Amelia Westlake

by Erin Gough

  More trouble is the last thing I need, and four o’clock is only half an hour away, so I resign myself to thirty more minutes in Harriet’s company. At least I can get some drawing done.

  Before Harriet and Bracken showed up, I was doodling ideas for my major work, the project that will make up fifty per cent of my final-year Art mark. I’m massively behind. Everyone else has started their pieces but I keep changing my mind. I considered doing something about world poverty or global warming, but Mrs Degarno says that the best type of art does two things at once: it speaks to current events as well as telling a story about the artist. That’s why my latest idea is to explore the dangers of air travel.

  Every time I turn on the news these days I hear about another crash in which hundreds of people have died. It’s been four years since I flew on a plane, and after what happened that last time, I’ve vowed never to fly on another one.

  I take up my pen.

  I’ve just finished drawing three commercial jets of varying sizes – one exploding, one tearing in half mid-flight and one spiralling nose-first into a mountain – when I look up to see Harriet staring at me from behind a row of chairs she’s been straightening.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re staring at me.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  I put down my pen. ‘Feeling guilty, are we?’

  Her eyes widen. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  She probably doesn’t even remember what happened at the pool. Why would she care about what Hadley said to Ruby Lasko? Harriet Price wouldn’t have a clue what it’s like to be picked on.

  She begins dragging the chairs to the side of the room and stacking them loudly. I go back to drawing planes.

  A minute later, she says, ‘What good would it have done? Me saying anything? Miss Watson would still have put you in detention.’

  So she does remember. Interesting. ‘I guess we’ll never know, will we?’ I say.

  Red blotches appear on her neck and I smile. She marches off to toss around a few more chairs.

  I’ve just finished drawing my fourth plane when she pipes up again. ‘For the record, I don’t entirely disagree with what you said about Coach Hadley.’

  I raise an eyebrow. ‘That he’s a prick?’

  Harriet gasps. ‘I wasn’t referring to that,’ she whispers. ‘I mean what you said to Ms Bracken. About him being … sexist. He doesn’t mean to be, but it’s definitely true that, very occasionally, he can be.’

  ‘Very occasionally?’

  ‘Yes. Not at all often. Hardly ever, really.’

  It’s a record-breaking backtrack. I rock forward on my chair. ‘You don’t remember last term when he referred to the “non-supportive” bra Nakita Wallis was wearing?’ I ask.

  Harriet looks uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes. But he was only kidding around –’

  ‘What about the time he told Anna Yemelin that she was too “top heavy” to be a competitive swimmer?’

  She bites her lip. ‘Swimmers have to have a certain body shape. That’s the reality.’

  ‘Or how he once tried to get us to stretch before class by saying how guys appreciate flexibility?’

  Harriet pauses. ‘I’m pretty sure that was a joke. Admittedly one in poor taste …’

  ‘Then what’s your explanation for how he slapped Trish Burger on the –’

  ‘Okay, you’ve made your point,’ Harriet snaps.

  I let the back legs of my chair hit the floor. The sound makes Harriet jump. I pretend not to notice. ‘I’ve got loads more examples,’ I say. ‘It’s a common story. Given how much time you spend at the gym, I’m surprised you don’t have a few stories about Hadley yourself.’

  The red blotches on Harriet’s neck darken. I wonder if I’ve hit the mark.

  ‘Even if it’s true that he can be somewhat sexist, girls know he doesn’t mean anything by it,’ she says at last. ‘People love him!’

  If that’s her attitude, what’s the point of pressing further? Clearly if Harriet does have stories, she’s not about to share them with me. You can tell just by looking at her how carefully ordered she is: everything’s so neat and fitted, it’s like her whole being is guarding against the presence of a single loose thread that, if pulled, would unravel Harriet herself.

  I leave the thread alone. Instead I say, ‘Some people love him. Of course, the other possibility is that they’re afraid of being told they can’t take a joke.’

  ‘In any case,’ Harriet says, ignoring my theory, ‘I don’t see what the point is of going on about his behaviour, frankly, unless you’re prepared to do something about it.’ She must see the disbelief on my face because she adds quickly, ‘Something apart from calling him a you-know-what to his face, I mean.’

  I laugh. Harriet Price is really something – standing like a statue beside a tower of chairs, lecturing me about taking action. ‘What did you have in mind?’ I ask, loading on the sarcasm. ‘A petition? A meeting with Principal Croon? I tried both of those things last year to break the monopoly the school’s uniform shop has on school supplies. I got nowhere. I doubt she’s going to sack Hadley on my say-so. Or were you thinking we should have one of Rosemead’s famous charity cake stalls? Perhaps we could use a picture of Hadley’s face with the word “misogynist” in red icing beneath it.’

  ‘Cake stalls can be very effective,’ Harriet says, clasping her hands together like an earnest Maria von Trapp. ‘When I organised our homeless person’s cake stall –’

  ‘I was being sarcastic.’

  ‘I know that,’ she says crossly. She strides across the room in an attempt to look purposeful. I’m unconvinced.

  ‘How about you write an article for the school paper then?’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘You’re friends with Natasha Nguyen, aren’t you?’

  I’m surprised Harriet knows this. Still. What a crappy idea. Nat’s the editor of the school paper but that doesn’t automatically mean she’d publish something I’d written. She’d bang on about her editorial integrity first. ‘What would be the point of a stupid article?’

  ‘To draw attention to the issue, if that’s what you’re so keen on doing.’

  I snort. Doesn’t Harriet know that drawing attention to issues is what I’ve been trying to do since I arrived at this school over two years ago? I’ve pushed for a fundraiser for Indigenous Literacy Day. I’ve campaigned for energy-efficient lighting. Fat lot of good that was ever going to do, given the chair of the school board is also the deputy CEO of its electricity supplier. ‘Take it from me, Harriet. If it’s good for the world but bad for Rosemead, they won’t change a thing,’ I call out to her.

  She hauls a table across the room, its legs screeching. ‘If you’re not prepared to do anything then please stop complaining,’ she says.

  It takes me a moment to recover from such blatant hypocrisy. Another moment passes as I wait for her to finish manoeuvring the table against the back wall. She can’t be serious about calling out Hadley’s sexism in the school paper. It doesn’t exactly align with her blind allegiance to Rosemead.

  I decide to call her bluff. ‘All right. You’ve convinced me. Let’s write an article.’

  Harriet looks shocked. She sits down on the table with a thump. ‘I didn’t mean I wanted to help. I can’t be involved.’

  Just as I figured. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m a prefect.’

  ‘That’s exactly why you should be involved,’ I argue, twirling my pen.

  ‘Oh my God. I can’t write something like that about a teacher,’ she says, swinging her legs. ‘Like him or loathe him, Coach Hadley is a notable public ambassador for Rosemead. He has put this school on the map.’

  I study her. ‘Do you really believe that crap? Or are you just bunging it on?’

  Harriet blinks. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Something tells me you know it’s bullshit. If you don’t, fine. But if you do …’

  ‘Then what?’

>   ‘Then you’re a fucking coward, Harriet Price.’ My pen twirls off my fingers. It crashes to the floor and rolls across the room, landing right beneath her swinging feet.

  Harriet bends over and snatches it up.

  It’s worth eleven bucks, that pen, and I nicked it from Mrs Degarno’s art supply cupboard only an hour ago. I scrape back my chair.

  When I reach her, she slips back onto the table and holds the pen away from me.

  Talk about high maintenance. If she wants me to grovel, fine. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ I put out my hand for the pen.

  Harriet grips it tighter.

  I sigh. ‘Calling you a coward was going too far.’

  Looking me square in the eye, Harriet holds the pen high above her head.

  I can’t lose that pen, dammit. There’s no way I can steal another one without Mrs Degarno noticing, and she’s already on my back about some missing sheets of pressed metal. I could tackle Harriet for it, of course, but I don’t need an assault complaint on my record. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘How can I write the article if you won’t return my pen?’

  This works. Harriet lowers it. I grab it and go back to my seat. With my pen safe I’m free to walk out of here, and with Harriet refusing to help she has no grounds to stop me. But an angle for an article about Hadley has just occurred to me. And it’s not like there’s any need to rush home. I may as well write it down.

  I turn over a fresh page in my notebook. As soon as I find my rhythm I’ve filled it with a lucid argument in no time. I read it over, make a few changes and read it again. It’s good, possibly very good. I walk it over to Harriet, who is now attacking graffiti on various pieces of furniture with a shredded tissue.

  ‘What?’ she asks when I hold out my notebook to her.

  ‘I need you to proofread it,’ I say. ‘You’re in Stream 1 English, aren’t you?’

  Harriet hesitates, then takes it, as I knew she would. Control freaks can’t help but stick their fingers in. I watch her skim the article.

  ‘Way too ranty,’ she says, handing it back. ‘Hyperbole is never persuasive.’

  Condescending, infuriating little – ‘You do it, then.’ I thrust my pen at her.

  Harriet folds her arms, this time refusing to take it. ‘I’ve already told you I’m not getting involved.’ She nods at the sketches on the facing page of my notebook. ‘I see you like to draw.’

  I bet nobody was ever this patronising to Frida Kahlo. ‘It’s for my major work, if you must know.’

  ‘Are you any good at cartoons?’

  Some people just like bossing others around. It’s what sets the prefects in this world apart from the non-prefects. As it happens, I am good at cartoons. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Maybe you could do a cartoon instead.’

  A cartoon about Coach Hadley and his sexist ways. It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. He would be easy enough to caricature. But what would the picture be? And the caption?

  ‘I could give you an angle if that would help,’ Harriet says casually.

  Now I see how it is. She wants the control without the responsibility. She’s unbelievable.

  On the other hand, it’s not like I have any ideas of my own. ‘Fine,’ I say, making it clear I don’t give a shit one way or the other.

  She talks me through her idea.

  I should say at this point that Harriet Price isn’t known for her wit. Where some are ironic, she’s earnest. While others smirk, she weeps into a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Okay, I’ve never seen her weep, she’s always so upbeat, but I imagine that when she does succumb to her darker emotional side – if she has one at all – there’s a lace-trimmed handkerchief involved. ‘That’s quite funny,’ I concede.

  I spend the next ten minutes in deep concentration, drawing up her idea. When I’ve finished, I hand it to Harriet and watch for her reaction.

  A smile spreads across her face. ‘This is really good.’

  Despite her condescending tone, I’m pleased. ‘You came up with it,’ I say generously.

  ‘Hardly. It was your idea to do something, not mine.’

  ‘But the cartoon was your idea.’

  ‘But you executed it. You deserve the credit.’

  I look at it again, and get an excited flutter in my chest. ‘Can you write the caption? I reckon your handwriting would be a lot neater than mine.’

  She takes the pen and writes carefully beneath the picture. ‘How’s that?’

  Her contribution is predictably orderly. ‘Good. Look, I’d feel bad taking all the credit,’ I say. ‘Especially now that you’ve written the caption. I really think that both our names should go on it.’

  Harriet shakes her head decisively. ‘There is no way you are using my name.’

  ‘Believe me. I know Nat,’ I say. ‘She won’t publish anything without a name. Anonymous pieces are against the school rules and anyway, she has this whole journalistic principles thing going on when it comes to anonymous contributions.’

  ‘You are not using my name,’ Harriet says again.

  ‘We can’t use mine. Not with my reputation. They’d put me in detention until I’m eighty.’

  It’s a dilemma. We’ve created something that other people really should see. But how can we get it out there without incriminating ourselves?

  ‘How about using a pseudonym?’ Harriet suggests.

  I shake my head. ‘They’re not allowed either.’

  She frowns. ‘What if Natasha doesn’t know it’s a pseudonym? You could use something that sounds like the name of a real student.’

  Harriet’s idea could actually work. Then again, a plot to deceive my friend isn’t without its problems. If Nat ever found out I’d done it – well. To say she’d have me kneecapped is putting it mildly.

  But how else will the cartoon get published?

  I look again at what I’ve drawn, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘What name should we use?’

  Harriet points to the whiteboard where a list of student names from a previous class is scrawled. ‘What about that as a first name?’

  I follow her finger. ‘Too unusual. It would sound suspicious.’

  ‘That one, then?’

  ‘As good as any, I suppose. And a last name?’

  ‘You need something that sounds credible,’ says Harriet.

  ‘We do, you mean.’ I have a thought. ‘Have you ever played that game where you work out your porn-star name?’

  Harriet stares at me. ‘My what?’

  Of course she hasn’t. ‘What’s the first street you ever lived on?’

  ‘McGill Street. Why?’

  ‘What’s the name of your first pet?’

  She thinks about it. ‘Budgie.’

  ‘Then Budgie McGill is your porn star name.’

  ‘What’s yours?’ Harriet asks.

  ‘Dottie Mulvaney. Pretty good, hey?’

  She folds her arms. ‘Okay, let’s try a variation on your game,’ she says. ‘What suburb do you live in?’

  ‘Marrickville.’

  Harriet’s eyes grow wide. ‘Isn’t that miles away?’

  ‘Not really, but it’s on the wrong side of the bridge so you’ve probably never been there. Where are you?’

  ‘Mosman.’

  ‘How about we combine them? Mossville? Marrickman?’ I shake my head. ‘What about streets? I’m in East Street. How about you?’

  ‘Bay Street,’ says Harriet. ‘Not that this needs to have anything to do with me at all,’ she adds quickly.

  I think about it. ‘Eastbay’ could work. It’s better than the other options. Although …

  I remember the Opposite Game my father and I play. I grab the pen, and work on a few variations. ‘How about this?’

  The name is innocuous. It’s not too fake-sounding. And there’s nothing to link it to either of us.

  ‘Amelia Westlake,’ Harriet reads aloud. ‘I like it.’

  Chapter 4

  * * *

 
; HARRIET

  I am still running the name over in my head as I shuck off my school shoes inside our front door. Amelia Westlake. It has a fabulous ring to it.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. Nobody answers, which is completely fine. I can hear Arthur’s band practising in the central atrium and I doubt anyone else is home. When your parents’ oral surgery skills are in high demand you cannot expect to have dinner with them every night or even most nights, and I totally understand and appreciate that.

  The music coming from the central atrium is even more disharmonious than usual, and as I smooth smoked trout paté onto a water cracker in the empty kitchen I wonder about my brother’s emotional wellbeing. Last week a girl called Candice dumped him on the grounds that he will never amount to anything. It sounds as if he isn’t taking it very well at all.

  Finally the music stops and there are footsteps in the hall. I hear the front door close, and Arthur appears. He drags himself onto a kitchen stool. ‘Everything okay?’ I venture.

  He shrugs miserably. Since this morning he has done something horrible to his hair. It is cropped close to his scalp everywhere except for a narrow wad along his crown. The poor thing has clearly gone mad with grief.

  ‘Candice still?’

  He groans like a dying polar bear.

  I love my brother, but sometimes I can see this girl Candice’s point. Arthur has an artistic temperament. While it is possible he will one day become a world-renowned musician, it is just as, if not more likely that he will fail his exams, have to get a job selling flat-pack furniture and live in a one-bedroom unit on a main road. What he needs is cheering up. ‘I’m making your favourite snack,’ I tell him.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m not hungry.’

  He is just being polite; Arthur is always hungry. ‘Nonsense. I’ve already got the nacho chips in the oven.’ I open a tin of Mexican beans. ‘It is time to move on,’ I say. ‘Forget Candice. You need to find someone else. Or focus your energy on something completely different, like schoolwork.’