Picture Perfect - Holly Smale

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t any typical moment, your brain will be using twenty per cent of the oxygen that enters your bloodstream. Mine must have got greedy, because my head suddenly feels so light it could float away like a balloon.

      I passed.

      In fact, I passed with flying colours.

      I don’t want to boast, so all I’m going to say is: I got one more star than the Chamaeleontis constellation and one less than Orionis.

      I also got a C in technology, but if I ever need a pine box or a red plastic wall clock that looks like a badly sanded hummingbird, I’ll just go to the shops and buy one.

      Nat is spinning on the spot in tiny circles.

      “College here I come!” she yells, giving me a high five on every revolution. “I failed history but who cares, I’m going to college!”

      Then she stops spinning so we can stare at each other.

      My head promptly floats away.

      “Sugar cookies!” I squeak, jumping up and down. “We did it!”

      “Massive sugar cookies!” Nat shouts.

      “UBER sugar cookies!”

      “STELLAR sugar cookies!”

      “IMMEASURABLE, BOUNDLESS SUGAR COOKIES! Our cookies have gone into orbit!”

      “Ah,” Toby says, getting a small green book out of his bag. “I was under the impression that sugar cookies was a negative expression but I will now make a note that it can be used either way.”

      Nat and I bounce and giggle hysterically and then gradually start half-hopping out of the school gates.

      All this talk of cookies has made me hungry. Maybe my parents will have baked me another cake: a strawberry one, with ‘CONGRATULATIONS’ written in marshmallows and Smarties for the dots on the ‘i’s and—

      “Oi,” a voice behind us says. “Did one of you losers drop something?”

      And every last bounce and giggle suddenly drains out of me.

      Because:

      

      

read somewhere that a fully grown octopus is flexible enough to climb all the way through a human’s intestines. From the feeling in my stomach right now that is exactly what’s happening.

      Is that … my diary?

      It can’t be. My diary is at home, next to my bed. Safe and private and protected by a carefully placed ginger hair, exactly as it’s supposed to be.

      Except … I can see a British Library sticker on the spine, and the row of gold stars I gave myself at the bottom, and the corner Hugo chewed in a huff when I wouldn’t let him have a bite of my sandwich.

      It can’t be, but it is.

      Everything I’ve written in that book over the last seven weeks hits me so hard my entire body is suddenly full of cold, squirming, slippery sea creature.

      No. No. No no no no no no NO.

      I run towards Alexa, but it’s too late: she’s holding it high over her head and opening the front pages.

      “Mr Harper, physics,” she reads loudly. “Divorced. Secret fan of Zumba. Member of Royal Horticultural Society. Note to self: learn more about Latin dancing and plants. And marital problems.”

      Behind her are a few snorts of laughter.

      When you blush, it’s not just your cheeks that turn red: the inside lining of your stomach does too. I’m so hot, I think I’ve accidentally cooked the octopus. How is this happening? What the sugar cookies was my diary doing in my bag?

      Oh my God.

      Annabel must have thought it was my school diary and popped it in my satchel. She’s so tired she probably didn’t notice the words INTENSELY PRIVATE written in silver pen on the front. And it must have fallen out when I was jumping around like an idiot.

      This is exactly why I never do any kind of physical activity.

      “Miss Lloyd, advanced maths,” Alexa continues in glee. “Inappropriate Facebook photos. Subtly offer to edit her online networking privacy settings.”

      Teachers milling around the school entrance are starting to glance in our direction. I recognise Miss Lloyd in the distance. This is going to end my sixth form academic career before it’s even started.

      I start leaping for the book, but Alexa continues flicking through with her other hand on my forehead while I scrabble frantically at her like a cat in a pond.

      “Give it back,” I beg desperately, making another lunge for it. “Please, Alexa. It’s private.”

      Nat is fishing around in her handbag. “Hand the book over,” she yells, blotched with fury. “Or I swear to God this time I’m going to scalp you.”

      “Until the day it inevitably becomes a bestseller,” Toby concurs, “it is Harriet’s intellectual property, Alexa.”

      But it’s too late.

      Alexa has turned to the back of the book and is staring at the last page.

      “Girlfriend?” she says. She looks almost speechless. “Girlfriend? Are you kidding me? You?”

      The octopus in my stomach is about to die from heat exhaustion. “Yes.”

      “Who?” Alexa looks around. “Him?”

      “No,” Toby says, in answer to her pointing finger. “We discovered this summer that we lack the chemistry of physical lust and also that Harriet needs to work on her kissing skills.”

      The octopus promptly goes BANG.

      Alexa looks back at me. “Are you telling me a real live boy – other than this weirdo – actually wants you?”

      “Yes,” I say again in a small voice.

      I try to lift my chin, but all I can smell is a pungent cocktail of baby puke, damp dog hair and out of the corner of my eye I can still see brown icing on my boy’s clothes and stuck in my boy’s hair.

      It suddenly seems pretty unbelievable to me too.

      Alexa shrieks with laughter.

      “OMG, this is priceless.” She turns to the group behind her. “Can you imagine the geekiness levels? I bet they’re off the chart. I bet he’s short and greasy and hasn’t learnt to shave yet.” She starts giggling. “Bet he – haha – studies physics and smells of Brussels sprouts and farts every time he bends down. Hahahaha.”

      I think of Nick’s big black curls; his coffee-coloured skin and slanted brown eyes; the huge grin with the pointed teeth that breaks his face apart. I think of the mole near his eyebrow; the green smell of him and the tilt at the end of his nose.

      I think of how he laughs at the wrong bits in the cinema; how he leans his cheek against mine when he’s sleepy; the way

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