Picture Perfect (Geek Girl, Book 3)

  “I don’t need to,” he said, grinning. “I just know you pretty well, Harriet Manners.”

  “Well, yes then,” I said, trying to stick my nose in the air. “Am I your girlfriend, diary official?”

  “Yes,” Nick said, wrapping his arm around me and pulling me into his jumper. “Of course you are.”

  “In pen?”

  “Harriet,” he laughed, and suddenly my feet didn’t feel cold any more. “You can write it in permanent marker if you like.”

  So I did.

  hey say that life is just a blank chain, and precious moments are the beads we hang off it to make it beautiful.

  As I hobble down the front steps of Gotham Hall clutching my satchel against me, I can suddenly see them all, glittering and flashing in front of me.

  I see Nick under the table at The Clothes Show Live in Birmingham, offering me chewing gum. I see him on the pavement outside Infinity Models when I asked if he wanted to sniff my hands. I see him leaning against the lamp-post in the snow in Russia, and holding my hand when I was scared.

  I see our first kiss, in the darkness of a television studio.

  I see him leaning against a doorway in Tokyo.

  I see him sitting on the steps outside a Sumo hall, and standing on the stage opposite me with a little curl sticking up like a duck tail. I see him holding me steady in the water of Lake Fuji, surrounded by stars.

  I see him sitting down on the pavement next to me in Shibuya; his nose twitching as I shouted and made little T-Rex claws. I see him on a roundabout, spinning us round in circles. I see him racing me to a postbox, and writing something silly just to make me laugh.

  I see him making me part of his life, and winking at me on a catwalk.

  I see him ringing me from the back of an elephant and travelling two hours with sixteen purple balloons and sixteen cupcakes just to see me on my birthday.

  I see him on Brooklyn Bridge, with New York lit up behind him: angry because he was worried about me.

  I see him always knowing who I am without me ever having to tell him.

  Being there, without me ever having to ask him.

  And as the bright beads start slipping away, one by one, I suddenly realise I don’t need the fairy-tale romance. I don’t need the big gestures; I don’t need to be shown the heavens or flowers and horse-drawn carriages and boat rides at sunset. I don’t need everything to be perfect. For me, it already was.

  And I don’t need Nick to say he loves me.

  Because I already know.

  Apparently we each shed a million skin cells every day, and I must be losing mine all at once because I feel like I’m suddenly falling apart.

  I ignore the protesting seams of my horrible dress and sit on the red-carpeted steps of Gotham Hall. Then I pull my phone out of my satchel. There are fourteen missed phone calls from Nat.

  I stare at them, then curl myself into a tight ball.

  If there was any kind of table out here, I would be hiding underneath it within four seconds.

  The etymology of the word friend comes from the Proto-Germanic word frijand, which means to love. Love and friendship: friendship and love. They come from the same place.

  I’ve just been too blinkered to see it.

  Oh God.

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  Of all the messes I’ve ever got myself into, this is by far the worst. It’s elephantine. Whopping. Colossal. Gargantuan.

  Whatever word you want to pick that means:

  Really, really horribly huge.

  And then – as if by magic – the night manages to get just that tiny bit worse.

  “Harriet?” a familiar voice says, and I lift my head. “Would you like to explain what the hell is going on?”

  And there, standing on the red-carpeted pavement of New York City, is my father.

  t’s funny how sometimes you can’t see yourself until somebody else does it for you.

  As Dad stares at me with his arms crossed, I suddenly see me.

  And I mean really, really see me.

  I’m supposed to be curled up in my bedroom in my penguin pyjamas, reading an interesting book about the Tudors and making notes.

  I’m supposed to be listening to the BBC World Service and looking up facts about animals on the internet and emailing my friends witty anecdotes about them that they’ll pretend to be interested in. I’m supposed to be making lists and plans and organising everything in my life down to the minutest detail.

  I’m supposed to be making up choreographed dances with my Best Friend and forcing my family to watch them, even if they don’t want to.

  I’m supposed to be me.

  Instead, I’m curled up on some red-carpeted steps outside a party in the centre of Manhattan on my own at nearly 10pm in a dress that’s so uncomfortable I can’t breathe properly.

  On my feet are horrible red shoes that I can’t walk in and that look like life-size dead crustaceans. I’m shivering, thick orange make-up is smeared all over my face, and one of my fake eyelashes has unpeeled and is sticking out from my eyelid like a tiny stegosaurus spine.

  I’ve been kissed by a boy who isn’t my boyfriend, schmoozed at a party I didn’t want to go to and run away from home, repeatedly. I’ve called people babe and taken money that isn’t mine and wasted it. In one way or another – by omission or statement – I’ve lied to everyone: to my parents, to Nick, to Nat.

  I can see why my dad doesn’t look exactly proud of me at this precise moment.

  I’m not really either.

  “I’m going to ask again,” Dad says, except I’m surprised I can even understand him, his jaw is clenched so tightly together. “I just got a call from Wilbur, asking me to get here as soon as I could. As far as I knew, you were in your bed at home. Grounded. What do you think you are playing at, young lady?”

  Did my dad just Young Lady me?

  He’s never Young Ladied me before in his entire life.

  “Dad,” I say automatically, wiping my hand across my face, “it isn’t what it looks li—”

  Then I stop.

  Because I’m kind of done with things not being what they look like. Right now, I just want them to be exactly as they are.

  “Oh, Dad,” I say, putting my head in my arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so so so so so sorry.”

  And I burst straight into tears.

  y dad has his arms round me before I even reach my second wail. I push my face against his suit shoulder pad the way I used to when I was little.

  And I cry.

  I cry and cry until there’s nothing left.

  I cry until my chest hurts and my nose dribbles and Wilbur’s gold scarf gets completely soggy. I cry until it’s all out: every bit of the last few weeks, yanked out like a splinter.

  And – in between sobs – I tell Dad everything, right from the beginning.

  I tell him about Alexa and my stolen diary. I tell him about Nat and Toby, and how scared I am of being forgotten by them. I tell him about Miss Hall and how much she hates me and how stupid I am, and about running away – three times – and modelling and stealing the kitty money and spending it on shoes that I hate. I tell him about Kenderall and Caleb and Fleur.

  I tell him about Nick.

  Then, when there’s nothing left to tell him, I look up anxiously and wipe my eyes.

  “You’re a silly sausage, you know that?” Dad says, kissing the top of my head.

  I can think of less nice ways to put it.

  “Yes,” I agree in a tiny voice. “I am unfortunately the silliest of all sausages.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell us about this in the first place?”

  “Because …” I swallow and my chin starts wobbling again. “Because I’m sixteen and I want to be a grown-up.”

  Those last seven words come out as a series of high-pitched squeaks, which makes them sound even more ridiculous than they already are.

  Unless I’m a grown-up hamster.

  Dad laughs. “Sweetheart, you could b
e a hundred and sixteen and I’ll still be your dad. You will always be able to tell me when you’re unhappy.”

  I sniffle slightly. “You’re not Noah, Dad. Apparently he lived to 950 years old, but I think you might be being a little optimistic.”

  “I’m going to start pilates any day now, Harriet. Or yoga. Who knows how long I’ll be around for?”

  Apparently humans share fifty per cent of their DNA with bananas. My father is a constant reminder of that.

  “None of this stuff means anything, you know that, right? All of this –” Dad waves his hand around at the lights, the harp music, the golden doors behind us, the red carpet beneath us – “it’s just glitter.”

  “I know. I guess I just … forgot for a bit.”

  “What counts isn’t here.” Dad waves his arm around again. “It’s not there.” He points at my florid dress and orange face. “It’s not on a modelling shoot in front of cameras or a party. It’s in here.” He taps hard on his chest. “With the people who love you.”

  I watch his hand wave around a few more times for no apparent reason.

  “Dad, are you surreptitiously trying to use up Powers while we have a father-daughter heart to heart?”

  “No,” he says indignantly. “But if I did, tonight would’ve used about –” he presses the little button and green numbers flash up – “452. I was very angry when I walked here. I did a lot of arm swinging.”

  I look at my father, and realise I haven’t seen him in days. In fact, I’ve barely seen him since we got to America. And neither has Annabel.

  “Where were you tonight, Dad?”

  “Another client party. There was this big orchestra, and these little lights, and this really awesome cocktail that had a little umbrella in it and they gave me a new silk tie and …”

  He stops.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he adds. “I’ve done it too, haven’t I?”

  “Great minds,” I say, smiling sadly. “Or, you know, exactly the opposite.”

  We both sit in silence.

  I think about how tired Annabel looks all the time. How far away from home she is. How she gave up a job she loved to wipe up baby sick in a lonely house on her own while Dad and I gallivant around New York.

  I’d never even considered that of everyone in our family, this move was the hardest on her.

  And neither – judging by the look on his face – has Dad.

  “I think we should go back home,” he says, standing up and putting his jacket around my shoulders. “Today’s rations of Manners idiocy are all used up.”

  I nod. I could not agree more. “I need to go somewhere first. Is that OK?”

  My father tucks me under his arm and starts walking me back down the pavement, and for the first time New York doesn’t feel too big.

  It feels so small I could put it in my pocket.

  “We can go anywhere you want, sweetheart.”

  There’s a silence, and then I put my head on his shoulder.

  “Dad … I think … I just wanted to be somebody. Just for a little while. Does that make sense?”

  “And that’s why you’re a silly sausage, Harriet,” Dad says, scruffing up my hair. “Because you already are.”

  rooklyn Bridge looks precisely the same as it did a week ago, with one noticeable exception.

  This time I’m on my own.

  Dad gives me a hug and then waits with my satchel at the edge of the bridge while I start walking slowly across.

  As I get closer, I can see Nick exactly where I knew he’d be: sitting in the shadow of the tower with his head against the wall. I can see the edges of his curls, lit up in the lamplight. He’s wearing his army jacket: the one with pockets so big they fit both our hands at once. There’s shadow across his face, but I can still see the little mole on his cheek and the way his cheekbones curve inwards just by his ears.

  All I have to do is tell the truth.

  I just have to pull it out in exactly the right way, so it doesn’t get all tangled up and confused.

  It shouldn’t be this hard.

  “Hey,” Nick says quietly as I get close enough to see a tiny early autumn leaf stuck to his coat.

  OK: he just stole my opening line. That was pretty much all I had.

  “Hey,” I swallow nervously, pulling Dad’s jacket a little tighter around me. Never mind roller coasters. Never mind Slingshot. I have never in my life been this scared. “Nick, I …”

  “I’m sorry, Harriet.”

  I stare at him. “What?” Then I flush. “I mean, pardon?”

  “I’m sorry.” Nick stands up slowly and puts his hands in his pockets. “I wasn’t here, Harriet. I should have been here.”

  My stomach goes cold.

  Is Nick trying to say that if he’s not directly in front of me, all of the time, I’ll just let any boy start kissing me who is? That is not what I intend to do.

  “No,” I say desperately. “He was a friend, and Kenderall told me if you thought I was with another boy then …”

  I stop and feel my cheeks glowing red under my half-cried-off make-up.

  You’d be so jealous and angry you’d like me more.

  It sounds so ridiculous I can’t even finish the sentence. I’ve spent twelve years of my life reading books, and when has that ever worked for anyone?

  I mean, just look what happened in Othello.

  Everybody ended up dead.

  “Harriet,” Nick says calmly, and he takes a couple of steps towards me. “I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “I know all of it: the texts, the weird silences. I worked it out. And I also know Caleb.”

  I stare at him. “You know Cal?”

  “Well, I know his type. And I guessed what was going on when I read back your weird message again – it just wasn’t you. So I cancelled my flight and came straight back to Manhattan.”

  “So …” My brain is spinning in slow circles, like the ballerina on top of a music box. “Are you saying you know I didn’t want to kiss him? Because I didn’t, Nick. I never would. It was horrible, and I got all caught up in the blue chiffon, and he smells of oranges and …”

  Nick smiles. “Why would you? The boy smells of oranges. That’s just weird.”

  They said in the planetarium that we are all made of stars: that every atom in us came from a sun exploding.

  Now I can feel it.

  My whole body is suddenly full of a million lights, burning and sparking and firing inside me.

  Without another word, I throw myself against Nick’s chest and bury my nose into his coat before he can even open his arms.

  My boyfriend.

  My perfect, non-perfect, green-smelling boyfriend.

  I think I’ve just crushed one of his elbows. It made a weird clicking sound.

  “So we’re OK?” I say, pushing myself into him a bit harder regardless. “We can go back to normal?”

  Everything’s going to be exactly as it was, except better.

  There won’t be lists and plans; there won’t be expectations of boat rides in Central Park, or an elevator up the Empire State Building, or flowers and chocolates. I won’t try and make us jump in and out of fountains in a romantic fashion, or kiss in front of firework displays, timed to perfection.

  I’ll just let us be us.

  The way we always have been.

  “Ooh,” I say in excitement. “There’s an exhibition on Italian Futurism and Reconstructing the Universe at the Guggenheim! Maybe we can go, and stand in front of the paintings and kiss and—”

  “Harriet, I need to talk to you.”

  I smile and snuggle in even more.

  “I know you do,” I say happily. “About anything. Anything at all.”

  There’s a silence.

  A silence so long you could climb it with a pickaxe and a rope, should you be interested in climbing up silences.

  And suddenly I realise that Nick’s arms aren’t wrapped around me. He hasn’t grinned since I got here. There hasn
’t been a laugh, or a twinkle or a joke.

  He hasn’t even tried to kiss me.

  I’ve been so busy seeing the romantic reunion I wanted, I didn’t even notice.

  Again.

  “R-right?” I prompt nervously.

  “No,” Nick says, pulling back slightly. “This time I really need to talk to you.”

  Then I look up and see his face.

  It’s as if somebody is trying to pull it apart from the inside. As if it’s taking every bit of energy he has to keep himself in one piece. And, one by one, the stars inside me start flickering and switching off.

  I don’t think I’ll need to visit the Guggenheim.

  My universe is going to be reconstructed much sooner than I thought.

  cientists say that every year, ninety-eight per cent of the atoms in our body are replaced.

  In the following five seconds, mine are all exchanged in one go.

  And as the atoms in my face shift and change until they’re unrecognisable, all I can think is:

  This isn’t how things are supposed to end.

  I know stories, and I know romance, but this isn’t how mine is supposed to end at all.

  “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you,” I say, sounding strangely calm. Strangely quiet.

  Strangely like somebody else.

  There’s another pause, and then Nick sits down heavily on the path. “Do you know why this is my favourite place in New York, Harriet?”

  I look at the top of his curly head for a few seconds, and then sit down next to him. “Because it can bear the weight of quite a few elephants?”

  Nick smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “A little bit. But mostly it’s because it’s the only part of this entire city that feels like me. I’m always nowhere. Between two places. Seeing everything from a distance. Never part of it.”

  I stare at the profile of a face I know better than my own. I stare at the ski-slope curve of his nose, and the dark length of his eyelashes, and the little line next to his mouth that shouldn’t be there yet.