Picture Perfect (37 page)

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 be 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?”