Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(64)

“I still can’t believe you cut her hair off.”

“I know. What was I thinking?”

“Where did you even get the scissors?”

“The art room. Everything went a bit blurry for a few minutes and the next thing I knew I had a ponytail in my hand. I’ve felt horrible about it for days.”

“Nat,” I say seriously, slowing my skipping down a little. “I am sorry. For everything. For lying to you. For stealing your dream. And I know that you’ll probably hate me forever, but…”

Nat rolls her eyes. “I was never going to hate you forever, Harriet. Just a couple of days.”

“But you said…”

“We were fighting. What did you want me to say? I’ll hate you for about thirty-six hours until I’ve calmed down a bit?”

Oh.

“Yeah, that would have been nice, actually,” I tell her, slightly huffily. “Just a heads-up could have been really handy. I was in the depths of despair.”

Nat laughs. “Drama queen as always. Although if you had a temper like mine, I probably would have kept the modelling secret too. I am terrifying.” She looks proudly at her nails and blows on them. “Unpredictable and absolutely terrifying.”

“So we’re…” I venture.

“Yeah.” Nat shrugs and grins at me. “Whatever.”

I’m just about to throw myself into her not-even-slightly open arms when my phone rings and Toby holds his hands up.

“It’s not me,” he points out. “Just in case anyone’s wondering. I’m not ringing you, Harriet. Although I could because I’ve totally learnt your number off by heart.”

“Wilbur?” I say, grabbing it out of my pocket.

“Hello, my little Crunchie-nut,” Wilbur says happily. “I’d love to sit and chat about all sorts of girly fun, but I want to go home, so here’s the details for this thing Yuka wants you to do. It’s tomorrow morning, Petal-moo; an interview for a fashion special on WakeUp UK. They need you there nice and early so you’ll still get to school on time.” He pauses. “If your school starts at 10am obviously.”

I look at Nat, who’s pretending she can’t hear the entire conversation. Wilbur’s voice carries like a Sports Day whistle.

“I can’t do it, Wilbur.” Nat’s eyes go very round, but we’ve only just resurrected our friendship: I can’t risk it. “You’re just going to have to tell Yuka to sue me. Remind her that I’m underage, please, and my stepmother’s a really, really great lawyer.”

I can feel it already. Nat and I will be like the dolphins at Sea World again, jumping in perfect harmony. Living in synergy; one stream of consciousness, with never a cross word between us. Two minds in one bod—

The phone gets snatched out of my hand.

“Wilbur? Hello. This is Nat. I’m the girl who cried in your reception on Saturday morning. Harriet says it’s a fantastic and exciting opportunity and she’ll be there. Text her the time and address. Thanks.” And she hangs up.

I stare at her for a few seconds. Nat’s the girl who was crying in the agency?

“Nat? What the hell are you doing?” I finally blurt.

“What I would have done at the beginning, if you’d let me.”





tatistics aren’t important, they’re just numbers. Irrelevant, arbitrary numbers. So obviously I don’t spend the evening on the internet, researching how many people watch WakeUp UK every morning.

(3,400,000.)

And I don’t find out the demographic of the viewers.

(Extremely widespread: students getting ready for school, families having breakfast, workers as they get ready to leave the house.)

And I definitely don’t find out roughly how many people watch the internet videos of the interviews.

(300,000 for a guy talking about trimming the edges of your lawn neatly.)

Most importantly, the thing I most absolutely don’t do is skip breakfast because I’m locked in the toilet, breathing in and out of a paper bag, and then spend the entire taxi journey to the studio tearing the bag to shreds and scattering it all over my lap.

Why would I do that? I’m not the old, anxious Harriet any more. I’m cool. I’m calm. I’m taking all of this in my stride.

Obviously.

“Harriet?” Dad says finally. Everyone has decided to come with me this time: the taxi is so full that the driver has started making grumpy sounds about what his insurance covers. Annabel’s taken the front seat and Dad, Nat, Toby and I are all crammed in the back, trying to put our feet in places that don’t already have feet in them. “Are you under the impression that you’re some kind of hamster or possibly bird?”

I look at the papery mess on my trousers. It’s true: if I was suddenly rendered much, much smaller, it would make excellent bedding.

“I’m making an ancient style of puzzle,” I tell him loftily. “When I have time, I will consider putting it all back together again.”

“Would you like me to make a start on it?” Toby asks eagerly. I tried to evade him, but after he explained how many buses he was going to have to catch to follow me, I relented. It’s easier if he just stalks me in the same taxi.

“No. But thanks.”