Picture Perfect (Geek Girl, Book 3)

  “We didn’t lie,” Annabel explains gently. “We just … didn’t totally elucidate the facts accurately.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not legally, it isn’t.” She sighs. “Sweetheart, I thought you understood that. We can’t afford the rent in New York.”

  I knew there was no way a normal family could live in Manhattan. Somebody needs to sue every American sitcom ever made.

  “But what am I supposed to do for six months in Greenway?”

  “Harriet,” Dad says, “Greenway has almost exactly the same population as our hometown in England. We haven’t moved you to Outer Mongolia.”

  “I wish you had. They have two-humped indigenous Bactrian camels there.”

  Dad and Annabel laugh, even though I’m being totally serious. A thirsty camel can drink thirty gallons of water in thirteen minutes. That would at least be something to watch.

  “Give us a chance?” Dad says softly. “I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of stuff to do here. I think I saw a bowling alley around the corner.”

  I scowl at him furiously.

  “Please?” Annabel says. “For us?”

  I glare at them, and quickly run through the alternatives in my head.

  It doesn’t look promising. There aren’t a lot of options available for a penniless fifteen-year-old on the wrong side of the world, with nothing but a satchel and a guidebook to her name.

  I’m resourceful but I’m not Pocahontas.

  “Fine,” I say in a small voice. “I’ll try.”

  “Thank you,” Annabel says, kissing the top of my head. “We really appreciate how mature you’re being, sweetheart.”

  “There’s a door on the front porch you can give a good slam, if you want.”

  I glare at Dad.

  “Too soon?” he adds.

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  “You know what?” Annabel says as she starts clambering back out of the bush. “I think you’re going to be surprised, Harriet. There’s always something interesting to be found if you just look hard enough.”

  spend the next five days looking very hard indeed.

  Here’s what I discover:

  That’s it.

  As Dad heads out at the crack of dawn to his new job in the city, Annabel slowly transfers all the mess and chaos of our old house into our new house. And I put Tabitha into her buggy (or ‘stroller’) and venture into the local neighbourhood, asking questions and looking for somebody to be New Best Friends with.

  It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.

  “Oh my,” the ancient hairdresser says on the third day when I’ve desperately gone in for a ‘wash and dry’, even though I obviously know how to wash and dry my own hair. She bends down to peer into the buggy. “What a cutie. How old is she?”

  “Eight weeks exactly.”

  The hairdresser prods one of Tabby’s fat cheeks. “She is the spitting image of you, honey.”

  “I know,” I say proudly. “Did you know that a baby has 10,000 taste buds all over its mouth, not just on its tongue?”

  There’s a pause, and then the hairdresser looks me up and down. “And how old are you, sugar?” she says. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Fifteen,” I say even more proudly. “Nearly sixteen, though. My birthday’s this week.”

  “Oh honey,” she says, and that’s the conversation over.

  On the fourth day, I venture into MANDYS.

  “Hello,” I say to the girl behind the counter. She looks a tiny bit older than me, but I like her rabbit earrings. “Did you know you’re missing an apostrophe?”

  She stares at me blankly. “What?”

  “An apostrophe.” I point at the sign. “This shop belongs to Mandy, right? So it’s possessive. It should be MANDY-apostrophe-S.” I think about it. “Unless all of your chickens are called Mandy, in which case it’s grammatically accurate.”

  “I don’t know what the chickens are called,” she says flatly. “Oh, I’ve got one of them,” she adds, pointing at Tabitha as she hands me a greasy paper bag.

  I beam at her.

  “They’re nice, aren’t they?” I say, poking my head over so I can stare fondly at Tabitha’s sleeping face.

  “Meh,” the girl says, shrugging. “Bit of a mistake, if you ask me. I’d rather be out partying.”

  I couldn’t agree less, but I nod anyway.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “But you can always just leave them at home, right?”

  Her eyes widen.

  I leave my name and email address on a piece of paper and ask her to write to me, but she doesn’t.

  In five days, Tabitha and I leave no stone unturned.

  We say hello to the man at the car-repair garage. We say hello to his dog. We say hello to the old man weeding his garden. We go to the supermarket five times and lurk in the cereal aisle, saying hello to shoppers and reading all the bright boxes that say things like FROOT LOOPZ and HONEY SMACKZ and SMORZ. None of which look like something Annabel is going to let me eat first thing in the morning.

  We sit on the side of the road and wait for somebody to ride past on a bike, and then we wave at them. We even consider going into the church, and then change our minds because they’ve altered their sign to say:

  DON’T LET WORRIES KILL YOU.

  LET THE CHURCH HELP.

  Frankly, that’s a little too ambiguous for my liking.

  Finally, on the fifth day, we walk past a tiny park with a roundabout, three swings and a large slide. I can hear laughter from around the corner.

  “Oh no,” somebody shouts. “No! She didn’t!”

  “She so did! She was all over him!”

  “That’s gross. Like, literally gross. I could be sick on the floor, that’s how gross it is.”

  I poke my head around the bush hopefully, and there are six girls sitting on the slide: squidged into the bottom.

  They appear to be my age exactly.

  So I take a deep, calm breath, straighten my shoulders and start pushing the buggy towards them.

  “Right, Tabitha,” I say, pausing to pull the blanket down so they can see her sweet face. “Get your cutest charms ready. It’s time for your big sister to make some new friends.”

  fter a short deliberation, I opt for, “Heya.”

  I’ve seen quite a few American films, and this seems to be the most international greeting available.

  Then I wait.

  “Heya,” I say a little more loudly as they continue talking, pushing the buggy a bit closer.

  Still nothing.

  “HEY!” I shout, and – one by one – the girls turn around and stare at me.

  “Hey, yourself,” one of them says. “Who the hell are you?”

  I clear my throat.

  ‘Who the hell are you’ obviously means something totally different in America. I’m not going to let a little cultural barrier get between me and an entire group of ready-made non-kissing soulmates.

  “I’m Harriet Manners,” I say brightly. “This is Tabitha.” I point downwards. “We’ve just moved here from England. It’s very nice to meet you all.”

  “Do you go to Greenway High?”

  “No-ooo,” I admit. “I study at home.”

  “Right.” The girl with the black hair turns back to the group. “So, what’s he like? I mean, is he like super ugly, or just a bit ugly?”

  “Dude, he’s banged-up.”

  “Oh no,” I say. “Who did that to him? Is he OK? Violence is so horrible, isn’t it?”

  There’s another silence, and then they all turn to face me again.

  “Do you want to tell her, or shall I?”

  I lean forward hopefully. “Tell me what?”

  “It’s cool that you’re new and everything, but we’re TASKEB: Taylor, Amanda, Shelby, Kelly, Emma and Brittany. We don’t have room for more.”

  “But …” I blink. “If you put an H in there you could be TASHKEB. That sounds even better.”

  One of them laughs,
and I flinch.

  I know that laugh. It’s the only thing that translates perfectly around the world without the need for a dictionary.

  “And no offence,” one of them adds, “but we definitely don’t need no teenage baby mama.”

  What?

  “N-no,” I stammer, face starting to flush furiously. “I think there’s been some kind of mis—”

  “Are you dumb or something, dork?” the biggest one snaps. “We said go away.”

  I blink at them a few times while I struggle for a witty response. I’m 5,000 miles away from home. How do they know I’m an idiot already?

  “Actually,” I say, lifting my chin as high as I can get it. “Dumb people can hear perfectly well. I think you mean deaf.”

  Yeah, I think, flushing even harder. That’ll do it.

  And I push my sister back out of the playground, with the girls still laughing behind me.

  had assumed my social inadequacies were quite localised, but apparently they are perfectly capable of crossing the Atlantic unscathed.

  It would be quite impressive if it weren’t so incredibly depressing. I’ve completely lost the will to translate anything into American ever again.

  “Hello, girls,” Annabel says as Tabitha and I struggle back into the house. “Did you have fun?”

  I look at Tabitha, and her chin immediately crumples and starts wobbling.

  We are so on the same page.

  Sadly, only one of us is allowed to act like a baby.

  “It was OK,” I lie, handing Tabitha back and sitting on a kitchen chair next to her. “I ate a lot of chicken that may or may not have been called Mandy.”

  “What a horrible name for a chicken. I’d have gone with Gertrude, or maybe Clementine.”

  Then Annabel lifts Tabitha up and gives her a little kiss on the cheek. “So,” she adds with a grin, “I have good news, and I have bad news. Which one do you want first?”

  “Bad news, please,” I say, kicking the table leg gently. “Seventy-five per cent of people go for bad news first, because then you can end on a high note.”

  Annabel nods. “Eminently sensible. In which case, your tutor is about to arrive. I’m afraid it’s time to get back to studying.”

  My eyes widen, and I jump out of my seat.

  Does my stepmother know me at all? My Latin-speaking, singing and potentially magical governess – sorry, home tutor – is the sole ray of illumination in an otherwise lightless existence.

  “Brilliant,” I cry, relief flooding through me. “So how good is the good news? Button-pressing interactive exhibition good, or just normal-exhibition good?”

  “Button pressing,” Annabel says, thrusting a small envelope at me. “Here.”

  I stare at it, and then squeak so loudly that Tabitha lets out a small, surprised burp.

  “A new American SIM card,” Annabel confirms as I leap up and start kissing it frantically. “And the Wi-Fi’s up and running.”

  FROM: Hugo Manners

  TO: Harriet Manners

  Re: My New Abode

  Dear Harriet,

  Can you believe how quickly I’ve learnt to type? I am obviously a dog of extraordinary abilities, although I also ate Toby’s father’s Sunday pork chop by dragging it off the kitchen counter so I am currently a genius in disgrace.

  As for Toby, he is having a wonderful time preparing for sixth form. He is looking forward to learning all kinds of things about quarks and leptons. And will try not to correct Mr Kemp too much, as apparently he doesn’t like it.

  I like my new temporary owner very much, by the way, especially as he doesn’t mind when I lick his face in the morning.

  Barks,

  Hugo Manners and Toby Pilgrim

  FROM: Natalie Grey

  TO: Harriet Manners

  Re: OH MY GOD

  College is AMAZING. I went to the pre-term opening day and they told us we’re gonna make our own dresses! Mine’s going to be a blue one with frills around the bottom, I think.

  I met a few nice girls who will be in my class, and I think you’d really like Jessica. She has green eyes and freckles and hair exactly the same colour as yours. We’re going for coffee tomorrow.

  How’s NEW YORK? I’ve attached a celebrity map so you can sit outside their houses. TAKE PHOTOS.

  Love you.

  NxOxOxOxOxOxOx

  FROM: Nick Hidaka

  TO: Harriet Manners

  I’m here!! Where are you?

  LBxx

  I read Nat’s email three times – who the sugar cookies is Jessica, and why is she drinking my coffee? – and I write:

  FROM: Harriet Manners

  TO: Natalie Grey

  It’s GREAT! Will update later! Sooooooo busy exploring New York right now!

  xx

  FROM: Harriet Manners

  TO: Toby Pilgrim

  WHAT IS A LEPTON?! AND WHAT IS A QUARK?!

  FROM: Harriet Manners

  TO: Nick Hidaka

  Long story! Ring me ASAP!! xx

  I have literally never used so many forced exclamation marks in such a short space of time in my entire life.

  I’m exhausted just looking at them.

  “Harriet?” Annabel calls up the stairs as I pop my American number at the bottom and press SEND. “Miss Hall would like to meet you.”

  ow, I know quite a lot about governesses.

  Thanks to Victorian literature and films on TV at Christmas, I have deduced that they are either pretty, warm and exuberant – Mary Poppins, Maria from The Sound of Music and Anna from The King and I – or small, plain and unappreciated, like Jane Eyre or Agnes Grey.

  I’m also aware that they tend to like running off with the man of the house, but once they’ve met Dad I don’t think that’ll be a problem.

  I bounce down the stairs and then impulsively bounce outside and grab a wild yellow flower growing next to the front door. Then I bounce through the hallway and into the living room.

  Where I promptly stop bouncing.

  My new governess is neither pretty nor small, meek nor potentially magical, shy nor about to burst into song at any given moment. She doesn’t have a lamp in her handbag, or the malnourished gaze of a grown-up orphan with trust issues.

  The woman standing in front of me is about six-foot two, with enormous shoulders and calves wider than my thighs. She’s wearing khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and is standing bolt upright, staring at me with the steady, intense gaze of somebody who knows how to punch a hole through a door.

  “Uh,” I say, suddenly nervous. I thought we’d be holding hands and swinging in circles by now, reciting Latin verbs. “Hello. I’m Harriet Manners. This is for you. It’s a Rudbeckia Hirta, otherwise known as a Black-Eyed Susan.”

  Let’s just say I had a lot of time on my hands last night and somebody left a local fauna and flora book in my bedroom.

  “How nice,” she says, grabbing the flower in her enormous hand and totally crushing it.

  “Miss Hall comes with glowing references and the most incredible CV I’ve ever seen,” Annabel says. “Harvard, Cambridge, a stint in Switzerland, the whole works.”

  My eyes widen.

  Clearly I judged her far too quickly, like a magazine cover. But – on the other hand – isn’t that kind of what they’re there for?

  “Oooh,” I say in excitement. “Which Cambridge college did you go to? I can’t decide whether I want to go to Magdalene, like CS Lewis, or Trinity Hall, like Stephen Hawking. But then St John’s has the most beautiful library and—”

  “Harry,” Miss Hall interrupts. “I don’t like discussing my background with students. It creates a false level of intimacy and impedes the absorption of knowledge.”

  I blink. Harry?

  “It’s Harriet,” I say as assertively as I can.

  “I shall call you Harry,” Miss Hall says sharply. “It saves time. Now,” she adds, “I think we should start straight away.” She looks at Annabel. “I prefer not to have parents around for
the education of my students. They can be a distracting influence.”

  “Right,” Annabel says. “Can I get you a cup of tea, or a biscuit, or a—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” my governess says, pulling a backpack on to both shoulders. “I prefer to keep the mind clear to work at full capacity.”

  I exchange a delighted glance with Annabel. At this rate, I’m going to pass my A levels before Christmas.

  “Excellent,” Annabel concurs. “In that case, I’ll leave you to get on with it.” She kisses Tabitha’s head. “One of us appears to have pooped ourselves again and it’s not me.” She winks at me and closes the living-room door quietly behind her.

  hey say that fiction is the closest we ever get to magic.

  Forget top hats and rabbits: open a book, and an entire world will pop out. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s full of dragons or Victorian orphans or wizards, you are immediately somewhere else and someone else.

  Transported.

  It’s not like that with textbooks.

  Open a physics A-level book or a biology syllabus and nothing will really happen. Read the periodic table, and you’ll stay very much you, and very much in the same place.

  But if stories are like magical top hats, textbooks are the wands that change everything. Because the more you know and the more you learn, the more real life opens up.

  Trees aren’t just green any more: they’re full of cells that contain the pigment chlorophyll that only uses the blue and red wavelengths of light.

  A strawberry isn’t a berry, but bananas and watermelons are.

  Chalk isn’t just chalk, it’s trillions of microscopic skeleton fossils of plankton.

  Fact by fact, step by step, the world unfolds, like one of the little origami flowers Rin used to make me, except the other way round.

  And you realise everything is magic.

  Without a word, I run to the corner of the room and pull out my special cardboard box. In it are piles and piles of brand-new textbooks. Coated in plastic, with shiny and unbroken spines. Each with hundreds of bright white pages filled with countless diagrams and facts, begging to be absorbed and annotated.