Her contribution is predictably orderly. ‘Good. Look, I’d feel bad taking all the credit,’ I say. ‘Especially now that you’ve written the caption. I really think that both our names should go on it.’
Harriet shakes her head decisively. ‘There is no way you are using my name.’
‘Believe me. I know Nat,’ I say. ‘She won’t publish anything without a name. Anonymous pieces are against the school rules and anyway, she has this whole journalistic principles thing going on when it comes to anonymous contributions.’
‘You are not using my name,’ Harriet says again.
‘We can’t use mine. Not with my reputation. They’d put me in detention until I’m eighty.’
It’s a dilemma. We’ve created something that other people really should see. But how can we get it out there without incriminating ourselves?
‘How about using a pseudonym?’ Harriet suggests.
I shake my head. ‘They’re not allowed either.’
She frowns. ‘What if Natasha doesn’t know it’s a pseudonym? You could use something that sounds like the name of a real student.’
Harriet’s idea could actually work. Then again, a plot to deceive my friend isn’t without its problems. If Nat ever found out I’d done it – well. To say she’d have me kneecapped is putting it mildly.
But how else will the cartoon get published?
I look again at what I’ve drawn, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What name should we use?’
Harriet points to the whiteboard where a list of student names from a previous class is scrawled. ‘What about that as a first name?’
I follow her finger. ‘Too unusual. It would sound suspicious.’
‘That one, then?’
‘As good as any, I suppose. And a last name?’
‘You need something that sounds credible,’ says Harriet.
‘We do, you mean.’ I have a thought. ‘Have you ever played that game where you work out your porn-star name?’
Harriet stares at me. ‘My what?’
Of course she hasn’t. ‘What’s the first street you ever lived on?’
‘McGill Street. Why?’
‘What’s the name of your first pet?’
She thinks about it. ‘Budgie.’
‘Then Budgie McGill is your porn star name.’
‘What’s yours?’ Harriet asks.
‘Dottie Mulvaney. Pretty good, hey?’
She folds her arms. ‘Okay, let’s try a variation on your game,’ she says. ‘What suburb do you live in?’
‘Marrickville.’
Harriet’s eyes grow wide. ‘Isn’t that miles away?’
‘Not really, but it’s on the wrong side of the bridge so you’ve probably never been there. Where are you?’
‘Mosman.’
‘How about we combine them? Mossville? Marrickman?’ I shake my head. ‘What about streets? I’m in East Street. How about you?’
‘Bay Street,’ says Harriet. ‘Not that this needs to have anything to do with me at all,’ she adds quickly.
I think about it. ‘Eastbay’ could work. It’s better than the other options. Although …
I remember the Opposite Game my father and I play. I grab the pen, and work on a few variations. ‘How about this?’
The name is innocuous. It’s not too fake-sounding. And there’s nothing to link it to either of us.
‘Amelia Westlake,’ Harriet reads aloud. ‘I like it.’
Chapter 4
HARRIET
I am still running the name over in my head as I shuck off my school shoes inside our front door. Amelia Westlake. It has a fabulous ring to it.
‘Hello?’ I call out. Nobody answers, which is completely fine. I can hear Arthur’s band practising in the central atrium and I doubt anyone else is home. When your parents’ oral surgery skills are in high demand you cannot expect to have dinner with them every night or even most nights, and I totally understand and appreciate that.
The music coming from the central atrium is even more disharmonious than usual, and as I smooth smoked trout paté onto a water cracker in the empty kitchen I wonder about my brother’s emotional wellbeing. Last week a girl called Candice dumped him on the grounds that he will never amount to anything. It sounds as if he isn’t taking it very well at all.
Finally the music stops and there are footsteps in the hall. I hear the front door close, and Arthur appears. He drags himself onto a kitchen stool. ‘Everything okay?’ I venture.
He shrugs miserably. Since this morning he has done something horrible to his hair. It is cropped close to his scalp everywhere except for a narrow wad along his crown. The poor thing has clearly gone mad with grief.
‘Candice still?’
He groans like a dying polar bear.
I love my brother, but sometimes I can see this girl Candice’s point. Arthur has an artistic temperament. While it is possible he will one day become a world-renowned musician, it is just as, if not more likely that he will fail his exams, have to get a job selling flat-pack furniture and live in a one-bedroom unit on a main road. What he needs is cheering up. ‘I’m making your favourite snack,’ I tell him.
‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’
He is just being polite; Arthur is always hungry. ‘Nonsense. I’ve already got the nacho chips in the oven.’ I open a tin of Mexican beans. ‘It is time to move on,’ I say. ‘Forget Candice. You need to find someone else. Or focus your energy on something completely different, like schoolwork.’
‘But she’s perfect.’ He has his head on the Caesarstone counter, as if it is too heavy to hold up. ‘How can I move on from perfect?’
‘Sometimes we have to compromise.’
He sits up. ‘You mean like you have with Edie?’
‘Excuse me?’ I stir the beans vigorously in the saucepan. ‘Edie is probably beyond perfect. Most people have to settle for something less.’
‘People like me?’ grumbles Arthur, scratching the newly shorn part of his scalp.
I put down my wooden spoon. ‘Oh, Arthur.’
He sniffs.
‘There’s no need to cry.’
‘I’m not crying. I smell smoke.’
‘Oh! The corn chips.’ I open the oven door and a plume of thick smoke curls out.
Arthur crumples back onto the counter. ‘I suppose Edie’s coming around tonight?’
‘It is Tuesday.’ Somehow the beans have stuck to the bottom of the saucepan. I lever them off with a spatula. ‘Would you like to join us
