by Erin Gough
I remember the opposite game my father and I play. I grab the pen and work on a few variations. “How about this?”
The name is innocuous. It’s not too fake sounding. And there’s nothing to link it to either of us.
“Amelia Westlake,” Harriet reads aloud. “I like it.”
chapter 4
HARRIET
I am still running the name over in my head as I shuck off my school shoes inside our front door. Amelia Westlake. It has a fabulous ring to it.
“Hello?” I call out. Nobody answers, which is completely fine. I can hear Arthur’s band practicing in the central atrium, and I doubt anyone else is home. When your parents’ oral surgery skills are in high demand, you cannot expect to have dinner with them every night or even most nights, and I totally understand and appreciate that.
The music coming from the central atrium is even more disharmonious than usual, and as I smooth smoked trout pâté on a water cracker in the empty kitchen I wonder about my brother’s emotional well-being. Last week a girl called Candice dumped him on the grounds that he will never amount to anything. It sounds as if he isn’t taking it very well at all.
Finally the music stops, and there are footsteps in the hall. I hear the front door close, and Arthur appears. He drags himself onto a kitchen stool. “Everything okay?” I venture.
He shrugs miserably. Since this morning he has done something horrible to his hair. It is cropped close to his scalp everywhere except for a narrow wad along his crown. The poor thing has clearly gone mad with grief.
“Candice still?”
He groans like a dying polar bear.
I love my brother, but sometimes I can see this girl Candice’s point. Arthur has an artistic temperament. While it is possible he will one day become a world-renowned musician, it is just as likely, if not more, that he will fail his exams, have to get a job selling flat-pack furniture, and live in a one-bedroom apartment on a main road. What he needs is cheering up. “I’m making your favorite snack,” I tell him.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
He is just being polite; Arthur is always hungry. “Nonsense. I’ve already got the nacho chips in the oven.” I open a can of refried beans. “It is time to move on,” I say. “Forget Candice. You need to find someone else. Or focus your energy on something completely different, like schoolwork.”
“But she’s perfect.” He has his head on the quartz counter, as if it is too heavy to hold up. “How can I move on from perfect?”
“Sometimes we have to compromise.”
He sits up. “You mean like you have with Edie?”
“Excuse me?” I stir the beans vigorously in the saucepan. “Edie is probably beyond perfect. Most people have to settle for something less.”
“People like me?” grumbles Arthur, scratching the newly shorn part of his scalp.
I put down my wooden spoon. “Oh, Arthur.”
He sniffs.
“There’s no need to cry.”
“I’m not crying. I smell smoke.”
“Oh! The corn chips.” I open the oven door and a plume of thick smoke curls out.
Arthur crumples back onto the counter. “I suppose Edie’s coming around tonight?”
“It is Tuesday.” Somehow the beans have stuck to the bottom of the saucepan. I lever them off with a spatula. “Would you like to join us for dinner? I’m thinking of making my famous salmon quiche.”
“No thanks. Your nachos will be more than enough for me.”
It makes sense that Arthur would find it hard being around the two of us when he has just had his heart broken, but I do not want him to feel unwelcome. “The invitation is open if you change your mind.”
“Thanks, Harri.”
Just then my phone lights up. I pluck it off the counter.
Darling Bubble, I am exhausted from a long albeit successful afternoon tea and need to lay low tonight. Rain check? X
One of the many things I love about Edie is her text-messaging technique. She never abbreviates words or employs emojis. However, I am a little disappointed by the message’s content.
Poor Edie, you work so hard, my love. Can I tempt you with my salmon quiche? Or you could cook something for us if you prefer? Would LOVE to see you. X
My capitalization in the final sentence is somewhat crass, and I regret it as soon as I press SEND. I hold my phone and wait for her reply. Although it makes sense that she is tired after running an event, I have been really looking forward to seeing her. I am very keen to talk to her about Will Everhart’s cartoon.
Will Everhart. When I think about her, my heart does a strange little flip. What a peculiar afternoon it has been, helping her out with a piece of artistic commentary. This would be bizarre enough had it been with one of my friends—Beth, say, or even Millie. But Will Everhart? This is the girl who, for a history assignment on “The Effects of War,” presented a twenty-minute video, spliced together from old movies, of people getting stabbed, macheted, or shot. I wonder if it was wise to light a further flame beneath a person who courts controversy so keenly.
The more I think about it, the more I realize it was probably a very bad idea indeed.
If Will did as we agreed and dropped the cartoon into the Messenger’s office on her way home, by Monday it will be published for everyone at Rosemead to see. The possibility makes my jaw ache. Coach can be insensitive, and I certainly have personal experience of that, which is partly why I suggested Will draw the cartoon. But there have also been times when he has been very kind to me, complimenting me on my hair, posture, and even eye color (“as green as the Coral Sea” he has said more than once). And if it weren’t for Coach persuading Miss Watson to give me a chance at tennis in the early years, I would never be playing for Tawney and fulfilling my lifelong dream.
Although lately he has not been quite so friendly.
He certainly never used to hold me back to swim extra laps like he did this morning.
What will Coach say when he sees the cartoon? What about Principal Croon? Thank God I convinced Will she should use a pseudonym.
“Why are you staring at your phone?” Arthur asks.
“Waiting for a text from Edie.” I hope she isn’t judging me for capitalizing “love”!
“She always makes you wait,” Arthur says. “It’s mean.”
Maybe Edie does delay her replies. But her teasing ways are part of her charm. I put the chips and beans together on a plate and place it in front of Arthur. He pulls a chip away from the cheesy brown mound, takes a small bite, and puts it back. “Taste okay?” I ask.
“Delicious,” Arthur says, and coughs, which is a common reaction to spicy food. “I think I’ll eat it in my room if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.”
When he is gone, I start my quiche preparations, checking my phone every couple of minutes. Beth texts to confirm that our music excursion to The Mikado is leaving at eight tomorrow and to express a firm hope for a good-looking bus driver. (“A hottie” are her exact words. She is so hilarious.) Millie sends through a venue suggestion for the year-twelve formal, and I text back confirming I will consider it in my capacity as Formal Committee chair. My mother texts to say she and my father will eat at the office, and to give a “big hug” to Edie (she and Mum adore one another). I’ve just popped the quiche in the oven when a text finally comes through from my girlfriend.
My darling Bubble, my dove, my destiny. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting for a reply. I fell asleep right after pressing send! Let’s meet on Saturday, and you can help me with my public speaking topic for SpeakOut—they just sent it through a few minutes ago. You have such a talent for putting words together. What would I do without you, Bubble? You are my lucky charm. XXXX
Edie never uses more than three Xs. She considers it over the top. That she has done it now is her way of saying she forgives me for capitalizing “love,” I am certain. I read the message again. I am her darling Bubble, her dove, her destiny. I hold
the bright screen to my face.
chapter 5
WILL
“I spoke to your father last night.”
Mum is at the sink with her coffee mug, face to the window, watching a bird on the lawn. Birds on the lawn are about as exciting as it gets at our place. Apart from the occasional wildlife—if a magpie can be described as wildlife—our yard is a square patch of grass dotted with bindi-eye weeds. Stooping around the edge like retirees at a bowling green are one limp acacia, one diseased lemon tree, and one anemic tomato vine. In the middle of the grass are two epic rotary clotheslines.
Since moving to our ground-floor flat, playing guess whose washing is Mum’s favorite new pastime. “That must be Julie’s load,” she’ll say, nose to the window. “I can tell from the crocheted bedspread. And are those Emilio’s overalls? I should duck round and let them know it’s about to rain.”
We’ve been in the unit since Christmas—that’s when Mum and Dad finally sold our North Shore house and split the difference. Mum and I hauled our stuff to the Inner West, which is closer to her sister and has cheaper real estate. Dad kept going west until he couldn’t go any farther without falling off the continent.
“Did you hear what I said, Will?”
“What did you speak to him for? You guys are divorced, remember? That means you no longer have to sleep together, go to each other’s work dinners, or engage in conversation.”
Mum rinses her mug. “He’s disappointed you didn’t go over last week. He says you would have loved it. It was a celebration of Western Australia’s emerging light and space movement, you know.”
I know. Dad sent me an invitation to the launch of his new art magazine a month ago. Like it never occurred to him that short of a spare five days to drive across the desert, I’d have to spend four-and-a-half hours on a plane to get there. He knows I don’t do planes anymore. “He should have thought more about how much I’d have loved it before having his launch party ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COUNTRY,” I say.
“Come on, Will,” says Mum. “Perth is where the magazine is based. And where he lives. Would you have preferred it if he didn’t invite you at all?”
From my chair, I throw the dish towel I’ve been using as a napkin onto the kitchen countertop. Just one of the advantages of living in a shoebox. Honestly, if you asked me which living arrangement, old or new, wins the overall Sucks Most award, I’d be hard-pressed to decide. In our old suburb, the streets were too quiet, and everyone looked like they’d just stepped out of a fifties catalog of British knitting patterns. At least here the streets are loud with traffic, and the smells of fish sauce, oil, and tamarind spill from the Vietnamese restaurants. All sorts of people live around here—immigrants from Tonga, refugees from Somalia, Portuguese who have been here for generations. A group of Lebanese oldies holds court every day outside the local pizza joint, where they eat oregano pizza and drink cup after cup of black coffee. Down the road, hipsters pour single-origin coffees while stroking their beards. Posters and political slogans decorate building walls.
I love all of this: Walking around the suburb, I feel its heartbeat. The only part I can’t stand is the noise from above. Living under a flight path is the worst. I wake in the mornings to the rumble of plane engines and fall asleep to it at night, when it enters my dreams. With my eyes closed, my ears pop, and suddenly I’m in a cabin with shaking walls and flickering lights. I haven’t slept properly since we got here.
The toaster pops. Morning sun arcs across the kitchen floor.
“We’ve talked about this,” Mum says.
“Then there’s no need to repeat ourselves.”
“You could at least give him a call, Will.”
“Those phone companies have higher profit margins than the GDPs of some small island nations, you know.”
“He’s your father.”
“There are legal avenues to change that.”
The bird on the grass buries its beak in its feathers.
“Don’t be late for school.”
First period on Mondays is Miss Fowler’s English class. Nat and I always sit together and catch up on the weekend. Today, Kimberley Kitchener has plonked herself in my usual chair. Nat looks ready to kill her, but Kimberley is too busy WhatsApping to notice.
The only other spots are in the back of the room. I sit down, turn my phone to silent, and get cracking on my overdue creative writing homework. This week’s challenge: an obituary.
WILL EVERHART of Sydney, Australia, had a keen wit and a sharp mind. Greatly admired by her peers for her principled approach to life, she was also deeply artistic. Renowned critics considered her to be nothing less than the future of Australian art.
The quality of the work she produced during her heartbreakingly short life only compounds the tragedy of her passing. After a drawn-out period of suffering, Everhart died during first period on Monday, of boredom.
She is survived by her philandering parents.
There’s something too elegant about the word “philandering,” so I change it to “cheating.” But “cheating” is too mild, so I change it to “double-crossing.”
“Will Everhart,” Miss Fowler calls out from the front. “I asked you a question. What on earth are you doing?”
My classmates turn in their chairs to stare at me. I don’t blame them. Today’s lesson on the poetry of Robert Browning is about as fascinating as a water cracker.
“Practicing my synonyms,” I say in an injured tone, glancing at my notebook. I like “charlatan,” but is “charlatan” the adjectival form or does it need a suffix?
She is survived by her charlatanous parents.
She is survived by her charlatanizing parents.
How about “swindling”? No. None of them is right. I draw a line through “double-crossing” and write “crazy” instead.
“Crazy” encapsulates it. How my father philandered/cheated/double-crossed my mother by sleeping with an installation artist named Naomi and then moving with her to the other side of the country. How Mum philandered/cheated/double-crossed him back by having an affair with an actuary named Graham. How they’ve chosen to handle their breakup: with calm conversation when there should be shouting, tears, and hospitalization.
Since splitting, my parents get along better than before. They expect me to be happy about it and happy about the airborne commute.
“Crazy,” “stupid,” “senseless,” “cracked.” Any of them will do.
“We’re not looking at synonyms today, Will,” Miss Fowler says, her expression fixed. “Now tell us, please, in what year did Browning publish ‘My Last Duchess’?”
From the corner of my eye I see Nat reach under her desk.
I rack my brain for the answer. “I know it was sometime in the mid-nineteenth century.”
“I asked you for the year,” says Miss Fowler.
“1860?”
“I’ve just gone through this.”
I can’t believe she’s pressing me. “Why does the exact year matter? Surely it would be more relevant to talk about the broader social context of the poem?”
“Will…” Miss Fowler warns.
“For example, the nature of the patriarchy at that time, and what ‘My Last Duchess’ implies about violence against women?”
Miss Fowler is not fond of discussion points that deviate from her lesson plan. This is why at the end of class I am forced to endure a lecture from her about my recent academic performance.
“You pay no attention to anything I say, and your consistently abysmal marks reflect that,” she says. Her eyes bore into me. “What’s more, your marks are showing no signs of improvement. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to talk about your progress with Principal Croon.”
My stomach cramps. “What about my Virginia Woolf essay? Surely that will bring up my average mark.”
“To the contrary,” says Miss Fowler, drawing it out of a manila folder.
I look at the mark. “Seventy-two? What complete balls!”
Miss Fowler gasps. “Language, Wilhelmina!”
“I worked really hard on this one.” I’m not lying. I even footnoted my sources.
“I’m afraid your hard work doesn’t show.”
“Are you serious? This is one of the best essays I’ve ever written.”
Miss Fowler looks flustered. “Then you can tell that to Principal Croon.”
When I finally get out of class, Nat is waiting for me on the landing. She’s shouting at a year-nine kid who accidentally spilled juice on her uniform. Silly girl: Everyone knows better than to cross Nat Nguyen.
Nat’s fierceness is one of the reasons we hit it off immediately when I started at Rosemead in year ten. It’s also part of what makes her such a great editor. The articles she publishes in the Messenger are passionate and well argued. And nothing motivates contributors like threats and intimidation. There are girls at Rosemead who audibly whimper when she walks past.
The juice girl scampers. Nat watches her with a flicker of amusement before turning to me. “I was texting you during class.”
“What about?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I dig into my pocket.
Well THIS sucks. What is KK thinking? We have business to discuss.
You free at lunch? 12:30 at the newsroom? Text me.
WORLD 2 WILL. What are you even doing back there???
Robert Browning who gives a shit I don’t.
Look at your phone. I’ll be at newsroom at 12:30 if you want to come.
FYI: the business to discuss—you’ll like it.
Re: something in our latest edition.
Also you & me business, naturally ;-)
1842
“1842,” I say out loud. “Of course. Thanks.” But the publication date of ‘My Last Duchess’ isn’t what’s grabbed my attention. Something in our latest edition. Does Nat mean the latest edition of the Messenger? Is she referring to our cartoon?
