Holly Smale - Picture Perfect

I have a brand-new red satchel.

I have an expensive calculator that does graphs and integration and quadratics and natural logarithms, whatever they all are.

I have a set of non-uniform clothes bought to be worn to my new classes. Almost none of which have cartoon animals on them.

I’ve stalked all of my new teachers on the internet and created a bullet-point summary for each of them, so I can win them over and/or force them to like me.

And – most importantly – I have a brilliantly conceived and carefully structured plan.

I have four A levels to ace, and a boyfriend and Best Friend to juggle properly for a healthy and balanced lifestyle. I have a stalker to keep away from bushes with thorns in them. I have my one and only sixteenth birthday to organise. I’m going to be the busiest I’ve ever been, so I’ve planned it all in minute detail.

The only problem is: every single bit of it depends on how I’ve done in my exams.

Which is exactly what I’m about to find out.

recently read an interesting article about a twelve-week-old abandoned monkey in China who was taken to a sanctuary where it formed a strong and intense friendship with a white pigeon. Despite having nothing at all in common, they immediately became inseparable.

Sometimes I wonder if my Best Friend Nat and I look as ridiculous together as they do.

Now is one of those moments.

By the time I’ve hastily pawed at myself with a damp cloth and kissed my comatose family goodbye, I’m more than fifteen minutes off schedule and hyperventilating with panic.

And Nat looks like she couldn’t be less bothered.

She’s sitting on the bench at the junction. Her new fringe is perfectly straight, black eyeliner is identical on both eyes and a stripy dress is hanging off one shoulder as if she totally means it to.

François may be long gone, but something about her French exchange must have stuck.

Nat looks like she should have English subtitles.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say breathlessly, handing her a chocolate button and then realising I’ve smudged brown icing all over my T-shirt and it looks disturbingly like something else. “Do you think the results are out yet? Do you think we’ve both passed?”

“This is an awful way to start a day,” Nat says, looking up from a copy of Vogue . “Harriet, what are we going to do?”

I smile at her in relief.

Obviously I totally misjudged my Best Friend. We will navigate these terrifying academic waters together.

“Don’t worry,” I say in my most reassuring voice as I start tugging her towards school. “I’m sure it’s not going to be as bad as you think.”

“No, it’s worse, ” Nat says. “Harriet, what does this look like to you?”

She yanks at her dress.

I think it might be a trick question.

“Umm. That’s a …” Shift. Robe. “Frock, isn’t it?” Then inspiration hits me. “A gown ?”

“It’s stripes , Harriet. I’ve gone and worn stripes. But Vogue says the hottest trend this season is miniature prints and florals. I wish they’d give me a bit of warning .”

This is what it’s been like ever since Nat got her official welcome letter from the Design College down the road. I haven’t seen her this focused since the blue-glitter frenzy of Year Two. For a few epic weeks, we both looked like Christmas tree decorations.

In a moment of inspiration, I grab a floral elastic band off my wrist and hand it over.

“Oh my God, how did you know ?” Nat says, throwing her arms around my neck.

“I am very up to date on sartorial trends,” I say, nodding wisely. Plus a stylist left it in my hair once and I’ve been using it to keep my pencils together ever since.

My phone beeps, and I whip it out of my pocket with the speed of a technological ninja.

Ha .

I knew Nick hadn’t forgotten about me this morning. I knew he was just as supportive and romantic as a boyfriend should b—

Much congratulationings, Harry-chan! May your big day be full of cloud tens and elevens. Rin x

I grin – I’m glad Rin is making creative use of the Colloquial English Dictionary I sent to her home address in Tokyo – and then wait in case somebody else wants to make contact.

He doesn’t.

So I put my phone back in my pocket and nimbly change the subject.

“Nat, I’ve got each of our timetables cross-referenced and colour-coordinated so we know where the other person is at all times. Do you want to see them?”

This is how I’ve spent the last few weeks: carefully constructing an in-depth way of maintaining seamless contact with Nat when she’s at college and I’m at sixth form. We haven’t actually shared a class in five years, so it just requires a little extra imagination.

It also requires hanging out with Toby Pilgrim every day for the next two years, but let’s be honest: I’ve been unintentionally doing that forever anyway.

“Don’t be daft,” Nat laughs, tying her hair into an enormous top-knot. “I’ll just ring you after college and we can do coffee or something.”

Do coffee or something?

“Did you know that coffee can actually kill you in high doses, Nat?”

“I wasn’t suggesting 1,000 cups at once, Harriet.”

“Just a hundred will do it,” I say darkly. “Scientists have done tests.”

I’m just about to tell her that coffee was actually discovered by an Ethiopian goat herder who realised his goats were eating the berries and going totally mad, when we turn the corner and both fall silent.

Ahead of us, school looms exactly like it always has.

Except something is different. Inside that building at this very moment are our entire pasts and our entire futures. That building simultaneously represents the beginning and the end.

A little part of me suddenly wants to sit down on the pavement, dig in my heels and refuse to move.

Except I know from experience people don’t like it when I do that.

So I probably won’t.

“Can you believe this is the last time I’ll ever walk through those gates?” Nat says happily.

“Mmm.”

“The last time I’ll ever have to wear my hair in a ponytail for gym, which is totally inappropriate for my face shape.”

“The last time you’ll ever block the entrance with your insanely boring conversations.”

We both turn round.

“Hi, Alexa,” Nat sighs. “Great to see a long break has really brought you a sense of inner peace and compassion.”

“Whatever,” my nemesis says, flicking her newly highlighted hair and whacking me with her shoulder as she saunters past. “Such a shame you’re leaving, Natalie. What are we going to do without you?”

“Collapse and die, probably,” Nat says, folding her arms. “I live in hope.”

“Maybe then I’ll smell as bad as Harriet.” Alexa glances over to where I’m standing, still rubbing the top of my arm. “Hey, loser,” she adds. “Looks like this year it’s just going to be you and I.”

And – just like that – my summer is over.

n fairness, I’ve had a good run.

If you take away all the holidays and weekends, we actually only have to be at school for 195 days a year. Add to that night-times, mornings, a few field trips, an hour for lunch every day plus two fifteen-minute breaks and the potential for getting sick now and then, and I won’t have to see Alexa for more than 1,118.5 hours this academic year.