Amelia Westlake Was Never Here

by Erin Gough

  I sigh. “You always know exactly what to say to calm me down.”

  She steps back and smiles. “Don’t worry, Bubble. I’m not letting this go. I was born to win this competition.”

  “We both were,” I correct her.

  “Exactly.”

  We begin our warm-up hit, which I always enjoy. It is hard to deny how great Edie looks in a tennis skirt. She has very long, very slender legs and arms. They are also the most beautiful natural tan color, like she just spent the summer on a yacht, although without the horrible moles and freckles she’d have if she actually spent the summer on a yacht.

  At five o’clock Gillian and Tania, our practice partners, arrive. G&T (as we call them) made the second round of the US Open Juniors three years ago. They tone their game down a bit for us, but not much.

  Today, though, I’m not in my best form. I keep thinking about Bianca Stein. What rotten luck that St. Margaret’s has drawn a trump card the year Edie and I are finally ranked first!

  It isn’t the only thought keeping me from driving home my backhands. I found out today that Coach Hadley has not returned from Easter break. The school must have suspended him to investigate the cartoon’s allegations of harassment.

  I keep going back and forth in my mind how I feel about it. On the one hand, I feel sick that I have potentially ruined the career of a well-loved teacher. Without Coach Hadley’s encouragement and support, I would never have become one of the school’s highest-profile athletes. On the other hand, considering his behavior at times, I feel it is right that Rosemead has suspended him. It is the proper course to take.

  “You weren’t playing your best tennis today,” Edie says with a sour look when we come off the court.

  “I’m sorry. This Bianca Stein news has really thrown me for a loop.”

  Edie begins toweling herself down. “The mind game is half the battle, Bubble. If you can’t handle that, then she’s already won.”

  I zip up my racket miserably.

  “Hey,” says Edie gently, drawing the towel around the back of her neck. “It’s okay. You’re in shock, that’s all. How about you come round to my place tonight and we can… debrief?” Holding my gaze, she presses the towel down the front of her T-shirt and across.

  “I’d love to,” I say, fumbling with the lid of my ball canister. “But I can’t. I know Tuesday is our night, but I promised Arthur I’d go with him to see a movie. His band members have canceled practice because of some concert they have tickets to, and he’s still down about this girl who dumped him. Could we reschedule?”

  “Oh,” says Edie, scrunching her towel into a tight ball.

  There is nothing I hate more than upsetting Edie. I obviously haven’t given her a clear enough picture of the situation. “I really would love to, but Arthur is a mess. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

  “Really, that’s fine.” Edie shoves the towel into her bag. “I just thought. Given it’s been a while since we’ve spent time together.” The bag lands on her shoulder with a thud. She starts striding toward the gate.

  “I thought you’d be preparing for your public speaking competition,” I call out.

  Edie turns around slowly.

  “I thought tomorrow night, when it’s over…”

  “The thing is,” Edie says, walking back again. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, I could use your help with my SpeakOut prep.”

  This is a surprise. “But what about the ideas I already gave you?”

  “They were great, really great,” says Edie, suddenly enthusiastic. “I just need a bit of help fleshing them out, that’s all. You know, like you’ve done before.”

  I blink. “You mean the debate card thing?”

  “Exactly!”

  The “debate card thing” I do for Edie is to set out each of the speech points on separate numbered cards. Beneath each point I write a list of subpoints that she can use to expand upon her main point. It is a heck of a lot of work, but it helps her tremendously.

  I think about Arthur. He really is grieving over this girl. Last night I found him watching Beauty and the Beast, and he is strictly a horror movie man. That’s when I decided to take him to the Wes Craven retrospective at the Verona. I know how much he is looking forward to it.

  Edie looks at me hopefully. She has put her hair up in a loose bun and strands are playing about her ears. “Come on,” she urges. “You’re my lucky charm, you know.”

  She is so sweet. I was late to practice and played so badly. I have to make it up to her. Besides, what kind of a person says no when her girlfriend needs her help?

  “Let me see if I can catch Arthur before he leaves the house,” I say, pulling out my phone.

  “Thanks, Bubble, I knew you’d come through.” She begins jogging backward to the gate. “Meet you at the Lexus.”

  Arthur answers on the second ring. “You’re canceling, aren’t you?”

  His voice, sounding terribly far away, echoes down the line. “Where are you?” I ask.

  “Where are you?”

  “At the courts. I’m about to leave.”

  “To meet me at the movies?”

  “Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry. No. Are you in the kitchen? Is that why the sound is so hollow?”

  “The bathroom.”

  “What are you doing in there?”

  There is a pause. “Having a bath?”

  Arthur only ever showers. In a flash I see him lying there, his head lolling against the porcelain, a razor floating in the water, blood running from his arms. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

  “What? No!” He laughs. “I’m not actually in the bath.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “You don’t want to know, Harri, believe me. Why aren’t we going to the movies?”

  I pause guiltily. “Something’s come up.”

  “I see.” He sounds very unimpressed.

  “We could always go tomorrow,” I venture.

  “You mean tomorrow as in I’m-getting-two-teeth-wrenched-out-of-my-head tomorrow?”

  Oh dear. I had forgotten about Arthur’s teeth. Our father has diagnosed a crowded mouth and is pulling them himself. Arthur will be spending the night on the couch with an icepack strapped to his head. “Then can I cheer you up sometime on Saturday?”

  My brother grunts. “I don’t know. Do you think you’ll be able to slot me in?” he says sarcastically.

  “Come off it, Arthur,” I say, irritated. “I’ve never known you to be in such a mood. This Candice girl wasn’t all that, you know.”

  “Sorry.” He is clearly far from it. “How could I forget? How could anyone, ever, be as perfect as Edie?”

  “Oh, Arthur.”

  “You’re not writing another speech for her, are you? One where you give her all the material and she takes all the credit? I knew it was a bad idea for you to give up debate.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Arthur sighs. “You gave it up so you could focus on tennis. Whereas Edie gets to do well at tennis and her public speaking because she makes you do all the work.”

  I clear my throat. “Look, I know you’re very miserable, but it’s no reason to lash out at Edie or me. I’m just trying to help. Anyway, tennis isn’t the only reason I gave up debate. I’m also chair of the Formal Committee. It’s a big responsibility. There is a venue to organize, not to mention tables, music, catering… Arthur? Are you still there?”

  At Arthur’s end something has been draped across the receiver. I hear the muffled sound of flushing water. A second later my brother is back on the line.

  “I think I missed most of that,” he says.

  “I was just saying—oh, never mind. Come on. Please say yes to Saturday.”

  “All right,” he grumbles.

  “Good, then.” I recover my jovial voice. “If you see Mum or Dad, tell them I’ll be home around eleven.”

  “Since when do they care whether we’re home or not?”

  “Just t
ell them anyway.”

  We hang up. I walk quickly toward the car park. I don’t want to keep Edie waiting. She gets in such a bad mood when she has to wait.

  chapter 9

  WILL

  It’s Sunday night. Mum is on the couch watching the news, trying to pretend she doesn’t have a date. I know she has a date because she has her bathrobe on, which she only wears for two reasons: when she’s about to have an actual bath (which happens roughly three times a year; showers are more her thing) and when she’s pretending she doesn’t have a date.

  Before a date, my mother swans about doing ordinary things like watching the news or picking dust off chair legs or repairing wall cavities with polyfiller. Sometimes she’ll even make the two of us an early dinner and mime eating it in front of me, chopping things up with her knife and fork, prodding food around the plate, and making “mmm” noises. Then surprise, surprise, the doorbell will ring, and she’ll drop the bathrobe to reveal a glamorous outfit while slipping into a pair of three-inch heels.

  “I’m just off to a movie with Jen,” she’ll call from the hallway, blocking my view of the open door.

  Jen is her sister. Who hates movies.

  “Hi, Graham,” I’ll call out.

  “Um. Hi, Will,” Graham, on the doorstep, will call back.

  The whole masquerade has become its own pathetic ritual.

  I flop onto the couch beside her. “Nice bathrobe.”

  “Don’t you have homework to do?”

  “I’m doing so well my teachers gave me the weekend off.”

  “So you’ve finished your major work as well, I take it? I’d love to see it.”

  “I’m just waiting for the paint to dry. It’ll be ready in an hour. You’ll be around then to look at it, won’t you?”

  Mum is silent.

  I victory punch a cushion.

  Don’t think I’m blind to the fact that Mum’s whole no-date masquerade is entirely for my benefit. I get that it’s related to the first time Graham picked her up for dinner and I threw a frying pan in the vicinity of his leg. I wasn’t aiming to hit him. I am not a monster. I was just a bit reckless in letting the frying pan slip out of my hand while pirouetting on the linoleum.

  Mum slides a piece of paper off the side table. “Do you know anything about this? It came in the mail from the school.” She holds it up.

  I glance at it. “Looks like an invitation to another fund-raising night,” I say. “What is it this time? A two-hundred-dollar-a-ticket karaoke night to raise money for another state-of-the-art science lab? Or a three-hundred-dollar-a-ticket medieval paintball weekend to buy Rosemead a fleet of racing yachts?”

  “A cabaret-themed dinner,” Mum says. “For another swimming pool, it says here. You know, I wouldn’t mind going to at least one of these things before you leave school, if only to see what they’re like.” She sounds wistful.

  I level a stare at her. “Except you’d need to sell a kidney to afford it. Seriously, Mum. You pay enough in fees as it is.”

  Mum sighs and folds up the flyer. We turn back to the news.

  The evening bulletin is full of tragedy, as usual. New South Wales has lost the State of Origin in rugby again. A federal politician has been caught emerging from a sex club. A breakfast television host has worn a revealing dress to an awards ceremony.

  After those headlines the real news starts. There’s a report on the aftermath of a recent earthquake in Nepal, with shots of flattened villages and teeming hospitals. Apparently foreign aid has been slow to arrive. First world governments are such jerks.

  If that wasn’t cheery enough, the latest plane crash story comes on. This one’s been running for over a week now. They show the footage of the crash scene again: a rescue worker picking up a cabin bag from the rubble and dusting it off to reveal a Disney character, a close-up of a dead passenger’s passport open to the photo page.

  It’s the passport photo that brings home the human tragedy and makes my tongue turn as dry as chalk.

  The head shot stares out grimly as if she knew all along what would happen. You think your life is the worst? Think again, says her face.

  My heart starts up a crazy beat.

  “You don’t need to watch this.” Mum looks worried.

  “It’s not as if it didn’t happen just because I’m not watching,” I say, swallowing.

  “But maybe you’ll think about it less.”

  “It’s research. It’s the topic of my major work.”

  “You mean the one you finished tonight and therefore no longer need to research?” She readjusts her robe with a small smile, like the one she gets when she beats me at canasta.

  As the news story cuts to a scene of distressed relatives crying at an airport, the phone rings in the kitchen. “Why don’t you answer that? It could be Nat.” Mum prods my arm when I don’t respond.

  “Maybe it’s Graham calling to say he’ll be late.”

  “Late for what?”

  You have to admire her commitment to the ruse. I stand up and walk to the phone.

  “How are you, Will?” says my father down the line.

  Damn. “Couldn’t be better.”

  Dad laughs in an overly cheery way. “That bad, huh? It’s horrible to hear your voice.”

  “It’s fabulous to hear yours.”

  The worst thing about these calls is how upbeat Dad is. I prefer the way he was before he left us for Naomi: suavely dismissive with a misanthropic edge. Pre-Naomi, Dad loved nothing more than ripping to shreds the latest exhibition of some poor emerging artist over a bottle of Scotch.

  “How are you doing at that school your mother insisted she spend all her life savings to send you to?”

  Dad hates Rosemead almost as much as I do. It’s been a long-standing theme in arguments between my parents, even before they split. Mum’s position is that schools like Rosemead guarantee a good education and opportunities, whereas Dad has always said they’re a waste of money and breed a “dangerous elitism.”

  Whenever they used to have this argument, I wholeheartedly agreed with him. I still do. But then Perth happened, and I fell out with Dad, and leaving my old school for Rosemead after year nine like Mum wanted suddenly seemed like a good option. It was a way of getting back at Dad, for starters. If I’m honest, it was a way of solving some other problems I was having, too.

  “Oh, you know. Topping all the classes. Winning all the awards. Same old,” I tell Dad.

  He pauses. “And on the friend front?”

  I clear my throat. “Couldn’t be better. Just last week I won the Most Popular Kid in Class trophy. Matter of fact, I’m polishing it up right now.” I make a noise like I’m hocking a ball of spit into a handkerchief.

  “Look, I was thinking about something that would really suck,” Dad says.

  “Breastfeeding babies really suck. Was that what you were thinking about?”

  “What would you say about a visit to Perth next month?”

  “At what point between me being born and you moving to Perth did you forget everything about me?” I say, and hang up.

  Okay, I don’t hang up. I want to hang up. However, hearing Dad’s breath on the line, with its echo of desperate cheeriness, I can’t quite bring myself to do it. But I don’t say anything for a really long time, and it’s a very uncomfortable silence.

  Instead I wait for Dad to say something else. He doesn’t say anything. He’s still there, though. There, in Perth. Not here in our microscopic unit, where the shelf above the fridge holds his half-empty Johnnie Walker bottle even though he’s never lived here and where his Woody Allen movies are lined up in their anniversary box set on the bookshelf.

  The box set makes me think of something.

  “Hey, Dad?”

  “No, Will?”

  “Remember that movie you made me watch the year before last, the one about the guy who finds out his whole life is a hoax?”

  “I forget it in vivid detail.”

  “Do you know any movies th
at work the other way around?”

  The doorbell rings. Mum squeezes past me to grab her purse from the kitchen counter. Her bathrobe is off, revealing a green dress I’ve never seen before, which she’s matched with a pair of extremely high platforms. I put a hand to my mouth in a performance of acute surprise. She squeezes back, blowing silent kisses in my direction, then pulls the front door closed behind her.

  “Movies that work the other way around? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “A movie where it’s not the world that’s the hoax, it’s the person who’s the hoax.”

  “A movie about a person who isn’t real?”

  “That’s it.”

  Dad breathes into the phone. “What about Victor Victoria? Julie Andrews pretends to be a man to land a gig as a female impersonator.”

  He isn’t getting it. “I’m talking about films with characters that don’t actually exist.”

  “I can’t think of any films, but remember Mr. Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street?”

  I snort. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  Dad pauses. “Have I ever told you about Nat Tate?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  At the other end of the line I hear a fridge door open and the rattle of an ice tray. “Nat Tate was an American abstract expressionist who committed suicide by jumping off the Staten Island ferry,” says Dad. “Only he wasn’t. And he didn’t.”

  “Huh?”

  Ice hits the bottom of a glass. “He was pure fiction.” The fake cheeriness is gone; he’s genuinely happy now that he’s managed to shift the conversation from film to visual art. “Nat Tate never actually existed. David Bowie—you know, who sang ‘Space Oddity’?”

  “The ‘Ground Control to Major Tom’ song that was on your fortieth birthday party playlist?”

  “That’s the one. Bowie and a British author called William Boyd made Tate up. They published his biography in the late nineties and fooled the New York art world into believing he was an actual artist. They had quotes from famous people who claimed to have met him, reproductions of his surviving paintings, even photographs of him and his family.”