Picture Perfect - Holly Smale

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      “Actually,” Nat snaps. “Harriet’s boyfriend is a successful international supermodel. So stick that in your cauldron and smoke it.”

      Alexa starts giggling even harder, and rolls her eyes at her underlings. “Of course he is.”

      “Show her,” Nat demands, flushing and pointing at my satchel. “Show her a picture of Nick, Harriet.”

      “I … don’t have one,” I admit. “It’s a new bag.”

      Alexa takes a step closer. “An imaginary boyfriend,” she says. “That’s pathetic, even for you.”

      “He’s real,” I say, except it comes out as two tiny mouse squeaks. “And I’m not pathetic.”

      “Oh, you are. Or should that be ‘you-apostrophe-r-e’?”

      My whole body goes cold.

      On the last day of exams I grammatically embarrassed Alexa in front of a lot of girls in our year. I had hoped maybe she’d forgotten.

      She hasn’t.

      “Do you expect me to believe,” Alexa says, “that anybody would want you, Manners? You’re the most boring person I’ve ever met. You’re a nobody. A nothing.”

      I blink at her. For some reason I can’t fathom, I wish she’d just stuck with geek.

      “I told you I’d get you back, Harriet,” Alexa adds, giving me a final shove backwards, putting my diary in her bag and closing it with a click. “Reading can be such an education, don’t you think?”

      And she storms out of the school gates, with her minions scuttling behind her.

      

      

pparently horses and rats can’t vomit.

      Unfortunately, I am neither a horse nor a rat. It’s taking every bit of focus I have just to make sure I don’t get sick on myself for the second time today.

      “Are you OK?” Nat says, putting a hand on my arm.

      “Mmm,” I say chirpily. “Sure. It’ll be fine. Just fine. Fine.”

      Then I bite my lips. Stop saying ‘fine’, Harriet.

      “She doesn’t sound fine,” Toby observes, tugging his rucksack back on to his shoulders like a broken tortoise. “I don’t think Harriet sounds fine at all, Natalie.”

      “Shut up, Toby,” Nat says kindly, and then she puts her arm round me. “Don’t worry, Harriet. I mean, it’s just a few scribbles. How bad can it be?”

      “The way I see it,” Toby adds cheerfully, “the more information people know about you the better, Harriet. Personally, I’d like to know everything. I’m hoping she makes photocopies and distributes them around the classroom.”

      I flinch.

      My diary isn’t the ‘today it rained, I stroked a cat, we had spaghetti for dinner’ kind of report I kept when I was five and I thought every day was riveting and unprecedented.

      Everything I am is in that book.

      My hopes and dreams; my worries, my doubts. My most precious, perfect memories of me and Nick, written in unnecessary, humiliating detail. My lists; my plans; the bit where I attempted to rhyme Nick Hidaka with big squid packer.

      My process of falling in love, page by page.

      In short, I’ve just given Alexa the strongest weapon she’s ever had against me:

      Myself.

      Nat starts gently leading me away from the school fence. I can’t really feel my legs any more: I feel like I’m being rolled forward on rubbery wheels.

      “Forget about it,” she says firmly and shakes her head. “Anyway, we should be celebrating.”

      I blink a few times.

      Celebrating. Exam results. It already feels like a billion years ago.

      This is like when that guy leaked classified National Security Agency information that revealed operational details of global surveillance and threatened to take down all of America. Except that instead of the US spy programme, it’s my personal secrets that are going to be spread around the sixth form.

      And instead of temporary asylum in Russia, I’ll end up in a cold corner of the classroom.

      “I think,” I say slowly, “I should probably go home. My parents are going to want to know my results straight away.”

      This is a lie, obviously. If they’re even awake it’ll be a modern-day miracle.

      “Are you sure? Because Mum promised she’d take me shopping for new college clothes and I thought you could come with us.”

      “Ooh,” Toby says. “Yes please. I think I need to buy new boxer shorts.”

      “Never,” Nat says, rolling her eyes, “talk to me about boxer shorts again.”

      “Briefs?”

      ‘No.”

      “Swimming shorts?”

      “Why would you be wearing swimming shorts when you’re not even swimming, you weirdo?”

      I’m subtly edging away from my best friends in a little sideways crab shuffle.

      “Shopping sounds great, Nat,” I lie again as cheerfully as possible. “Maybe another time?”

      “Sure. I mean, I’m going to have lots on with college and stuff. But we’ve still got weekends, right?”

      “Right,” I say in a tiny voice.

      And I spin round and run home as fast as my legs will carry me.

      

      

hich is faster than it used to be.

      Nothing makes you take up jogging quite like a brand-new baby and nowhere to escape to apart from the garden shed.

      “Annabel?” I say as I open the front door and Hugo barrels towards me, tail wagging. I bend down and give him a cuddle. “Dad? I thought you might like to know what I—”

      And then I stop.

      In the last hour and a half, the house has totally transformed.

      The curtains are wide open, the kitchen is almost clean, and there are half-filled cardboard boxes lying at random points around the hallway. Piles of shiny plates and saucers are in stacks on the table, and the mugs are out in neat, organised lines as if they’re getting ready to break into an impromptu can-can.

      The air smells of air freshener, and sunshine is pouring in through the window on to the huge suitcases still lying on the kitchen floor.

      This is more like it.

      My parents have finally decided to give my special day the respect it deserves and spring clean in my honour.

      Although they could have just used drawers and cupboards like normal people. Lining everything up on the table seems a

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