‘This boundary line will flank the second oval,’ says Coach, drawing a straight line with his marker.
I text Will to let her know I have him in my line of sight.
‘And this one will meet the side of the gym where the staffroom is.’ He outlines the swimming pool, the lanes and the bleachers. He erases parts of the boundary lines and draws squiggles to represent the gates. He caps his marker. ‘Any questions?’
Giddily, I think of asking him how many legal-advice clinics, social worker salaries and health services could be funded with the money we’re raising for the pool. But I don’t. We will find out soon enough.
‘Will the new complex have its own change room?’ asks Zara Long.
She is sitting at the front beside Kimberley Kitchener. I’ve noticed Coach Hadley has been paying both of them a fair amount of attention lately. Last month, he appointed Zara Captain of the Softball Firsts when Eileen Sarmiento had to pull out of the season after breaking her wrist. As for Kimberley, she has become his student trainee coach for the middle-school swim squads. I have seen the way he walks along the edge of the pool with her, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders, intermittently whispering in her ear.
‘What would be the point of a change room?’ Coach Hadley says. ‘We’re all friends here,’ he adds with a wink.
Zara and Kimberley laugh raucously. The rest of the committee members give uncertain smiles. I feel a heavy weight in my jaw. Coach sees my expression and mimics me with an exaggerated pout. ‘It’s a joke, Harriet,’ he says. ‘Of course there will be a change room.’ He uncaps his marker and draws a rough box in the corner of the whiteboard, like he was planning to all along.
I blush, but it’s not embarrassment I feel. There is a granite-hard lump of outrage in my throat. I wish I’d never agreed to be on this committee. When Coach Hadley first asked me it seemed like such a privilege, but what is so privileged about doing administrative duties free of charge that the sports staff should be doing themselves?
There is a knock at the door and Natasha Nguyen bursts in. Never have I been so pleased to see anybody in my life.
She crosses the room swiftly without even a glance at anyone else and bends at my ear.
‘You’ve got to come,’ she murmurs, low enough so that no-one else can hear. ‘There’s been an accident. They’ve called an ambulance for Will.’
‘An ambulance?’ I cry out.
Everyone in the room turns.
Coach Hadley clears his throat. ‘What is the cause of this unexpected interruption, Miss Nguyen?’
‘Family emergency,’ says Natasha smoothly.
Coach Hadley nods at me. ‘We’ll catch you up on the minutes later, Harriet.’
Natasha ushers me out.
‘She crashed right into those bloody gym doors,’ Natasha tells me when we’re safely up the hall. ‘Gave herself concussion. Looks like she’s broken some fingers as well.’
‘Oh my God.’ I stop dead beside a bank of lockers. At the thought of Will prostrate on a gurney, I feel faint.
‘But that’s not all. Croon was on the scene.’ Natasha reaches out beyond the railing and yanks roughly at a tree branch. Yellow leaves rain down. ‘When Will slammed into the door, Miss Kinton was there. She must have called Croon. She was there within minutes.’
I lean heavily against a locker door. ‘What do they know?’
Looking around, Natasha lowers her voice. ‘Nothing specific. Only that she was up to something in the staffroom.’
‘Where are they taking her?’ I ask, steadying my shaky hands.
‘Royal North Shore.’
‘Someone should have gone with her.’
‘Why do you think I’m here?’ says Natasha, reddening. Suddenly she won’t look at me. ‘I offered to go, but she said that she wanted you.’
I find her on a bed in the Emergency holding area. At first I almost don’t recognise her – someone has tied her hair up in a strangely symmetrical knot. There is no mistaking her hand, though, wrapped in a bandage the size of a sourdough loaf and propped on a tower of pillows. Her face is pale, her skin damp. I feel a trembling in my chest.
I draw the curtain around the bed and put down my school bag. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Dandy.’ She looks glazed.
‘Does your mum know you’re here?’
She nods. ‘She’s out getting takeaway and then she’ll be back.’ She glances over. ‘You don’t have to stand, you know.’ I pull up a metal chair.
I can’t remember the last time I was in a public hospital. It was probably when Arthur had his guitar injury. That was only twelve months ago, but I had forgotten how much I hate these places – the linoleum, the lighting, the smell of illness and despair. I have a sudden urge to get Will out of here. Then I remember it is not my place to want anything for, on behalf of, or in relation to Will.
She sees me eyeing her bandage. ‘Don’t worry. It looks far worse than it is. Just two fractured fingers and some bruising.’
‘Are you in much pain?’
‘Not anymore. They’ve got me on morphine.’ She nods at the drip cord, grinning, but her grin abruptly vanishes. ‘I should warn you that Croon grilled me. She even asked if the accident had something to do with an Amelia Westlake prank. Don’t worry, I denied everything. But she knows from Kinton that I was in the staffroom, and she didn’t waste any time exacting her punishment.’
‘Her punishment?’
Will nods. ‘It’s funny, really. It’s the opposite of a punishment as far as I’m concerned.’
‘What is it?’
‘She’s banned me from going to the formal.’ Her voice is flat.
‘Oh, Will.’ I reach out my hand.
‘Like I give a shit about the formal,’ she mutters, drawing her hand away. ‘It’s not like I had anyone to go with.’ She stares hard at the bedsheet.
‘The formal
