Amelia Westlake Was Never Here

by Erin Gough

  “Legal studies. It’s in Room Four-Oh-Six, just down the hallway.”

  She squints at me with deep suspicion before finally letting me pass.

  It’s clear that the school staff have their eyes on me. The number of times Fowler, Hadley, or Davids has struck up a random conversation with me in the corridors lately has put me on notice of that. I half expect to be called up to Croon’s office, but she seems content to delegate her harassment of me to her minions.

  And why not? She hasn’t a clue what’s about to go down. As far as she’s concerned, the formal is going ahead precisely as Harriet and her committee originally planned: with a classy dinner dance at Dish restaurant at Circular Quay, punctuated by Croon’s welcome speech and a speech by the chair of the board at eight o’clock. No girlfriends allowed.

  On Friday morning before first period, Harriet ushers me into an empty classroom. I can hardly believe my luck.

  “I wanted you to know I’ve reserved a place for you on one of the formal buses,” she says when the door’s closed. “They’re leaving from the school gates at six.”

  More formal talk—how very disappointing. “I don’t know. I think it would be better if I got Mum to drive me. It’s probably best I don’t draw attention to myself.”

  “Nobody even knows you’re banned,” Harriet whispers, keeping an eye on the door. “Except the teachers, and they’re not coming on the buses. They’ll be making their own way there. Or at least they think they will be. You know what I mean.”

  I do, but it’s not what I mean. I’m the only person who doesn’t have a date. That fact alone means I’ll stick out.

  “You know, I’m pretty sure Janine Richter is going by herself,” Harriet says nonchalantly, as if I’ve spoken the thought aloud. “And Kimberley Kitchener too, come to think of it. I had two tables with odd numbers, and that’s why. And Arthur won’t be coming on the bus with Nat.” She lowers her voice. “He’ll already be there, of course.”

  I had forgotten that part of the plan. It means I can sit with Nat on the bus. Then again, given she’s been a cow to me since the start of term, she might not want to share a seat. “I don’t know, Harriet.…”

  “But if you’re not on the bus, you won’t see the whole thing play out,” Harriet says.

  Do I detect an amount of desperation in her voice?

  In that moment, at least, it makes me believe that she truly wants me there. So I agree.

  As it turns out, it is not my single status that most sets me apart from the crowd mingling at the school gates at six o’clock on Friday—it’s my outfit. Block color dresses, pearl necklaces and kitten heels dominate, like I’ve somehow stumbled into the ballroom at a country club. My leopard-skin bolero, black bodysuit, and high-waisted, three-quarter-length pants, paired with my favorite Doc Martens, raise more than a few eyebrows.

  I see Edie in the chaos before I see Harriet. Impeccably groomed and perfectly postured, she’s holding a silver purse in one hand and smoothing her hair with the other. She glances impatiently into the crowd. I follow the direction of her gaze. That’s when I see Harriet and stop breathing. Her dress is silver to Edie’s complementary royal blue, and there’s something horrifying about that, but the fact remains: She looks beautiful.

  I tear my gaze away and turn my attention to the boys. They are pretty much interchangeable in their penguin suits, with the exception of Nakita Wallis’s date, who is sporting a Mohawk, a diamond earring, and glittery nail polish. Nakita has on wide pants, a blousy shirt with suspenders, and a necktie. Thank the lord for Nakita. We exchange a somber nod of solidarity.

  The bus ride itself is horrendous. Not only is it noisy, sweaty, and crowded, but Nat hardly speaks to me. I even ask her boring Arthur-related questions to get her talking, but she replies in monosyllables. I compliment the knee-high lace-ups she’s wearing with her otherwise ordinary short black dress, and the only response she gives me is a grunt.

  But it’s worth enduring every minute for the moment when the buses zoom past the Circular Quay turnoff and head into the Rocks, the historic district near the Sydney Harbor Bridge.

  Beth Tupman is the first to notice. “Hey!” she says loudly. “I think we were supposed to turn left back there. Harriet! We’re going the wrong way.”

  Harriet looks so genuinely surprised that I’m almost convinced by it, even though I know better.

  The chatter quiets down. Everyone watches as Harriet staggers up the aisle in her ridiculous heels and makes a show of speaking to the bus driver.

  She staggers back. “Apparently there are road closures,” she announces. “We have to go the long way round.”

  This satisfies the passengers. Fools. They return to their ear-splitting conversations. The bus winds its way deep into the Rocks. The noise only settles down again when we screech to a stop in a narrow lane and the doors wheeze open.

  “This isn’t Dish,” says Beth.

  “No, but look.” Eileen Sarmiento points.

  Some of the girls start shrieking.

  There are so many people craning to look through the windows that it’s not until I’ve pushed my way down the aisle, out the door, and into the cool air that I get to see it for myself.

  I sense someone hovering next to me. “Nice,” I say under my breath.

  “I told you the bus trip would be worth it,” murmurs Harriet.

  Smoothly she moves away into the crowd, slipping between guests to follow Edie through a timber doorway. Above it is the enormous banner that’s been getting all the attention, lit up by festoon lights.

  AMELIA WESTLAKE WELCOMES YOU TO

  ROSEMEAD’S YEAR-TWELVE FORMAL

  chapter 30

  HARRIET

  The whole thing was relatively straightforward to organize: a call to Dish to cancel our booking, a chat with the Sphere team, a word with their friend who cooks at Deep Fryer, and a visit to the Parnells, the family whose daughter, Lucy, I tutored in math. Fortunately for me, not only did Lucy do extremely well on her recent trigonometry tests, but her parents own (in addition to the Heritage Resort and three restaurants) this club in the Rocks: a belowground space with exposed beams and dripping sandstone walls. They let me hire it for a discount, which makes up for the cost of the hefty deposit I lost to Dish. I even had enough spare to pay the Deep Fryer team for the catering.

  Once those details were settled, all that was left was to arrange for Liz Newcomb to help with the decorations and let the bus company know about the slight amendment to the route.

  The teachers who planned to attend have no idea where we are. Principal Croon and her friend, Mr. Chair of the Board, are similarly none the wiser. Which means they won’t be making a welcome speech. They won’t be attending this year’s formal. We won’t be enforcing their ridiculous rule.

  And in their place, Will gets to be here after all.

  “This place rocks out,” says Eileen Sarmiento as she comes through the door beside me.

  “I know, right?” says Daphne Chee behind us. “It’s, like, way cooler than the place we originally booked. Go Amelia Westlake.”

  “Yeah, go Amelia. What a babe,” Inez Jurich chimes in.

  Arthur, beside the stage, waves me over. “Hey, Harri, where can I find another one of these?” Dressed in his army pants and leather jacket, he is dangling a power cord in the air. Glitter shimmers on his cheekbones in the dim, yellow-tinted light.

  “Check the greenroom.”

  Arthur cups a hand to his ear.

  “THE GREENROOM,” I repeat. The music has already started—a soundtrack Nat put together over the weekend. She promised me there wouldn’t be too much heavy rock, and so far the music is suitable, but I make a mental note to talk to her about the volume.

  “I saw some more power cords on the other side of the stage.” Liz Newcomb is beside me. “You want me to get them?”

  “Oh! That would be great.”

  She races off. I must say, Liz has proven herself to be extremely competent duri
ng these past few weeks. And sensible. And friendly. I have definitely been underestimating her.

  “This is amazing,” says Edie when I find her ten minutes later at the bar. She is attempting to eat a Deep Fryer burger from a paper plate with a relative amount of decorum. By now, the club is almost at capacity. People are eating, drinking, and mingling in groups. Nat’s soundtrack is getting dancier, preparing the crowd for the live act soon to appear onstage.

  “I was expecting a sit-down dinner, complete with fussy table settings and crappy top-forty hits. This may in fact be the coolest school formal in all of history.” Edie is clearly astonished. “You say one girl organized the whole thing? I thought you were organizing the formal, Harriet. Why have I never heard of this Amelia Westlake?”

  “That’s easy,” says Zara Long. She leans over the bar, where she is helping herself to another jug of sangria. “Amelia Westlake doesn’t exist.”

  It is Zara’s tone of complicity that fascinates me. I hardly know the girl, and yet here she is talking like she’s in on the whole thing.

  “She’s right,” I tell Edie, making an effort not to sound too proprietary. “Amelia Westlake is basically a made-up person.”

  Edie’s eyes widen. “You mean she’s a hoax?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What else has she done?”

  I pause. “The odd cartoon, I believe. A joke involving essay marks.”

  “I can’t believe you never told me about any of this. Really, Bubble. I know you loathe anything playful or political, but this is genius.”

  “I don’t loathe playful or political things.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  I turn.

  My heart quickens. It isn’t as if Will has even spent any money on her outfit—that is perfectly clear. Edie, by contrast, has on the stunning dress we both agreed she would buy. She looks lovely, but somehow Will, in her black bodysuit and high-waisted pants, looks—well, if not lovelier, exactly, then certainly more appealing.

  “And you are?” Edie interrupts, leaning over me to Will, her hand outstretched.

  Will ignores her and makes her way back into the crowd.

  “How rude.” Edie is about to say something else when Beth yanks at my arm.

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” Her voice is sharp with fury. “You could have told me from the start about James. I’ve just seen him kissing some guy beside the stage. Apparently they’re together. If I’d known I wasn’t in with a chance, I would have arranged a proper date for tonight weeks ago. Instead I’m lumped with Millie’s dopey brother.” She points to Kurt Levine, who is standing behind her struggling to remove his middle finger from the neck of a beer bottle.

  It takes me a minute to work out what Beth is talking about. Then I remember. I never shored up that introduction with James, Arthur’s keyboard player, as I promised I would. With all the drama, it slipped my mind.

  I say to Beth, “But I didn’t know about James!”

  Beth scowls. “Like I’m going to believe that. You lot always stick together.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  The high-pitched reverb of a microphone draws everyone’s attention to the stage. Arthur stands at the front, microphone cupped in hand, surveying the crowd. He looks amazing up there. In his makeup, under stage lights, my pale-skinned, bowlegged brother looks wiry in the best possible way. Even the airstrip on his scalp has a certain charm to it tonight.

  Seeing him standing there, the crowd begins to whistle and hoot. I try to ignore the bad energy zapping off Beth. With a deep breath, I take the atmosphere of the room into my lungs.

  At the foot of the stage, Natasha is taping the mike cords to the stands. Arthur gives her a wink.

  Beth leans toward me again. “Don’t tell me Ning Nong is bonking your brother!” she says with delighted disgust.

  I pretend I haven’t heard her. Then I change my mind. “Don’t call her that,” I hiss.

  She laughs. “What? Ning Nong?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Please don’t say it again. Ever.”

  Beth stops laughing. “What’s got into you?”

  I grit my teeth. “It’s a racist thing to say, Beth.”

  She says something that is impossible to hear above the noise.

  “What?”

  “I SAID YOU’RE NO FUN ANYMORE. I SAID I SOMETIMES FORGET WHY WE EVEN HANG OUT.”

  “IT’S NOT ABOUT FUN. IT’S ABOUT BEING A DECENT HUMAN BEING,” I shout back.

  Beth mutters something beneath the noise.

  The whistles die down.

  “Hi, everybody,” says Arthur as James and Bill take their places behind their instruments. “Thanks for having us. And on behalf of Amelia Westlake, WELCOME TO YOUR YEAR-TWELVE FORMAL.”

  The crowd explodes. Someone starts up a chant.

  “Amelia, Amelia, Amelia.”

  People join in. I look around, electrified. I try to spot Will among the sea of people, but I can’t see her anywhere.

  Arthur signals for everyone to quiet down.

  “We’ve got a very special set for you tonight.” Arthur paces the stage. “Those of you who know our music will know we’re rather fond of clashy, head-banging tunes.” He tilts his head coyly. “But we hear you guys like to dance.”

  “Hell, yeah!” calls someone from the crowd. Laughter erupts.

  “That’s why tonight we’re mixing things up a bit, with a very special guest. Where is he?” Arthur steps back and nods to someone offstage.

  I wonder who Arthur is talking about. He hasn’t mentioned a special guest to me.

  He steps forward again. “This guest of ours,” he continues, drawing out the suspense, “is a man of enormous talent. He’s played the Enmore. The ICC. The Opera House. When he heard about your situation, and how tonight’s venue change had been organized in protest against some narrow-minded wankers”—more predictable cheering—“he was especially keen to be involved. He is, after all, a man who believes in love in all its forms.”

  The crowd grows loud with chatter about who it could be.

  “May I present to you…” Arthur shouts above the noise. “The one. The only. Front man for Australia’s hottest hip-hop outfit, DOKTOR D.”

  Doktor D comes out to an explosion of hooting and whistling and runs up to James at the keyboard. Leaning over the instrument, one leg flipping theatrically in the air, he plants a kiss on James’s mouth. The crowd goes crazy, with the exception of Beth, who shouts in my ear: “That’s the guy I was talking about.”

  I’ve seen Doktor D perform in a lineup with the Sphere a couple of times, but as he comes toward the front and they begin to play, something about him strikes me. His costume looks a lot like the one that was sitting on the PAC storeroom shelf for all those months.

  But it’s more than that. I recognize the face behind the stage makeup. He looks familiar—not just from those previous gigs, but from somewhere else.

  By now he is rapping and the crowd is dancing. I register the lyrics and my spine tingles.

  “Come on.” It’s Edie, suddenly beside me. She pulls me by the hand. “Let’s dance.”

  I let her lead me onto the floor. This is the moment I’ve been dreaming of all year: the two of us dancing at my final-year formal. But as Edie puts her arms around me and Doktor D’s lyrics ring in my ears—

  Ameli ah / the fake ah / the ultimate rule break ah / I wouldn’t wanna cross her / coz I bet she’s got my numb bah / and she’ll wiggetty jizz / all over my fizz / ain’t no one who can take her

  —everything feels wrong.

  chapter 31

  WILL

  It’s Duncan. Nat’s coeditor aka slave-boy-slash-coffeemaker-come-spy. Acne-scarred, nearsighted Duncan, Rosemead’s low-key Edwin Street refugee—or hostage, depending on your point of view—rapping onstage like a king. I stare at his cavalry uniform and laugh out loud.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I yell in N
at’s ear.

  “Like it would have meant anything to you. What was the last album you bought? The Best of Adele?”

  Here it is again—Nat’s bitchy side.

  “Are you mad with me about something?”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she says, “Seems like Harriet’s having a fine old time.” She points to her and Edie on the dance floor together: model-thin Edie in her million-dollar dress grinding her hips against Harriet’s, and Harriet grinding back.

  My breath stalls.

  “Don’t tell me she’s been leading you on,” Nat says at my ear. “Being lied to feels pretty crap, doesn’t it?”

  I squint at her. “What are you implying?”

  Nat laughs angrily. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

  “What have I lied about?” I shout above the noise.

  Nat’s eyes widen. “What haven’t you lied about, Will?”

  I motion for her to follow me away from the dance floor and the speakers, into the alcove near the entrance, where it’s quieter. “What are you talking about?”

  Nat leans against the wall. “It’s not that I wish things could have worked out between us. We both know the chemistry wasn’t there. But I thought we were friends,” she says, her jaw tense. “Why didn’t you say something about your feelings for Harriet? Even when Duncan found you two together in the storeroom—”

  “Is that why you published the article? To get back at me for not telling you?”

  Nat doesn’t answer. “You still denied it. It wasn’t until you rammed into that bloody door, and you wanted Harriet, not me, at the hospital, that I knew for sure.”

  I gulp in air. I want to tell her I don’t care about Harriet. It would be easier. But it would also be another lie.

  Then I remember the surprise I felt the day I came across Nat in the Prices’ front garden. “How can you be angry when you didn’t tell me about Arthur?”

  At the mention of his name, Nat’s look softens for a moment. Then she reddens with fury. “Because you didn’t give me a chance! You weren’t returning my calls.”