I was glad the article had the desired effect, but it also infuriated me. I hated how so many people leapt to Coach Hadley’s defence. The focus seemed to be on his Olympic record and what the complaints meant for his career, rather than the experience of those he mistreated. After reading it, I hid in the Newcombs’ spare bedroom with my head under the covers for two whole days. I have never felt so small, so powerless.
I had to keep reminding myself why I came forward in the first place. For example, I found out that one of the complainants was Lucy Parnell, the young girl I tutored in maths whose parents let me hire their club for the formal. It turns out she was the one who wrote to Amelia Westlake. Whenever I think about that, the regret that I did not come forward sooner deepens.
‘You’ll be pleased to know Hadley’s still suspended,’ says Nat into the screen. ‘What I wanted to tell you is that Channel 7 has picked up The Guardian story.’
‘Are you serious?’ I ask, my pitch rising.
‘It’s going to air on Monday night.’
I breathe in. This is not something I anticipated and I don’t know how I feel about it. It makes sense that the national media would be interested in an Olympian’s fall from grace, but to have the story in the paper was horrible enough. And it’s not guaranteed that Rosemead won’t find a way to retrieve its reputation – and Hadley’s.
Then I remind myself how important it was to speak out, whatever the consequences. As Will keeps saying, with privilege comes responsibility.
‘Will’s about to return from her coffee run. Want to say hi?’ I ask Natasha.
Her face clouds. ‘I’ve got stuff to do. Talk soon.’
The screen goes blank.
Despite the pleas Arthur and I have made to Natasha to extend an olive branch, she still won’t talk to Will. She feels betrayed. After Will and I left Rosemead, she chose to quit the Messenger, reasoning it was either quit or wait until Principal Croon sacked her, and that she would rather leave on her own terms.
Will knows she played a part through her actions in pushing Nat into that particular corner, and regrets this a lot. She is taking Natasha’s silent treatment hard. I’ll tell Will I tried to get Nat to talk to her, of course. And I’ll tell her the news about Channel 7.
I look at my watch. What’s keeping her? I want to tell her about everything these days. I suppose if I’m honest, it’s been that way for longer than I care to admit. Nothing is more of a comfort, or a joy, or a revelation, or a challenge, or a turn-on, than talking to Will.
Except for kissing Will, which is every one of those things as well.
The thought makes me impatient. I want her back with me. I want to see her face, with its unwilling smile. How long does it take to buy coffee anyway? She had better be back in time for boarding.
Chapter 40
WILL
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about hoaxes. My life, for instance. Have you ever gone through a period when your days are such smooth sailing that it’s hard to believe they’re real?
Take right now, for example. The coffee I’ve ordered smells amazing. I mean, good coffee at an airport? Who would blame me for looking for the hidden camera?
It’s possible I’m paranoid. Naturally I’m going to think of hoaxes after everything that’s happened. Although if someone’s trying to trick me into believing I’ve got stuff sorted, they have a way to go.
There’s the Harriet-and-me thing, which is really good. Fantastic, even. But I need to be realistic. How long can the two of us last? To begin with, we argue a lot. Not just about normal things like politics and whose turn it is to pay for lunch: about everything. We argue about whether we’re arguing. Harriet claims they’re discussions, not arguments, which apparently makes them okay.
We even argued on our way to the airport. Harriet has a bee in her bonnet about a recent decision of mine. A prestigious gallery offered to display my year-twelve major work and I declined.
‘It could have been your big break,’ moaned Harriet as the taxi pulled away from her house.
‘The gallery is funded by a morally bankrupt media empire. I’m exercising my democratic right to conscientious objection,’ I explained.
‘While fading into artistic obscurity. Surely your political stance would pack more punch if you became a famous artist first?’
‘If I sell out at this point I lose my moral high ground.’
It’s a shame. I’m proud of my work and would love to give it a bigger audience than just Mum, Harriet and Arthur. If only Nat were speaking to me, my audience would be twenty-five per cent larger.
Bloody Nat. I miss her. Despite everything with Harriet, her absence has left a huge hole in my life. I have no-one to talk to about the latest Pacific oil spill or government corruption scandal. Harriet’s politics are evolving, but she’s not ready to be my protest-rally buddy quite yet.
I know that Nat is spending most of her time with Arthur these days. Harriet tells me that the two of them are really happy, which is great. But that’s not why she hasn’t been in touch. It’s because I screwed up.
Nat was right when she said I’m bad at being a friend. So I’ve decided to do whatever it takes to make it up to her. I’m going to find a way back to what we had before this whole mess started.
I’ve joined a bunch of job alerts and media lists, and am emailing her every journalistic opportunity I come across. So far she hasn’t replied, but she hasn’t sent back any abuse-filled rants either, which I’m taking as a positive sign. A year ago her silence would have made me so indignant I’d have
