I look at Harriet. ‘This was your idea?’
She nods.
‘And you’ve asked Liz Newcomb to help?’
‘I know the charity prank ultimately failed, but it was good of her to trust Amelia Westlake with that key. Tremendous, really,’ Harriet says airily.
This is a turn-up for the books.
‘And the best part,’ Nat says, ‘is thanks to Harriet, everything is practically already in place.’
By recess on Tuesday there’s a tangible buzz in the school corridors. All the year twelves can talk about is Friday night: who’s taking who, what they’re wearing, how they’re getting their hair done, who by, what shoes they’re wearing, which pre-formal drinks they’ve been invited to, who’s having a manicure and who’s using a professional make-up artist. In summary: yawn. This type of conversation escalates during the week so that by Thursday formal talk is all that’s going on in the corridors. It gets so bad that if one more person asks me a question about Friday night, I swear I’ll punch them in the face.
Another type of chatter starts to escalate as well. Word has gotten out about the no-girlfriends rule.
‘I think it’s to be expected,’ I hear Beth Tupman telling Palmer Crichton outside the science labs. ‘It’s a school formal, not the Mardi Gras. Besides, it’s just one night. It’s not like Rosemead is saying people can’t have girlfriends.’
I wonder if Beth has shared her views with her friend, Harriet.
‘I think it’s bullshit,’ says Palmer. ‘You should be able to take whoever you want.’
Nakita Wallis nods. ‘The formal is such an important event. Symbolically, I mean. It’s end-of-school. It’s coming-of-age. It’s a single night that, for better or worse, comes to represent our entire high school experience. Excluding certain people from authentic participation is damaging.’
‘I don’t understand most of what you just said but I totally agree,’ says Daphne Chee.
I continue down the corridor with a smile, until I look up to find Fowler coming in the other direction.
‘Good afternoon, Ms Everhart,’ she greets me, slowing to a halt.
‘Hi Miss Fowler.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Er, class?’
‘Which class?’
‘Legal Studies. It’s in Room 406, just down the hallway.’
She squints at me with deep suspicion before finally letting me pass.
It’s clear that the school staff have their eyes on me. The number of times Fowler, Hadley or Davids has struck up a random conversation with me in the corridors lately has put me on notice of that. For the remainder of the week I half-expect to be called up to Croon’s office, but she seems content to delegate her harassment of me to her minions.
And why not? She hasn’t a clue what’s about to go down. As far as she’s concerned, the formal is going ahead precisely as Harriet and her committee originally planned: with a classy dinner dance at Dish restaurant at Circular Quay, punctuated by Croon’s welcome speech and a speech by the Chair of the Board at eight o’clock. No girlfriends allowed.
On Friday morning before first period, Harriet ushers me into an empty classroom. I can hardly believe my luck.
‘I wanted you to know I’ve reserved a place for you on one of the formal buses,’ she says when the door’s closed. ‘They’re leaving from the school gates at six.’
More formal talk – how very disappointing. ‘I don’t know. I think it would be better if I got Mum to drive me. It’s probably best I don’t draw attention to myself.’
‘Nobody even knows you’re banned,’ Harriet whispers, keeping an eye on the door. ‘Except the teachers, and they’re not coming on the buses. They’ll be making their own way there. Or at least they think they will be. You know what I mean.’
I do, but it’s not what I mean. I’m the only person who doesn’t have a date. That fact alone will mean I’ll stick out.
‘You know, I’m pretty sure Janine Richter is going by herself,’ Harriet says nonchalantly, as if I’ve spoken the thought aloud. ‘And Kimberley Kitchener too, come to think of it. I had two tables with odd numbers, and that’s why. And Arthur won’t be coming on the bus with Nat.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He’ll already be there, of course.’
I had forgotten that part of the plan. It means I can sit with Nat on the bus. Then again, given she’s been a cow to me since the start of term, she might not want to share a seat. ‘I don’t know, Harriet …’
‘But if you’re not on the bus, you won’t see the whole thing play out,’ Harriet says.
Do I detect an amount of desperation in her voice?
In that moment, at least, it makes me believe that she truly wants me there. So, I agree.
As it turns out, it is not my single status that most sets me apart from the crowd mingling at the school gates at six o’clock on Friday – it’s my outfit. Block colour dresses, pearl necklaces and kitten heels dominate, like I’ve somehow stumbled into the ballroom at a Royalist Convention. My leopard-skin bolero, black body suit and high-waisted three-quarter-length pants, paired with my favourite Doc Martens, raise more than a few eyebrows.
I see Edie in the chaos before I see Harriet. Impeccably groomed and perfectly postured, she’s holding a silver purse in one hand and smoothing her hair with the other. She glances impatiently into the crowd. I follow the direction of her gaze. That’s when I see Harriet, and stop breathing. Her dress is silver to Edie’s complementary royal blue and there’s something horrifying about that, but the fact remains: she looks beautiful.
I tear my gaze away and turn my attention to the boys. They are pretty much interchangeable in their penguin suits, with the exception of Nakita Wallis’s date, who is sporting a Mohawk, a diamond earring and glittery nail polish. Nakita has on wide pants, a blousy shirt with braces and a necktie. Thank the lord for Nakita. We exchange a somber nod of solidarity.
The bus ride
