‘Will –’ Miss Fowler warns.
‘For example, the nature of the patriarchy at that time, and what My Last Duchess implies about violence against women?’
Miss Fowler is not fond of discussion points that deviate from her lesson plan. This is why, at the end of class, I am forced to endure a lecture from her about my recent academic performance.
‘You pay no attention to anything I say and your consistently abysmal marks reflect that,’ she says. Her eyes bore into me. ‘What’s more, your marks are showing no signs of improvement. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to talk about your progress with Principal Croon.’
My stomach cramps. ‘What about my Virginia Woolf essay? Surely that will bring up my average mark.’
‘To the contrary,’ says Miss Fowler, drawing it out of a manila folder.
I look at the mark. ‘Sixty-two? What complete balls!’
Miss Fowler gasps. ‘Language, Wilhelmina!’
‘I worked really hard on this one.’ I’m not lying. I even footnoted my sources.
‘I’m afraid your hard work doesn’t show.’
‘Are you serious? This is one of the best essays I’ve ever written.’
Miss Fowler looks flustered. ‘Then you can tell that to Principal Croon.’
When I finally get out of class, Nat is waiting for me on the landing. She’s shouting at a year-nine kid who accidentally spilt juice on her tunic. Silly girl: everyone knows better than to cross Nat Nguyen.
Nat’s fierceness is one of the reasons we hit it off immediately when I started at Rosemead in year ten. It’s also part of what makes her such a great editor. The articles she publishes in the Messenger are passionate and well-argued. And nothing motivates contributors like threats and intimidation. There are girls at Rosemead who audibly whimper when she walks past.
The juice girl scampers. Nat watches her with a flicker of amusement before turning to me. ‘I was texting you during class.’
‘What about?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
I dig into my pocket.
Well THIS sucks. What is KK thinking?
We have business to discuss.
You free at lunch? 12.30 at the newsroom? Text me.
WORLD 2 WILL. What are you even doing back there???
Robert Browning who gives a shit I don’t.
Look at your phone. I’ll be at newsroom at 12.30 if you want to come.
FYI: the business to discuss - you’ll like it.
Re: something in our latest edition.
Also you & me business, naturally ;-)
1842
‘1842,’ I say out loud. ‘Of course. Thanks.’ But the publication date of My Last Duchess isn’t what’s grabbed my attention. Something in our latest edition. Does Nat mean the latest edition of the Messenger? Is she referring to our cartoon?
The paper always comes out on Mondays, but Nat usually doesn’t organise distribution until lunchtime so I haven’t seen a copy yet. I think again about the cartoon. I’ve been thinking about it on and off since I drew it, but with every day that’s passed it’s seemed less real.
Did I really collaborate on a protest art project with Harriet Price in detention last week? The girl, it is rumoured, who sends her teachers a Christmas hamper each year with a card quoting Seneca on gratitude? What caused this horrible lapse in judgment? A microsleep? Hypnosis? A covert alien mind-probe?
It also strikes me for the first time how truly risky it is that the cartoon is about Hadley. As Rosemead’s Olympian poster boy he is untouchable. It’s risky enough to mouth off at him like I did last week at the pool, but another level of riskiness entirely to publish something in print. If the cartoon has made it into the Messenger, there’s no telling how the administration of this totalitarian regime masquerading as an educational institution will react.
I can’t let Nat suspect that I know anything about the cartoon. ‘You want to talk about some Messenger article? Sounds intriguing,’ I say.
Nat’s eyes glimmer like black ice on bitumen. She riffles through her book bag and pulls out a copy of the paper. ‘It’s not out yet. Duncan’s delivering it to all the drop-off points just before lunch.’ She opens it to page three. ‘And it’s not an article. Here.’ Nat jabs the middle of the page. ‘Take a look at this.’
Chapter 6
HARRIET
When Beth starts wailing loudly in the change room after netball, I barely bat an eyelid. She is a regular star of Rosemead’s theatrical productions and prides herself on her dramatic edge. ‘Ohmygod ohmygod!’ Her cries hit the tiles and bounce back along the taps.
I peer over her shoulder. Page three of the Messenger is spread across on her lap. Oh my God indeed.
Cooling my cheek with the back of my hand, I lean in closer and feel something unexpected: a burst of pride. It is an excellent reproduction. Every detail of the cartoon is crystal clear: the row of girls in their Rosemead swimwear, lined up along the side of the pool; the cartoon’s caption, ‘uniform inspection’, underneath; the man with the whistle standing before them, his neck craned forward, ogling their breasts. From the way Will has captured his chin dimple, stubble and bald patch, there can be no doubt whom it depicts.
‘Who is this Amelia Westlake?’ Liz Newcomb says, calmly undoing her netball skirt. ‘Does anyone know her?’
Millie squeezes into our huddle. ‘I don’t get it. What’s Coach Hadley supposed to be doing?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ says Liz.
‘This is seriously controversial.’ Beth grins, ignoring them both. ‘Hasn’t Ning Nong heard of defamation? My dad would never let something like this go to print in his paper. Coach is going to hit the roof.’ She looks up as the rest of our Phys Ed class spills into the change room. ‘Hey guys, check this out,’ she calls.
A dull pounding, rather like a small bird being hit repeatedly with a house brick, starts up behind my left temple. Beth is absolutely right. Of course Coach will be livid. What if the school
