Model Misfit (Geek Girl, Book 2)

  “Too-doo,” she says triumphantly, dumping them on my lap.

  “It’s ta-da, Rin,” I smile. “What’s this?”

  “This,” she says, picking up a big white plastic ball, “shines relaxy picture on ceiling.” She picks up a small plastic box. “This measure snoring.” She hands me a thin sheet of plastic. “This keep pillow cold. And this” – she pulls out an umbrella – “is umbrella with lights. Mi-teh.” She presses a button and the whole thing lights up like a Christmas tree.

  I pause, trying to find a way to put this without sounding ungrateful. “Umm – what are they for?”

  “For help sleep, Harry-chan. For good dream tonight.” She pauses. “Not umbrella,” she adds. “Umbrella for rain. Or flying, like Mary Poppins.”

  A lump suddenly forms in my throat. “Thank you, Rin.”

  “It’s nandakke … Okily-dokily. Is that right, Harry-chan? I saw on Sampsons.”

  “The Simpsons.”

  “Yes. Funny yellow Australians.” Rin laughs and claps her hands, at which point we both hear the sound of desperate scratching coming out of the cupboard. “Oh my goat!” Rin cries, standing up and putting her hand over her mouth. “I shut Kylie Minogue in closet!”

  As she scampers out of the room, I start merrily setting my new presents up. I plug in the big round ball so it shines pictures of kittens on to the wall next to my bed, press a few buttons on the sleep analyser and stick the cooler into my pillowcase. I’m just trying to work out how I can wedge the umbrella into the corner of my bed as a kind of waterproof night-light when there’s a loud knock at the door.

  “Harriet?” Poppy shouts. “Can you get that for me?”

  I look at the door with a sinking heart and abruptly decide: no. Actually. Thanks, but I’d rather give myself root canal with a coat hanger.

  So I do the only thing I can think of: I whip my top off. “Sorry, but I’m not properly dressed,” I shout back.

  Poppy pokes her head round the door and looks at me. “Is that an Eeyore bra?”

  I knew I should have listened to Nat and burnt it before something like this happened. “Kanga’s on it too, actually,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster. “And Roo.”

  “They never do silly things in my size,” Poppy sighs. “It’s all boring lace and silk and underwiring.” She does a little twirl in a silvery dress. “How do I look?”

  “Beautiful,” I say, and then look down at the non-event happening on my chest.

  Thanks, genetics.

  “Wish me luck?” Poppy beams, grabbing her handbag and glittering out of the door in a wave of perfume and curls.

  “Luck,” I call and – as soon as the door shuts behind her – groan then slowly get my laptop out of my satchel.

  Boring, I think as I open my computer and start playing online Snakes and Ladders with a random twelve-year-old in Indonesia.

  Silly, I think as I yank my dolphin hoody on over my stupid bra.

  No big deal.

  January 17th (161 days ago)

  t’s not going to rain,” Nick said firmly. “They’re not rain clouds. They’re all fluffy and white.”

  “Is that the technical term?” I said, grabbing my umbrella anyway. I was so not taking weather advice from an Australian.

  “Of course not. That’s ‘Clouds Which Look Like Big Sheep’. Not ‘Clouds Which Make Water’.”

  “They’re cumulonimbus,” I reply. “And that out there’s some stratocumulus. There’s no nimbostratus but don’t let that fool you. British weather is sneaky.”

  He leant over and kissed my nose. “I love it when you talk meteorology.”

  “Obviously. Meteorology is awesome. You’re not insane.”

  Despite my warnings, both Nick and my dad insisted that we take a picnic. “It’s not going to rain,” my father said, shoving a French baguette, some cheese and a few apples into my satchel.

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “I know, right? Tell that to little Miss Smarty-Pants here.”

  My dad shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid all the female Pants are Smarty in this house. They won’t listen to rightness, and there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.”

  It was raining before we got to the end of my road.

  Nick sighed and pulled his coat over our heads. “It’s at times like this I really regret liking a girl with brains.”

  “At least I have an umbrella,” I smiled and let him snuggle under it with me. “Did you know that 6,000 pounds of micro-meteorites hit the atmosphere every day?”

  “That sounds incredibly dangerous.” Nick grinned and waggled the handle. “Are you sure we’re totally protected by this bit of waterproof fabric?”

  “They’re really tiny. They get caught in clouds and water coalesces around them so that they fall to Earth in rain.”

  “I should probably stop sticking my tongue out and trying to drink it then.”

  I laughed. “Maybe, seeing as you’re catching tiny bits of shooting star that are billions of years old and have just come from outer space.” I put my hand out, caught a few raindrops and showed it to him.

  Nick wasn’t looking at my hand. He was looking at my face. I blushed and focused on the water in my hand.

  “Do you know what I think?” he said.

  “Absolutely never,” I said, staring at the rain. “Like, literally never. I never ever know what you think.”

  It was his turn to laugh.

  “I think I was right,” he said, closing my umbrella and tucking it away. Then he put his arm round me and continued walking us into the rain. “We don’t need an umbrella after all.”

  he human body is amazing.

  Did you know that the acid in our stomachs can dissolve zinc? Or that in a lifetime, we’ll produce enough saliva to fill two swimming pools? Or that we’re roughly one centimetre taller in the morning than in the evening?

  And – most relevantly of all – did you know that in the hour before you’re supposed to wake up, the anterior pituitary gland in the brain releases a polypeptide tropic hormone called adrenocorticotropin, which acts as a stimulant and natural alarm clock?

  All of my preparation last night was a total waste of my time. After years and years of getting up early for school, my pituitary gland has been honed to perfection and is eerily accurate. It’s still pitch-black and none of the alarms have gone off yet, but I’m wide-awake and perky as an otter.

  If only I could start trusting my body a little bit more, I could save a huge amount of money on AA batteries.

  Yawning a few times, I pull on my slippers and rub the sleep out of my eyes. Then I pad through the dark bedroom to the bathroom, then into the kitchen to get a glass of water and a couple of chocolate biscuits, and then into the sunlit living room to switch on the TV. (I love Japanese adverts. I can’t understand a single word but they’re so incredibly cheerful.) At which point I stop, glass frozen in my hand and a biscuit halfway to my mouth. Sunlit living room. Sunlit living room.

  Sunlit living room?

  It’s not even dawn yet. Unless …

  Oh my God.

  OH MY GOD.

  I run to the window, and there’s the sun: emitting its massive solar energy from too high up in the sky.

  I look at my watch: 9.25am.

  NO.

  NOOOOO.

  NONONONONONONONO.

  I sprint into the bedroom and fling open the curtains. The sun comes streaming in. Rin’s snoring in her bunk with her headphones on, Kylie’s curled against the small of her back and Poppy has gone out already. I pick up the bird alarm and shake it: its eyes are still closed. I look at the rocket: it’s still in its launch pad. Then I stare at the laser alarm. The lights are dead.

  None of the alarms worked.

  How is that even statistically possible?

  I need to find my mobile phone, ring Yuka and get out of here. But when I look at my bedside table, my phone isn’t there.

  So I grab Yuka’s letter, sling a yellow cardigan over my pe
nguin pyjamas and run straight into the streets of Tokyo.

  Why didn’t Yuka ring? Why didn’t she send somebody to drag me out of bed by my feet? Where is my phone? Why are our bedroom curtains so thick?

  Most importantly: why am I?

  I ask the taxi driver all these questions, but he doesn’t speak English so I just get a lot of nodding and uncomfortable glances in the rear-view mirror.

  Finally – almost precisely three hours late – we pull up outside an immense, low, square building with a pale green roof. I’m so impressed I actually stop talking. The roof slopes to a gradual point in the centre, there are big glass doors at the front and the two white walls on either side of the entrance are covered in huge paintings of enormous, robust-looking men wearing bits of material around their waists, furious expressions and absolutely nothing else.

  Ring.

  Sumo ring.

  I’m in Japan, and this is the only ‘ring’ that didn’t occur to me?

  I stare at the doors with my stomach starting to clench and squeeze. I have no idea how much trouble I’m in, but after Monday’s disaster I think the answer is: quite a lot.

  Focus, Harriet.

  Hands shaking, I hand a pile of money to the driver, climb out of the car and start nervously running towards Yuka.

  Then I stop, because:

  There’s a boy sitting on the stairs.

  He’s blocking my path.

  I’ve forgotten where I’m supposed to be going.

  “It’s a shame the tables in Japan are so low,” Nick says, wrinkling his nose. “Where on earth are you going to hide this time?”

  Reasons Not to Think About Nick

  He told me not to.

  I have much more life-changing things to think about.

  It’s all I do.

  He’s an idiot.

  I only have finite memories, and I don’t want to wear them out.

  I have given my heart a number of strict instructions over the last couple of days.

  Judging from what it is doing now, it has listened to precisely none of them.

  My hands are clammy. My throat is dry. My ears are hot and my cheeks are cold; I’m breathing too fast and blinking too slow. Something has short-wired and every function in my body is in the process of swapping over.

  I scowl to hide the dolphin-like leaping in my chest and then remember I’m wearing penguin pyjamas, which sort of undermines my intended impression of fierceness and sophistication.

  Pretend you don’t care, Harriet. Pretend you never did.

  I clear my throat and try to adopt my most nonchalant expression. “Hey! What are you doing out here on the pavement?”

  Nick puts his hands to his face. “Sniffing my hands, obviously. Do you want to smell them?”

  He gives me a crooked grin and holds out his hands, and I blush all over. That’s what I said the second time I ever met him. He’s laughing at our romance already. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of … respectful grieving period first? A minute’s silence or something?

  My temper flares. “Brilliant,” I snap. “In that case why don’t you just go—” and I promptly run out of imaginative places to send him. So I stick my nose in the air and march past.

  Within seconds he’s sauntering casually next to me. This is the problem with stupidly tall model-boys: they have a totally unfair stride advantage. Especially when one of us is wearing fluffy, teddy-bear slippers and their noses keep getting caught in the pavement.

  I try to pick my feet up a bit, but now I just look like a little child stomping off to bed.

  “Harriet …” Nick says. “Look. There’s stuff I need to say but I couldn’t do it at the flat. Not in front of Poppy. You understand, right? Don’t be angry.”

  I stop walking, and my heart tips.

  I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how guilty he feels, or how he tried to warn me. I don’t want to hear that the heart just ‘wants what it wants’ or that some things aren’t ‘meant to be’.

  I don’t want to hear that he has inexplicably decided he prefers perfect, blonde, supermodel types over freckly, ginger schoolgirls.

  I don’t want to hear that he never meant to hurt me.

  And – most of all – I don’t want to hear that he still cares about me, just not like that.

  As if friendship is the wooden spoon I get for being such a brave champ to give it a shot with somebody like him in the first place.

  I hear Poppy’s voice in my head. Silly. Boring. No big deal.

  And I abruptly change my mind.

  “Please don’t say it,” I say brightly, turning to him with the biggest, breeziest smile I can find.

  Think mature, Harriet. Think adult. Think suave and cool.

  “It’s fine. It’s lovely to see you, but I’d like to put the vagaries of our mutual past behind us.” Nice. Kind of Henry James-esque. “It’s totally …” Like having my insides hacked out with an ice-cream scoop over and over and over again? “Coolioko.”

  Then I flinch slightly. It’s totally coolioko?

  That’s not even a word.

  Nick looks stunned, and I finally realise that Nat knows exactly what she’s talking about. This is the perfect way to handle the situation. I’ve never, ever seen a boy look more confused.

  “Do you mean that?”

  Not even a little bit.

  “Absolutely,” I say, and am rewarded with an even more shocked expression. I stick my hand out. “Friends?”

  Nick stares at me.

  I am so nailing this acting stuff. Take that, Miss Campbell. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit GCSE drama after all.

  Slowly, he takes my hand and frowns. “Are you sure?”

  No.

  “Definitely,” I say, beaming at him and pumping his hand up and down like a weird stranger at one of my parents’ dinner parties.

  Then I start quickly walking towards the building as if my insides aren’t about to fall out in a heap all over the pavement.

  “Right,” Nick says flatly, as he catches me up. “Glad that’s clear.” He doesn’t sound very relieved, given that I’ve just saved him from a really uncomfortable conversation. He should be erecting a plaque to my selflessness and bravery right now. Lighting candles next to my extremely non-confrontational portrait. “Hang on, Harriet,” he says, grabbing my arm just as I reach the door.

  It feels as if somebody’s just stabbed me with a cattle prod. Electricity crackles down to my wrist, up to my shoulder and back again, then somehow spikes into my brain so I can’t think, hear or see.

  I politely tug my arm away.

  Nick’s staring at his hand. Then he blinks and looks back at me. “Umm …” He blinks again then shakes himself. I’m slightly worried I may have actually electrocuted him. “What I mean is … don’t go through the front door. You need to go through the side entrance before Yuka sees you.”

  Oh, sugar cookies. I’d totally forgotten about modelling. Again. Wilbur’s right, I really need to learn how to focus.

  “Sh-she’s that angry with me?”

  “I’ve seen her happier,” Nick says, pulling a face. “We need to get into the ring pronto. That way you might survive until lunchtime.”

  Every romantic thought is swept away in a sudden flood of panic. “Did …” My mouth is paper dry. “Did you just say into the ring?”

  “What did you think we were doing here?”

  I’m going to be sick. I’m actually doing sumo? I didn’t even have the coordination necessary to take part in last term’s Year Eleven Dance. They said I wasn’t ‘physically equipped to move in public’. “We?”

  “I’m doing the shoot too. With you. At a distance, though, I’m just in the background. A boy-shaped prop.”

  Oh my God. I may not know much about ex-boyfriends, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to throw yourself at them. Especially not physically, on a stage.

  “Just me and you?” I know, shock is playing havoc with my grammar.

&nbs
p; Nick shakes his head, and suddenly I can’t breathe very well.

  “Not any more,” he says, opening the stadium door. “That’s what you get for having a lie-in.” He points to the biggest crowd that has ever existed in the history of the world, ever. “No biggy.”

  s my PE teacher will happily testify, I am not a very fast runner. But I still manage to get at least ten metres away before Nick catches me. He has to push me back into the stadium like I’m startled cattle.

  Actually, I’m shaking so hard that if I did contain milk, I’m pretty sure it would now be butter.

  “There was supposed to be nobody here,” Nick explains when I’ve finally stopped waving my arms and legs in every direction, like an upside-down beetle. “They’re here for a sumo match that starts in an hour. If you’d been here on time, it would have been empty.”

  I peer through the swing doors into the arena; there are chairs all the way up to the ceiling, and almost every single one is full. “I can’t do it,” I say almost inaudibly. “Nick, please don’t make me do it.”

  I look desperately at the floor. If I can just find a crowbar I might be able to pull a few floorboards loose and crawl under them. I can live there forever, like a mouse or a rat. Or a really big and totally pathetic woodlouse.

  “Of course you can do it,” he says. “They’re strangers you’ll never see again. Who cares what they think of you?”

  I look at the crowd again and the distant stage, and my stomach folds in half. Nobody can transform that much in six months. This isn’t a few strangers. This is thousands of strangers. Thousands and thousands of strangers. Thousands and thousands and thousands and …

  “Me,” I decide. “I care.”

  “They’re here to watch sumo, Harriet. Not us. They won’t be paying any attention. We get up there, do our thing for half an hour, and then come down again. It’ll be …” He twinkles at me. “Coolioko.”

  I glare at Nick and then sigh in resignation. This is what I signed up for: live catwalks and live television and live octopi and live sumo. Everything in modelling is live. There’s nowhere to hide.