More cheers — and the sweat of men around me — and, ‘Now my boys,’ says Phillip, ‘it’s death or liberty, and a ship to take us home!’ — and the hair stands up on the back of my neck and my forearms.
They’re splitting us into groups, but my eyes, they’re fixed on the distance, the darkness where Phillip just pointed. The signal flame will rise up red, and red-gold is the colour of my Maggie’s hair, and it’s the colour of soil in this land. It’s the colour of magic too, for sure and don’t fairies choose red for their caps as often as not? That’s what Maggie used to say with the dream in her eye.
So I look to that darkness, and in my mind’s eye it lights up with a red-gold flame. Shouting and singing and laughter, and we head to the night.
10.
The Committee for the Administration of the KL Mason Patterson Trust Fund
The KL Mason Patterson Scholarship File
Memo
(By email)
To:
All Members of the KL Mason Patterson Scholarship Committee
From:
Stephen Latimer (Ashbury English Teacher)
Re:
Riley T Smith and Amelia Damaski
Dear Committee Members,
I hope you will not find it odd, me — a non-committee member — writing to you. I’m just home from the Year 12 reception in the teachers’ gardens. A fine night was had by all, me included, and I would now like to get some sleep — but I find myself moved to write this note.
To begin, some background. A couple of months back, Year 12 English wrote an assignment, ‘The true story of Term 2 as a ghost story’. (Mr Botherit will fill you in.) Riley Smith is in my English class. His ghost story disturbed me.
I hasten to point out that a lot of the students’ ghost stories disturbed me. Let’s just say that some had trouble with the concept of a ‘true’ ghost story: hence, severed limbs and massacres a-plenty (and I must assume that these were false).
Thus, I put Riley’s story out of my head.
But it kept coming back. You see, Riley is bright. Not the type to be confused by the fiction/nonfiction divide. And much of his story did ring of ‘truth’. He talked of Amelia. People in his year. His criminal record.
Two things in particular disturbed me about his story. The first was the tone with which he referred to his ‘friends’ at Ashbury — it was one of dismissive contempt. They were ‘stupid kids’ and ‘half-people’.
More disturbing, however, was the second thing — a hint that he and Amelia had concealed the true nature of their criminal record from the Scholarship Committee. The truth, he suggested, was ‘sealed up’ — and ugly.
Of course, this could be ‘creative nonfiction’, Riley making his memoir more ‘ghostly’, giving it an edge. And that is what I assumed. And yet, tonight, at the reception, I saw something in Riley’s face that brought his story back to me. I do not mean to be melodramatic. He laughed and talked as charmingly as ever. But now and then, when he thought no one was watching, an expression crossed Riley’s face that chilled me to the bone. Something primitive, something howling and ferocious. A pure rage and violence seemed to lurk beneath the surface of his smile.
And so, I came home, had a glass of red — and wrote this.
Of course, the school year is almost over — final assembly is tomorrow. But they’ll be back for the HSC exams. More to the point, it appears that they are still ‘friends’ with the people mentioned in the story, including, I might say, Lydia, Cassie and Emily.
Now, if this friendship should continue outside school — if it should be as false as Riley’s story suggests — if Riley looks upon Lyd, Cass and Em with such contempt — if, as he hints, his criminal record is uglier than we know — and if, finally, I truly did see rage in his face tonight — well, perhaps some action should be taken? Even if only to look into the question of the record, or to warn Lyd, Cass and Em?
I apologise if this is all the product of a feverish imagination (and the second glass of red I just drank).
Please know, however, that I have not taken up my pen lightly.
Kind regards,
Stephen Latimer
PS I have a nagging feeling that Cass’s mother might be one of the parent reps on this committee — if so, I apologise if I’ve caused any hurt to you by passing all this on.
11.
Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson
Student No. 8233521
The final day of school, Thursday, and how did I feel? Totally agitated.
I do not want this secret! Get away from me, secret! Jump overboard!
Those were my harried thoughts. Could I concentrate? No. Will I ever forgive the universe for making me decide to follow Amelia into the night so that I saw something that made my head spin like a mixmaster on high speed for the duration of my final day of school?
No.
I will not.
What was it that I saw?
Wait a moment. I will draw out the suspense.
For now, let’s just say I was so agitated I forgot to take any photographs of the Final Assembly!!
My heart still aches about this.
Instead, my eyes darted around like goldfish, looking for Riley and Amelia. They arrived together, late, and slipped into seats up the back. Riley looked as if he had just walked into the side of a refrigerator (I mean, he looked shocked, not flat). Amelia was so pale that I thought she needed replacement toner. Or that someone should take her toner out and shake it around.
My brain leapt around in its head (that is, my head) like a goldfish (sorry for repetition). How could I keep being friends with Riley and Amelia now that I knew this secret?!
The secret of what I had seen!!
What had I seen?
I saw Amelia in the arms of another man!!!
(A man who was not Riley.) (Just to be clear.)
Thinking of this at the assembly, I was so overcome that I swooned. Or thought about it anyway.
Then I paid heed for a moment. My name was being called. I’d won the Legal Studies prize.
So that filled me with joy beyond belief.
But next thing I was back in my seat and agitated again! And the assembly was all just Prize to Bindy Mackenzie, Prize to Bindy Mackenzie— so no suspense. Nothing to distract me from the vision of Amelia under dark, wind-swept trees, running across open grass, running toward the open arms of —
Prize to Tobias Mazzerati for Design and Technology.
Much applause and cheering, partly because everyone likes Toby and we’re proud of his woodwork, and partly because it was good to have a break from Bindy.
But was it any help to me? NO. IT WAS NOT.
It was the opposite of help.
Because guess whose arms Amelia ran towards?
Toby’s.
I rest my case.
The day staggered onwards. Oh, stop saying goodbye and that you love me! I’ll see you in a couple of weeks at the exams! And you were always kind of annoying! Those were my harried and dastardly thoughts as people ran up to give me hugs. And thus were the beautiful, final moments of school swept from my grasp . . . I did not even cry!
After the Final Assembly, we had to run over to the Art Rooms to set up for the drama that night. I was fascinated to see how it would turn out, but was there any room in my head for fascination? NO! Not really. I was too fretful.
I was so disappointed in Toby!!! I thought he was upstanding!! And my friend!
And here he was lurking in parks with Amelia.
More than that, I was disappointed in LOVE. You know how I had been looking for the crack between Riley and Amelia? Well, between us, I’d kind of hoped not to find one. Even as they annoyed me for being too talented, still I had admired their great love. In my heart, I had hoped Lyd had been wrong about them. But no. *Sigh* Of course not.
And now, a dilemma. Should I let Riley know that Amelia was cheating? Force open the crack now I had found it? So that Riley and Lyd could get together?
It
had seemed a good idea when I planned it, but in reality? It terrified me! I did not want to hurt Riley! Maybe Lydia’s heart was healing on its own? We hadn’t seen Seb for a while, and she’d never found out about Seb and Astrid, so that was something. Maybe they were over now anyway? Astrid hadn’t said anything for a while. Maybe —
And so my thoughts whirred onwards . . .
In the auditorium, there was mild chaos, mainly caused by Mr Garcia having a new idea about coloured lighting. Students were telling him to be reasonable. Artists were painting final details on the set, and actors were bumping into each other. Cassie went to help with the sound.
And then — here were the Brookfielders arriving, and here was Seb.
Lydia tensed beside me. Seb headed towards us, and Lydia picked up a cardboard box, dumped it in my arms, grabbed another for herself, and headed out the door. I followed.
It seemed that Lydia was not healed yet at all.
We went into a classroom and began folding the programs in the box.
My turmoil continued. And I’m tired of secrets! I thought. Seb and Astrid. That’s one secret I’ve had enough of! Now I’ve got a new one! It’s not fair!
I slammed the programs down noisily.
After half an hour or so, Lydia asked what was wrong.
Here’s a funny thing — I did not want to tell her. Partly because saying it aloud would make it gossip: it was too grown-up, too sad for gossiping schoolgirls. Also because Lyd was already upset by Amelia’s hints that she was cheating. She did not need me to give her the facts that confirmed it.
So I made up an answer on the spot. ‘It’s the last day,’ I said, ‘and I still haven’t found out the truth about the ghost. I’m just annoyed with myself because I’m too scared of the archives room to go and find out more. I . . .’
I talked on recklessly — and what I was saying was true, but it was not, of course, what was agitating me — but then I realised that Lydia had fallen into a reverie.
Or, anyway, that she wasn’t concentrating on what I was saying.
She looked at her watch. ‘We’ve got time,’ she said, and she stood up.
She had a spark in her eye. She looked almost like the old Lydia — excited, wild.
‘Come on,’ she said.
And then we were running up flights of stairs towards the archive room. My heart was drumming with fear, but it was an elated sort of fear.
Suddenly, wonderfully — I was a child again! Who cared really that Amelia and Toby were embracing in dark parks?! We would leave all that behind and go out in the world — but here, now, we were young, racing up the stairs, faster, faster, faster —
And the door of the archives room opened.
Two people came out.
They paused on the landing.
We were close, just a step down from them.
It was Seb and Astrid.
And Astrid was buttoning her shirt.
I looked swiftly at Lydia. She was staring, confused.
Then her childish joy fled as understanding hit — and, for a fleeting moment, there was anguish in her eyes.
At once, she gathered her courage, raised her eyebrows, turned and walked back down the stairs.
In that moment, I knew what I must do.
I would do it at once.
Enough of Lydia’s anguish. Enough of my fear.
Lydia Jaackson-Oberman
Student No: 8233410
Last day of school, funniest thing happens.
You’ll get a laugh out of this.
I’m heading up a flight of stairs, a door opens and there’s Seb — my Seb.
With Astrid.
You remember Astrid? Sure you do. Skinny girl. Says the word ‘like’ like she doesn’t know there’s other words available.
She’s half-undressed.
And even though she’s half-undressed, I still think nothing.
Almost make a joke about how this looks.
But then I see Em’s face — and it hits me. This is how it looks.
I remember Em telling me to give up on Seb. This is why? Seb and Astrid?!
Seb and Astrid.
This is the guy my heart’s been hurting for this whole year? This is the guy whose face I see when I close my eyes at night. And he’s gettin’ it on with Astrid all this time?
I stand on the stairs and I laugh so hard I knock myself unconscious. You know that laughter where you howl and accidentally slam your head against the wall and knock yourself out? So that’s what happens. I’m unconscious on the floor, wake up and see them around me — Seb, Astrid and Em — looking concerned. I laugh even harder. Get up off the floor. ‘You won’t be needing that any more!’ I say, reaching out to take my heart back from underneath Seb’s arm. ‘You’ve had it long enough. It was a stupid place to keep it anyway. Underneath your sweaty arm!’
Ah, no.
That doesn’t happen.
The laughing bit.
What, are you as stupid as my mother?
But I’ve gotta say, I laughed on the inside. Headed back downstairs. Laughed my way through the rest of setting up for the play. Through the speech about what a success the play has been — Ashbury and Brookfield are the best of buddies now! Ha ha. My Brookfield boy and his new Ashbury girl — ha ha.
The play itself does distract me for a while. It’s okay. The writing works, mostly. Astrid has the role of a fat and stupid snowman, so that’s fun. Amelia and Riley are stunning — get standing ovations at the end. Seb’s set design is beautiful. People talk about it as they leave, and I feel proud a moment — then remember, and laugh again.
It’s later that night. The audience has gone. We’re cleaning up, clearing out, there’s talk of moving on to someone’s house. Not mine. I haven’t offered, and Em hasn’t offered for me either. Em and Cass are careful, kind, so now I know Em’s told Cass. I’m laughing at Em for not telling me sooner. I’m laughing that she’s known all along.
I’ve run upstairs, to get a practice exam that I left behind in German today, and now I’m laughing my way along a corridor.
And there it is again.
Another open doorway. Riley at a window. A pattern repeating.
It’s the room where I have my German classes. One of the upstairs conference rooms.
It’s dark. He’s looking out into the night.
He sees me.
Sits up on a table near the window. Like an invitation. I sit beside him. Our legs in a row. Shaft of light from the corridor, dim moonlight from outside. I notice that Riley has a piece of paper in his hand.
‘There she goes again,’ he says, nods at the window.
I stand so I can see. You can see the carpark from up here, drama people spilling into it, little voices calling to each other. Curve of the brick wall, headlights on the road. The oval, an empty darkness.
But he’s right. There she is. Amelia. Tiny moving figure crossing the oval fast.
Now I laugh aloud. And behind me, Riley laughs too, surprised. The paper in his hand rustles. He puts it down, still laughing. I sit back on the table beside him, and we ride on that laughter for a while.
Then we pause. We’re side by side, facing the window. From this angle, you can only see the stars.
There’s movement from his hand, the one closest to me. He gathers his fingers together, places them lightly on my knee, and spreads them out. For a moment they rest there. Then he gathers them together again and away. It’s so quick and light it almost hasn’t happened. His fingernails fanning out, snapping together again. It’s like a game you might play with a child, something affectionate and quick. You could say ‘spider’ as you did it.
But it feels like he’s found something inside me. Like a chime — or a wail or a cry — all in that quick spread of his hand.
I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing to do but —
And then we’re kissing, his hands on my body like fire, his arms like the comfort of shade.
Riley T Smith
Stu
dent No: 8233569
Here’s something.
It’s Thursday and my family’s an illusion. Ghosts, a simulation. Not real.
Same goes for my private school, but you already knew that.
Thursday, my mum gives me a ride to school. I sit in the back so I can sing and do the finger puppet thing to my little sister, Chloe. The round the garden thing too, her little hand wanting it, not wanting it, her desperate giggles.
Look out the window once, and that hand touches my neck, the back of my neck, the trust in the touch, her little hand.
Mum in the front seat talking, trying to keep things bright — at traffic lights, behind a white van, she says, ‘I don’t like vans.’
‘Why not?’ I say, and Chloe leans forward in her car seat, in the same way as me, a slight lean forward, just as interested — why?
‘They’re always the bad guys in the movies.’
I swear to you, we break up with laughter at the exact same time: Chloe, like she knows why she is laughing.
Pull up at the school, and I see her through the window. Her little face lost in thought. I tap the window. She giggles with delight at the surprise of me through glass.
I can’t hear the giggle, I just see it.
I role-play my way through an assembly, prizes, goodbyes, the play.
Then — how about this.
Someone’s left a note on my backpack. Open it and read it.
Now here’s Amelia, jeans but still in stage makeup. She says she has to go and see her crazy friend again.
‘She was really bad last night,’ she says. ‘It gets worse at night.’
Amelia talks again about her friend’s broken heart. She’s waiting for someone. Someone isn’t coming. It’s all in the crazy friend’s head.
‘Just for half an hour,’ Amelia says. ‘Then I’ll track you down.’
I smile at her. Sure. Why not.
She asks if I’m okay, and if I’m sure. And she’s gone.
Dreaming of Amelia Page 29
