Model Misfit (21 page)

“Of course not. That’s ‘Clouds Which Look Like Big Sheep’. Not ‘Clouds Which Make Water’.”

“They’re cumulonimbus,” I reply. “And that out there’s some stratocumulus. There’s no nimbostratus but don’t let that fool you. British weather is sneaky.”

He leant over and kissed my nose. “I love it when you talk meteorology.”

“Obviously. Meteorology is awesome. You’re not
insane
.”

Despite my warnings, both Nick and my dad insisted that we take a picnic. “It’s not going to rain,” my father said, shoving a French baguette, some cheese and a few apples into my satchel.

Nick raised his eyebrows. “I know, right? Tell that to little Miss Smarty-Pants here.”

My dad shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid all the female Pants are Smarty in this house. They won’t listen to rightness, and there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.”

It was raining before we got to the end of my road.

Nick sighed and pulled his coat over our heads. “It’s at times like this I really regret liking a girl with brains.”

“At least I have an umbrella,” I smiled and let him snuggle under it with me. “Did you know that 6,000 pounds of micro-meteorites hit the atmosphere every day?”

“That sounds incredibly dangerous.” Nick grinned and waggled the handle. “Are you sure we’re totally protected by this bit of waterproof fabric?”

“They’re really tiny. They get caught in clouds and water coalesces around them so that they fall to Earth in rain.”

“I should probably stop sticking my tongue out and trying to drink it then.”

I laughed. “Maybe, seeing as you’re catching tiny bits of shooting star that are billions of years old and have just come from outer space.” I put my hand out, caught a few raindrops and showed it to him.

Nick wasn’t looking at my hand. He was looking at my face. I blushed and focused on the water in my hand.

“Do you know what I think?” he said.

“Absolutely never,” I said, staring at the rain. “Like, literally never. I never ever know what you think.”

It was his turn to laugh.

“I think I was right,” he said, closing my umbrella and tucking it away. Then he put his arm round me and continued walking us into the rain. “We don’t need an umbrella after all.”

he human body is amazing.

Did you know that the acid in our stomachs can dissolve zinc? Or that in a lifetime, we’ll produce enough saliva to fill two swimming pools? Or that we’re roughly one centimetre taller in the morning than in the evening?

And – most relevantly of all – did you know that in the hour before you’re supposed to wake up, the anterior pituitary gland in the brain releases a polypeptide tropic hormone called
adrenocorticotropin
,
which acts as a stimulant and natural alarm clock?

All of my preparation last night was a total waste of my time. After years and years of getting up early for school, my pituitary gland has been honed to perfection and is eerily accurate. It’s still pitch-black and none of the alarms have gone off yet, but I’m wide-awake and perky as an otter.

If only I could start trusting my body a little bit more, I could save a huge amount of money on AA batteries.

Yawning a few times, I pull on my slippers and rub the sleep out of my eyes. Then I pad through the dark bedroom to the bathroom, then into the kitchen to get a glass of water and a couple of chocolate biscuits, and then into the sunlit living room to switch on the TV. (I love Japanese adverts. I can’t understand a single word but they’re so incredibly cheerful.) At which point I stop, glass frozen in my hand and a biscuit halfway to my mouth. Sunlit living room. Sunlit living room.

Sunlit living room?

It’s not even dawn yet. Unless …

Oh my God.

OH MY GOD.

I run to the window, and there’s the sun: emitting its massive solar energy from too high up in the sky.

I look at my watch: 9.25am.

NO.

NOOOOO.

NONONONONONONONO.

I sprint into the bedroom and fling open the curtains. The sun comes streaming in. Rin’s snoring in her bunk with her headphones on, Kylie’s curled against the small of her back and Poppy has gone out already. I pick up the bird alarm and shake it: its eyes are still closed. I look at the rocket: it’s still in its launch pad. Then I stare at the laser alarm. The lights are dead.

None of the alarms worked.

How is that even
statistically
possible?

I need to find my mobile phone, ring Yuka and get out of here. But when I look at my bedside table, my phone isn’t there.

So I grab Yuka’s letter, sling a yellow cardigan over my penguin pyjamas and run straight into the streets of Tokyo.

Why didn’t Yuka ring? Why didn’t she send somebody to drag me out of bed by my feet? Where is my phone? Why are our bedroom curtains so thick?

Most importantly: why am I?

I ask the taxi driver all these questions, but he doesn’t speak English so I just get a lot of nodding and uncomfortable glances in the rear-view mirror.

Finally – almost precisely three hours late – we pull up outside an immense, low, square building with a pale green roof. I’m so impressed I actually stop talking. The roof slopes to a gradual point in the centre, there are big glass doors at the front and the two white walls on either side of the entrance are covered in huge paintings of enormous, robust-looking men wearing bits of material around their waists, furious expressions and absolutely nothing else.

Ring.

Sumo
ring.

I’m in Japan, and this is the only ‘ring’ that didn’t occur to me?

I stare at the doors with my stomach starting to clench and squeeze. I have no idea how much trouble I’m in, but after Monday’s disaster I think the answer is: quite a lot.

Focus, Harriet.

Hands shaking, I hand a pile of money to the driver, climb out of the car and start nervously running towards Yuka.

Then I stop, because:

• There’s a boy sitting on the stairs.
  
• He’s blocking my path.
  
• I’ve forgotten where I’m supposed to be going.
  

“It’s a shame the tables in Japan are so low,” Nick says, wrinkling his nose. “Where on earth are you going to hide this time?”

Reasons Not to Think About Nick

1. He told me not to.
   
2. I have much more life-changing things to think about.
   
3. It’s all I do.
   
4. He’s an idiot.
   
5. I only have finite memories, and I don’t want to wear them out.
   

I have given my heart a number of strict instructions over the last couple of days.

Judging from what it is doing now, it has listened to precisely
none
of them.

My hands are clammy. My throat is dry. My ears are hot and my cheeks are cold; I’m breathing too fast and blinking too slow. Something has short-wired and every function in my body is in the process of swapping over.

I scowl to hide the dolphin-like leaping in my chest and then remember I’m wearing penguin pyjamas, which sort of undermines my intended impression of fierceness and sophistication.

Pretend you don’t care, Harriet. Pretend you never did.

I clear my throat and try to adopt my most nonchalant expression. “Hey! What are you doing out here on the pavement?”

Nick puts his hands to his face. “Sniffing my hands, obviously. Do you want to smell them?”

He gives me a crooked grin and holds out his hands, and I blush all over. That’s what I said the second time I ever met him. He’s laughing at our romance already. Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of … respectful grieving period first? A minute’s silence or something?

My temper flares. “Brilliant,” I snap. “In that case why don’t you just go—” and I promptly run out of imaginative places to send him. So I stick my nose in the air and march past.

Within seconds he’s sauntering casually next to me. This is the problem with stupidly tall model-boys: they have a totally unfair stride advantage. Especially when one of us is wearing fluffy, teddy-bear slippers and their noses keep getting caught in the pavement.

I try to pick my feet up a bit, but now I just look like a little child stomping off to bed.

“Harriet …” Nick says. “Look. There’s stuff I need to say but I couldn’t do it at the flat. Not in front of Poppy. You understand, right? Don’t be angry.”

I stop walking, and my heart tips.

I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear how guilty he feels, or how he tried to warn me. I don’t want to hear that the heart just ‘wants what it wants’ or that some things aren’t ‘meant to be’.

I don’t want to hear that he has inexplicably decided he prefers perfect, blonde, supermodel types over freckly, ginger schoolgirls.

I don’t want to hear that he never meant to hurt me.

And – most of all – I don’t want to hear that he still cares about me,
just not like that.

As if friendship is the wooden spoon I get for being such a brave champ to give it a shot with somebody like him in the first place.

I hear Poppy’s voice in my head.
Silly. Boring
.
No big deal.

And I abruptly change my mind.

“Please don’t say it,” I say brightly, turning to him with the biggest, breeziest smile I can find.

Think mature, Harriet. Think adult. Think suave and cool.

“It’s fine. It’s lovely to see you, but I’d like to put the vagaries of our mutual past behind us.”
Nice. Kind of Henry James-esque.
“It’s totally …”
Like having my insides hacked out with an ice-cream scoop over and over and over again
? “Coolioko.”

Then I flinch slightly. It’s totally
coolioko
?

That’s not even a word.

Nick looks stunned, and I finally realise that Nat knows exactly what she’s talking about. This is the perfect way to handle the situation. I’ve never, ever seen a boy look more confused.

“Do you mean that?”

Not even a little bit.

“Absolutely,” I say, and am rewarded with an even more shocked expression. I stick my hand out. “Friends?”

Nick stares at me.

I am so nailing this acting stuff. Take that, Miss Campbell. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit GCSE drama after all.

Slowly, he takes my hand and frowns. “Are you sure?”

No
.

“Definitely,” I say, beaming at him and pumping his hand up and down like a weird stranger at one of my parents’ dinner parties.

Then I start quickly walking towards the building as if my insides aren’t about to fall out in a heap all over the pavement.

“Right,” Nick says flatly, as he catches me up. “Glad that’s clear.” He doesn’t sound very relieved, given that I’ve just saved him from a really uncomfortable conversation. He should be erecting a plaque to my selflessness and bravery right now. Lighting candles next to my extremely non-confrontational portrait. “Hang on, Harriet,” he says, grabbing my arm just as I reach the door.

It feels as if somebody’s just stabbed me with a cattle prod. Electricity crackles down to my wrist, up to my shoulder and back again, then somehow spikes into my brain so I can’t think, hear or see.