Lydia is also in that English class and she didn’t know what I was talking about. She said she found the weather in Room 27B to be balmy.
Around this time I realised that whenever somebody mentioned Room 27B I would get a twitch in the centre of my lip, like the one I first got with Astrid.
Lyd and Cass said I might be getting a cold sore and should start putting ointment on it, but that was false.
So, then there was the first drama rehearsal, and now, dear reader! Come with me directly from that creaking drama rehearsal straight to an English class in Room 27B. Hurry. We are running late.
As usual, I felt the twitch in my lip as I reached the classroom. It was getting annoying. And, as usual, I shivered as soon as I sat down. That made me sigh.
Anyway, I wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck, and made my hands into fists so I could blow warm air into them. Lydia, beside me, watched all this and breathed in slowly through her nose. Further along I saw Amelia, who had come with us from the rehearsal. Her arms were bare, and she was leaning back and gazing at the teacher.
I sighed again. I picked up my pen and rolled it back and forth between my palms rapidly. Trying to start a fire with it. Useless. Not even a spark. I let it fall to my desk and stared at it moodily. (I was very sleepy.)
The pen was lying on my desk.
I was thinking, Why am I always so cold here?
And, What’s this weird thing with my lip?
And, Why does this building creak so much? I mean, is it even safe?
It seemed to me that something very strange was going on. I was thinking about taking it up with the teacher—he was talking about irrelevant things so it was a good time to interrupt—when suddenly a thought hit the side of my head.
It could be a ghost.
I was so shocked by the thought that I gasped. Because it was so obvious. It was like, say you’d been trying to figure out an answer to a crossword puzzle for weeks, then suddenly it comes to you, and it’s such a simple word and fits so perfectly that you can’t believe you didn’t get it right away. The shock of your own stupidity! Sometimes it’s the greatest shock of all.
(Not that I ever do crossword puzzles, but I know what I mean.)
And, listen, it fit so perfectly!
The Art Rooms is a very old building. It was once a mansion where people lived, and therefore they died, because people used to always die in those days. Then Ashbury bought it for boarders. Then, when they stopped taking boarders, it became the Art Rooms, and now it’s been renovated.
Exactly the thing to wake a ghost! Noisy renovations! Or make a ghost angry!! Ghosts don’t appreciate change.
Then there was the coldness. Well, everybody knows that you don’t feel cold on a warm day unless you’re in the presence of a ghost! Why had I not thought of this before?
Also, I’m a very intuitive girl so I realised that I must have been sensing the ghost in the middle of my lip.
And the creaking! That’s what an angry ghost would do. Creak. It was probably trying to push down walls—leaning on beams, trying to make the place unstable.
See what I mean? It was very clear.
And we were in danger! The ghost wanted to topple the building.
So there I was, sitting at my desk, gasping at this thought, when my pen began to roll across the desk.
I am not kidding. I did not flick it with my fingernail or help it along with my elbow—nothing like that. It just moved.
Objects do not move on their own.
It’s not possible. Everybody knows that.
The pen rolled slowly across the desk while I watched in heart-gasping terror.
What further proof could I need?
At that point, Mr Botherit said, ‘Emily, are you hyperventilating?’
I looked at him witheringly for a second, and when I looked back at my desk, the pen had stopped.
‘There is a ghost in this room,’ I announced. I was pleased because my voice had strength of character.
People turned and looked at me with interest. Many of them then looked up, as if the ghost was on the ceiling. Maybe they thought that ghosts rise, like hot air. That was a flaw, as ghosts are cold.
They looked back at me.
‘There is,’ I said.
I hadn’t planned to be defensive but if you had seen the way they looked . . .
Anyway, I explained my theory and some people seemed interested when I talked about how old the building is, and how people used to always, like, poison each other with darts, or cut each other’s throats in wardrobes, in the olden days—but then I got to the twitch in my lip and I lost everyone’s respect.
It was a fatal error to include the twitch.
Yet, it was honest. I’m a very honest girl.
After that there was a lot of laughter at my expense, and people, especially boys, can be cruel.
But I can defend myself if I need to, and I did. In a way that used up a lot of the English class. And every time Mr B tried to get back on track, somebody would veer him off again demanding to know if the renovations had disturbed a hidden cemetery, and did they move the bodies, or did they JUST MOVE THE GRAVESTONES (quoting from some old movie), or they would reach over to put icy cold hands on my neck (which I did not need), or slam a book down suddenly (so that people, especially me, screamed), or they’d laugh in a blood-curdling, ghostly way.
Boys can be cruel but they can also do good impressions. Why are boys such good actors? A lot of them are, you know.
Anyway, it was funny. Or it would have been if I hadn’t feared that we were all in mortal danger.
Let me tell you this, though, that at one point I sighed loudly and turned sideways for dramatic effect, and there was Amelia. She was sitting at her desk as usual, and she was gazing at me.
She never gazes at me. She always gazes at teachers.
But she was watching me, and when she saw me look, she gave the faintest, faintest smile, and turned away.
Later that day I saw my friend Toby and I am pleased to say that he believed me about the ghost, without even hearing my evidence.
He is the unsung hero of the corners of my life, that Toby. As solid as wood, which is spooky actually, because he’s excellent at woodwork.
6.
Speaking of corners, the next couple of weeks, the ghost retreated to the corners of my mind.
Isn’t it strange that one day I could be fearing mortal danger, and the next I could be all like, whatever. But that is how it was. I blame the mysteries of the ghostly world and I also blame the HSC.
Whatever the reason, I kept going to rehearsals, and to parties at Lydia’s place, and doing (some of) my homework, and living my busy life. I did write a blog entry, which began:
I am about to say something that may surprise and possibly even terrify you. There is a ghost living in the Art Rooms. Specifically, the ghost resides in Room 27B of the Art Rooms, but it strolls around the building at its leisure.
This was a tricky blog to write as Mr B has continued to request that the blogs be entitled ‘The Journey Home’—which makes me question his teaching credentials, even as I applaud his stamina in the face of a growing underbelly of resentment. He might not know about that resentment and I mention it here in the spirit of letting him know—
Yes, so, what was I saying? When I wrote my blog about the ghost, I had to twist things around to make it relevant to my journey home. Who has the time for such twists?
Not me.
And nor did people appreciate my efforts. Most comments on the ghost blog went beyond the bounds of stupid.
Anyhow, as I said, the ghost retreated to the recesses of my mind, where no doubt it enjoyed fruit, chocolate and conversation, in the international language of the recess.
But then, in Week 4, it got in touch.
7.
Not just once.
Three times that week it contacted me. To be honest, it was a bit like harassment.
The first thing that happened was the m
andarin peels.
I expect you will laugh. Everybody else did. But I know in my heart it was not funny.
It was Monday and another morning rehearsal. Winter mornings cause more sleepiness than other seasons, and, in addition, contain a disproportionate amount of the day’s cold. It’s like when you read on a cereal box that one serving of this cereal is 90 per cent of your recommended daily intake of niacin. Each time I see this I think, What, and you’re PROUD of that? Aren’t I going to be overloaded with niacin, whatever THAT is, if you’re filling me up with it now?! And so on.
But that is an aside.
The fact is, mornings are for sleeping, and in winter, sleep should be the law. (Another aside.)
This particular morning, the weather (or maybe the ghost?) was rattling our teeth as we waited outside the Art Rooms for the rehearsal to begin. By now there had been a blending of Ashburians and Brookfielders. I mean, we were friends. Partly this was because working together on the drama had made us bond, and partly it was because Mr Garcia often brought Caramello Koalas to the rehearsals (which I applaud, in a teacher, the providing of chocolate), and partly it was because, at the third rehearsal, which had ended late in the afternoon, I had invited everyone to come to a party at Lydia’s place for further bondage.
I was high on Amelia and Riley that day.
It was the first time I had seen them act.
Dear, sweet reader of this ghost story, have you ever seen Amelia and Riley act? If so, you can skip the next paragraphs. For you will know, in your heart, what I mean.
They improvised a scene and I nearly fell off the window ledge. I mean, I expected them to be great, but I had no idea they would illuminate the corners of my soul. That is not exaggeration. Their acting makes everything around them seem pointless. They immerse themselves so completely that it makes me want to dive right in and join them. (And that’s saying a lot, considering how stupid the play is.)
So, I felt like crying, dancing and having sex with strangers the first time I saw them act. (That part about sex, I mean it symbolically. I would never actually do that.)
Also, that day, I was in love with the Brookfielders. Maybe because Amelia and Riley’s acting was making me see the world in a beautiful new light, or maybe there is actually something sexy about Brookfielders? I think there might be, you know. They’re so wild. And Charlie, my Charlie, was a Brookfielder.
If all that is not enough justification for inviting a roomful of people to somebody else’s place for a party, I don’t know what is.
Lydia raised an eyebrow at me—but she didn’t mind. Everybody came, and thus began the tradition of afterrehearsal parties at Lyd’s.
So, as I said, we had blended, like pineapple and watermelon in my mother’s juicer.
And now, on this Monday morning, we stood or sat on the wide front steps doing various things to warm ourselves: running up and down the steps; smoking cigarettes; and hugging each other. I used the traditional technique of shivering. Now and then, I watched hopefully, but Seb and Lydia did not hug flirtatiously: in fact, they did not hug at all. They were friends by now, and made each other laugh all the time—it seemed to me that their primary goal in life was to make each other laugh. When either succeeded, you’d see proud little smiles.
But if Seb took a step closer or reached out a hand, Lydia would take a step away.
Cass and I sighed with our eyes. Lydia was making us crazy.
Eventually Mr Garcia arrived. Around me people were hiding their cigarettes; at the same time, Mr Garcia was stamping out a cigarette in the carpark, looking guiltily our way. Students love Mr Garcia so they’re always trying to make him quit smoking, for the sake of his longevity. Other teachers are welcome to smoke. It would not bother us, for example, to see Mr Ludovico’s lungs collapse in an Economics class. My only request would be that he face away from me when it happened as that might be disgusting to behold.
Anyway, so there was Mr G, trying to smoke quickly before we saw him.
He joined us, full of excess energy, swiped his card to open the building, and we rushed inside to the warmth, and walked towards the auditorium.
I cannot say what happened first, whether the colour orange caught the corner of my eye, or the twitch leapt onto my lip. I think maybe both at once. I looked sideways, saw the closed door of Room 27B, and there it was. On the floor. A small pile of mandarin peels.
I turned as white as a glove.
There was something about them. The way they curled this way and that. Their orangeness. The way they sat there looking up at me.
And into my head rushed the thought: cleaners would have been here on the weekend!
They would not have missed a pile of mandarin peels! So how did they get there?
The answer was as clear as a ghost. It was the ghost.
Now, look, I am not a stupid girl.
I did not shout to all around me, ‘Hey! The ghost has left some mandarin peels!’
I knew that would not help my cause—both in relation to the ghost and as a human being generally.
And yet I also knew that the ghost had left those peels, and it had done so to get my attention. (Probably it had read about the drama rehearsal on the noticeboard and knew I’d be coming by this way.)
I continued on to the rehearsal but my heart was curling and twirling like peels, and my lip was twitching so hard that I had to blow my nose.
I did tell Lydia and Cass about the mandarin peels when we were alone later that day. Their reactions were predictable. They are kind friends, but they can laugh hard.
8.
That day, Mum collected William and me from school. Everything was cheerful. William was excited because he thought he might have broken his toe. Mum was in her happy mood because that’s her way these days. I think she really likes us (her children). She kept turning around in her belt to tell us that we’re gorgeous. And then adding joyfully, ‘And you were such ugly little babies!’
That was harsh but fair. I’ve seen the photos. As babies, William and I both looked like profiteroles.
Anyway, then Mum told us she’d been thinking about baking cookies for us. She asked if we would mind discussing the pertinent issues in cookie baking.
We discussed cookies all the way home, and by the time we arrived we had agreed that, instead of Mum baking cookies, William would make his Chocolate Chestnut Torte with Cognac Mousse.
So, William sat up on the kitchen bench, to give his broken toe a break (ha ha), and Mum and I collected the ingredients and handed them to him.
I talked about the ghost, and William was especially interested by the mandarin peels. ‘The peelings gave you a feeling,’ he said, and pointed out that this rhymes.
I didn’t know what he was trying to say but I was still impressed. For a 13-year-old boy, William can be very philosophical, and his mind works in various directions.
Mum, meanwhile, asked a lot of questions, and I began to notice that they were all focused on the Art Rooms. Once, years ago, my mother lived in the Art Rooms—back when our school was a boarding school—so I assumed her questions were nostalgic. But then I realised she was suggesting that the creaking might be connected with the renovations, and that the cold patches might be glitches with the new reverse-cycle air-conditioning.
Not ghosts at all.
But just as William was putting his torte in the oven, Mum turned to me with a serious face and said, ‘But renovations can’t explain the fruit peels.’
The whole thing made me feel strangely lovely.
9.
The next day, Tuesday, my second message from the ghost.
This was the day of the athletics carnival and William and I were running late. Something to do with Dad needing to take his car in for a service. Anyway, we ended up walking to school.
My thoughts, as we walked, seemed somehow exciting. I couldn’t figure out why. I was looking forward to something—but what? I knew I would see Cassie win some races that day, as she is a talented sprinter, b
ut no, it was more than that.
Was I hoping for a message from the ghost?
Not really.
It was something else.
Then I remembered: Amelia and Riley were going to do something spectacular.
They have been spectacular, at regular intervals, since the day they arrived at our school, and it was time for the next dazzling.
But what would it be? Sprinting? No. That was unacceptable. If Amelia could sprint she might beat Cassie in a race. She would have to choose something else. Thanks all the same.
Maybe shotput? She seems very strong.
No. She’s too beautiful for shotput. So, what? And what about Riley? Javelin? Like a hunter!
Anyway, these were my cheerful thoughts as William and I took the shortcut across Castle Hill Heritage Park.
And there they were.
That’s the strange thing about Amelia and Riley—often, I’ll be thinking or talking about them, and suddenly, there they are!
Spooky.
(Although, to be fair, I do think and talk about them a lot.)
They were in the heritage park. William and I were walking a winding path, and they were on the grass amidst the trees. Maybe the distance from me to my front door. Hmm. But you don’t know that distance. Never mind. Anyway, I could see them standing very close together. Amelia was talking. She was looking down at her feet as she talked, and Riley was watching her intently. They might have heard our footsteps on the path, but if so they did not look up. I walked the path, watching them openly, and they did not turn at all.
I did not call out. That would have been like calling to a television screen.
No, that’s wrong: it was more like they were real life and I was the television screen.
Either way, calling seemed impossible. I left the park, looking back over my shoulder—and their intense conversation continued in the shadows of the trees.
Anyway, I carried on to school, and the carnival. It was a relaxing day. Lyd and I sat on picnic blankets with various people, and Cass kept joining us after winning races. She’d lean over, holding onto her thighs, breathing quickly, her face pale pink. Then she’d turn into Cass again, smile and help herself to my chips. I was honoured to share them with her.
Dreaming of Amelia Page 16
