Amelia Westlake

by Erin Gough

  ‘But she’s perfect.’ He has his head on the Caesarstone counter, as if it is too heavy to hold up. ‘How can I move on from perfect?’

  ‘Sometimes we have to compromise.’

  He sits up. ‘You mean like you have with Edie?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I stir the beans vigorously in the saucepan. ‘Edie is probably beyond perfect. Most people have to settle for something less.’

  ‘People like me?’ grumbles Arthur, scratching the newly shorn part of his scalp.

  I put down my wooden spoon. ‘Oh, Arthur.’

  He sniffs.

  ‘There’s no need to cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying. I smell smoke.’

  ‘Oh! The corn chips.’ I open the oven door and a plume of thick smoke curls out.

  Arthur crumples back onto the counter. ‘I suppose Edie’s coming around tonight?’

  ‘It is Tuesday.’ Somehow the beans have stuck to the bottom of the saucepan. I lever them off with a spatula. ‘Would you like to join us for dinner? I’m thinking of making my famous salmon quiche.’

  ‘No thanks. Your nachos will be more than enough for me.’

  It makes sense that Arthur would find it hard being around the two of us when he has just had his heart broken, but I do not want him to feel unwelcome. ‘The invitation is open if you change your mind.’

  ‘Thanks, Harri.’

  Just then my phone lights up. I pluck it off the counter.

  Darling Bubble, I am exhausted from a long albeit successful afternoon tea and need to lay low tonight. Raincheck? X

  One of the many things I love about Edie is her text-messaging technique. She never abbreviates words or employs emojis. However, I am a little disappointed by the message’s content.

  Poor Edie, you work so hard, my love. Can I tempt you with my salmon quiche? Or you could cook something for us if you prefer? Would LOVE to see you. X

  My capitalisation in the final sentence is somewhat crass, and I regret it as soon as I press ‘send’. I hold my phone and wait for her reply. Although it makes sense that she is tired after running an event, I have been really looking forward to seeing her. I am very keen to talk to her about Will Everhart’s cartoon.

  Will Everhart. When I think about her, my heart does a strange little flip. What a peculiar afternoon it has been, helping her out with a piece of artistic commentary. This would be bizarre enough had it been with one of my friends – Beth, say, or even Millie. But Will Everhart? This is the girl who, for a History assignment on ‘The Effects of War’, presented a twenty-minute video, spliced together from old movies, of people getting stabbed, macheted or shot. I wonder if it was wise to light a further flame beneath a person who courts controversy so keenly.

  The more I think about it, the more I realise it was probably a very bad idea indeed.

  If Will did as we agreed and dropped the cartoon into the Messenger’s office on her way home, by Monday it will be published for everyone at Rosemead to see. The possibility makes my jaw ache. Coach can be insensitive, and I certainly have personal experience of that, and that is partly why I suggested Will draw the cartoon. But there have also been times when he has been very kind to me, complimenting me on my hair, posture and even eye colour (‘as green as the Coral Sea’ he has said more than once). And if it weren’t for Coach persuading Miss Watson to give me a chance at tennis in the early years, I would never be playing for Tawney and fulfilling my lifelong dream.

  Although lately he has not been quite so friendly.

  He certainly never used to hold me back to swim extra laps like he did this morning.

  What will Coach say when he sees the cartoon? What about Principal Croon? Thank God I convinced Will she should use a pseudonym.

  ‘Why are you staring at your phone?’ Arthur asks.

  ‘Waiting for a text from Edie.’ I hope she isn’t judging me for capitalising ‘love’!

  ‘She always makes you wait,’ Arthur says. ‘It’s mean.’

  Maybe Edie does delay her replies. But her teasing ways are part of her charm. I put the chips and beans together on a plate and place it in front of Arthur. He pulls a chip away from the cheesy brown mound, takes a small bite and puts it back. ‘Taste okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Delicious,’ Arthur says, and coughs, which is a common reaction to spicy food. ‘I think I’ll eat it in my room if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Of course.’

  When he is gone, I start my quiche preparations, checking my phone every couple of minutes. Beth texts to confirm that our Music excursion to The Mikado is leaving at eight tomorrow, and to express a firm hope for a good-looking bus driver (‘a hottie’ are her exact words. She is so hilarious). Millie sends through a venue suggestion for the year-twelve formal, and I text back confirming I will consider it in my capacity as Formal Committee chair. My mother texts to say she and my father will eat at the surgery, and to give a ‘big hug’ to Edie (she and Mum adore one another). I’ve just popped the quiche in the oven when a text finally comes through from my girlfriend.

  My darling Bubble, my dove, my destiny. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting for a reply. I fell asleep right after pressing send! Let’s meet on Saturday, and you can help me with my public speaking topic for SpeakOut – they just sent it through a few minutes ago. You have such a talent for putting words together. What would I do without you, Bubble? You are my lucky charm. XXXX

  Edie never uses more than three X’s. She considers it over the top. That she has done it now is her way of saying she forgives me for capitalising ‘love’, I am certain. I read the message again. I am her darling Bubble, her dove, her destiny. I hold the bright screen to my face.

  Chapter 5

  * * *

  WILL

  ‘I spoke to your father last night.’

  Mum is at the sink with her coffee mug, face to the window, watching a bird on the lawn. Birds on the lawn are about as exciting as it gets at our place. Apart from the occasional wildlife – if a magpie can be described as wildlife – our garden is a square patch of grass dotted with bindi-eyes. Stooping around the edge like pensioners at a bowling green are one limp wattle, one diseased lemon tree and one anemic tomato vine. In the middle of the grass are two epic Hills Hoists.

  Since moving to our ground-floor flat, playing Guess Whose Washing is Mum’s favourite new pastime. ‘That must be Julie’s load,’ she’ll say, nose to the window. ‘I can tell from the crocheted bedspread. And are those Emilio’s overalls? I should duck round and let them know it’s about to rain.’

  We’ve been in the unit since Christmas – that’s when Mum and Dad finally sold our North Shore house and split the difference. Mum and I hauled our stuff to the inner west, which is closer to her sister and has cheaper real estate. Dad kept going west until he couldn’t go any further without falling off the continent.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Will?’

  ‘What did you speak to him for? You guys are divorced, remember? That means you no longer have to sleep together, go to each other’s work dinners, or engage in conversation.’

  Mum rinses her mug. ‘He’s disappointed you didn’t go over last week. He says you would have loved it. It was a celebration of Western Australia’s emerging Light and Space movement, you know.’

  I know. Dad sent me an invitation to the launch of his new art magazine a month ago. Like it never occurred to him that, short of a spare five days to drive across the desert, I’d have to spend four-and-a-half hours on a plane to get there. He knows I don’t do planes anymore. ‘He should have thought more about how much I’d have loved it before having his launch party ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COUNTRY,’ I say.

  ‘Come on, Will,’ says Mum. ‘Perth is where the magazine is based. And where he lives. Would you have preferred it if he didn’t invite you at all?’

  From my chair, I peg the tea towel I’ve been using as a napkin onto the kitchen bench top. Just one of the advantages of living in a shoebox. Honestly, if you asked me whic
h living arrangement, old or new, wins the overall Sucks Most award, I’d be hard-pressed to decide. In our old suburb, the streets were too quiet and everyone looked like they’d just stepped out of a fifties catalogue of British knitting patterns. At least here the streets are loud with traffic, and the smells of fish sauce, oil and tamarind spill from the Vietnamese restaurants. All sorts of people live around here – immigrants from Tonga, refugees from Somalia, Portuguese who have been here for generations. A group of Lebanese oldies holds court every day outside the local pizza joint, where they eat oregano pizza and drink cup after cup of black coffee. Down the road, hipsters pour single-origin piccolos while stroking their beards. Posters and political slogans decorate building walls.

  I love all of this: walking around the suburb, I feel its heartbeat. The only part I can’t stand is the noise from above. Living under a flight path is the worst. I wake in the mornings to the rumble of plane engines and fall asleep to it at night, when it enters my dreams. With my eyes closed, my ears pop and suddenly I’m in a cabin with shaking walls and flickering lights. I haven’t slept properly since we got here.

  The toaster pops. Morning sun arcs across the kitchen floor.

  ‘We’ve talked about this,’ Mum says.

  ‘Then there’s no need to repeat ourselves.’

  ‘You could at least give him a call, Will.’

  ‘Those phone companies have higher profit margins than the GDPs of some small island nations, you know.’

  ‘He’s your father.’

  ‘There are legal avenues to change that.’

  The bird on the grass buries its beak in its feathers.

  ‘Don’t be late for school.’

  First period on Mondays is Miss Fowler’s English class. Nat and I always sit together and catch up on the weekend. Today, Kimberley Kitchener has plonked herself in my usual chair. Nat looks ready to kill her but Kimberley is too busy WhatsApping to notice.

  The only other spots are up the back of the room. I sit down, turn my phone to silent and get cracking on my overdue creative writing homework. This week’s challenge: an obituary.

  WILL EVERHART of Sydney, Australia, had a keen wit and a sharp mind. Greatly admired by her peers for her principled approach to life, she was also deeply artistic. Renowned critics considered her to be nothing less than the Future of Australian Art.

  The quality of the work she produced during her heartbreakingly short life only compounds the tragedy of her passing. After a drawn-out period of suffering, Everhart died during first period on Monday, of boredom.

  She is survived by her philandering parents.

  There’s something too elegant about the word ‘philandering’, so I change it to ‘cheating’. But ‘cheating’ is too mild, so I change it to ‘double-crossing’.

  ‘Will Everhart,’ Miss Fowler calls out from the front. ‘I asked you a question. What on earth are you doing?’

  My classmates turn in their chairs to stare at me. I don’t blame them. Today’s lesson on the poetry of Robert Browning is about as fascinating as a Ryvita biscuit.

  ‘Practising my synonyms,’ I say in an injured tone, glancing at my notebook. I like ‘charlatan’, but is ‘charlatan’ the adjectival form or does it need a suffix?

  She is survived by her charlatanous parents.

  She is survived by her charlatanising parents.

  How about ‘swindling’? No. None of them is right. I draw a line through ‘double-crossing’ and write ‘crazy’ instead.

  ‘Crazy’ encapsulates it. How my father philandered/cheated/double-crossed my mother by sleeping with an installation artist named Naomi and then moving with her to the other side of the country. How Mum philandered/cheated/double-crossed him back by having an affair with an actuary named Graham. How they’ve chosen to handle their break-up: with calm conversation when there should be shouting, tears and hospitalisation.

  Since splitting, my parents get along better than before. They expect me to be happy about it, and happy about the mid-air commute.

  ‘Crazy’, ‘stupid’, ‘senseless’, ‘cracked’. Any of them will do.

  ‘We’re not looking at synonyms today, Will,’ Miss Fowler says, her expression fixed. ‘Now tell us, please, in what year did Browning publish My Last Duchess?’

  From the corner of my eye I see Nat reach under her desk.

  I rack my brain for the answer. ‘I know it was sometime in the mid-nineteenth century.’

  ‘I asked you for the year,’ says Miss Fowler.

  ‘1860?’

  ‘I’ve just gone through this.’

  I can’t believe she’s pressing me. ‘Why does the exact year matter? Surely it would be more relevant to talk about the broader social context of the poem?’

  ‘Will –’ Miss Fowler warns.

  ‘For example, the nature of the patriarchy at that time, and what My Last Duchess implies about violence against women?’

  Miss Fowler is not fond of discussion points that deviate from her lesson plan. This is why, at the end of class, I am forced to endure a lecture from her about my recent academic performance.

  ‘You pay no attention to anything I say and your consistently abysmal marks reflect that,’ she says. Her eyes bore into me. ‘What’s more, your marks are showing no signs of improvement. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to talk about your progress with Principal Croon.’

  My stomach cramps. ‘What about my Virginia Woolf essay? Surely that will bring up my average mark.’

  ‘To the contrary,’ says Miss Fowler, drawing it out of a manila folder.

  I look at the mark. ‘Sixty-two? What complete balls!’

  Miss Fowler gasps. ‘Language, Wilhelmina!’

  ‘I worked really hard on this one.’ I’m not lying. I even footnoted my sources.

  ‘I’m afraid your hard work doesn’t show.’

  ‘Are you serious? This is one of the best essays I’ve ever written.’

  Miss Fowler looks flustered. ‘Then you can tell that to Principal Croon.’

  When I finally get out of class, Nat is waiting for me on the landing. She’s shouting at a year-nine kid who accidentally spilt juice on her tunic. Silly girl: everyone knows better than to cross Nat Nguyen.

  Nat’s fierceness is one of the reasons we hit it off immediately when I started at Rosemead in year ten. It’s also part of what makes her such a great editor. The articles she publishes in the Messenger are passionate and well-argued. And nothing motivates contributors like threats and intimidation. There are girls at Rosemead who audibly whimper when she walks past.

  The juice girl scampers. Nat watches her with a flicker of amusement before turning to me. ‘I was texting you during class.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’

  I dig into my pocket.

  Well THIS sucks. What is KK thinking?

  We have business to discuss.

  You free at lunch? 12.30 at the newsroom? Text me.

  WORLD 2 WILL. What are you even doing back there???

  Robert Browning who gives a shit I don’t.

  Look at your phone. I’ll be at newsroom at 12.30 if you want to come.

  FYI: the business to discuss - you’ll like it.

  Re: something in our latest edition.

  Also you & me business, naturally ;-)

  1842

  ‘1842,’ I say out loud. ‘Of course. Thanks.’ But the publication date of My Last Duchess isn’t what’s grabbed my attention. Something in our latest edition. Does Nat mean the latest edition of the Messenger? Is she referring to our cartoon?

  The paper always comes out on Mondays, but Nat usually doesn’t organise distribution until lunchtime so I haven’t seen a copy yet. I think again about the cartoon. I’ve been thinking about it on and off since I drew it, but with every day that’s passed it’s seemed less real.

  Did I really collaborate on a protest art project with Harriet Price in detention last week? The girl, it is rumoured
, who sends her teachers a Christmas hamper each year with a card quoting Seneca on gratitude? What caused this horrible lapse in judgment? A microsleep? Hypnosis? A covert alien mind-probe?

  It also strikes me for the first time how truly risky it is that the cartoon is about Hadley. As Rosemead’s Olympian poster boy he is untouchable. It’s risky enough to mouth off at him like I did last week at the pool, but another level of riskiness entirely to publish something in print. If the cartoon has made it into the Messenger, there’s no telling how the administration of this totalitarian regime masquerading as an educational institution will react.

  I can’t let Nat suspect that I know anything about the cartoon. ‘You want to talk about some Messenger article? Sounds intriguing,’ I say.

  Nat’s eyes glimmer like black ice on bitumen. She riffles through her book bag and pulls out a copy of the paper. ‘It’s not out yet. Duncan’s delivering it to all the drop-off points just before lunch.’ She opens it to page three. ‘And it’s not an article. Here.’ Nat jabs the middle of the page. ‘Take a look at this.’

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  HARRIET

  When Beth starts wailing loudly in the change room after netball, I barely bat an eyelid. She is a regular star of Rosemead’s theatrical productions and prides herself on her dramatic edge. ‘Ohmygod ohmygod!’ Her cries hit the tiles and bounce back along the taps.

  I peer over her shoulder. Page three of the Messenger is spread across on her lap. Oh my God indeed.

  Cooling my cheek with the back of my hand, I lean in closer and feel something unexpected: a burst of pride. It is an excellent reproduction. Every detail of the cartoon is crystal clear: the row of girls in their Rosemead swimwear, lined up along the side of the pool; the cartoon’s caption, ‘uniform inspection’, underneath; the man with the whistle standing before them, his neck craned forward, ogling their breasts. From the way Will has captured his chin dimple, stubble and bald patch, there can be no doubt whom it depicts.