them on the staffroom floor she’ll know I’ve been in there.
I’ve got to get out of here.
But Kinton is standing in my path. ‘What are you still doing here, Wendy? All on-campus training has finished for the day.’
‘I’m, I’m looking for the sign-up boards, as a matter of fact,’ I say. ‘You see, I’m really keen to join one of your netball teams.’
This piques her interest. She considers me. ‘Have you played netball before?’
‘Oh, I’ve been playing for years. But not for Rosemead. I play in a, er, highly competitive local competition.’
The Head of Netball pivots to face me properly. ‘We’re looking for a new player, as a matter of fact. What position are you in?’ She fiddles with the whistle around her neck.
‘I’m in a great position. I’m fit, and I’m available pretty much every weeknight.’
‘I meant what position do you play?’
Dammit. ‘Left wing?’
Kinton levels a stare at me. ‘Left wing is field hockey.’
‘Wing attaché, sorry.’
‘You mean wing attack?’
‘That’s the one.’
She purses her lips. ‘Perhaps you should be getting home.’
‘Good idea.’
As soon as I’m past her I hurry towards the glass doors at full speed. If I can get away before she realises I’ve been in the staffroom, maybe it will be okay. She hasn’t a clue who I am, after all. As I run, I turn my head to see her slot her own key into the staffroom door. I turn back just in time to see the heavy glass doors an inch from my face, but not in time to stop myself from ramming straight into them.
Time dissolves. I feel the imprint of a cold, hard surface. I see a tint of green. I hear the sound of vibrating glass: an endless, bassoon-low note. I taste saliva, sour, in my throat.
I don’t know how long I’m out for, but I know it’s the pain that brings me back. My head aches where it collided with the doors. My right hand, which I raised too late in an attempt to protect my face, throbs like an electronic dance beat.
The first thing I see when the fog parts is the ripple of a cream silk shirt. A pair of sheer stockings dazzles in the late-afternoon sun. French perfume clogs my nostrils. A shadow slips across me and I startle.
‘Hello, Wilhelmina,’ says Croon.
Chapter 28
HARRIET
At Sports Committee, the first item on the agenda is
