by Erin Gough
For Emma and Rory
CONTENTS
PART ONE
Chapter 1: WILL
Chapter 2: HARRIET
Chapter 3: WILL
Chapter 4: HARRIET
Chapter 5: WILL
Chapter 6: HARRIET
Chapter 7: WILL
PART TWO
Chapter 8: HARRIET
Chapter 9: WILL
Chapter 10: HARRIET
Chapter 11: WILL
Chapter 12: HARRIET
Chapter 13: WILL
Chapter 14: HARRIET
Chapter 15: WILL
Chapter 16: HARRIET
Chapter 17: WILL
Chapter 18: HARRIET
Chapter 19: WILL
PART THREE
Chapter 20: HARRIET
Chapter 21: WILL
Chapter 22: HARRIET
Chapter 23: WILL
Chapter 24: HARRIET
Chapter 25: WILL
Chapter 26: HARRIET
Chapter 27: WILL
Chapter 28: HARRIET
Chapter 29: WILL
Chapter 30: HARRIET
Chapter 31: WILL
Chapter 32: HARRIET
Chapter 33: WILL
Chapter 34: HARRIET
Chapter 35: WILL
Chapter 36: HARRIET
Chapter 37: WILL
Chapter 38
Chapter 39: HARRIET
Chapter 40: WILL
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT PAGE
Chapter 1
* * *
WILL
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about hoaxes. My life, for instance. Lately it feels less like a life and more like a joke. Somebody’s practical joke.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Terrible stuff has been happening to me since I was born. Mum and Dad named me Wilhelmina for a start. I’ve had three pets hit by cars. Last winter I was mildly electrocuted by a faulty hair dryer. Then there are the elements that make up my daily slog: having separated parents on different sides of the country. Living in a shoebox beneath a flight path. Going to a school full of rich, selfish brats.
But lately things have been particularly vile. Case in point: Phys Ed this morning. Coach Hadley held me back to swim extra laps along with Ruby Lasko and Harriet Price.
Hadley has always been a jerk, especially to me, although it’s true he likes to pick on most of his students a few times each term. It’s his idea of equal opportunity. Today, though, he reached a special category of loathsome. When Harriet and I finished swimming, Hadley wouldn’t let us go until Ruby completed her laps. It was probably the pressure of us watching that made Ruby trip on a ladder rung on her way out of the pool and crash back into the water.
‘Too many muffins for breakfast, hey Ruby?’ said Hadley, grinning.
Now, you don’t need a psychology degree to know Ruby is sensitive about her weight. She forced out a laugh but I could tell she was working hard not to cry. This time, Hadley had gone too far. ‘What Ruby eats is none of your business,’ I said.
‘Come on, Will,’ he replied, a twinkle in his eye. He tried to poke me in the ribs but I stepped out of reach. ‘I was kidding. Ruby knows it was a joke, don’t you, Ruby?’
Ruby, who was struggling up the ladder again, smiled bravely.
‘See?’ Hadley threw up his arms. ‘Why should you mind if Ruby doesn’t?’
What a creep. I shot him a look of disgust. He met it for a second before turning away.
‘Prick,’ I muttered under my breath.
Hadley whipped around, his expression dark.
I heard the sound of footsteps.
‘Will Everhart. What did you just say?’ Miss Watson, Head of the Sports Department, was standing behind us with an armful of floating aids.
Just my luck. Watson has hated me since I skipped this year’s athletics carnival. Not to mention the ones before that. ‘Answer me,’ she said coolly.
‘Fine. I called Coach Hadley a prick,’ I said, equally coolly.
Watson’s whole face twitched.
‘Well, he is one,’ I said, and turned to Harriet Price for back-up.
For the record, it’s not that I couldn’t manage Watson on my own. I’ve got experience in Crappy Life Moments, as I’ve said. But I knew that having Harriet’s support would help. She’s a prefect. She’s won debating comps. Plus, Watson worships her because she plays for the tennis squad. She’s also on some fancy sports committee Hadley set up. She heard what Hadley said to Ruby. She could have called him on it.
The problem with Harriet Price is that she’s also a prime suck.
You know those ads for vacuum cleaners so powerful they can pick up furniture? When I see those ads, I think of Harriet Price: grovelling to the principal, or arse-kissing one of the teachers, or giving a speech at Assembly about how Rosemead Grammar is educating ‘Australia’s future leaders’.
I shouldn’t have been surprised when, instead of backing me up, Harriet stood there with her mouth hanging open like one of those clown heads at the Easter Show waiting for a ping-pong ball.
I wish I’d had a ping-pong ball.
‘I’m sick and tired of these performances, Will,’ said Watson, once her twitching face had settled down. ‘This is not the first time I’ve had to speak to you about inappropriate language, but you’d better hope it’s the last. I am quite frankly disgusted –’
On and on she went. As she was ranting I let the sound of her voice wash over me, and my mind wandered to an old movie Dad and I watched a few years ago. It’s called The Truman Show, and it’s about a guy whose whole world is the set of a reality TV show in which he’s the unwitting star.
‘You’ll hate it,’ Dad told me, by which he meant ‘you’ll love it’. He and I have been playing a game of opposites since he was feeding me with an aeroplane spoon. He’s progressed from ‘you’ll love these mushy beans’ to ‘you’ll love washing the car for me, Monster Child’. In true Opposite Game spirit I always reply, ‘You are the best father in the whole wide world,’ before giving him the finger.
I was skeptical about The Truman Show. ‘What makes you so sure I’ll think it’s the worst film ever?’
‘Because you love reality television and the film critiques that whole genre.’
Dad adores the word ‘genre’. He also likes ‘hegemony’ and ‘oeuvre’. This is what I’ve had to put up with as the daughter of a fine-arts journalist. But he was right about the movie. It was great. At the end, Truman figures out the whole living-in-a-reality-TV-show thing. He gets in a boat and travels to the domed edge of his bogus world. The boat’s bow pierces the dome’s painted sky, revealing what he’s long suspected: he’s been trapped in a farce.
Watson’s rant went on for so long that I missed half of Biology. After that, there didn’t seem much point in showing up for the rest. So I headed to the year-twelve common room for twenty minutes of peace.
I’m sitting there now, eating someone else’s Tim Tams from the fridge, and thinking about the final scene from that movie. It’s exactly what I’m waiting for, I realise. I’m hanging out for the day I get to launch a boat off the wrecked shore of my own existence to discover my true unblemished destiny beyond the ‘Exit’ sign.
What will I find there? A world in which people like Hadley get what they deserve. A world where my classmates care about sticking up for each other more than they care about whose parents have the most expensive car. A world where there are no teachers, no swimming coaches, no prefects.
And no Rosemead bloody Grammar.
Chapter 2
* * *
HARRIET
I adore my Modern History class. It is one of the absolute highlig
hts of my week. Today’s class is especially wonderful because we are discussing Defining Moments.
‘History is about turning points,’ Ms Bracken explains. ‘I want each of you to share with us one big event that has influenced your life.’
We go around the room.
‘When I learnt to read,’ says Eileen Sarmiento.
‘When I got my platinum credit card,’ says Millie.
‘My first ski trip to Aspen,’ says Beth.
Then it is my turn. ‘In all honesty? My Defining Moment was when I first set foot on the grounds of Rosemead Grammar.’
A few loud groans and sick noises come from predictable corners. Apparently it is ‘in vogue’ to be critical of this school and the opportunities we have as students here. I think this is basically a very ungrateful attitude given the fees our parents pay, especially since not everyone’s parents are lucky enough to be mouth surgeons like both of mine are.
The truth is, I owe a heck of a lot to Rosemead. If you said: ‘Harriet Price, please name three reasons why your life is great,’ I would answer firstly that it is difficult to isolate just three reasons, because there are so many reasons why my life is great! Then I would tell you the top three excellent aspects of my life, all of which are Rosemead-related:
1. My marks (distinction average).
2. Being on the brink of winning the Tawney Shield Senior Girls Tennis Doubles, something I have been working towards for almost six years (i.e. one-third of my life).
3. Having Edie Marshall, future prime minister of Australia, as my girlfriend.
People think I’m exaggerating when I say Edie will be prime minister one day, but I am definitely not. Not only is she the captain of Blessingwood Girls, our sister school, she is also a talented sportsperson and the best school-age public speaker in New South Wales. This has been formally recognised by three statewide competitions in which she won first place last year: SpeakOut (topic: ‘democracy is the best form of government’), SpeakEasy (topic: ‘fashion victims I have known’) and SaySomething (topic: ‘discipline is not a dirty word’). After she blitzes the exams this year she is going to go to university and get a Rhodes Scholarship. And when she comes back from Oxford she will enter politics and everyone will vote her in because she is incredible.
I would have never met Edie if it weren’t for the Tawney Shield. We have both been playing in the competition since year nine. This year, Edie and I are competing as a team in the Doubles competition against different school groups. This is perfect for us since we are a) ranked in the top players at Blessingwood and Rosemead respectively, which are in the same school group, and b) happen to be going out.
Interesting fact: my mother won the shield when she was at Rosemead, as did my grandmother. They like to tease that if I don’t win this year I’ll be ex-communicated from the family!
After Modern History, I find myself at a bit of a loose end. While Edie and I usually train on Tuesday afternoons, today Edie is hosting a Blessingwood fundraising afternoon tea for refugees. I would ordinarily make my way home, but Arthur, my little brother, jams with his band at home on Tuesdays, and although they are nice guys the music gives me a headache. So when the final bell rings I collect my things from my locker and head across to the staff building to find Ms Bracken.
Ms Bracken relies on me a lot because she knows how diligent and responsible I am. She suffers from arthritis and a few other degenerative diseases, so I like to assist her with odd jobs when I can. When I reach her office, I find her struggling with a PowerPoint presentation (Ms Bracken is far from technologically savvy). I offer to lend a hand.
‘It’s perfectly fine, Harriet,’ she says, bent over a paper-strewn desk that I am tempted to help her tidy: that level of mess can bring on one of my migraines. ‘Thank you, but I don’t need your assistance.’
This is exactly the response I anticipated. Ms Bracken always feels so guilty about taking up my time. ‘Don’t give it a second thought, Ms B. I happen to have a free window this afternoon.’
‘But I don’t. I’m on detention duty.’ She gathers her books.
‘Oh. Well, I’m sure we can do the presentation and monitor the detention students at the same time.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ She hurries down the hallway. ‘There’s only one student in detention and she’s in your year. I think that would be awkward.’
‘That’s kind of you, Ms Bracken,’ I pant. For someone with arthritis she is walking at a startling pace. ‘But I’m used to this kind of thing.’ It’s true. As a prefect I constantly have to monitor the behaviour of other students, including those in year twelve. I can’t exactly tell off a year-seven girl for failing to wear a regulation Rosemead hair ribbon and not do the same to someone in my own year.
‘Awkward for her, I mean,’ Ms Bracken says.
‘The presentation will be done twice as quickly with me helping.’ I follow her into the detention room.
I hear Ms Bracken sigh quietly. ‘Good afternoon, Will,’ she says.
That is when I see Will Everhart sitting at the very back of the room, slouched over a notebook.
Oh dear. After what happened at the pool this morning, I really could have done without encountering her again today. She seemed terribly put out when I didn’t defend her to Miss Watson.
I was not comfortable with what Coach said to Ruby. Ruby was clearly upset, and understandably so. But I am sure he was only trying to make a joke, albeit one in poor taste. Anyway, how could I possibly have taken Will’s side? I am Coach’s chosen representative on the school’s Sports Committee. An incredible honour. And as a prefect I am duty-bound to uphold the authority of Rosemead’s staff.
Will Everhart’s problem is that insolence is her trademark. She is one of those girls who thinks asymmetrical haircuts are the definition of ‘edgy’ and who takes every opportunity to show her disrespect for teachers. I personally will never forget our Food Technology class in year ten when Mrs Lavender taught us how to cook pad thai with prawns. After everyone agreed it was the most delicious meal of their lives (it was important to be nice to Mrs Lavender that year. Her husband had just left her for a hand model), Will Everhart launched into a story about how prawn trawling kills kilos of unwanted fish that are accidentally scooped up by the nets. She finished by saying we were all morally obliged to be vegetarian, before scraping the contents of her plate into the bin.
That is just the type of impertinent person Will Everhart is.
Now I wish I hadn’t come to detention with Ms Bracken, after all. But it is too late to walk out. Instead, I make a point of greeting Will with a cheery wave.
She does not wave back.
Ms Bracken puts her laptop on the teacher’s desk and walks up to collect Will’s detention slip. ‘What have you done this time?’ she asks.
‘Why don’t you ask Harriet?’ Will says, eyeing me with contempt. ‘She was there.’
I feel a throbbing in my forehead. I hold my mouth in a firm smile and open Ms Bracken’s laptop.
‘Gone quiet again, Harriet – just like this morning?’ Will calls.
Really. Why does she have to bring up this morning? She is the most provocative person I have ever met.
Ms Bracken examines the detention slip. ‘Swearing at Coach Hadley. Why did you do that?’ she asks Will, and not in the weary, slightly cross way she usually asks questions, but more like she is genuinely interested. Her prescription painkillers must have just kicked in.
‘Because he’s a sexist creep,’ says Will, chin in hand.
I genuinely cannot believe the things that come out of that girl’s mouth. Yes, I can see how some of Coach’s remarks might come across as sexist, but I am fairly certain he does not mean them in that way. He is probably just trying to relate to us. He knows how important it is to hold up Rosemead’s core value of respect regardless of a person’s identity, background and abilities. Besides, he deserves veneration as our teacher, not to mention in his capacity as a former Olympian. There
are photos of him wearing his silver medal in all the Rosemead brochures.
I wait for Ms Bracken to tell off Will. But instead Ms Bracken does something I have never seen her do in my entire Rosemead career: she smiles.
‘Give me your pen,’ she says.
Will hands over a black felt-tip. Ms Bracken signs her detention slip with it and looks at the wall clock. ‘Half an hour will suffice, I should think. Feel free to leave at four.’
She marches up to the front again, swipes the laptop from beneath my poised fingers, and walks out of the room.
Chapter 3
* * *
WILL
The look on Harriet Price’s face when Ms Bracken exits is worth five detentions. For a whole minute she stares at the door, as if expecting her to return. She glances at me. Then back at the door. Then at me again.
I watch her grapple to reinstall meaning and purpose in her life without a teacher to impress. She purses her lips. She readjusts her Butterscotch BlondeTM ponytail. ‘I suppose Ms Bracken wants me to stay and supervise,’ she says.
‘Ah, no.’
Harriet makes a weird huffing sound. ‘I’ve got a lot to do here anyway. Those chairs at the side need to be put back behind their tables, and the whiteboard needs cleaning, so I’m very happy to keep you company.’
I begin to collect my stuff.
‘Where are you going?’
You know what astounds me most? How this school manages to brainwash allegedly smart people. They say Harriet Price is topping the year in Maths. How can she understand quadratic equations but not the simple fact that Rosemead is a crackpot institution that entrenches blind obedience? Not even Ms Bracken expects me to stick around. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ I say.
Harriet looks pained. Of course she’ll tell. Not telling would conflict with her screwed-up moral universe. I think again about the scene by the pool this morning and anger burns my throat.
I try to calm myself. What should I expect? Harriet Price is a lemming who does everything by the book. All she cares about is being a disciple of Rosemead and clogging up her resume with useless committee memberships. She probably has a private-school boyfriend and a ten-year plan involving the usual marriage-mortgage-kids trifecta as well. Why would she risk a blot on her perfect school record for me?