Picture Perfect (12 page)

fter a short deliberation, I opt for, “Heya.”

I’ve seen quite a few American films, and this seems to be the most international greeting available.

Then I wait.

“
Heya,
” I say a little more loudly as they continue talking, pushing the buggy a bit closer.

Still nothing.

“HEY!” I shout, and – one by one – the girls turn around and stare at me.

“Hey, yourself,” one of them says. “Who the hell are you?”

I clear my throat.

‘Who the hell are you’ obviously means something totally different in America. I’m not going to let a little cultural barrier get between me and an entire group of ready-made non-kissing soulmates.

“I’m Harriet Manners,” I say brightly. “This is Tabitha.” I point downwards. “We’ve just moved here from England. It’s very nice to meet you all.”

“Do you go to Greenway High?”

“No-ooo,” I admit. “I study at home.”

“Right.” The girl with the black hair turns back to the group. “So, what’s he like? I mean, is he like
super
ugly, or just a
bit
ugly?”

“Dude, he’s banged-up.”

“Oh no,” I say. “Who did that to him? Is he OK? Violence is so horrible, isn’t it?”

There’s another silence, and then they all turn to face me again.

“Do you want to tell her, or shall I?”

I lean forward hopefully. “Tell me what?”

“It’s cool that you’re new and everything, but we’re TASKEB: Taylor, Amanda, Shelby, Kelly, Emma and Brittany. We don’t have room for more.”

“But …” I blink. “If you put an H in there you could be TASHKEB. That sounds even better.”

One of them laughs, and I flinch.

I know that laugh. It’s the only thing that translates perfectly around the world without the need for a dictionary.

“And no offence,” one of them adds, “but we definitely don’t need no teenage
baby mama
.”

What
?

“N-no,” I stammer, face starting to flush furiously. “I think there’s been some kind of mis—”

“Are you dumb or something, dork?” the biggest one snaps. “We said
go away.
”

I blink at them a few times while I struggle for a witty response. I’m 5,000 miles away from home. How do they know I’m an idiot already?

“Actually,” I say, lifting my chin as high as I can get it. “Dumb people can hear perfectly well. I think you mean
deaf
.”

Yeah
, I think, flushing even harder.
That’ll do it.

And I push my sister back out of the playground, with the girls still laughing behind me.

had assumed my social inadequacies were quite localised, but apparently they are perfectly capable of crossing the Atlantic unscathed.

It would be quite impressive if it weren’t so incredibly depressing. I’ve completely lost the will to translate anything into American ever again.

“Hello, girls,” Annabel says as Tabitha and I struggle back into the house. “Did you have fun?”

I look at Tabitha, and her chin immediately crumples and starts wobbling.

We are
so
on the same page.

Sadly, only one of us is allowed to act like a baby.

“It was OK,” I lie, handing Tabitha back and sitting on a kitchen chair next to her. “I ate a lot of chicken that may or may not have been called Mandy.”

“What a horrible name for a chicken. I’d have gone with Gertrude, or maybe Clementine.”

Then Annabel lifts Tabitha up and gives her a little kiss on the cheek. “So,” she adds with a grin, “I have good news, and I have bad news. Which one do you want first?”

“Bad news, please,” I say, kicking the table leg gently. “Seventy-five per cent of people go for bad news first, because then you can end on a high note.”

Annabel nods. “Eminently sensible. In which case, your tutor is about to arrive. I’m afraid it’s time to get back to studying.”

My eyes widen, and I jump out of my seat.

Does my stepmother know me at all? My Latin-speaking, singing and potentially magical governess – sorry, home tutor – is the sole ray of illumination in an otherwise lightless existence.

“Brilliant,” I cry, relief flooding through me. “So how good is the good news? Button-pressing interactive exhibition good, or just normal-exhibition good?”

“Button pressing,” Annabel says, thrusting a small envelope at me. “Here.”

I stare at it, and then squeak so loudly that Tabitha lets out a small, surprised burp.

“A new American SIM card,” Annabel confirms as I leap up and start kissing it frantically. “And the Wi-Fi’s up and running.”

FROM: Hugo Manners

TO: Harriet Manners

Re: My New Abode

Dear Harriet,

Can you believe how quickly I’ve learnt to type? I am obviously a dog of extraordinary abilities, although I also ate Toby’s father’s Sunday pork chop by dragging it off the kitchen counter so I am currently a genius in disgrace.

As for Toby, he is having a wonderful time preparing for sixth form. He is looking forward to learning all kinds of things about quarks and leptons. And will try not to correct Mr Kemp too much, as apparently he doesn’t like it.

I like my new temporary owner very much, by the way, especially as he doesn’t mind when I lick his face in the morning.

Barks,

Hugo Manners and Toby Pilgrim

FROM: Natalie Grey

TO: Harriet Manners

Re: OH MY GOD

College is AMAZING. I went to the pre-term opening day and they told us we’re gonna make our own dresses! Mine’s going to be a blue one with frills around the bottom, I think.

I met a few nice girls who will be in my class, and I think you’d really like Jessica. She has green eyes and freckles and hair exactly the same colour as yours. We’re going for coffee tomorrow.

How’s NEW YORK? I’ve attached a celebrity map so you can sit outside their houses. TAKE PHOTOS.

Love you.

NxOxOxOxOxOxOx

FROM: Nick Hidaka

TO: Harriet Manners

I’m here!! Where are you?

LBxx

I read Nat’s email three times – who the sugar cookies is Jessica, and why is she drinking my coffee? – and I write:

FROM: Harriet Manners

TO: Natalie Grey

It’s GREAT! Will update later! Sooooooo busy exploring New York right now!

xx

FROM: Harriet Manners

TO: Toby Pilgrim

WHAT IS A LEPTON?! AND WHAT IS A QUARK?!

FROM: Harriet Manners

TO: Nick Hidaka

Long story! Ring me ASAP!! xx

I have literally never used so many forced exclamation marks in such a short space of time in my entire life.

I’m exhausted just looking at them.

“Harriet?” Annabel calls up the stairs as I pop my American number at the bottom and press SEND. “Miss Hall would like to meet you.”

ow, I know quite a lot about governesses.

Thanks to Victorian literature and films on TV at Christmas, I have deduced that they are either pretty, warm and exuberant – Mary Poppins, Maria from
The Sound of Music
and Anna from
The King and I
– or small, plain and unappreciated, like Jane Eyre or Agnes Grey.

I’m also aware that they tend to like running off with the man of the house, but once they’ve met Dad I don’t think that’ll be a problem.

I bounce down the stairs and then impulsively bounce outside and grab a wild yellow flower growing next to the front door. Then I bounce through the hallway and into the living room.

Where I promptly stop bouncing.

My new governess is neither pretty nor small, meek nor potentially magical, shy nor about to burst into song at any given moment. She doesn’t have a lamp in her handbag, or the malnourished gaze of a grown-up orphan with trust issues.

The woman standing in front of me is about six-foot two, with enormous shoulders and calves wider than my thighs. She’s wearing khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and is standing bolt upright, staring at me with the steady, intense gaze of somebody who knows how to punch a hole through a door.