It’s 11.20am. Harriet clutches a hand to her breast. Her shoulders are rising and falling heavily.
At 11.25am her head lolls on one fist. She looks overcome with seasickness.
At 11.27am her head is buried in both hands and I’m pretty sure what’s coming. She has set her own deadline and is working up the courage to meet it.
I am under no illusion that if I confess now I will achieve little more than my expulsion at an inconveniently close time to my final exams. And, faced with the choice, I don’t want to do it. I’m mere months from the end of my time at Rosemead. I’m almost free of the place. I want to conquer Rosemead, not for Rosemead to conquer me.
But as 11.30am clicks over and Harriet presses her hands to the armrests, I jump from my seat anyway.
Not for all the reasons I should, but for the single one I shouldn’t.
Harriet turns at the sound. For a minute our eyes lock and I can’t understand the confusion on her face.
I didn’t mean to fall in love, but I did, and so being Harriet’s fall girl now makes a warped kind of sense.
‘It was me,’ I call out, meeting Croon’s gaze. ‘I organised the formal on Friday night. All by myself. I’m Amelia Westlake.’
Chapter 36
HARRIET
Three rows behind me, Will has her eyes fixed on Principal Croon, like some deadly zoo animal that has jumped its enclosure. Half of the year group is staring at her and the other half is staring at our Head, waiting to see what she will do.
I cannot breathe. The breath I took before attempting to stand up is caught, mid-action, in my throat.
I know what this means. It means I can still win Tawney. I can pass my exams and graduate. The year can dance on just like it is supposed to, with everything in place.
Everything except Will.
‘Thank you,’ says Principal Croon, clearly not grateful at all. Relieved, maybe, that the morning’s ordeal is over. ‘I am disappointed, as I’m sure all of your classmates are, that you have taken up –’ she looks at her watch, ‘precisely two and a half hours of our day. But I’m glad you have finally come to your senses, or what you have of them. Not that I’m at all surprised. Your track record proves you take far too much pleasure in disrupting the operations of this school.’
I have never heard Principal Croon so angry.
‘It will be no trouble, in fact, I will take great pleasure,’ she goes on, ‘in writing to your parents to say you are no longer welcome at Rosemead. It is the inevitable consequence of the disrespect you have demonstrated for this institution from day one.’
I look up at Will, who stands with one hand on the back of her seat, withstanding the tirade. She looks as tired as I feel. Her hair falls, lopsided, across her face.
I think about Edie and the notes I have promised her. No second chances: that’s what she said.
I think about Tawney. I have a place for that shield in my trophy cabinet. It will justify the hours I’ve toiled on the court. It will be my crowning high school achievement. My mother will be beside herself with pride.
I run a finger along my badges. I should sit here quietly and protect what I have striven for.
But I look at Will Everhart, my erstwhile collaborator, and I know I can’t let her do this alone.
I stand up. ‘And me,’ I say, raising my voice above Principal Croon’s booming monologue. ‘I’m Amelia Westlake, too.’
Principal Croon glances at me irritably. ‘Harriet Price. Sit down,’ she says, turning back to Will. ‘The easiest thing,’ she continues, addressing her, ‘would be for you to come with me now, and we can deal with this immediately.’
‘Excuse me, Principal Croon …’
She turns to me again. ‘What is it, Harriet?’
‘If you are going to expel Will, then you’ll also have to expel me.’
Murmurs fill the hall. Principal Croon’s expression turns from irritation to anger. ‘Fine, then,’ she says at last. ‘I’ll deal with both of you together.’
The hall falls silent. I can see people exchanging shocked glances.
‘Does anybody else want to confess to being Amelia Westlake, or are we done here?’ She taps the toe of her shoe on the timber boards.
There is movement beside Will. Natasha stands up. ‘I do,’ she says.
Principal Croon’s eyes glower.
Will’s expression is no longer tired. It is tinged with something else. She looks at Natasha before gazing at me, and her gaze burns a hole in my chest.
There is a commotion to the left of the hall. Some girls are pointing at the wall. I follow their gaze.
The school banner. I’d almost forgotten about that particular prank of ours. It has been lying in wait for so long. Now, finally, our replacement motto, stitched carefully in cursive, is garnering the attention it deserves. Instead of the original French, the motto now reads, in English:
Play the power, not the game.
A murmur spreads across the hall. Girls are craning their necks and grinning. The energy in the room is building like a wave.
Beside me, Liz Newcomb gets to her feet. ‘Me too,’ she says. ‘I’m also Amelia Westlake.’
Five seats across from Liz, Trish Burger makes a move. ‘And me.’
Behind Trish, Daphne Chee and Inez Jurich spring up. ‘Guilty as charged,’ says Inez.
Kimberley Kitchener stands, followed by Zara Long. The rest of the girls in their row follow suit.
Beth and Millie gaze around in confusion, and then slowly get to their feet.
One by one, girls across the hall stand up: Palmer Crichton, Nakita Wallis, Eileen Sarmiento.
Prisha Kamala. Anna Yemelin. Lorna Gallagher.
Janine Richter. Ruby Lasko.
I
