Dreaming of Amelia

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Afterwards, I felt emotional because I knew it would be my last school athletics carnival ever.

  Lyd pointed out that I’d never competed in a single event, and had sometimes skipped athletics carnivals altogether, but that was not the point. I saw Bindy Mackenzie taking photos for the yearbook and she was doing artistic shots of the bedraggled streamers on the grass, and it almost made me cry.

  Anyway, we had a rehearsal that afternoon, so we walked over to the Art Rooms. On the way, Bindy took a photo of Lyd, Cass and me—Lyd and I held Cass’s trophies in the air and pointed at her. That almost made me cry too.

  ‘What if there’s nowhere for Cassie to run when we finish school?’ I said.

  But Lyd said there would always be treadmills.

  Anyway, we reached the Art Rooms and wandered towards the auditorium.

  Then, just as I had calmed my emotions, it happened.

  A feather landed on my shoulder.

  This is not a joke.

  I felt something, a very faint tickling sensation, and I looked down at my shoulder and there it was. A white feather.

  I screamed. As you might also scream if someone dropped a feather on your shoulder.

  Lyd and Cass stopped and stared at me questioningly. I looked up and around, down and sideways, but there was no explanation for the feather. (I should make it abundantly clear that we were now inside a building, not outside where birds might fly by dropping feathers.)

  The feather simply materialised. And there it was.

  I looked quickly to see what room we were outside—would it be Room 27B?

  No. It wasn’t. It was Room 39M.

  Cass said ‘Huh,’ and we looked at her, and she said, ‘No, nothing, it’s just that 3 times 9 is 27, and M is a kind of a sideways B, so in a way 39M is 27B. Spiritually speaking.’

  I gasped.

  Lyd and Cass practically murdered themselves with their laughing.

  And then we were interrupted because others were arriving for the rehearsal. Some Brookfielders appeared first, and behind them were Amelia and Riley.

  I suddenly realised that they had not turned up to the athletics carnival at all.

  I was openly astonished.

  And yet, also, a part of me was not surprised at all. That morning at the heritage park, they’d seemed so intense, so real—how could two such real people come to a high school carnival?

  You may not understand what I mean.

  But, you should. For, you see, school, and school carnivals are all about playing: they’re not real. Whereas, reality is.

  It suddenly seemed impossible that Amelia and Riley were even here.

  I looked back over my shoulder to check that they weren’t a hologram, but no, there they were. Two regular students, walking along to a drama rehearsal.

  Impossible.

  And then something else struck me: something was different about Amelia and Riley.

  Their faces were the same as usual—that watchful and expectant look; the faintest smiles.

  But, for the first time, I could see the gap between them, the one that Lydia says she saw the day they first came to our school.

  I looked away from them and back to the feather in the palm of my hand.

  Two impossibilities: Amelia and Riley at my school. A feather from a ghost in my hand.

  And we all carried on to the rehearsal.

  10.

  Wednesday, no word from the ghost. It gave me a break. This was lucky as we got our report cards that day so I was very busy having mood swings.

  On Thursday, the ghost was back with its third message.

  The school was holding a tertiary information day for Year 12, and it took place in the exhibition hall in the Art Rooms. I was walking to the bathroom, taking a break from the excess information, when I saw an object lying on the ground.

  It was a book.

  It’s true that the book was not outside Room 27B; however, it was ancient, or anyway old, with a hard cover. The cover was falling away, as if it did not want to have anything to do with the book any more. You couldn’t blame it. The pages were flaking, spotty and yellow, and more to the point, the book was called, The Complete History of Politics in Australia.

  There was a square of paper glued to the first page:

  Presented to Sandra Wilkinson

  for Excellence in Penmanship, 1952.

  Clearly, the ghost had left the book here for me to find. It was old for a start, which was a clue. Ghosts are old. And the ‘penmanship’ thing—well, that was the ghost’s idea of a joke. It was referring to the way it made my pen roll across my desk earlier in the term.

  Yes, I thought, ha ha, ghost. Funny.

  But, as I stood there, alone in the corridor, my heart beating strangely, holding that old book, pinching my lip to make the twitching calm down, I suddenly looked behind me.

  Why?

  I don’t know.

  A whisper in the air.

  A presence.

  Something watching me.

  Nothing was there so I looked back down at the book.

  What was the ghost trying to say with this book?

  I hoped it wasn’t saying I should read it.

  I now reach a point in the story that I wish I did not have to reach.

  But I have to. It’s part of it.

  I think I said before that I am not a stupid girl?

  Well, turns out, I am. Sometimes, anyway.

  In particular, when alcohol has been consumed. (By me, I mean; I’m quite smart when other people drink.)

  Well, I suppose I should just say it.

  That very night, there was a party at Lydia’s place. It was a HUGE party; a madness of a party. And I made one of those random decisions to go psycho. I mean, to drink everything my eye could see, and some things that my eye could not.

  This is not my fault. My head was in a pattern of confusion. Stupid ghost throwing peelings and feathers and books at me! Stupid Amelia and Riley being too real and too impossible! (I know. That was unfair. But it confused me.)

  And most of all: stupid school for holding a tertiary information day.

  See, the thing is, I have always known that I want to be a lawyer, just like my parents. And yet there I was at the exhibition hall, surrounded by other options. Maybe I wanted to do Communications at UTS and become a journalist? Maybe I wanted to study crop rotation and become a farmer? Well, probably not, but you get the point, which is: Maybe I was wrong about becoming a lawyer. Who knew?

  Life is confusing enough as it is.

  I felt very angry.

  And so, at the party—well, you don’t need a list of what I drank. Let’s just say that it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Actually, it was a good idea. I felt a lot better. I had a fantastic time. So many intense conversations! Laughed so hard! Danced and danced. Floated on the inflated dolphins in the indoor pool, watching the stars through the glass—it’s so moody and steamy in Lydia’s pool pyramid. At some point, Amelia climbed up one of Lydia’s chimneys, climbed back down, went straight to the kitchen and started getting ingredients from the cupboard. As if something in the chimney had told her what to do. We were following, watching, laughing. Turned out she was making a tiramisu! We laughed so hard at her serious, sooty face as she calmly reached for things around the kitchen. Next thing, she and Riley were dancing in the shadows—laughed some more—they are such cool, understated dancers—suddenly I thought: Why am I upset about the ghost?! I love it. It has chosen me! And who cares that Amelia and Riley are impossible. I love them! And who cares what I might become? I could be anything! Maybe I would be an astronomer! Such beautiful stars through the pyramid! Or maybe I’d get into swimming pool repair?

  And so on. You get the point—

  and then—

  then, I don’t know what happened.

  All I can say is that by the next day two new posts had appeared on my blog.

  I mean, I had written them. When?

  Well, I do
have a vague memory of writing them. I was at home. I don’t know how I got home. I remember typing at my computer with this mad, singing happiness in my head and feeling convinced that I was writing a masterpiece. I expected a billion comments. Exactly a billion. I worried the comments would crash the site.

  Here is the first of the two entries I wrote that night:

  My Journey Home

  It is 3 am and I just swam home from a party.

  Stupid? No.

  I have an important decision: I LOVE SEALS!

  Yay! I feel so about it. I am going to be a SEAL

  TRAINER!

  YAYA AYAYAY

  And every day when I feel my seal will make me

  — clap your hands and splash me seal splash no not

  so much you’re messing up my hair.

  Oh, seal, stupid seal.

  It’s like a giant slug.

  I hate it,

  But salmon and El Salvador. Connection, please?

  Seb and Lydia, when, oh when will your love be

  revealed to each other—I mean, GET BACK TOGETHER,

  ALREADY—THE UNIVERSE NEEDS YOUR LOVE—

  I feel sideways.

  oh. I fell asleep. Goodnight.

  So, that was the first entry.

  I think there is no need for you to comment on it.

  Actually, the world didn’t think so either. I didn’t get a billion comments, I got two.

  They were:

  CalypsoAngel said . . . Yeah, what’s the story with Seb and Lydia? Cos if she doesn’t want him a lot of girls at Brookfield’ll take him, thankx. Incl. me.

  Sasha345 said . . . Me 2.

  Half an hour later, I must have woken up again. And I guess I’d had a mood swing in my sleep. Because this time, I’m sorry to say, I wrote:

  My Journey Home

  Look. If I had a dollar for every ghost I’d ever seen?

  I would not have any dollars. DON’T YOU GET IT! I’ve never even seen a ghost before this year. (And not even this year actually, just got messages from it, but that is a point beside.) THE FACT IS, I AM NOT A GHOST GIRL!!!! I am alive! So ha ha, no but DO I wander thru cemeteries at midnight making coffee for the dead? NO. I do not. And do I dress like a goth? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? no way. Why are there EVEN GOTHS? i mean, sometimes IT HURTS MY EYES TO LOOK AT THEM. They shld go on Extreme Makeover!! they could be beautiful, those goths. If they just got some colour in their cheeks. Why were they born with no blood? It’s not fair.

  It Makes me cry

  But I am too ANGRY to cry!

  Why? Thank you for asking. I will tell you on my journey home!!!!!!!!! no. I will not.

  oh, why am I angry?

  And tonight Amelia and Riley were talking about the taste of colours, and the flavour of weather, and we all started seeing things differently, including me, cos now I am thinking that the colour of my anger is MAGENTA WITH BIG BLACK SPECKS, and they make us see everything different when they talk, Amelia and Riley, and that is ALL BECAUSE OF ME.

  I MAKES NO SENSE AND THAT’S BECAUSE THERE’S A GHOST IN THE ART ROOMS AND I CAN FEEL IT IN MY LIP AND UNDERNEATH MY FINGERNAILS.

  And sometimes in my belly button too. (I hate the word naval. what’s the navy got to do with anything.)

  k.

  goodnight. have beautiful, beautiful dreams about swans and japan. love from emily.

  I guess I phoned Lyd and Cass after I wrote that, and woke them, because these are the comments:

  Lyd said . . . Okay, Em, here’s the comment you want. I’ve read it and you’re absolutely right. It’s a masterpiece. Now delete it, and delete the post before it, and go to sleep.

  Cass said . . . And drink a lot of water right now. You are going to feel like total shit in the morning.

  Em said . . . Oh, Cass, you’re so beautiful. You run so fast! When you run. And you sing so fast! No. That is incorrect. So are you Lyd, you’re a goddess. I love you guys. But Lydia I HATE you.

  Lyd said . . . Okay.

  Em said . . . Cos, when are you and Seb getting back together?

  Lyd said . . . Delete that too. Can you cut out talking about my private life on your blog? I love you too, but I’m getting kinda mad too, and we need to do normal online talking and stop talking on your blog, and we need to go to sleep.

  Em said . . . I can’t delete comments, I don’t know how, just as YOU cannot delete Seb from your heart! Can you? No. And I know he asked for a break last year and so normally I would want to TEAR HIM TO PIECES, doing that to you, but he kind of had a point. You were sometimes a difficult, distant girlfriend, and sometimes a bit sharp-edged, which is NOT your fault, it’s just you have PASSION and DEPTH and I know you were ALSO a generous, sparkling, loving girlfriend cos that’s who you are also, and otherwise Seb would. Um. I forget.

  Lyd said . . . Cass, can you make her stop?

  Cass said . . . Em, answer your phone.

  Em said . . . Is it cos he’s a Brookfield boy? So you want to kind of move up a notch? I didn’t think you had class prejudices, Lyd. But do you think they ever get their hair cut? Brookfielders I mean.

  Cass said . . . Em, quit while you’re ahead.

  Lyd said . . . What makes you think she’s ahead?

  Em said . . . And their shoes? Why do they not floss their shoes.

  Em said . . . Okay. Shhh. Great talking to you guys. I am SO going to sleep. You should too.

  I slept in until after two the next afternoon, missing school (well, not actually missing it, like the way you miss your mum when she’s away, but you know what I mean), and by the time I got up it was too late to delete the blogs. They’d been seen. There were already practically a billion new comments under the above exchange.

  They were the comments of angry Brookfielders and angry goths (but I think goths might always be angry, or anyway despairing) and people from all over the world making fun of my ghost and my belly button.

  11.

  The next couple of weeks were difficult. Lyd and Cass forgave me because they are the best, but everybody else was laughing at me, including Lyd and Cass.

  I was scared that the Brookfielders at drama would be hostile, but they were gentle and kind as if I had some kind of mental deficiency. That was worse.

  And worst of all? This happened.

  Well, you remember that Mr Ludovico had to sign my application form for Law? The form was due at the end of the term, and I was worried because he still hadn’t given it back to me. I knew other people whose forms had been signed by Mr L, so why not mine? I couldn’t sleep, I was so scared that he might be planning to refuse to sign it.

  But I also couldn’t ask him. The fact is, ever since the day when he was standing in the doorway while I talked about him, I had been finding it hard to look at him (harder than usual, I mean). Imagine overhearing someone say you had a laugh like an espresso machine! As deeply flawed as Mr Ludovico is, I did not want him to hear that.

  Eventually, though, I had to go and see him. Maybe he was waiting for an apology? Maybe he hadn’t overheard anything in which case an apology would be a disaster? Maybe he had misplaced the form and had no idea I was waiting?

  Time was running out.

  I knocked on his office door.

  ‘Emily,’ he said, smiling his spectacles-glinting smile and continuing to scribble on a random piece of paper. ‘You’re here about your application form, I take it. Sit down.’

  I sat down. My heart thudded.

  Eventually, he looked up from his scribbling. His smile turned upside down. It was sympathetic. My heart thudded more loudly.

  He took out my application form and held it up. The line for his signature was blank.

  ‘You really think you have what it takes to be a lawyer?’ he said.

  Now my heart stopped still in its tracks. Before I could get it pumping enough to speak, he went on.

  ‘Lawyers are adults.’ His voice was weirdly compassionate. ‘Let’s take a look at what it means to be an adult, shall we? Adults are
independent. You, Emily, can’t seem to take a step in any direction without Lydia and Cassie by your side. An adult would simply work hard to improve his marks. You, Emily, make foolish requests for your marks to be altered. An adult is a rational being. You ran around last term obsessing over Amelia and Riley, and this term you’re shouting to the world—including, I might add, on some childishly hysterical blogs—that there’s a ghost living in the Art Rooms at this school!’

  He paused to make his face look like an exclamation mark.

  ‘You are every inch a child, Emily,’ he said, sounding sad. ‘And I see no indications that you will ever grow up. Now, let me ask you this. Would I be doing my job—would I be carrying out my responsibilities as principal of this school—if I signed a form that allowed you to be a lawyer?’

  My head was in a jumble. Angry sentences ran at me from every direction. They collided with pleading sentences, fell down, stood up, and turned into new sentences. They told me to grab Mr Ludovico’s stupid nose and twist it.

  I didn’t do that.

  ‘There is a ghost living in the Art Rooms!’ I cried. ‘And I can prove it.’

  Mr Ludovico grinned. He looked happy.

  ‘You go ahead and do that,’ he said. ‘Prove to me that there’s a ghost in the Art Rooms, and I’ll sign your form and get it to you in time. Deal?’

  ‘Deal!’ I cried, and marched out of the room.

  I closed the door gently, like an adult.

  I stopped in the corridor.

  I was in serious trouble.

  A twitch in my lip? Mandarin peels? A book and a feather?

  Of course there wasn’t a ghost.

  I’m not as stupid as I sound, you know.

  12.

  Now you are confused.

  If I didn’t believe there was a ghost, why was I getting messages from ghosts? Telling everyone there was a ghost? Feeling angry with the ghost?