Dreaming of Amelia

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Next step: share a secret. Make them think that we’re true friends.

  So we tell them. Not much.

  Just the fact that we’ve lived on the streets and in detention.

  We stop.

  They’re thinking. We’re waiting. Then something surprising happens.

  Cassie says I’m right.

  I don’t know what she means.

  ‘About ghosts,’ she says.

  She’s gone back in time. To what I said before, about your mind giving a missing person back.

  I think: She’s changing the subject. They don’t know what to say about our past, so they’re going to pretend that we never said a word.

  Then Cass explains to Amelia and me that her father died a few years ago. She says they were close. Then she says again that I’m right — you can miss someone so bad your mind goes mad.

  It’s not exactly what I said.

  Floating armchairs brush one another, brush the side of the pool.

  I realise: she wasn’t changing the subject. She was giving something back. We gave her a secret; she gave one of her own.

  Then something else surprising.

  Em tells Cass she wants to hear one of Cass’s new songs.

  Cassie’s in our music class, but I’ve never heard her sing. Didn’t know she could.

  Amelia and I are thinking: Please don’t break into song.

  We’re thinking: Things were going fine here. But please don’t make us hear this.

  And then she does. She sings.

  And Jesus, she’s good. The song is simple, nothing special, but her voice is beyond perfect.

  I let my hands trail water, watch the stars.

  That night we sleep in Lydia’s recreation room. Couches are deeper and softer than any bed I ever slept on.

  We end up at the Blue Danish again, for breakfast. Somebody mentions an essay due today. Lydia swears. It’s a quiet, almost indifferent kind of swearing. She says, ‘Has someone got the question?’ Takes out her laptop.

  And she writes the essay. She talks, drinks her coffee, eats a pecan cookie (those are her favourite), and writes an essay in less than half an hour.

  I read over her shoulder.

  The question’s about ghost stories. I remember some of the lines she wrote.

  On either side of the ghost story’s path is a dark, uncertain wilderness: the ‘supernatural’ (in which ghosts are real) and the human psyche (in which they are imagined, symbolic and possibly even more sinister).

  Something like that. I don’t remember exactly. My point is that she wrote fast and well without thinking. The girl is smart.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  You’re thinking that I’m falling for them.

  You think that’s where I’m headed here — the surprising complexity of a lesson in human life. Turns out our new friends are people after all.

  I liked what I saw; I adjusted my vision of all three girls, a little — but on the way to the Blue Danish that morning, Emily called ahead, ordered coffees, reserved their favourite table. Asked for double chocolate in her caramel macchiato.

  So, you see. Nothing changed.

  These girls were who they were: rich kids, shadow people — and the plan was going fine.

  Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson

  Student No: 8233521

  I shall be as frank as a boy named Frank.

  When Term 3 began I was so despondent I was practically fainting senseless.

  I had spent Term 2 trying to get Lydia back with Seb, and how did that plan go? It went at a rate of nots.

  (For the non-sailors among you, rate of nots is an expression which I believe means not going. Or possibly going backwards and crashing into the wharf.)

  Of course, I was already gloomy about starting Term 3 because it was the Trials, and then Term 4 (the HSC), and then . . . Term 5: the term of your natural life!

  That is, life in the real world. Not a school student. Nevermore. Oh Time, Time! I hate it! The way it rushes you along and spits you — a hopeless child, a lost cause — outside the school gates!!

  Anyway, but getting back to Lydia and Seb.

  My plan had been many splendoured. I did not deserve to fail, just as I did not deserve to fail Economics this year.

  What was the plan? Well, first, I had persuaded Lyd and Cass to join the drama with me. Next, I had written a letter to Seb — pretending it was from Mr Garcia— asking Seb to supervise set design. So Seb had joined the drama too!

  Perfect! All going well, so far . . . I stepped back to watch the romance unfold.

  And it did . . . slowly, Lyd and Seb headed towards one another, and then?

  Astrid Bexonville.

  I say no more.

  Thus, as Term 3 began, I was depressed. I was especially tragic because everybody was talking about Seb’s contribution to the art exhibition. He had glued or stapled or nailed a strange collection of objects onto a giant stretch of canvas. Somehow, they all seemed to be blowing sideways, as if in a hurricane. In the centre of the hurricane: a portrait of a NAKED GIRL. (He hung it at the last moment, getting it from his car the night before the exhibition to avoid controversy.) The naked girl is facing away from the picture so it’s not as naked as it could be, but still. It’s a scandal. Anyway, her hair is blowing around her wildly yet she is strangely calm in the midst of the storm.

  Oh yeah. And she’s Lydia.

  SEB SHOULD BE WITH LYDIA. IT IS SO CLEAR FROM HIS ARTWORK THAT HE (A) SEES THAT LYDIA IS A WILD AND STORMY GIRL WITH A CALM AND BEAUTIFUL SOUL; AND (B) THINKS LYDIA IS HOT (which she is).

  I mean to say, he knows Lydia. What was he doing with Astrid? (He couldn’t possibly know Astrid.)

  I did not blame Seb. I mean, I did. But Lydia had been telling him, over and over, that it was over. So. And Astrid is skinny as. So, you know, technically speaking, why should Seb not have a thing with her?

  Nevertheless.

  It was a disaster of magnetic proportions. It was a broken nose for destiny.

  And there was Lyd, her heart ready to speak . . . !!

  Speaking gothically, I felt like a corpse.

  All I could do was tell Lyd to ignore Seb for a while.

  I said this to her on the first day of Term 3. She looked surprised and then there was a flash of hurt in her eyes.

  Oh, when you see that flash in Lydia’s eyes! It’s as powerful as her smile (but in reverse, of course). She so rarely shows her hurt!

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and raised her eyebrows at me.

  She thought that Seb had told me he’d lost interest.

  But what else could I do?

  On no possible stretch of reality could Lyd know that Seb and Astrid were together. It would kill her. (She is not fond of Astrid.)

  So, I resolved that I would keep Seb-and-Astrid a secret from Lydia, while at the same time trying to break up Seb-and-Astrid or, alternatively, finding a new boy for Lyd.

  This would all be tricky. My mind was agitated.

  Meanwhile, everyone was talking about the Tennis-Playing Ghost of the Art Rooms which was tedious because I had invented the tennis part. Now I had to play along. I didn’t even know why I’d made her a tennis player. (I think I had it mixed up with hockey.) Tennis is okay but not when it’s all in my own mind.

  Also, I heard that Mr Garcia had seen the letter I had written to Seb in his name. I knew Mr G would forgive me, but I just didn’t need it. The embarrassment. You know? And the forgery.

  And so, I was gloomy.

  But time is splendid!! Do you know what it can do? It can change things!

  To explain: moments go by (because time makes them) and just one moment makes a difference!

  The relevant moment was a star-spangled one.

  We were floating about in the pool at Lydia’s place. It was a beautiful, moony night and conversation splashed gently. People sharing jokes and secrets. Toby talked too much about his history project, but never mind. Everyone else was interesting.

&nb
sp; And now pay heed for I am about to share a truly interesting, gothic secret.

  Amelia and Riley TOLD US OF THEIR DARK AND WICKED PAST!!!! Oh, it was wondrous!

  It turned out that they had lived a wanton life of crime (stolen from a petrol station) and then been caught and thrown into the dungeons (more or less)!

  I had to hide a gasp at first. THEY WERE GOTHIC VILLAINS!

  But I quickly reminded myself that I am sophisticated.

  Also, that people change. (There are intensive programs for reintegrating juvenile offenders into the community.)

  And then I realised, with unexpected wisdom: Amelia and Riley trusted us. How vulnerable they were, voices talking into the night, telling tales of past misdeeds! It was proof that we were truly friends! I could not have loved them more if I had tried! I was desperate to help them, in any way I could, on their road to happiness and freedom!

  Then Cassie sang and I thought that my heart would burst — such wonderful friends! A friend who can sing like an angel! A friend who is good at woodwork and is dedicated to his history project! A friend who is smart and has many inflatable armchairs! And two new friends who are wild, wicked, dangerous and totally reformed!

  It was perfect.

  And that was the moment when it came to me.

  Those words — it was perfect — seemed to bring it all together.

  Because right away I thought, sadly: Well, it would be perfect if only one more friend was here. That is, Seb.

  I thought of his portrait of Lyd, and the flash of hurt in her eyes. Then I thought of the opposite flash — the flash of her beautiful smile — which led me to think of Riley’s artwork. And how funny it was that Riley had also done a portrait of Lydia for his major work. Not really. His artwork was actually photographs, but Lydia’s face is amongst them, and it is the starring one. He captured her two faces actually: moody, angry Lydia, and the Lydia that shines brighter than the moon.

  And then it came to me like a comet in my brain: If not Seb, then Riley.

  That is: Riley should be with Lydia.

  But Riley is with Amelia, you protest.

  I know, but listen: there was a crack between Riley and Amelia. Early on, Lydia had predicted they would soon break up (and Lydia is very smart). And I’d seen them fighting in the heritage park, and I’d seen that gap between their hands.

  So! Any moment, they would break up.

  And once they did, Riley would be free. And then?

  A perfect substitute for Seb!

  He was sexy like Seb, and an artist like Seb.

  He recognised Lydia’s beautiful smile.

  He was smart. He was dangerous. (About Lyd: she loves danger.)

  So.

  All I had to do was locate the crack between Riley and Amelia, and then gently, gently, gently . . . split them up.

  Lydia Jaackson-Oberman

  Student No: 8233410

  You know the expression on the gothic villain’s face?

  The scene where he wants the heroine to sign away her fortune (plus her hand in marriage and the life of her favourite puppy dog)?

  Villain’s black cape is casually flung across the document so all that the heroine can see is the dotted line. She’s sweet, trusting, prone to fainting fits, and happily agrees to sign — but just as she puts her pen to the paper, something makes her stop! A frown creases her brow! (Who knew she had a frown in her?)

  ‘Sir,’ she says, hesitant, ‘might I trouble you to move your cape? Just so I can see what I am signing?’

  And then, the expression on the villain’s face!

  He needs her fortune or he’s ruined! All is lost! Now he won’t get the signature, so his face —

  Black as night. Ferocious as a wolf. Treacherous, thunderous, murderous.

  That expression — that’s what I’m talking about.

  I saw it on Riley’s face.

  All Term 2, I’d watched his face, and every expression had been framed.

  First week of Term 3, Riley and Amelia came to my place. Told us they had a criminal past. I wasn’t concentrating. I was still thinking of earlier that day:

  Blue Danish Café.

  Guy at the next table making fun of a girl.

  Riley is watching. Riley is drinking his espresso, eating his pecan pie (he always orders pecan pie), and now the guy goes too far, gets cruel — and there it is: Riley’s face.

  Treacherous. Thunderous. Murderous.

  Unplanned. Unframed. Real.

  It only lasted a moment. He didn’t know anyone was watching him.

  I’ve gotta say, I liked it, but it kinda startled me.

  3.

  www.myglasshouse.com/shadowgirl

  WEDNESDAY 30 JULY

  My Journey Home

  He said:

  I keep ordering pecan pie.

  A horseshoe was nailed

  to the front door

  of the house

  and my stepfather said:

  he said, I keep my luck hanging

  on the door here, see, and

  let’s say you ever need

  some luck, Amelia

  let’s

  say you’re playing Monopoly one

  day

  all you’ve got is train stations

  in a minefield of hotels

  well, you say to your friends,

  you say,

  hang ten, friends,

  and you slip out the

  door and

  fetch some luck.

  He showed me how

  to scoop it from the horseshoe.

  Okay, I said.

  and when we go away,

  he said,

  on holiday, say?

  we’ll tell the neighbours

  they should help themselves.

  It’ll just build up otherwise,

  and go to waste,

  or worse, it’ll

  tip over the edge,

  and isn’t it the truth,

  doesn’t everybody know,

  that

  luck overflow causes woodrot?

  They seem so complete,

  said Riley,

  pecan pies.

  They seem comprehensive,

  the pastry, the nuts,

  and what else —

  is it brown sugar and eggs?

  but they’re not,

  there’s something

  missing from a pecan pie.

  The day we moved into

  my stepfather’s house,

  all that he said was

  welcome home.

  Last night,

  Riley’s porch,

  something missing from a pecan pie.

  his mother laughs:

  maybe you’re just thinking of a lid.

  0 comments

  www.myglasshouse.com/emthompson

  WEDNESDAY 30 JULY

  My Journey Home

  Dear Readers of this Blog,

  Something TERRIBLE has happened and it’s all my fault.

  Please forgive me in advance.

  Thank you.

  Okay, now I’ll tell you.

  Well, you know the joint Ashbury-Brookfield Art Exhibition?

  You don’t? Oh. Well, whatever. Trust me. There was one.

  It happened at the end of last term, and everyone was all: Wow! so much talent! so much — you know — art! And so on. The best ones —

  Wait. I just have to eat some coconut chocolate. I can’t stop eating it.

  Anyway, the best ones — wait. I need more.

  Okay, everyone agreed that the best ones were by Riley (Ashbury) and Seb (Brookfield). There was a division of opinion about which was number 1, Riley’s or Seb’s. But a lot of people, me included, think you can’t put a number on art. Art is pure, you see, whereas numbers are just, like, maths.

  So.

  But Seb’s was a bit better.

  Whatever, the main thing is, both were masterpieces, and sophisticated grown-ups said so too. Some of the artworks are still in th
e gallery now. (Others have been taken down for people to keep working on them.)

  Now, this morning I was in the Year 12 common room, preparing for my exams. For those not living in the universe, the Trials begin in one week. In fact, this is a stressful time for me and the last thing I need is for a terrible thing to happen to somebody else. But that’s a selfish approach. I shouldn’t have said that. Excuse me. I need more chocolate.

  Anyhow, so there I was, Googling ‘good memory’. (An important first step in a study regime is to Google advice on how to study.)

  My friend Toby was reading a book nearby. He kept interrupting to tell me historical facts — Toby is great but obsessed with a convict who once lived right here in Castle Hill. Look. A lot of people live in Castle Hill. Toby needs to get over that.

  Anyway, I was just saying, ‘Toby, this is quite interesting, but not so much to me,’ when there was a sound of rapid high-pitched talk and gasping outside the door.

  Toby and I leaned forward, hoping to hear the gossip without having to, you know, stand up.

  (Am just having some more coconut chocolate.)

  And sure enough, the news rushed into the room, and it was this:

  SOMEONE HAD ATTACKED SEB’S ARTWORK.

  This, so we can be clear, was his MAJOR WORK for the HIGHER SCHOOL CERTIFICATE. (Apart from being a windy masterpiece in its own right.)

  Toby and I ran to the Art Rooms and joined the crowd of people. And it was true. Seb’s artwork had been slashed, ripped and torn to pieces. There were also splashes of pink and red paint on it.

  Somebody — or something — wanted to destroy it.

  Why? Who would do such a thing?

  I have not yet seen Seb — I’ll see him at rehearsals tomorrow — but I have no doubt he is feeling slashed, ripped and torn to pieces himself. (Emotionally speaking.) He will be suicidal and will need therapy.

  This act of blatant terrorism goes to the heart of who Seb is. It will likely undermine his HSC, his artistic confidence, and his entire career. His life will be in tatters for eternity and a good while after that.