“3,247 seconds.”
We raced past a little train station.
“2,320,” I told him as we ran over a beautiful wooden bridge stretching across a canal, painted red and stuck with long, red flags. “Nick, where on earth are you taking me?”
He laughed and turned round.
“Harriet …”
As he turns, Nick’s face flickers slightly: like a broken projection of an old movie scene. Then it melts, as if I’m passing through it like smoke.
Maybe I’m just not running quickly enough.
So I run faster.
I run until my thighs burn and my eyes blur and the world judders from side to side. Until my breath is coming in high-pitched squeaky noises and all I can hear is thumping under my feet.
Focus, Harriet.
“1,986 seconds.” We jogged breathlessly through grey cement streets as skyscrapers started closing in around us.
“1,653.”
Up some steep stairs. “1,454.”
“Harriet …”
But Nick’s starting to evaporate again.
Now I can’t see the exact shape of his nose, or the precise shade of his eyes, or exactly the position of the mole on his cheek. I can’t remember the angle his mouth turns down in just before he smiles, or the exact tone of his voice when he’s tired.
So I frown and keep running.
Through the park with the roundabout where we spun in circles last summer.
Across the path where we kissed in the rain; down the road where my foot got wet and he gave me his sock.
Past the first postbox, where he posted my first ever letter.
“1,223 seconds,” I said. “I don’t understand where we’re—”
“Harriet …”
Now his chin is gone, the shape of his ears, the colour of his back in the summer, the curl of his lips.
“Harriet.”
I can’t remember what his hand felt like.
“Harriet.”
I can’t remember the expression on his face.
“Harriet.”
And I’m running as fast as I can: as if my legs are the wind-up handle on the old movie projector, and maybe all I have to do is get them moving quickly enough for long enough, and – with a little click – I’ll be able to see him again.
Smiling and waiting for me to catch up.
But it doesn’t work.
Every time Nick turns round, his face flickers and fades a little more.
And as I come to a juddering stop by the second postbox, it finally hits me just how pointless this is. My letters aren’t being read. They’re not being answered. What’s left of Nick is all in my head, and when that goes dark, so will he.
Whether I’m ready or not.
Over the past year, Nick has disappeared so many times.
But this is the first time he’s actually gone.
post the letter anyway.
I’ve run so far and so hard it seems silly not to.
Then I slide breathlessly down the postbox until I’m sitting on the floor with my head in my hands. Nat and Toby don’t want to see me. Rin, Bunty and Wilbur are thousands of miles away.
Nick isn’t here.
And now I have two whole days stretching ahead of me that seem impossibly empty.
Forty-eight hours of homework and documentaries and hiding in stories that aren’t mine again. Two days of rearranging the cans in the kitchen into reverse alphabetical order and trying to wiggle my earlobes when I’m pretty sure I don’t have the necessary muscles.
A full weekend of being the old Harriet Manners.
And something inside me snaps.
I wait until I’ve got my breath back, which – I’ll be honest – takes longer than the NHS says it probably should for a girl of my age and size.
Then I grab my phone out of my pocket.
As fast as I can, I click on every number I’ve carefully collected over the last week at school: Ananya, India, Liv, Chloe, Mia, Raya, Eric, Robert and a plethora of other people whose names I couldn’t quite remember. (They’re A, B, C, D etc. in my phonebook, because it seemed rude to tell them that.)
I grit my teeth together.
Then I write the following text message:
I’m having a big party next Friday and would love you to come! Details on their way. Harriet Manners xx
There are 250 different types of bees in the UK. Over the following two minutes it sounds like they’re all trapped inside my phone.
Buzz.
Yes! I’m in! You’re THE BEST! X
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
No way! You rock! Xx
You legend! Bringing the whole footie team!
Epic! Can I invite the boys’ school? X
Buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz buzz.
And as replies start rolling in by their dozens – even from people I haven’t sent the message to – I put my still vibrating phone back in my pocket and stand up.
I know what it is I have to do.
I’m going to throw the partiest party the world has ever seen. It’ll be huge. Enormous. Prodigious, humongous, jumbo, bumper, almighty. A monstrous, princely, towering and stupendous party to end all parties.
And when it’s over, the old Harriet Manners will be gone forever and she won’t be coming back.
Because this isn’t a game any more or a fun chance to tick things off a list. It isn’t a way to distract me, or keep me busy, or help me forget the people I miss.
The glittering version isn’t just the life I’ve chosen any more.
It’s the only one I have left.
spend the rest of the weekend planning.
With Tabby perched on my lap, I spend three hours in Dad’s home-office: typing, formatting and printing out two hundred individual invitations on different-coloured paper.
Then I hand my sister back for health and safety reasons and spend another four hours carefully cutting all my invitations into cool shapes and drawing really relevant images all over them.
I make a dozen phone calls, compile six different planning lists and do a little shopping.
I even borrow some of the money I made on my Moroccan job from Annabel, on the strict understanding that I pay it all back just as soon as it comes through.
My stepmother is surprisingly on board, actually.
“A party?” she says, lurking in the door of the office as I start enthusiastically laminating all my various bits of paper. Everybody knows that a party isn’t official until all the invites are rendered completely waterproof. You just never know what’s going to get spilt on them, further down the line.
“Yes,” I say firmly, taking a warm piece of plastic out of the machine. “I need one, Annabel.”
Then I add one of the little gold stickers I normally save for myself when I get an A+ on an essay.
There’s a short silence.
“Would you like some help?”
I glance up at Annabel in surprise, and then at the bullet-pointed argument I carefully prepared for the moment I had to fight her on it. I’m starting to wonder if having a baby has relaxed my stepmother a little too much: she seems to have become alarmingly easy-going.
The moment she starts doing yoga, I’m calling the authorities and asking for some kind of brain scan.
“I think I need to do this on my own,” I say gratefully. “But thank you.”
Plus there’s always a risk she’ll make everyone sign some kind of legally binding contract before they get through the door, and that’s just not the look I’m going for.
In the meantime, Dad is bouncing around the house as if all two floors have become a trampoline overnight.
“I love parties. What’s the theme? Can we make it food-related so I can dress as an Italian chef and turn Tabby into a lobster and carry her around in a really big pot?”
I look at Annabel in alarm.
If my father so much as shows his face, my hard-earned new image is going to go up in flames. Especially if he’s wearing a
fake moustache and pretending to boil my sister.
“No, Richard,” Annabel says firmly. “If Harriet needs us we’ll be on hand, but otherwise we’re staying very much out of it.”
Seriously: any minute now she’s going to tell me quinoa is pronounced keen-wa and start extolling the virtues of meditation.
“So unfair,” Dad says for the six billionth time. “Well if you change your mind, I’ve got the costume anyway. Harriet wore it fifteen years ago and made a very charming crustacean. She used to cry when we made her take it off.”
Which – now I’m thinking about it – explains more about my life than I’d like it to.
By the time I get to school on Monday morning, I’m pretty much ready. I don’t want to sound smug, but this is going to be the most awesome party anybody has ever seen in the history of social gatherings.
I’m even getting pretty excited about it myself.
And I’m not the only one.
“No waaaay,” Lydia and her little friends squeak as I hand them invitations, tucked into my latest Giant Bathroom Reader. “For us? We can come? Really? You’re the best, Harriet Manners!”
“Amazing!” Chloe beams at me, studying it carefully. “You’re so adorable!”
“Ace,” Eric and co grin as I hand them all shiny slips of plastic. “This is so cool of you, Retzer.”
(That’s my name now, by the way. Retzer. I sound like something you take when you’ve got a funny tummy.)
Liv takes one look at the invitation and immediately starts hyperventilating.
“Look! LooklooklookIcan’tbelieveitwhatamIgoingtowearthisisamazingI’mjusttotallygoingto—”
“Olivia,” India snaps, rolling her eyes. “Calm down or you’re going to pop something.”
“It’s just the best idea ever, Ret,” Ananya says, giving me a huge hug. “Is everyone coming? Will I know them all?”
I beam at her. “Hopefully! They all texted back straight away so it looks like it!”
Ananya and Liv both squeak.
“I’m going to take loads of photos,” Liv says, kissing my invite. “This is so exciting!”
Six hours of burning my fingertips on melting plastic were totally worth it.
Everyone loves them. So much so, even I am a little surprised. The last time I saw my peers this excited about anything, we were six and Father Christmas took an impromptu assembly with three real-life reindeer.
I’m handing out invitations in form time and biology, maths and physics and chemistry. I stand outside French and English and history, even though I don’t take those classes. I do the rounds in the dining room at lunch, and construct a little booth in the common room at breaktimes.
The most important thing is I don’t leave anybody out.
Even if that means giving one to Alexa.
Then – slightly less courageously, because she’s still staring at me in silence – running away again.
Finally, when almost all my bits of laminated plastic are gone, I head to Toby’s form room. Despite still being cross with him, I’m kind of hoping he’ll get over it eventually. Hopefully by Friday evening: I spent extra time drawing on his invitation, and used all of my very best stickers.
“Thank you for this, Harriet Manners,” Toby says rigidly as I jump out from behind the door and thrust it in his face before he can spot me and run away again. Except he’s still not meeting my eyes and it’s impossible not to notice. “I’ll need to check first. I’m afraid I don’t think I’ll be allowed.”
I nod sadly.
Then I glare daggers at Jasper from across the hallway until he blinks and looks away again.
By Wednesday morning, I can’t move a single step down a school corridor without being high-fived, hugged, kissed and affectionately pretend-punched on the top of my arms.
“Hey, Ret!” “Yo, Retty!” “Retzer! How’s it going?” “Looking coooool today, Retty-girl!”
And as the lower school starts to slowly fill up with sequins and bright scarves and red leather satchels, I realise in bewilderment that maybe I was right.
Maybe it really is this easy.
Because as I smile confidently and wave bravely – as I laugh riskily and high-five people carelessly back – it occurs to me that maybe I’ve finally found my Inner Star.
And it wasn’t as far away as I thought.
y Thursday afternoon, Harriet’s party is the only thing anyone can talk about.
My entire biology class has been moved outside to the netball courts while we wait for the two other classes to join us, and it’s raining hard. We’re all standing in the cold: huddled and shivering under little umbrellas.
But nobody seems to have even noticed.
Everyone is using the extra time to animatedly discuss their favourite parties over the years. Apparently there have been a plethora of imaginative themes, ranging from 80s Lycra to toga to Halloween, and they’ve all had varying degrees of success.
Which I wouldn’t know, obviously, because I wasn’t invited to any of them. I’m getting as involved as I can, but apparently Tudor regalia isn’t as cool as I thought it was, and neither is ‘Victorian Orphan’. ‘General home appliances’ isn’t cutting it either.
“But honestly, Ret,” Chloe says as we stand in a little group of girls. “I think your one on Friday is going to be better than all of them.”
“It’s such a cool idea. What made you think of it?”
I consider this carefully. “It’s just nice to share the things you love with other people, you know?”
“Totally. Oh my God, that is so true.”
“It’s so kind of you to share them with us.”
“Girls,” Mr Collins says as the second sixth form biology class walks out of the building to join us in the rain, “I’ve asked you to stand in silence, please.”
“So what should we wear? Something shiny, right?”
“The last party I went to I had this awesome bee costume with adorable antennas that wobbled when I danced.”
Huh. I didn’t know Attractive Animals was a socially acceptable dress theme.
In fact, I thought it was kind of illegal.
“Oooh,” I interject excitedly. “Research shows that bees use their right antenna to determine whether another bee is friend or foe. Did you use that to flirt with boys?”
They all stare at me for a few seconds, and then burst into loud laughter.
I wasn’t joking at all – I thought it would make an excellent icebreaker – but I can now feel myself puffing up so hard I may need to hold on to the school fence to stop me floating away.
I love being so unexpectedly funny.
“Girls,” Mr Collins says again, frowning, “what did I just say? Am I talking to myself? Can anyone actually hear me?”
“Or,” I continue, thinking hard, “a honey bee uses its dance to communicate information about the location of food. You could have choreographed one around the snack table!”
They laugh even harder. “Hilarious!”
“Or you could have worn a tiara and acted like a Queen Bee and—”
“Girls,” Mr Collins sighs, trundling over to us. He has a large, round chest, a rolling gait and has always reminded me slightly of a disconcerted badger. “What is this commotion?”
I look at the sniggering group and suddenly feel slightly light-headed. “Sorry, sir,” I say, winking at them, “we didn’t see you bee-hind us.”
They giggle harder and I beam.
“Did you not?” Mr Collins frowns. “I’m sure you were facing this way.”
“Bee serious, sir,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows. “That’s just un-bee-lievable.”
The girls are now howling in hysterics.
Mr Collins is starting to look annoyed, but I’m far too giddy to stop now. I want more. More laughter. More approval. I knew my fondness for clever puns would come i
n handy one day.
“In fact, have you heard the Beatles song, Let It Bee, sir? It’s really bee-eautiful. It really helps us bee-have.”
Something in Mr Collins’ face suddenly twitches.
“Right,” he snaps, pointing to the middle of the playground. “I’ve had enough. Get over there, Harriet. Now.”
I blink. “But—”
“This is because I have honey sandwiches every day, isn’t it? They’re simple to make and easy to pack and I will not be mocked for my eating habits by a sixteen-year-old. Frankly, I don’t know what’s come over you this year, young lady. Mr Harper and Miss Lloyd say you’ve been causing trouble in their classes too.”
And – just like that – geeky Harriet Manners reappears again with a pop.
I feel a bit sick.
Now the teachers don’t like me? Why is it so impossible to keep everybody happy?
“Oh no, sir,” I say desperately, cheeks flushing, “we weren’t laughing at you. We were just talking about this party I’m going to be—”
That does it.
“I SAID GET IN THE MIDDLE, HARRIET,” he yells flatly. “RIGHT THIS SECOND.”
I glance to the side, but the girls now have totally straight faces: my hilariousness has evaporated.
Swallowing, I put my head down.
Then I start shuffling awkwardly through the rain towards the yellow circle drawn in the middle of the netball court. Somewhat ironically, centre is a position nobody would ever give me voluntarily in a million years.
Then I stand in silence and wait.
It’s really pouring now, and I’m getting soggier by the second. Within a minute, my hair’s plastered to my head, water is running down my cheeks and dripping off the end of my nose, and my leather pumps are making little squelchy sounds every time I move.
Of all the days I picked to be accidentally naughty, I could have at least chosen one with slightly better weather.
Slowly, Mrs Harris and the final biology class join the crowd at the edge of the court: a total of thirty-three freezing students.
Every single one of whom is staring directly at me.