Speaking of fresh starts, I decided to make peace with Graham, Mum’s boyfriend. A month ago he came over to take Mum out and I opened the front door. ‘Come inside. There’s something we need to talk about,’ I told him.
Naturally, he was terrified. As he perched on the couch I admitted I had been a shit to him and said that if he was so convinced Mum was the one for him, I wouldn’t stand in his way. Except if he hurt her in any way. If that happened, I said, I would hunt him down and punish him until he bled. I think he really appreciated the chat.
Taking a new approach is also how I got out of the rut I was in with my major work. I was going nowhere with my air travel idea. Mum reckons some things are best left to professional therapy, and she’s going to help me arrange that. I spoke to my new Art teacher at the state high school I’ve transferred to – Ms Lejus, who is one part Fimo jewellery and three parts awesome – and she encouraged me in another direction.
The final work I came up with is a realist portrait, of sorts. It’s in the style of Chuck Close, the artist with face blindness that Harriet got all excited about that day in the taxi. It’s painted on a giant grid. In each square of the grid is a portrait of one of my classmates from Rosemead. All one hundred and twenty of them are there, in different shades of light and dark. When you stand back, though, it makes another larger, single portrait of a schoolgirl in silhouette.
At first glance the girl may appear faceless, but she’s the opposite of that. Step a little closer and she has many faces, many souls. Her experience is as deep as it is wide. She has failed and despaired and learned and loved and triumphed. She is the glorious sum of her parts. She is one girl, containing multitudes.
When I arrive at the gate, I push through the crowd to find Harriet.
‘Thank goodness. No time for those.’ She points to the coffees. I put them down on a nearby table.
‘They’re boarding?’ I ask.
‘Yes. I should get in the queue.’
I grab the front of her shirt.
Did I mention the kissing? Kissing is another thing we’re doing a lot of lately: in bedrooms, on couches, and at inappropriate places like airport boarding gates.
Her lips taste like peppermint, as always. I pull her closer.
‘You really have to stop now, Will,’ says Harriet at last, pulling away.
‘Hey! You were kissing me just as much as I was kissing you.’
Kissing, and arguing about kissing.
‘That kiss went for at least three minutes,’ I continue, ‘and it’s not like your mouth was just sitting there that whole time waiting for a bus.’
‘Don’t bring public transport into this. You know how I feel about public transport.’
‘As for your tongue, it was arguably behind the bloody wheel.’
‘They’re about to close the gate …’
‘And when it comes to kissing, the question of who kicked things off becomes irrelevant at the three-second mark.’
Harriet smiles. She picks up her cabin bag. ‘I’ll call you from Brisbane.’ She takes my hand.
I run my thumb across her palm. ‘Your grandma’s going to be so happy you came.’
Harriet’s smile wavers. ‘I don’t know. Now she knows from Mum about you and me. And how I sacrificed Tawney …’
I squeeze her hand. ‘She loves you. She’ll be okay. Say happy birthday from me.’
‘If you were coming with me, you could say it yourself.’
‘Don’t start with all that again.’
She grins. ‘I’m going to miss you, that’s all.’
‘Me, too.’
After a final kiss, and a prolonged few seconds where I refuse to let go of her hand, I watch her walk away from me and disappear through the gate.
I’m alone again. I breathe in the aroma of the coffee I bought. I pick up one of the cups and remove the lid. I take a sip.
It’s disgusting.
See? My life is not without its sucky bits.
Then again, I can buy another coffee when I’ve returned to civilisation. And Harriet will be home in a week.
I walk towards the exit, looking for a bin to dump the coffee in. Mum and Graham are picking me up to take me to Dad’s hotel. He’s in Sydney for the week on magazine business and has invited me to stay with him in the plush hotel room that a well-known philanthropist is paying for. After googling the philanthropist to double-check he didn’t make his fortune from coal mining, tuna trawling or sweat shops, I agreed.
Between you and me? I’m looking forward to it. I have a protest art idea I want to run by him. Something that will have an impact on the wider community. Harriet is helping me develop an engagement plan. We’re hoping to get a whole group of people to work on it. With any luck Nat will be one of them.
Will Everhart doing a group assignment – who would have thought? It’s a sign I’m feeling semi-positive about the world, which is some sort of personal record. And why not? School’s finally finished. I’m seeing Dad for the first time in five months. But mostly, I’ve got Harriet to thank.
And Amelia Westlake, bless her regulation Rosemead cotton socks.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book is a work of the imagination. Every person, event and institution is fictitious – except for Amelia Westlake, who is real.
Amelia Westlake was the name of a hoax I created with two friends in our final year of high school, although with different pranks and outcomes to those described in these pages.
I therefore want to start by thanking my original co-conspirators, Stephanie Kyme and Katrina Sanders, for their wicked genius; Pip Hill and Cynthia Wallis for inspiring us; Ingrid Stewart and Eleanor Swanepoel for inspiring the essay-swap prank; and our entire high school graduating class for
