Forever Geek

  As if everything consists of a billion beautiful colours.

  Dragonflies are also the most deadly predator on the planet, with a ninety-five per cent hunting success rate: twice as successful as a great white shark, and four times as efficient as a tiger.

  But, frankly, they can take a back seat because at one hundred per cent my current success rate is even better.

  I secured my first Australian modelling job.

  All by myself.

  Beaming, I bounce back into the reception area, giving my Lucky Country badge a celebratory polish.

  Nat’s still hunched over her art pad, biting her thumbnail. When concentrating, Natalie Grey is approximately eighty per cent human, twenty per cent ingested nail varnish.

  “I got it!” I squeak triumphantly, lobbing my portfolio on to the seat next to her and jumping around with my fingers wiggling in her face. “I got a job!”

  “No way!” Nat exclaims, putting her art pad down. “Already! How? You were only gone like three minutes!”

  Frowning, I glance at my watch.

  It took forty-eight minutes for those last two scenes to take place, so either Nat can’t tell the time or she has consumed waaay too much acetone.

  “I gatecrashed a casting,” I whisper as we swish out of the building. “The agent wouldn’t put me forward for it, so I did it myself!”

  Nat turns to me, super impressed.

  “Was that a good idea, Harriet? I mean, isn’t that the fashion agent’s job? Don’t they work tirelessly to do exactly that?”

  OK, I definitely misread that facial expression.

  “They’ll be really happy I got work,” I reassure her as we cross the road towards a gloriously sunlit park. “Anyway, I think Eva just forgot, because I was perfect for it. I could answer all the questions and everything.”

  “You can always answer all the questions and everything,” Nat smiles. “Getting you to not answer the questions: that’s the valuable skill.”

  I stick my tongue out at her happily.

  After a wobbly start, everything’s going exactly to plan. And maybe it’s not the plan I originally had but that’s OK.

  It’s a different, impromptu, better one.

  “What was that girl’s name anyway?” I say as we start walking back towards Bondi Beach, arms linked. “The one who wants the dress?”

  “No idea, but I’m sure she’ll tell me when she rings tonight. Thanks for doing those business cards, H. So much more professional than writing my number down with liquid eyeliner. Can I see them?”

  “Sure,” I say, grabbing one out of my satchel. “I already had the card left over from the Night of Stars party and there’s a special setting on Dad’s computer that he never uses.”

  Then I hand it over and drift into a reverie of how great my life is going to be now I’m fully in control of my own fate.

  Maybe I should send Cambridge University an early application.

  Or perhaps a preliminary letter.

  I can tell them about the 89 Nobel Prizes they’ve won in all six disciplines – thirty-one more than Oxford (although Oxford has produced more Prime Ministers) – and they’ll be so impressed by my initiative that they’ll—

  “Harriet,” Nat says sharply, suddenly stopping on the pavement. “Tell me this isn’t the only card.”

  I blink at her. “Of course not. Don’t worry, I made hundreds.”

  Nat’s face is changing colour yet again: from pink to a funny grey colour. “I meant, tell me this isn’t the only version of the card. Tell me they’re not the same.”

  I don’t think she understands how printing works.

  “They’re all the same,” I say patiently. “That’s what computers do, Natalie. They make lots of identical things.”

  “Harriet, there’s nothing on it.”

  “What?”

  Nat holds the silver card up and turns it over. “There is nothing on it.”

  I grab at the business card but she snatches it out of my reach.

  “There is,” I insist anxiously as Nat rips off her Lucky Country badge and hurls it to the ground. “There’s your name and your email and your phone number and your social media accounts. I wouldn’t make a blank business card. What kind of idiot do you think I am?”

  Then we stare at each other in horror.

  Mainly because – let’s be honest – the answer to that question is almost always the same.

  “Check,” Nat says in a panicked voice. “Check the others.”

  Mouth dry, I turn my bag upside down and empty its contents on to the floor. Every single silvery card is blank.

  The printer must have run out of ink.

  And I think my brain did too.

  “Nat,” I say, searching fruitlessly through the cards on the floor to no avail. “I’m so, so sorry. I’m sure that girl can reach you somehow. I mean, she just has to …”

  Guess your name and phone number.

  “Say it,” Nat says, narrowing her eyes. “Go on, tell me the statistical chance of her guessing who I am and how to reach me.”

  Flushing, I look at the floor.

  “Twelve digits,” I mumble under my breath. “Each digit can be zero to nine, so that means ten possibilities. Probability of getting one digit correct, one in ten. Probability of getting all twelve digits correct …”

  I pause. This is not encouraging maths.

  “Say it, Harriet.”

  “One in a trillion for your phone number,” I say in a tiny voice. “A whole lot more for your name.”

  I like to think of myself as a life-affirming person: capable of looking at the bright side of any situation.

  But those statistics are dreadful.

  “One in a trillion,” Nat groans loudly, throwing the last card on the floor. “I know you were trying to help, but oh my God.”

  “I’m sorry,” I bleat, face starting to flame. “I’m really really— WAIT. Maybe she’s still in the office? We need to—”

  Before I can finish, Nat is away: strong legs pumping, hair and evening gown streaming in the wind. Me, tripping over paving slabs at an increasing distance behind her.

  But by the time I catch up, I know it’s too late.

  Nat’s face is like thunder.

  Which is an analogy that makes no sense because thunder is sound so technically it doesn’t look like anything, but I don’t have time to find a better one because my best friend is about to kill me.

  “She’s gone,” Nat snaps, slamming the agency door behind us. “Nobody knows who she was, she’s not in the diary and there’s no way of finding out.”

  I open my mouth and shut it again, trying to find a version of this story where it isn’t entirely my fault.

  “She could try searching Google?” I offer weakly.

  “With what information?” Nat stomps back out on to the sunny streets, me running behind her. “You want her to scan through millions of photos until she finds mine buried on my college website?”

  I blink. Why not? That’s what I would do.

  “We’re not all you,” Nat sighs, even though I’m pretty sure I didn’t say that out loud. “I love you, Harriet, but that was my big break. Right now I’m too angry to talk to you, OK?”

  I nod. That seems fair and reasonable, given the circumstances.

  “Sorry,” I mumble again as I scoop up her discarded lucky badge from the pavement.

  “I know,” Nat sighs.

  And we make the rest of our way home in silence.

  at sulks for the rest of the day.

  She sulks while I make her apology flapjacks and arrange them into the shape of SORRY on a plate, and sulks as I download The Devil Wears Prada and project it on to the cinema screen.

  She sulks when I write a heart-shaped note that says Please forgive me? with a quick sketch of a kangaroo wearing a cowboy hat, and stick it on the pillow in front of her, and then on the bedpost, and then on my own forehead.

  She even sulks as I sit on the edge of her bed:
staring at her with my saddest, sorriest expression.

  “Are we OK now?” I say hopefully.

  “No.”

  A few minutes later: “What about now?”

  “Nope.”

  “Now?”

  “Harriet,” Nat sighs, pulling the duvet over her head. “I need a bit of space.”

  Which is fine and everything, but currently scientists have calculated space to be approximately 93 billion light years in diameter.

  And I never know quite how much people are asking for.

  “Darling,” Bunty says when I finally give up and shuffle into the living room. “She’ll be fine in two shakes of a fox’s tail. Come sit with me and tell me about the shoot tomorrow.”

  She’s been lying on the green velvet sofa, wrapped in a rainbow fluffy blanket while Moonstone sits primly in a nearby rocking chair, doing a crossword with a scratchy biro.

  Obediently, I plonk myself down next to her.

  “The flight leaves at eight am,” I say, reading from the email Emily sent me twenty minutes ago. “The shoot should take all day, and then I’ll fly back in the evening.”

  For the first time ever, my parents haven’t insisted that I take Bunty or a guardian or some kind of babysitter with me for this trip. Maybe now they’re ready to trade me in for a better version they’re not as bothered what happens to the old one.

  “Tell you what,” Bunty smiles. “Why don’t we make another cake for when you get home? You need lots of sustenance after an adventure.”

  I cheer up significantly. “How about a lamington? It’s a traditional Australian chocolate sponge coated in desiccated coconut and I haven’t tried it yet.”

  “Absolutely,” my grandmother laughs. “Darling, you must always try everything.”

  Suddenly feeling a bit homesick, I lie with my cheek on her lap.

  “You know,” Bunty says, stroking my hair gently. “Life is like a flower, sweetheart. The more you nurture it, the more light you give it, the more it opens up and the more beautiful it gets.”

  I nod, then glance over curiously at Moonstone.

  She mutters under her breath, then crosses out the word she just filled in.

  “You just have to be gentle with it,” Bunty continues. “Love it, appreciate it for what it is, but never crush it and never try to hold on too tight.”

  I nod again. I mean, I’m not a trained gardener but even I know you’re not supposed to mangle flowers with your hands.

  “Life is transient, so let it change and enjoy each precious moment for what it is.”

  Frowning, I glance at the coffee table.

  The Daisy-Chain Guide To Living Your Most Petal-Filled Life is lying there: battered, bright sky-blue, with a big white and yellow flower on the front and gold lettering.

  It contains a lot of sparkly bookmarks.

  Although if Bunty’s direct-quoting now, it would probably be more efficient to just give me it so I can read and annotate it myself: that’s kind of my speciality area, after all.

  When I glance up, Moonstone is nodding at her crossword.

  “OK,” I agree, nestling closer, suddenly sleepy. “Did you know that the word daisy comes from the Old English expression daes eag and means day’s eye because it opens at dawn?”

  “Well, there you go, darling. Isn’t it lovely to know that even flowers are watching over us?”

  “Mmm,” I murmur.

  Then there’s a comfortable silence while Moonstone makes aggressive noises with her pen. I’m starting to nod off when my satchel makes a strange sound and my head lurches upwards with a jolt.

  BEEP BEEP.

  As if it’s actually saying the word aloud: that’s how low-tech my phone is.

  Dragging the Brick out, I stare at the green-lit screen.

  Breaktime! Video call? Jasper x

  I sit up straight: time to meet my schedule for once.

  Laboriously, I type:

  Ys!

  Quickly, I give Bunty a kiss and jump off the sofa.

  Leaning over Moonstone’s shoulder, I murmur “Six down, four letters, sharp comment: barb, you’re welcome.”

  Then I go outside and press a few buttons until the enormous cinema screen switches from a picture of a red shoe to the familiar scowl of Jasper King.

  “Finally,” he says as soon as he sees my face.

  Which is kind of funny.

  Because that’s exactly what I want to say to him too.

  ere are some facts about Aboriginal Art:

  Obviously, I don’t tell Jasper that last bullet point.

  I totally forgot I’d promised to visit the Art Gallery of New South Wales, and he asks about it almost immediately. By the time I’ve panicked and regurgitated every Australian art fact I know, I’ve nearly convinced myself I actually went there too.

  Maybe I should have: it’s fascinating.

  “What did you think of the Yiribana gallery?” he continues in excitement, leaning forward. “Isn’t that Emily Kam Ngwarray painting insanely beautiful?”

  “Yiribana means ‘this way’ in the language of the Eora people,” I remember diligently, looking slightly to the left of the screen. “And it acknowledges the location of the gallery on Gadigal land.”

  “And what about John Bulunbulun’s bark painting? Did you see it? We studied his cross-hatching technique last term.”

  “Uh, yes,” I say, swallowing, because I’ve now totally run out of relevant knowledge. “It was very …” What? “Tree-y.”

  “But did you take any photos? I’d really love to use some as inspiration.”

  My stomach is starting to twist guiltily.

  Honestly, I’d kind of automatically assumed Jasper would have totally seen through my fact-spouting by now, and I’m not entirely sure what to do as he hasn’t.

  This is uncharted territory for me.

  “Ah,” I say, shaking my head. “I did, but I … smashed my phone. Soooo annoying.”

  At least that bit is true.

  “Don’t worry,” Jasper reassures me. “It won’t have ruined the memory card, so with Toby’s help we can access the photos when you get back.”

  Bat poop. I did not think this one through.

  “Anyway,” I say, making a mental note to download other people’s gallery photos before I return home. “What’s been happening since I’ve been gone?”

  So Jasper tells me.

  About how Rin and Toby have officially dubbed themselves Roby and bought matching winged trainers; about the carved-leaf art project he’s finally managed to finish because I’m not there to spill things on it.

  About how yesterday Alexa Roberts abruptly walked into the cafe, glided round like a basking shark and then left without buying anything.

  “Do you think she was looking for me?” I say, mildly curious.

  “Obviously,” Jasper nods. “That girl needs to get a life.”

  And I can’t help feeling a bit chuffed.

  Because it’s becoming very clear that after years of feeling like I was the one with the problem it was actually the other way round. And now I’ve left my bully behind me completely, in more ways than one.

  Finally, Jasper and I slow to a silence.

  I’m not entirely sure what’s supposed to come next.

  We may have been good friends for six months, but Jasper and I have only kissed a total of seven times.

  (Not that I’ve been counting, obviously: I mean seven times roughly.

  Or – you know.

  Precisely and accurately and ticked off in my diary.)

  Whatever this is feels quite close to the beginning.

  “Did …” I start.

  “Have—” Jasper says at the same time.

  We both stop, and I flush slightly.

  “You go first,” I insist, because I was about to randomly ask if he knew that the Ewok language is a combination of Tibetan and Nepalese and it’s not really a pressing question.

  “I was just going to ask if you’ve seen a
nyone you know while you’ve been out there?”

  And my mouth suddenly goes dry.

  One person produces roughly 20,000 litres of saliva in the average lifetime: enough to fill fifty-three bathtubs. Right now, I couldn’t even fill a thimble.

  “W-what’s that supposed to mean? Who?”

  “Rin was saying that Yuka Ito is in Sydney at the moment,” Jasper replies. “She’s your old boss, right? We thought she might have made contact.”

  And – just like that – I can swallow again.

  “Oh, Yuka,” I say in relief. “Hahaha. Of course. Umm … no. We haven’t seen each other for ages.”

  “Well, maybe you should contact her,” Jasper says, turning away as his dad starts yelling from the cafe counter. “She was an important part of your life, right? And you’re in the same country. You might not get the opportunity again.”

  Then he turns to look directly at me.

  For just a second, I’m not sure if we’re talking about Yuka any more. And it suddenly feels like there’s a huge distance between us: much, much bigger than ten thousand miles or ten hours’ time lag.

  “Mmm,” I say vaguely, swallowing with difficulty. “Maybe. It’s just … we didn’t leave things on good terms and Yuka is really insanely p—”

  I abruptly stop.

  Powerful.

  Oh my God: that’s it.

  And – with a loud crunch – my next fate-changing idea slots straight into place.

  “Jasper,” I yelp, suddenly sitting upright. “Can I call you back tomorrow? We’re on to speak at seven pm, right?”

  “Yep.” Jasper stands up and starts tying on his apron. “Sure. I’ve got to go now anyway. Good luck for the shoot tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” I say as he reaches for the button. “Goodb—”

  But Jasper’s already gone.

  o, this could be kind of awkward.

  Given that:

  As I grab my laptop and scan through emails from the last year, I’m trying to convince myself that Yuka won’t remember any of that.

  The brain can store 2.5 petabytes of data, which is 2,500,000 gigabytes. But Yuka’s one of the world’s top fashion designers, and she’s always extremely busy.