Dreaming of Amelia

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  I walked across the oval to the Art Rooms in a storm cloud of personal chaos. Through the entry door, along the corridors (muttering crankily to the ghosts, ‘Could you not have been more careful?’) and towards the room where I am now.

  A collection of people stood there — and my heart plummeted to my feet.

  For there, amidst these people, were: Lydia, leaning against the wall, eyes closed; Amelia, lost in the middle of the corridor; Riley, against the facing wall, frowning deeply to himself; the three of them eerily silent . . .

  . . . and here came Toby, approaching from the opposite direction.

  As Toby and I closed in on the trio, they shifted, looked up, changed position — and I observed this:

  Toby’s face lit up at the sight of Amelia —

  while Amelia turned towards Riley —

  and Riley, pointedly, looked instead at Lydia —

  who, having opened her eyes, gave Riley a powerful, extraordinary glance, before closing them again.

  At this moment, the door to the exam room flew open from the inside, and a woman leaned out and blinked at us.

  This caused a bigger stir. People picked up pencil cases, water bottles, talked loudly to one another.

  In the stir, Toby leaned towards Amelia, slipped a folded note into her hand, and then walked into this exam room without a backward glance.

  Amelia pressed the note into her pocket and moved to Riley’s side. She spoke to him intensely. Riley watched her as she spoke, and his eyes glinted fiercely like a chainsaw in the sun. Then he stood and walked further down the corridor. She followed him and they continued talking with their backs to us. From behind, Amelia looked as fragile as an anorexic movie star.

  All this time, Lydia’s eyes stayed closed.

  Then we had to go into the exam. As I walked through the door, I could see that Riley and Amelia were still talking.

  I am sorry to say, I could not hear the words of their intense conversation. Neither do I know what was in Toby’s note (I don’t have X-ray vision). And, speaking generally, I cannot explain what on earth all these flashing looks and moments meant.

  However, there is one thing I can say . . .

  Something romantic has happened between Riley and Lydia.

  How do I know this?

  The look that they exchanged. It said it all. Trust me. I am a student of love.

  Riley must have got my note suggesting that Amelia was cheating, and moved straight on to Lyd.

  But oh, oh, woe and betide me! Horrors! Oh horrors! That it were not so! Even now, little shrieks assail my ears from within my troubled brain. As if banditti were lurking in the woods!

  You do not know why it is so horrifying, do you?

  Trust me. It is.

  Speaking gothically, the end is nigh, and I would quickly like to point out that the dynamics of first impressions have been very significant to this personal memoir and that I have drawn on my extensive knowledge of the gothic and you will recall that there has been plentiful gothicnesses! I have used words like agitated, and moat, and I have done a lot of senseless fainting. With a little more time I might have found some femme fatales and family curses, yet still there have been ghosts, and doppelgangers (eg Lydia has both a big games room and a small games room), and gloomy weather and so this is a very valuable HSC exam — and now, finally,

  there is a monster.

  A GOTHIC MONSTER.

  Who is it?

  ……

  ……

  It is Riley.

  You recall the suspenseful phone call that my mother got last night?

  It was from Cassie’s mother. She is on the Scholarship Committee. Apparently, a teacher had suggested to the committee that maybe Riley and Amelia’s criminal record was worse than they had thought? So the committee spent the last couple of weeks making inquiries. And yesterday they found out the truth.

  AND IT WAS WORSE!! MUCH WORSE!

  The reason Riley and Amelia were put in detention was not just because they stole money from a petrol station. No.

  It was because, when a man tried to stop them stealing, Riley beat him up so badly — with his bare hands — that the guy ended up unconscious, his arm fractured in three different places, and his spinal cord damaged in such a way that he’ll probably never walk again.

  Cassie’s mother was calling to warn us to stay away from Riley.

  Too late!

  The monster has ensnared one of us.

  And, oh, it is Lydia — who would have thought it would be she?

  Worse, worse, it is all because of me that Lydia has been so ensnared!! I made it happen!!

  Here are my final words:

  Inside, careless ghosts are haunting. Outside, thunder is rumbling. And the future? What does the future hold — what HELL does the future hold with a MONSTER in our midst???

  This I cannot tell you . . .

  The bell is clanking gloomily. PENS DOWN, PLEASE!

  Alas! Oh, woe! Oh, nevermore! Mercy! Help me! Help us!

  And so on . . .

  THE END

  Lydia Jaackson-Oberman

  Student No: 8233410

  Okay, life, enough with the lessons.

  Lesson 1: You think you’re one kind of a person — smart, kind, loyal — turns out you’re the opposite.

  Thanks. Great. Really glad to hear it.

  Things are winding up here. A whispering around me. Not words, exactly. Just sighing, stretching, yawning, clearing throats. Someone drops a pen, shakes out a hand. It’s been a long exam. Thunder outside, so people giggle — thunder being gothic, and all. The supervisors frown but they can’t catch the giggles in their outstretched hands.

  That night with Riley. We didn’t go far, but far enough to send me home fast. Heartbeat pounding as I got into my car: noneedtofeelguilty, noneedtofeelguilty — Amelia is cheating on him, so it cancels out! noneedtofeelguilty. Foot on the accelerator, revving at the lights: but she must neverneverneverfindout.

  A two-week study break, and I hid at home.

  Kept my eyes half-closed, even closed when I could. Tried to look at myself in the mirror through my eyelids once. (You can’t do it.)

  Shrugging, too — I did a lot of that. Reach for a pecan cookie, shrug. Get myself a coffee, shrug. Open up a book. Yeah, whatever.

  If you haven’t figured it out, I was trying not to see and not to care. (I’m so transparent.)

  A funny thing happened one night, a few days before the HSC started. I was in my window seat with a Maths textbook. It was making me uneasy, this book: the level of mathematical detail was kind of surprising. Maybe I should have started reading a few months back? That’s what I was thinking.

  Huh. Shrug.

  I needed a break. Thought I might call Em or Cass. Or maybe they’d be online.

  You know what I did?

  Sat at my computer and went straight to a folder of old emails between me and Seb. Found some archives of our IMing. Read through fragments, laughed at some, thinking as I did: I’m so over Seb, I can look at our past and just laugh fondly.

  I felt grown-up.

  Then I found an exchange about the first mix Seb ever made for me. Found the mix in my music files. Drums and thrash, then something softer — lyrics and acoustic guitar. A chorus that repeats, ‘Remember me’.

  So, this night, I left my Maths book on the window seat and played the song. Thought of the sunflower Seb gave me the first time we met. How we used to go quiet when we listened to one another’s music: concentrating, giving it a chance. How nervous we’d get around each other early on, and we’d cover it up by being stupid. Shout at each other about irrelevant things, make dumb jokes, fall down laughing. Get serious suddenly, about our plan to make kids’ books together. Or about our secret fears — he used to be a bad boy and got into fights, but he’d got it under control — so his fear was that his temper would come back. We’d call each other up in the middle of the night with ideas or crazy thoughts.

  I played the s
ong again. And it crept up on me —

  Lesson 2: You’re not honest with yourself.

  You want the truth? In our last few months together, I’d started messing with his mind. Not on purpose. I think my own secret fear was that I liked him too much. I was afraid he’d see that in my eyes and laugh or run away. And it made me crazy. I’d ask for the impossible one day, and turn cold and sharp the next.

  When he asked me for a break, he deserved it.

  And then, when he asked me back, I was too proud to take him. So now he had Astrid, and whose fault was that?

  I played the song again. Found YouTube covers, and played those too. ‘Remember me,’ the song said, over and over, like a ghost, like someone gone, or someone left behind.

  And it draped itself over me like fabric —

  Lesson 3: You’ve lost him.

  Sat at my desk, kept right on playing that song, exactly like a freakin’ teenager. Close your eyes all you like, the tears find a way to get out.

  The HSC started. I’ve been slipping in and out of exams like a ghost. Apart from one conversation yesterday, I haven’t talked to anybody much.

  Not even my parents, but that’s nothing new. When they’re home, they don’t quite see me — I’m not in focus. And here’s something funny. This morning, I’m heading down the driveway on my way to this exam, and there’s my mother’s voice.

  She’s in her robe, hand against the sun, framed by the front door — movie star pose — calling my name.

  I pause, look back. In a flash I think of her affair. I think of femme fatales and family curses. I think, that’s me, framed by that door —

  I close my eyes and listen to her voice.

  ‘There’s a message on my phone,’ she calls, ‘from Cass’s mum, from late last night. There’s someone at school you should avoid! A boy who was in juvenile detention! Do you know him? His name is Riley!’

  I laugh, and drive away.

  ‘Five minutes to go,’ the supervisor says. Thunder, gasps, giggles, faster writing.

  I have one last thing to say.

  My conversation yesterday was with Amelia.

  I was crossing the oval after an exam. Amelia crossing towards me. Bloodshot eyes, she must have come from the pool.

  We stopped, chatted about nothing. Then something changed. Her hand flew sideways, oddly, and her bloodshot eyes found mine.

  I noticed something: her hair was dry. She hadn’t been swimming, she’d been crying. She knows.

  ‘Riley’s not talking to me,’ she said. Her voice was like a series of blocks that she had to take out one at a time. She never shares herself. My heart hurt to see how hard she found it.

  ‘He hasn’t — he doesn’t call me back,’ she said.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since the last day of school. The Thursday. The day of the Final Assembly, and the play.’

  That was the night I’d kissed him.

  I tried to focus.

  She’s cheating on him, I reminded myself, and then a surge of anger: What, Amelia, you cheat on Riley and he stops returning calls? You don’t think the two things are connected?

  It felt great, the anger.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘maybe he found out your secret.’

  Her eyes widened. Then she shook her head. ‘But if he knew, I don’t think he’d . . .’

  And then — standing in the middle of the oval, sounds of traffic, student voices in the distance — she told me.

  She fixed her eyes to the collar of my shirt, and told me what she hasn’t told Riley.

  It’s to do with her stepfather.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone that before,’ she said with a small smile, ‘except my mum, and it made her burn the onions.’

  She laughed. I was breathing hard.

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s not a big deal.’

  It is a big deal.

  ‘I’ve never told Riley because — I guess I didn’t trust him not to go kill my stepfather. Plus, I liked telling him the good things about Patrick. That way Patrick stayed special, and the other stuff kind of never happened. I always meant to tell Riley, one day, I mean. He’s my, Riley’s my . . . I think he knows I’m keeping something from him, and it hurts him. But you think he’d stop talking to me if he found out?’

  She was actually checking.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He would not stop talking to you.’

  She smiled sadly, and said she had to go. Her face was so thin, her bones were casting shadows.

  So, just summing up for you. A few weeks ago, I kissed Amelia’s soulmate (he’s my, Riley’s my . . .). Yesterday, she trusted me with a secret she hadn’t even told him yet.

  Today, before this exam, Amelia sat alone and wouldn’t look at me.

  I closed my eyes, and —

  Lesson 4: I don’t deserve to live —

  That’s it. That’s my story.

  Riley T Smith

  Student No: 8233569

  My last look at her was a desk.

  Polished, curved and pushed against a window.

  A fly crosses the window.

  Before this exam, Amelia’s silent. Then sudden fast talk. Who knows what she’s saying. Something about how I haven’t called her the last few weeks. I lead her down a corridor, and we turn our backs.

  She changes the subject — ‘Heard you kissed Lydia’ — and gives her wicked grin.

  ‘Where’d you hear that?’

  ‘Read it on a blog last night. People say the strangest things.’

  That cracking grin. She’s holding it. She’s waiting.

  All I can do is hold her gaze — ‘Didn’t know you read blogs,’ I say — and now she knows it’s true.

  Time was, I used to kick the faces in on garden gnomes. That crumpled, broken shock.

  Never found a sound that could catch my love for her, and now, look at that, I’ve gone and broken her.

  ‘Ame,’ I say.

  Some things you can’t ever mend.

  ‘After this,’ I say, meaning this exam.

  She’s shaking her head. The pride so fast, it makes me proud. The strength in her.

  ‘After this exam,’ she says, ‘I have to go see my friend.’

  Ah. The friend in the institution.

  Me kissing Lydia — Amelia knowing that — none of that counts, because Amelia’s already gone.

  Amelia crossing away from me. Clean, diagonal cut.

  I am very sorry to have to ask you this, but have you ever actually SEEN the mental institution that Amelia visits to see her ‘friend’?

  Now there’s a white flash of truth in my eyes like a migraine: a folded square of paper.

  Toby slipped it into her hand just a moment ago, and Amelia put it in her pocket. I saw this and I didn’t think a thing.

  But the folded paper.

  It’s a place to meet.

  It’s Toby.

  There he is.

  Toby.

  In the Goose and Thistle. His hand hits the exit door above Amelia’s shoulder. He looks sideways at Amelia, and she smiles her eyes.

  There he is.

  Toby.

  On the street with us. Asking where she lives. Saying that’s on his way.

  Eyes in the rear-vision mirror as he drives her away.

  There he is.

  Toby. Running up a staircase. ‘I think he’s in my History class,’ Amelia says.

  There he is.

  Toby. Talking to people at parties. Taking control of the music, making it better.

  Trapped in a closet, talking Irish folklore and black holes.

  Irish folklore. Of course. The folklore, the fairytales, the path to her heart. I could never compete with the stepfather. Now I can’t compete with this —

  Toby.

  There’s no such person as the crazy friend. That’s her cover story. Her wild imagination gone mad.

  It’s all a story, all code for Toby.

  And there he is.

  Toby. Floating in Lyd’s swimmi
ng pool, talking Irish convicts, while the others laugh, ignore him, tell him to shut up.

  There he is — Toby. In the auditorium, talking about time travel with mirrors.

  At the Final Assembly, heading up to get his woodwork prize.

  Toby — the Irish folklore boy, playing tricks with time.

  Toby —

  he’s been there all along.

  You just haven’t seen him.

  I see him now.

  Three desks to the right, two up.

  Leaning over, writing fast.

  His woodworking hands.

  Just beyond him, the empty desk. The fly still walks the window. A clean, diagonal cross.

  Its wings flutter, flutter, buzz — those wings don’t work. That fly can’t fly.

  Imagine that.

  A fly that can’t fly.

  A man who can’t walk.

  Woodworking hands that don’t.

  But let’s head back to the corridor, just before this exam, Amelia and I unblinking. Amelia’s face. Telling me she has to go to see her crazy friend.

  Don’t ever push me.

  ‘Your crazy friend tells you Irish fairytales,’ I say. ‘Like your stepfather used to tell.’ Now Amelia blinks, and I add, ‘Like you’re telling me now.’

  She stares.

  My voice turns soft — cold as the freakin’ Danish Alps — ‘I’ve given up on you, Amelia.’

  She turns,

  and just like that,

  she’s gone.

  Toby’s been taking her away all year, but I just made her disappear for good.

  My last look at her is that desk.

  Polished, curved and pushed against a window.

  Empty chair lit by thunderclouds.

  I always knew my Amelia was a ghost. Never knew I’d be the one to make her so.

  There he is.

  Toby — just put down his pen and stretched his arms.

  Tobias George Mazzerati

  Student No: 8233555

  What can I tell ya?

  The only real convict uprising in our history, and it almost worked.