by Erin Gough
Arthur makes the awful cackling sound he always makes when he doesn’t believe me. Like an evil mastermind with laryngitis. “I like her,” he says. “That night you brought her round? She seemed really great.”
If only Arthur knew how far off the mark he is! “Really great” people don’t deliberately set out to ruin others. To think what Will did after all the ways I tried to help her! And how she repaid me for my generosity: by desecrating my entire existence.
“She was about a million times more chill with me than Edie’s ever been,” Arthur adds.
“So that’s what you’ve got against Edie.”
“It’s one of the things. I know Mum likes her, but as far as I can see, that’s just because she wants you to win Tawney. She hates that Edie’s your girlfriend.”
I shake my head. My vision blurs. “That’s not true.”
“Sure it is. If you brought any other girl home—hey, don’t look so mortified. Who cares what Mum thinks, anyway?”
I clutch at my hair. “Why is everything so terrible? Why?”
Arthur flicks my shoulder playfully. “It might all seem overwhelming now, but it’s term holidays. You’ve got two weeks to sort everything out before you even have to face anybody at school.”
I groan and reach for the bottle of vodka stashed beneath my chair. “What are you looking so smug about?”
“No reason. Hang on. What’s that?” says Arthur, pointing across the grass.
I follow his finger.
Suddenly I feel his arms beneath my knees and back, lifting me up.
The treetops blur. Cool air breathes at my feet.
Splash!
The world turns cold and liquid.
I make my way to the surface of the pool in the shade of his silhouette. I swear the little grub is grinning. Wiping the water from my eyes, I look up at him.
“Arthur, you’re dead.”
chapter 23
WILL
Dear diary,
Do people even write that? “Dear diary”? I’ve never kept a diary in my life. To be honest, I’ve always thought diaries were completely cheesy—the kind of thing people who like ponies and Hello Kitty are into. But that’s the amazing thing, diary! In the last seven days, cheesy things have felt right.…
It makes no sense. It’s been a crappy week. The cut on my arm from the newsroom fiasco got infected and swelled up like an eclair. Mrs. Degarno gave me a lecture for being behind with my major work. Nat published a gossipy piece on Harriet and me without so much as a heads-up. I am no longer returning her calls.
But despite everything being fucked up, I feel so happy to be alive!
Take Thursday, for example: I smiled at a baby. A baby. On Friday I downloaded the Finding Dory soundtrack.
I know.
Then yesterday afternoon Mum was wearing a pair of those socks that are like gloves for feet—the ones with a separate bit for each toe, where each toe is a different color. We’re talking more cheese than a four-cheese pizza here. But instead of making a snide remark about them like, “There’s a five-year-old out there with frostbite,” I said, “Cute socks.”
And when Mum asked whether I wanted to watch Twilight with her because it was on TV, I was like, “Sure.”
I am on record for hating that film. (My review is on Rotten Tomatoes under Willanthropic.) Remember the part in the movie where Bella and her creepy vampire boyfriend dance at their school formal together? That’s when I usually throw something at the screen.
This time, when the scene came on, I welled up. Tears literally ran down my face.
Mum put a hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling okay? Cripes. I put too much chili in the vegetable curry, didn’t I?”
“I’m fine.” I swiped roughly at my tears. Imagine getting emo over a school formal scene! It was the kind of thing the girls at Rosemead would do. “Hey, Mum. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
I brought my knees to my chin. “Why were you so keen for me to go to Rosemead?”
Mum grabbed another cushion for her back. She was probably remembering the last time we had this conversation—it had taken a while. “Do you really want to go through this again? You know why. You remember the problems you had at your old school.”
“Yes, but why Rosemead?”
Mum paused. “I wanted to send you to a school with better resources, and a more nurturing environment—”
I snorted.
“What?”
I was tempted to tell her about my meeting with Croon and how she’d made it clear that Rosemead would prefer not to have me anywhere near its environment, but I knew it would upset her, so I held my tongue. “Nothing.”
“And I wanted you to have the opportunity of a first-rate education,” Mum said.
“The teachers at my old school were heaps better than the ones I have now.”
“Maybe they were,” she conceded. “But the classes were twice as big, the sports facilities consisted of one field that turned into a mud bath every time it rained, and there was no Art Department to speak of.”
I grunted. “Yes, but it wasn’t a snob factory like Rosemead.”
She knew this was one of Dad’s lines. “Your father went to a school very similar to Rosemead, you know.”
“And he hated it.”
“But as a result of going there, he got to become what he wanted to be.” Mum tapped the coffee table in time with her words. “He got the marks for the degree he wanted, and the first job he had in the arts industry was through the father of a high school friend of his. He likes to think it was all on his own merit, but he is living his dream because of that school. Whereas only fifty percent of my public high school year even graduated.”
“My old school wasn’t like that,” I said. “I know the facilities weren’t great, but at least I didn’t have to deal with the stuck-up bitches at Rosemead, who will get to rule the world because of the size of their family’s stock portfolio.”
Mum let out a sigh. “You can’t blame me for trying to give you a fresh start, can you? For giving you a chance to be happy?”
Of course I couldn’t.
“You’ve got Natasha now. And what about that new friend of yours, Amelia Westlake?”
“Er, sure.”
“Look, Will.” Mum turned to me. “I have no doubt you’re right about the stuck-up girls at Rosemead. But they can’t all be that bad. We’ve talked about this before. You have such high expectations of people. Not everyone can have fully formed opinions about politics and current affairs like you do.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head, smiling. “Give people time to grow, Will, and they’ll do the same for you.”
We sat quietly for a moment watching Twilight.
“I’m sorry we don’t have a family stock portfolio,” she said when the next ad break came on. “It was remiss of us.”
Now she was making fun of me. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
She smiled. “You could still make your mark, you know. You’re a bright girl. And we may not have the type of money your classmates have, but I’d like to think your dad and I gave you a decent grounding in other ways.”
“Your point being?”
She clasped her hands together. “Put it this way. You are passionate and creative, and you have a lot of knowledge to back that up. And knowledge is a form of power—a tool you can use to change the status quo. ‘Down with capitalism and all that bullshit,’ right?”
I grumbled into a cushion.
We watched the end of the film, and Mum switched off the television. There was the tick of the screen cooling, then silence.
While usually I’d prefer to stab myself in the eye with a cocktail umbrella than actively pursue a heart-to-heart, we were going so well that I figured there was no reason to stop.
“You know what’s always puzzled me?” I said.
“What?” Mum asked.
“What you see in Graham.”
&nb
sp; “Will,” Mum said crossly. “What did I just say about not judging people?”
“Sorry,” I said, trying to look apologetic. “But it’s true. He’s so… I don’t know… boring, I guess, in comparison to you. It just makes no sense to me.”
Mum raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t need to make sense to you. It needs to make sense to me. Anyway, I like how different Graham and I are. Our differences are what make things interesting.”
I considered this. “Can I ask one more thing?” I said.
“Could I stop you if I wanted to?” said Mum drily.
“When you started seeing Graham, did you know Dad was having an affair?”
She cleared her throat.
“You don’t have to answer me,” I said.
“No. I didn’t. In fact, I’m not sure that he was,” Mum said carefully. “Not then. It’s hard to put a definitive date on these things. Your dad and I had been disconnected for a while.” She watched me to see how this landed.
I bit my lip. “You make it all sound so… inevitable.”
“Not everyone is meant to be with just one person for their whole life. I’m not saying it was wrong that your dad and I got together to begin with or that I regret our years together, because I don’t. They were good years. I just mean that our time was up.”
“So when you found out about Naomi, were you relieved?”
“No. I was very hurt. I felt rejected.”
I pulled a cushion to my chest. “Even though you’d rejected Dad first?”
Mum flushed. I could see she was struggling to explain it. “Feelings are complicated. I felt really guilty about cheating on your dad. I know it hurt him as much as his affair hurt me. It’s not like our infidelities canceled each other out. I hated myself for what I was doing. What I was doing to you, most of all. I was splitting up our family. I know how hard it’s been for you with your dad moving out.”
“‘Moving out’ is putting it mildly.”
“It breaks my heart to see you fighting with each other when you used to be so close.” She reached out and brushed my hair with her fingers. “You are so much like him, you know.”
It had been a while since she’d done that, the fingers-in-the-hair thing. I usually batted her hand away, but this time I snuggled in beside her like a joey into its mother’s pouch.
Go ahead, diary: Vomit in your mouth.
Now I slide my diary to the side of my desk and turn our conversation over again in my mind. I think about what Mum said about her and Dad splitting up. What surprises me is that she didn’t try to justify anything. I respect her for that.
She was right about one thing: Feelings are bloody complicated.
I think about what she said about her relationship with Graham and how it works because of their differences, not in spite of them.
It makes me think of Harriet.
Then I try not to think of Harriet.
But the truth is, I like thinking about Harriet. And ever since that kiss…
I wasn’t even aiming for anything. It was just meant as a cover. A way to hide the truth about Amelia Westlake. But she kissed me back, with her hands on my face and her lips apart.
I don’t know what to do. It’s not like we’ll be kissing again. She made that clear seconds later, by acting outraged in front of Duncan.
Anyway, she has a girlfriend.
Although apparently not at the moment. Because of Nat’s Messenger exposé.
Why am I even considering this? Harriet being single is irrelevant. We’ll never be together. Can you imagine? Me and Harriet Price? Besides, going after someone who’s on the rebound is never a good idea. And she and Edie were made for each other.
I open my laptop and find her profile pic online—the one with both of them in it. Edie. Look at her. Well-groomed. Good posture. A two-hundred-dollar haircut. Her face is so damn clear it looks photoshopped. Nothing like oily-skinned, slouchy old me.
For the first time since the storeroom, my mood dips.
Great. Now I’m getting jealous about some privileged, overachieving girl from Blessingwood. This is ridiculous. Damn Harriet Price for putting me through this.
And that’s when I work it out. I’ve been happy all week, but it’s a delusional state. As pathetic as some smiling kid who gets a letter from Santa in the mail.
Just tell the kid he doesn’t exist! Get it over with! Rip off that Band-Aid, fast!
That’s what I need to do, I realize. Rip off the Band-Aid.
So I leave the house.
I grab Mum’s car keys from the counter on the way out.
It’s late afternoon by the time I make it to Harriet’s. She opens the door wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a beach towel.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
Vodka fumes waft off her. Her hair drips water, like she was caught in a flash flood minutes before I showed up.
Seriously, universe, what do you have against me? I swallow. “You’re shivering.”
“What do you want?” Her eyes are wild, violent.
“Shouldn’t you put some clothes on or something?” My voice is unsteady, like I’m the one who is standing half-naked in the cold.
“Just say what you have to say,” Harriet says, impatient.
Droplets cling to her skin. I swallow again. “I can wait while you get a sweater.”
She gives a curt shake of her head and stays where she is. I gaze at her and my thoughts start to wander. Perhaps she doesn’t own any sweaters. I know cardigans are more her thing. There are pimples of cold on her shoulders. Should I rub them smooth?
Of course not.
Her reflection jitters in the door glass, she is shivering that much.
“I’m here to apologize,” I press on when she fails to move. “I tried to save our butts except I got us into a whole other pile of shit instead. I know that. I’m sorry I even tried. I promise that what happened in the storeroom won’t happen again.”
There. I’ve done it. I wait for a word from her. A sound. Anything.
“Okay, that’s all,” I say finally. “You really should get dressed.” Gingerly, I reach out a hand to coax her.
Harriet’s fingers bat mine away; my skin buzzes at her touch.
We stand there looking at each other. A metronome keeps a dizzy pace deep in my chest.
My thoughts float back to the storeroom. Our hands on each other. The warmth of her breath.
A sharp heat rises up my neck.
Harriet sways toward me and her arm grazes mine.
It’s happening.
She reaches out her hand. Our fingers meet. She presses her palm to my cheek.
She sighs, and my belly jolts.
She takes her hand away. Steps back. “You need to leave,” she says coldly, and slams the door in my face.
chapter 24
HARRIET
Under the glare of the bathroom light I slap my cheeks with water and wipe them dry. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are as pink as a rabbit’s. My hair is a mess. Everything tingles, like I’ve just had oral surgery and the anesthetic is wearing off.
Why won’t Will Everhart leave me alone?
In for four, out for six, I recite, breathing deeply. Or is it in for six, out for eight? Or in for seven, out for five? Every time I try to concentrate, Will’s face floats up before my mind’s eye like a helium balloon. Her lips on mine in the storeroom…
Clearly this is what happens when you spend too much time with one person. We did a whole unit on Stockholm syndrome in Ms. Bracken’s class so I know there are historical precedents. It is a type of lunacy, this distraction. The way her breath seems to linger on my neck. How I can still feel her fingers on the small of my back.
Maybe, like stains on a table, she can be wiped off. I rub at my skin with damp hands. I try to smooth off the memory of her touch with heavy strokes.
It makes things worse. The friction creates an unbearable heat. I need a clean break from Will, that much is certain,
but how can I have one when she insists on showing up at my door?
So much for the restorative power of swimming pools. Arthur is right about one thing, though. It is time to right the wheelbarrow and mend the fences. To cleanse my life of its impurities, of all the things that are keeping me from achieving my goals—Will Everhart, for example.
I drink some Gatorade. I blow-dry my hair. I put on my favorite jeans and merino cardigan and give each of my cheeks a hearty pinch.
“You are a winner!” I whisper to the mirror.
“You are a success!”
“You are heading for abundance!”
I practice smiling and leave the house.
I drive to Edie’s with my foot down, red traffic lights glowing in my rearview mirror. Where has all this pent-up energy come from? I go straight across her yard and climb the frangipani tree outside her bedroom window. It is a way to avoid her parents and also win points with Edie for the romantic gesture.
I reach the highest branch and crane my neck to look in.
Edie’s lamp is on. She is sitting on an ergonomic chair in her Wimbledon pajamas. Above her, our collection of Tawney player profiles stare out from the wall. Her computer screen spills white light across the room. In front of it, Edie is massaging her forehead with her fingers.
I knock on the glass.
She comes over and pushes up the window halfway. “What do you want?”
“You.” I redden. I haven’t had much practice in this type of talk. Edie and I have never really gone in for it, and besides, it is difficult to be suggestive when you’re gripping the slippery trunk of a frangipani tree with both hands to stop yourself from plunging down a three-meter drop.
“Expand,” Edie demands.
“Aren’t you going to let me in?”
She puts her elbows on the sill and her chin in her hands. Her hair flashes auburn in the lamplight. Even angry she is magnificent.
“Let’s hear what you have to say first.”
I dig into the trunk with my fingernails. Sap oozes. “I miss you.”