Amelia Westlake Was Never Here

by Erin Gough

  Another five minutes pass. I wait for someone to crack. I know it won’t be Harriet or Nat. Both have too much at stake.

  As for everyone else, they each have some useful information that might get them out of the Assembly Hall. For example, the name of Friday night’s venue alone would be enough to lead Croon to the Parnell family, and a call to Mr. Parnell would surely lead straight to Harriet. And someone’s bound to make the connection between Harriet and the Sphere.

  To my increasing surprise, however, no one rises to the bait.

  When ten minutes have passed, it seems impossible that Croon hasn’t followed up her original threat with a single additional word. She’s proving herself to be sovereign of the psych-out. I feel a nearly overwhelming desire to shout something out, just to crack the silence.

  I resist. I can tell I’m not the only one struggling. Twenty minutes in, girls are clearing their throats and shifting in their chairs. Palmer Crichton is coughing as if she’s just developed tuberculosis.

  I use the time to turn Nat’s words over in my head. I don’t blame her for being angry. I would be, too, if she’d done the same to me. She’s right, of course, about everything. They loathed me at my old school.

  What a great job I did safeguarding myself against the same thing at Rosemead. Well played, idiot me.

  Friends don’t do that to friends. It’s a telling-off, yes. But it’s more than that. The words have a certain snappy ring to them, like the final line Nat always publishes in the Messenger.

  My mouth goes dry. It’s her sign-off line. That’s what it is. She’s signing off from our friendship.

  I nudge her.

  She doesn’t respond.

  To take my mind off Nat, I focus on the rest of the room. We’ve reached the half-hour mark and the noises have settled down, almost as if the year group has entered a sort of meditative state. I wonder how long Croon is planning to string this out for. Doesn’t she have principal stuff to get on with? If this goes on much longer, we’ll all miss our first class and people will start needing the bathroom. Soon after that it will be break, and hunger will come into play. Perhaps that’s what Croon is counting on.

  Another minute passes and another. We reach the fifty-minute mark. Break comes and goes. An hour and five. An hour and ten. Still nobody comes forward.

  I doubt Croon expected this kind of resilience. A giddy feeling rises in my chest, possibly from the realization that Nat is not going to forgive me, possibly a preliminary sign of starvation, or possibly something to do with the fact we’re reaching the point where the likelihood of someone saying something actually begins to decrease. The longer the collective spirit holds out—for that’s what appears to be in effect here, as crazy as it seems—the harder it will be to break that spirit, and the more likely Croon will have to start worrying about parents complaining of skipped classes and bladder damage.

  An hour and a half in, I can see girls trying to keep themselves awake. Some have actually nodded off. We’re home and hosed if we can make it to twelve thirty.

  And with that thought another follows: Harriet’s deadline. If anything is going to pressure her to confess, I realize, it’s that.

  For the last ninety minutes I’ve been avoiding looking in her direction. I didn’t trust that a single glance wouldn’t give the game away. Now I look.

  I can mainly just see the back of her and about a quarter of the side of her face, but it’s enough. Enough for my heart to swell in my rib cage. Enough to see how agitated she is. All the telltale signs are there: the foot-tapping, the wriggling, the obsessive glances at her watch. It makes sense. She’s caught between forfeiting her Tawney dreams if she doesn’t deliver those notes to Edie and, depending on how Croon decides to play things, potentially forfeiting everything else.

  I feel suddenly transposed, as if it’s me on the chopping block, not her. I make the calculations. She could probably reach Blessingwood Girls in twenty minutes. But I’m not sure how long she needs to prepare the notes themselves. No doubt she was counting on her free first period to finish them off.

  It’s 11:20 AM. Harriet clutches a hand to her breast. Her shoulders are rising and falling heavily.

  At 11:25 AM, her head lolls on one fist. She looks overcome with seasickness.

  At 11:27 AM, her head is buried in both hands, and I’m pretty sure what’s coming. She has set her own deadline and is working up the courage to meet it.

  I am under no illusion that if I confess now I will achieve little more than my expulsion at an inconveniently close time to my final exams. And, faced with the choice, I don’t want to do it. I’m mere months from the end of my time at Rosemead. I’m almost free of the place. I want to conquer Rosemead, not let Rosemead conquer me.

  But as 11:30 AM clicks over and Harriet presses her hands to the armrests, I jump from my seat anyway.

  Not for all the reasons I should, but for the single one I shouldn’t.

  Harriet turns at the sound. For a minute our eyes lock, and I can’t understand the confusion on her face.

  I didn’t mean to fall in love, but I did, and so being Harriet’s fall girl now makes a warped kind of sense.

  “It was me,” I call out, meeting Croon’s gaze. “I organized the formal on Friday night. All by myself. I’m Amelia Westlake.”

  chapter 36

  HARRIET

  Two rows behind me, Will has her eyes fixed on Principal Croon, like some deadly zoo animal that has jumped its enclosure. Half of the year group is staring at her, and the other half is staring at our principal, waiting to see what she will do.

  I cannot breathe. The breath I took before attempting to stand up is caught, midaction, in my throat.

  I know what this means. It means I can still win Tawney. I can pass my exams and graduate. The year can dance on just like it is supposed to, with everything in place.

  Everything except Will.

  “Thank you,” says Principal Croon, clearly not grateful at all. Relieved, maybe, that the morning’s ordeal is over. “I am disappointed, as I’m sure all your classmates are, that you have taken up”—she looks at her watch—“precisely two and a half hours of our day. But I’m glad you have finally come to your senses or what you have of them. Not that I’m at all surprised. Your track record proves you take far too much pleasure in disrupting the operations of this school.”

  I have never heard Principal Croon so angry.

  “It will be no trouble—in fact, I will take great pleasure,” she goes on, “in writing to your parents to say you are no longer welcome at Rosemead. It is the inevitable consequence of the disrespect you have demonstrated for this institution from day one.”

  I look up at Will, who stands with one hand on the back of her seat, withstanding the tirade. She looks as tired as I feel. Her hair falls, lopsided, across her face.

  I think about Edie and the notes I have promised her.

  No second chances, that’s what she said.

  I think about Tawney. I have a place for that shield in my trophy cabinet. It will justify the hours I’ve toiled on the court. It will be my crowning high school achievement. My mother will be beside herself with pride.

  I run a finger along my badges. I should sit here quietly and protect what I have striven for.

  But I look at Will Everhart, my erstwhile collaborator, and I know I can’t let her do this alone.

  I stand up. “And me,” I say, raising my voice above Principal Croon’s booming monologue. “I’m Amelia Westlake, too.”

  Principal Croon glances at me irritably. “Harriet Price. Sit down,” she says, turning back to Will. “The easiest thing,” she continues, addressing her, “would be for you to come with me now, and we can deal with this immediately.”

  “Excuse me, Principal Croon…”

  She turns to me again. “What is it, Harriet?”

  “If you are going to expel Will, then you’ll also have to expel me.”

  Murmurs fill the hall. Principal Croon’s expressio
n turns from irritation to anger. “Fine, then,” she says at last. “I’ll deal with both of you together.”

  The hall falls silent. I can see people exchanging shocked glances.

  “Does anybody else want to confess to being Amelia Westlake, or are we done here?” She taps the toe of her shoe on the timber boards.

  There is movement beside Will. Natasha stands up. “I do,” she says.

  Principal Croon’s eyes glower.

  Will’s expression is no longer tired. It is tinged with something else. She looks at Natasha before gazing at me, and her gaze burns a hole in my chest.

  There is a commotion to the left of the hall. Some girls are pointing at the wall. I follow their gaze.

  The school banner. I’d almost forgotten about that particular prank of ours. It has been lying in wait for so long. Now, finally, our replacement motto, stitched carefully in cursive, is garnering the attention it deserves. Instead of the original French, the motto now reads, in English:

  Play the power, not the game.

  A murmur spreads across the hall. Girls are craning their necks and grinning. The energy in the room is building like a wave.

  Beside me, Liz Newcomb gets to her feet. “Me too,” she says. “I’m also Amelia Westlake.”

  Five seats across from Liz, Trish Burger makes a move. “And me.”

  Behind Trish, Daphne Chee and Inez Jurich spring up. “Guilty as charged,” says Inez.

  Kimberley Kitchener stands, followed by Zara Long. The rest of the girls in their row follow suit.

  Beth and Millie gaze around in confusion and then slowly get to their feet.

  One by one, girls across the hall stand up: Palmer Crichton, Nakita Wallis, Eileen Sarmiento.

  Prisha Kamala. Anna Yemelin. Lorna Gallagher.

  Janine Richter. Ruby Lasko.

  I watch my classmates rise until everyone has risen. It is like some bizarre standing ovation without the clapping. Natasha must think so, too, because that is the moment she starts the applause. Girls begin to join in, until the entire year is clapping and hooting and stamping its feet.

  chapter 37

  WILL

  People are cheering as Croon marches me up the aisle. The fact she’s dragging me like a criminal only heightens the experience.

  The cheering turns into chanting as we exit the foyer. A hundred and twenty voices are shouting in unison.

  “Amelia, Amelia, Amelia.”

  I feel like bawling.

  It’s a ten-minute walk to her office. Croon pushes the door open. It looks pretty much as I remembered it, but with less of the French perfume smell and a shitload more schadenfreude. Croon takes her seat behind her desk and threads her fingers into a tiny church complete with pinky steeple. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I should have hauled in the entire year. That you are no more culpable than your hundred and twenty classmates who also confessed. There will be a full investigation, believe me, but I would like to hear what you have to say first. Were you involved in the Amelia Westlake hoax?”

  I nod. “I sure was.”

  She seems surprised and pleased by my answer. “And did you or did you not act alone?”

  “Completely alone.”

  She leans forward. “The cartoons in the paper. They were your work?”

  “What can I say? I am witty and artistic.”

  Croon registers my insolence with a scowl. “And what about the essay swap?”

  “All me. Fowler never recognized my true brilliance, you see. She needed to learn her lesson.”

  Now that I’ve decided to cop the full blame, it’s easy. All I have to do is channel one of those British murder mysteries that Mum likes to watch. In the final scene of every episode, the culprit gets caught by the good guys and promptly confesses to everything.

  “And the letter to the local schools offering our Lower Hall free of charge?”

  “Yep.”

  Croon takes out a notepad and puts pen to paper. “Let’s see. What else was there?”

  “The computer donation.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Oh, and the newsroom break-in.”

  Croon is writing furiously. She looks up. “You realize that in breaking into the newsroom you were breaking the law?”

  “I sure do. Now, let’s see. What else? Oh yes. I put a notice on the Performing Arts Center noticeboard. And I graffitied the exam tables. And I entered the gym staff room without permission. There are some other bits and bobs, but to be honest, I can’t remember everything.”

  Croon puts down her pen. “Just to be perfectly clear, Miss Everhart. You received no help for any of these pranks from anyone else at all?”

  “Correct.”

  “Natasha Nguyen wasn’t involved? Or…” Here, she pauses. “Harriet Price?”

  “Harriet Price? Are you serious? No. I deserve one hundred percent of the blame. I flew solo with all of this. I’m a lone wolf.”

  Croon nods with a jaunty little chin tuck.

  There is an urgent rapping on the door.

  Croon eyes the door hatefully and then slides the notebook swiftly across to me. “Sign here.”

  I speed-read what she’s written. She’s outlined in dot form each Amelia Westlake activity I’ve mentioned. At the bottom of the page are the words I am solely responsible for all of the above followed by a horizontal line marked with a cross.

  “Here?” I ask, pointing to the line.

  Whoever is at the door raps on it again, keenly.

  Croon nods at me impatiently, looking ready to murder the person at the door.

  “I guess this means the investigation into Amelia Westlake is closed and I get expelled.”

  “That’s right,” says Croon.

  “Fine with me.” I sign on the horizontal line. Croon instantly looks more relaxed. I’m half expecting her to put her feet up on the desk and light a cigar when the door bursts open.

  Harriet stands in the doorway, waving a piece of A4 paper covered in type. “Whatever Will Everhart has admitted to, she’s lying,” she tells Croon breathlessly.

  Croon’s brow darkens. “Not this again, Harriet.”

  “This has nothing to do with you, Price. Get out of here,” I hiss. She should be halfway to Blessingwood with Edie’s notes by now.

  Ignoring me, Harriet thrusts the paper at Croon. “I have written down the details of every Amelia Westlake episode and my personal involvement in it. If you want to expel Will, you’re going to have to expel me, too.”

  Croon forms her lips into a line.

  “You really shouldn’t have done this,” I mutter.

  Harriet continues to ignore me.

  Croon eyes Harriet with something akin to pity. “Miss Price. Wilhelmina’s misdemeanors are part of a very long record, stretching back two and a half years now. You, on the other hand, have an exemplary record—”

  “Just read it,” Harriet interrupts.

  Croon appears deeply shocked. Obediently, she begins to read Harriet’s paper.

  “See?” says Harriet.

  Croon looks up. “It says here that Will broke into the newsroom by herself.”

  “We planned it together,” Harriet says.

  “But you weren’t at the school on the night of the break-in.”

  “She most definitely wasn’t,” I confirm.

  “No, but—” says Harriet.

  “Then I don’t need to expel you,” Croon says.

  Harriet stares at her.

  “I am expelling Will on the basis of her previous behavior and her recent offense against the criminal law of this state. Neither of these things apply to you.”

  “What about aiding and abetting?” Harriet cries.

  Croon hesitates. “Difficult to prove in court. Whereas with Will and the break-in, there is DNA evidence.”

  This is incredible. The court talk is surreal, sure, but here is Harriet actually demanding to be kicked out of Rosemead and suggesting an offense she should be charged with. Into w
hat parallel universe have I fallen?

  “Are you saying you’re going to have her charged?” Harriet asks.

  “That is ultimately a matter for the police,” Croon says. “I think, however, that in this circumstance expulsion is adequate punishment, and I will be passing on that opinion to the local area command.”

  “And what about Coach Hadley? What about what he’s done?” Harriet continues.

  Croon straightens. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Harriet says coldly. “Everybody knows. He has a reputation. Are you blind?”

  “There is no need to raise your voice, Harriet,” says Croon.

  Harriet grows quiet, quieter than I have ever known her to be. Dangerously quiet. “If you won’t expel me, then I quit,” she whispers.

  For ten pregnant seconds, the words perch in the air.

  Harriet turns on her heels.

  Leaving Croon behind me, I race down the hallway after her, my school shoes skidding on the linoleum. I follow her down the steps and into the rose garden. Overtaking her, I do an about-face to stop her in her tracks. “Are you insane? You shouldn’t be doing this,” I cry.

  Harriet does nothing but stare at me fiercely.

  “You’re throwing away everything you’ve worked for!”

  More fierce staring.

  I wave a hand in front of her face. “Are you in there? Do you read me? I put myself forward so you didn’t have to! Now we’re both in the shit. You need to go back in there and retract everything before it’s too late.”

  “I didn’t do this for you,” Harriet says.

  I laugh. “I don’t care who you did it for. You need to undo it while you still have the chance.”

  “I did it because of you, though,” Harriet continues. Her hands are trembling. “Because you’re right. She won’t expel me even with a full confession because I’m an asset to the school. Which is the same reason why she won’t do a thing about Coach Hadley. I am such an idiot.” Her tone has a hysterical ring to it.

  “Give yourself some credit, Harriet,” I say softly. “You knew all this already. You just didn’t want to believe it.”