Amelia Westlake Was Never Here

by Erin Gough

  I bat her away. “Get. Off. Me.”

  Nat grabs at my left sleeve and yanks it up my arm. She lunges for my right sleeve and wrestles it up past my elbow. There, in plain sight, is my pus-stained bandage. “Did you have a run-in with a glass window recently, by any chance, Will?”

  “I—um—it’s—” I say.

  Harriet groans.

  “Gotcha,” Nat whispers.

  In the Prices’ ballroom-sized lounge room we each sit on our own pristine cream leather couch.

  “Coffee, anyone?” Arthur asks.

  “No, thanks,” Harriet says.

  “How about tea?”

  “We’re fine, babe,” says Nat.

  “We’ve got herbal, black, green, rooibos—”

  “No,” say the three of us together.

  “I’ll leave you to it.” He gets up quickly.

  We watch him go. For a long moment, none of us says anything. What’s left to say? Nat has worked it out. This is the mission she’s been on since the beginning.

  “Congratulations,” I say at last. “You may as well write up your scoop. Get Croon on speed dial. Ruin two lives.”

  Nat regards me, her expression serious. “Don’t worry, I am well aware of the consequences of going public with this.”

  “Which in your professional opinion are what, exactly?” Harriet asks nervously.

  “Will broke into the school and damaged school property. Which means, if I publish, she gets expelled.”

  She’s right. It’s that simple. Rosemead will have no qualms in taking that type of action against me. I’m an average student. I have no special skills. I have a long history of making trouble. Croon has already threatened me with expulsion. What does she care that we have only sixteen weeks until final exams and that expelling me now could have a significant impact on my future after school?

  It’s strange. I’ve been looking for ways to ditch Rosemead since I started. But now that it’s a real possibility, the thought of what it means, including how my mother will react, makes me want to bring up my breakfast.

  “And me?” Harriet asks impatiently.

  “You’ll be fine,” Nat says, giving a dismissive wave of her hand. “They’ll protect you because they need you. You’re Rosemead’s greatest hope for winning Tawney, and you’ll bring up our year’s average exam results substantially. If they can paint Will as the ringleader, you could get off virtually scot-free. Which is completely unfair, obviously.”

  “Unfair enough to make you reconsider going public?” I ask. I can’t believe how long she is dragging this out.

  Nat runs a stiff hand through her hair. “We’ve just been through this. What sort of a journalist would I be if I let my friendship with you get in the way of breaking a story? Besides, you know my deal with Croon. This is my chance to hang on to the paper.”

  “It seems you’re in a bit of a quandary,” Harriet says.

  “The problem I have is this,” says Nat, swinging her feet onto the couch. “The whole point of journalism—for me, anyway—is to expose the truth.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ in that sentence,” Harriet says, hope in her voice.

  “But,” Nat says obligingly, “I have good reasons for believing that this particular exposé will have the opposite effect.”

  I glance at Harriet, then at Nat. “How come?”

  Nat sighs. “Because I have doubts about Croon’s motive for wanting to know who’s behind Amelia Westlake. What if it’s less about finding out the truth about Hadley, and more about shutting down the hoax and sweeping everything it’s drawing attention to under the carpet? Everyone knows sexual harassment by teachers is notoriously underreported. If Croon was acting responsibly, she’d make some proactive investigations.”

  Harriet bites her lip. “You can’t possibly be saying Principal Croon’s motive is to protect Coach Hadley.”

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” Nat says. “Protecting him is the same as protecting herself. Hadley is one of the greatest assets the school has. Parents enroll their kids on the basis of his medal-winning reputation. And Amelia Westlake has been causing Croon all sorts of headaches. That computer donation debacle, for example. And the robotics competition screwup on live television. Of course, I don’t know for sure that I’m right about this. It’s no more than a gut feeling. That said, I can’t help but feel that by handing you over to Croon, I’d be playing into her hands. There is shit going down at Rosemead that needs exposing. And as much as I hate to admit it, Amelia Westlake is the only one making any progress on that front.”

  We are silent for a moment.

  “So what are you going to do?” Harriet finally asks.

  “Hold off saying anything to anyone on one condition.”

  “Being?”

  Nat looks at us both. “I want in.”

  chapter 26

  HARRIET

  Involving Natasha Nguyen in Amelia Westlake is obviously a terrible idea. Will tries to talk her out of it immediately. “You can’t be serious. What if we get caught? What about your future journalism career?”

  “As long as I don’t do anything like breaking into school property, for example”—Natasha looks pointedly at Will—“Croon’s hands are tied. The way I calculate it, punishing me means punishing Harriet, and she’ll avoid that at all costs.”

  Will appears as conflicted as I feel. She meets my eye, and I shrug helplessly. I don’t see that we have a choice.

  Will sets her jaw. “If you’re in, then we need your help with something.”

  “Shoot,” says Natasha.

  Will glances at me again. “We have a plan to leverage Rosemead’s newsletter mailing list to raise money for charity.”

  Natasha nods slowly and grins. “I like it. Talk me through the details.”

  “We want to hijack the Buy a Tile fund-raising envelopes,” Will says.

  The three of us draw into a huddle. “We want to get them printed with the details of a charity, so that the money goes to the charity instead of the school.”

  “Which charity?”

  “The Fund for Australian Women. It helps victims of domestic violence.”

  Natasha’s grin fades.

  “What?” Will asks.

  Natasha breaks the huddle and falls back against the couch cushions. “Fighting domestic violence is a worthy cause, but I’ve heard some less-than-positive things about Australian Women. Apparently, they have a pretty exclusive idea about who they consider to be ‘Australian.’”

  This is extremely alarming news. “What have you heard?” I ask.

  “That they’ve turned away women who are on temporary immigration visas.”

  I look at Will. From the panic on her face she is clearly as concerned as I am. “But they’re the ones who often need the most help!” I cry. I know this for a fact. It was on Four Corners. “Especially if they’re relying on a violent partner to gain citizenship. Did you know about this, Will?”

  “I had no idea,” she admits. “I chose the charity for its initials, to be honest.” She wipes her face with a hand.

  I wish we had done more research. It’s just as well we have Natasha to consult. “Can you think of an alternative charity?” I ask her.

  “How about the Domestic Violence Australia Network?” she suggests. “They have a special service to assist women who need help with immigration issues. And a lot of other culturally specific services, too.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I say. Thank God she’s on board.

  Natasha nods. “Good. Now, what part of the plan did you need my help with?”

  I explain that we need to get in touch with the company that prints the envelopes for the newsletter mailing and that we’re hoping she could give us the name of her contact at Parsons Printing.

  Natasha looks confused. “I don’t get it. What does Parsons have to do with this?”

  Will and I look at each other. “We assumed that since they print the Messenger, they must print the school newsletter as well,�
� Will says.

  Natasha shakes her head. “You assumed wrongly. I arranged the printing deal with Parsons for the Messenger myself. We’re the only school group that uses them. I know that for a fact.”

  So the ruse of Arthur’s concert, the newsroom break-in, and Will’s arm injury were all for nothing.

  “Fuck,” Will says with feeling. “Then we need another plan.”

  “I reckon we get Liz involved” is Natasha’s first suggestion when we meet at the Messenger newsroom on the first day back at school. She pitches a handful of pistachio shells toward an open window and misses.

  “Liz Newcomb?” I am standing in the middle of the room, making sure not to accidentally touch anything. The place smells of rotting food and dead cockroaches. I swear the couch Will is sitting on is more moldy pastry than upholstery. “We have enough people involved already,” I say firmly.

  Natasha cracks open another nut and chews it with her mouth open. “Liz is a huge fan of Amelia Westlake, and more importantly, as Tawney Shield captain she’s got a key to the gym staff room. If Hadley’s organizing the fund-raising, he’s bound to have the printer’s contact details in there.”

  I shake my head. “No way. Not Liz Newcomb.”

  Will, who has been staring at me on and off in the most distracting way for the last ten minutes, raises an eyebrow.

  Natasha grabs another handful of pistachios. “Why not? We don’t have to tell her who’s behind Amelia. We can just recruit her on Amelia’s behalf.”

  “We simply can’t trust her,” I say, turning to Will for help.

  Will bites into a pistachio. “I agree with Nat,” she says.

  Traitor.

  “How else are we going to get into the gym staff room?” Will continues. “It will be easy. We get Liz to leave the key for us somewhere. She doesn’t even have to know who we are.”

  “It’s too risky.” I fold my arms.

  “Come on, Harriet,” Will coaxes. “The only reason you don’t like Liz is because they made her the Tawney team captain over you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It really is.”

  Natasha is watching us like a line umpire at the net. “Are you sure you guys aren’t together? You’re definitely bickering like a couple.”

  Will glances at me and I look away quickly. “Fine,” I say. “Ask Liz Newcomb. See if I care.”

  At the end of lunch, Principal Croon accosts me beside the filtered-water fountain. “Harriet! A brief word?”

  Her office is as tasteful as I remember: a large bay window, cucumber-green walls, and the scent of fresh potpourri. On the floor sprawls a mammoth rug, rumored to have come from an Ottoman palace.

  “First of all, I wanted to thank you, Harriet, for all the hard work you are doing this year.” Principal Croon’s teeth flash. “It really is extraordinary what you girls can achieve on top of your study.” She looks at me expectantly.

  “Oh. Thank you.” On the sideboard, an orchid’s slim stalk is bent forward as if listening to us talk, and with the recent upgrades to Rosemead’s security features, maybe it is.

  Principal Croon folds her hands together, her burgundy nails shining like blood. “I have high hopes for you at Tawney this year, of course. You and Edie Marshall winning the doubles would be such a combined coup for Rosemead and Blessingwood. So good for morale. And we’re incredibly grateful that on top of all this you’ve managed to keep a hand in organizing fund-raisers and events as well.”

  You have to admire the woman. She runs the whole of Rosemead, dresses like royalty, and still has time for tête-à-têtes with students.

  “I understand you are chair of the Formal Committee.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Dish is a fine choice of venue. It is in such a beautiful spot, right there on the harbor. And I understand you’ve organized buses to take guests there from Rosemead’s front gates?”

  “I have.”

  “A very sensible arrangement. I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful. I for one am very much looking forward to making the welcome speech on the night.” She sits back in her chair. Abruptly, her smile vanishes. “There is one thing I want to make clear.”

  I walk back from Principal Croon’s office with a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I am not even sure what just happened in there. The conversation I was apparently a part of does not seem remotely possible.

  I drift through the rose garden, only half-aware of the climbing Iceberg that is about to flower, and hardly noticing the Blushing Lucy in full bloom. I am preoccupied by a memory of the first time I saw Principal Croon.

  She was standing at the top of Rosemead’s main staircase, poised and graceful, as a sea of students filed past. I watched her meet a young girl’s eye and smile at her. How I wished to be that girl! To be in the orbit of this majestic figure who seemed more powerful, even, than the stone lions that flanked her, more luminous than the sun-kissed sandstone.

  It is a memory that has stayed with me through the years, complete with the orchestra of emotion I felt at the time: the desire to belong to the world she embodied, the hope that one day I would be a part of it, the deep admiration for the woman herself. Now the whole ensemble falters.

  Did she really just say what I heard her say? Could Will and Natasha be right about her after all?

  Will. I feel a sudden need to talk to her, which makes absolutely no sense. This has nothing to do with Will.

  All right, that isn’t strictly true. She is one of the few people in our year whom Principal Croon’s pronouncement is relevant to—she and possibly Natasha. But the person it is my duty to tell before anyone else is Edie.

  Edie is due for dinner at six. When she arrives, my mother, whose clinic appointments finished early, shows her to my room. But rather than returning promptly to her study as she usually does after an interruption, she hovers in the hallway. “It really is so wonderful to see you again, Edie.”

  “You too, Mrs. Price. That’s a beautiful shirt you have on.”

  “This old thing?”

  “And where did you get those shoes?”

  My mother presses a hand on Edie’s arm. “You darling. I am so pleased you and Harriet are friends.”

  “If you don’t mind, Mother…” I say, irritated.

  Edie and my mother look at me with surprise.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  Edie steps past my mother into my room. She turns around. “Will I be seeing you before Harriet’s formal, Mrs. Price?”

  My mother looks confused. “You’re going to Harriet’s formal?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh,” says my mother, fiddling with a button on her sleeve. “I’m not sure we’ll be around that evening.… Anyway. I’ll leave you girls to it.” Without looking at me, she gives Edie another brief smile and closes the door.

  Edie groans. “I thought she was never going to leave. It’s been too long, Bubble. I’ve missed you.” She reaches out a hand and pulls me onto the bed. I feel the warm press of her hip. I yelp.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Something’s digging into my side. Hang on.” Freeing myself from Edie’s grip, I empty my pockets onto the bedside table. “I had a ballpoint pen in there. Silly me. It’s out now.”

  “Are you ready, then?”

  “Ready.”

  We resume.

  We’ve been kissing for a few minutes when Edie stops. “Are you okay, Harriet?”

  “What do you mean? I’m fine.” I am trying very hard to put my conversation with Principal Croon out of my mind. “I’m enjoying myself,” I assure Edie. “Us, I mean. This. Let’s keep going.”

  As Edie descends on my neck, I do what I sometimes do on these occasions to keep focus, which is to imagine that I am Ryan Gosling and Edie is Emma Stone.

  For a while it works well. I have a firm picture of myself as Ryan lifting Emma in my muscular arms before pulling her to my toned chest. Then the picture wavers. It
is not Emma Stone I am pretending to be with, but Will Everhart. It is Will’s pressing hands that are getting me through this, Will’s bare neck, Will’s mouth.

  Oh—her mouth.

  I sit up.

  “What is it?” Edie asks in an exasperated tone.

  I let my head drop. “I’ve got to tell you something.”

  Edie raises herself up on one elbow. “You’re behind on my National Public Speaking notes, aren’t you?”

  The notes for her competition—I’d completely forgotten about them. The topic is “poverty is a state of mind,” and I promised I’d have a first draft to her by the weekend. I shake my head. “It’s not that.”

  “What, then?”

  I inhale. “Principal Croon called me in today. She told me I can’t invite you to our formal.” The words catch in my throat like a hook.

  Edie looks at me blankly. Then she gets it. She laughs. “Are you serious?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “Apparently not.”

  Edie combs her fingers through her hair. “What’s the story? Not even Blessingwood is that conservative, and we’re as stuffy as it gets. And it’s not like Rosemead is a religious school.”

  “Apparently it has something to do with one of the school board members,” I say. A sudden anger flames inside me. “He’s the head of a ‘family-oriented’ association. He also happens to be a big financial supporter of Rosemead. And so the board passed a motion.”

  “This is unbelievable.”

  “Principal Croon has asked me to speak to everyone individually—all of us in our year who she thinks might bring girlfriends, that is.”

  “How many people is that?”

  “Not many, as far as I’m aware,” I say. “Two. Maybe three.” Although when I consider it, Natasha will probably bring Arthur. And I have no idea what Will is doing.

  I taste salt in my throat. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

  “Bad hay fever? Here, blow on this.” Edie digs into her blazer pocket and hands me a crumpled paper napkin.