by Erin Gough
I blink. Like the synchronised proclamations of a Greek chorus, Croon’s words are always a kind of hypnosis.
She taps her foot.
‘No, of course not.’ I pick up the apple core.
‘I had a conversation with Miss Fowler about you recently.’
‘You did?’
‘We need to talk about your recent English marks. Say Wednesday next week? Come to my office at lunchtime.’ She dazzles me with her smile again and moves away down the corridor.
The second lot of crap descends just before the pre-lunch announcements finish. That’s when I become aware of a mad rush in the corridor outside our Maths class. At first I think a gunman is on the loose – maybe Nat has finally pushed Duncan to his limits? The theory appears to be confirmed when I spot Duncan himself rushing past the door wearing a crazed expression.
However, the absence of gunshots and the fact girls are running after him rather than away from him makes me ponder an alternative reality: aggressive facial acne and extreme short-sightedness have been declared a lethal combination by GQ magazine, and Duncan has become the sexiest man alive.
Nat sets me straight in sixth period. ‘I organised a few strategic leaks late last week to inform the public we were publishing another Amelia Westlake cartoon today,’ she murmurs as we walk out of class. ‘People have been lining up in front of the newsstands all morning. As they should be. The new cartoon is fantastic.’
‘Really?’ I say, careful to conceal my pleasure. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Fowler’s unfair marking practices. Seriously Will, you should see it.’ Nat’s eyes give an almost invisible twinkle, like someone’s dropped a teeny-tiny diamante onto her retina. Then the diamante slips out, the twinkle disappears and her expression turns dark. ‘But you can’t.’
‘Why not?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t you just say it’s in the latest Messenger?’
‘It was,’ Nat sighs. ‘We had to pull it at the last minute. When Duncan distributed the paper at lunch and people found out the cartoon wasn’t in it, they went feral. Everyone’s been rioting, basically, since noon.’
My heart speeds up. ‘Why did you pull it? Has Croon come to see you?’
‘Not yet,’ Nat says grimly. ‘Come to the newsroom and I’ll show you why.’
We have to push through a crowd to get to the door. Duncan stands on the other side of it, peering through the mottled glass. ‘Back off, everybody,’ shouts Nat, causing the crowd to scatter instantly. She barges through the door, jamming Duncan between it and the bookshelf. ‘Give us a minute, will you, Duncan?’
Duncan edges his way out. The door clicks shut.
‘Fancy that,’ Nat says, one eyebrow raised. ‘You and me in a locked room. Whatever will we do with ourselves?’
I grin and reach for her.
‘Mmm,’ she murmurs as our lips meet. ‘Easter in Hanoi with the rellos was fun, but not as fun as this.’
From the other side of the door I hear a shriek. I try to ignore it and focus on kissing Nat. She sucks at my neck. I grab a handful of her hair.
There’s another shriek.
‘I think he’s getting mauled out there,’ I murmur.
Nat takes her mouth off my neck. ‘Should we let him in again?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe we should.’
‘I mean, only if you’re sure,’ she adds, looking at me carefully.
An uncomfortable feeling has crept into my chest, just like the last time we kissed. ‘It is kind of hard to concentrate with all that racket,’ I say uneasily.
‘Agreed,’ Nat says quickly. She shoots me a grin and I relax.
Nat grabs the door handle and tries to turn it. ‘Goddamn door’s jammed again. DUNCAN. YOU CAN COME INSIDE.’
The door crashes open and Duncan reappears, his hair pointing in multiple directions. He closes it, steps forward and trips over a pile of old editions.
‘You guys need to seriously consider going digital,’ I say.
Nat rattles the mouse beside her computer. The screen lights up. ‘Speaking of digital, this is what I wanted to show you, Will.’
I peer over her shoulder. ‘What the fuck?’ I cry.
On the screen is an Instagram feed. The profile picture is a silhouette of a girl, the creepy kind they use in current affairs programs when they’re not allowed to show the person’s face for legal reasons.
Amelia Westlake, says the name beneath the picture. Beneath that are the words ‘Sydney schoolgirl’.
‘Duncan found it last night.’ Nat gives him an aggressive nudge. ‘It’s pretty suss, wouldn’t you say? Just the one photo and that bio. She’s not following anyone. And she has no followers, either. What kind of actual living, breathing human doesn’t have a single follower? Doesn’t this Amelia Westlake have any friends? Or, barring friends, any random acquaintances who would follow her just to improve their own follow count? Even Duncan has some of those, don’t you, Duncan?’
Duncan’s ears turn pink.
‘Seriously. The picture screams “fake person”. But –’ and here Nat does her fingers-on-chin investigative journalist impression, ‘this isn’t enough evidence on its own to prove Amelia Westlake isn’t real.’
Nat strolls over to her whiteboard, which is not so much white as a kind of moody grey marbled with flecks of green from all the times she’s accidentally used permanent marker on it. She writes:
Possibility #1
AW is a real person with an Instagram account but no friends.
Possibility #2
AW is a real person who has no Instagram account, and an entirely different person has created a fake account for AW for the sole purpose of screwing with my head.
Possibility #3
AW is a fake person who never existed and never had any friends and has created a fake account using a fake picture for her fake, fake self.
‘My money’s on number two,’ I say.
‘That’s what I love about you, Will. Your sense of humour.’
‘I’m serious. What kind of a pseudonym is Amelia Westlake?’
At the same time as these words are coming out of my mouth, I’m trying to work out who has done this. Given the interest Amelia Westlake has attracted, it could be anyone. The most likely candidate, though, is Harriet. I understand why she’d be tempted – only this morning I thought it would be fun to scrawl some Amelia Westlake-themed graffiti in one of the toilet blocks. I also, on a whim, signed Amelia up for the year-twelve tetherball team and the Formal Committee. But creating a social media page for her? That’s like getting a billboard erected outside Nat’s bedroom window that says ‘Amelia Westlake is a pseudonym’, and then adding neon lights to make the word ‘pseudonym’ flash against her closed eyelids all night, and then coming into her room and writing the word ‘pseudonym’ all over the walls and on the carpet and back-to-front across her forehead so that when she looks in the mirror in the morning the first thing she sees is the word ‘pseudonym’.
‘I wish you were right, Will. No-one wants her to be a real person more than me. I want to publish her cartoons in every edition until the end of time. But if Amelia Westlake isn’t real and Croon finds out that I knew she was a fake and kept publishing her, she’ll have the perfect excuse to dump me as editor. Which means no journalism job for me once school is finished. And the simple fact is that Amelia Westlake doesn’t exist.’ Nat wrenches opens her bottom drawer and pulls out a manila folder. The cover is blank, but the way she slaps it on the desk and flips it open with the lightest of touches means it might as well be labelled key evidence to blow open the case. ‘Duncan did a bit of digging on the staff intranet, didn’t you, Duncan?’
Duncan nods. His face, apart from the tips of his pimples, changes from pink to dark crimson.
‘It took him a while to work out the password, but after trying RosemeadStaff1 and RosemeadStaff2, he cracked it with RosemeadStaff3. These pages –’ she thumbs through them, ‘are the rolls for every single class in the school. There’s an Amelia al
-Assad and an Amelia Prior. There’s even an Annabelle Eastman. But nowhere – and I’ve read each roll twice now – can I find an Amelia Westlake. Which means …’
‘The rolls are out of date?’ I offer, thinking fast. ‘Or incomplete? Someone’s lied about their name to the school’s administration? Amelia Westlake is in a witness protection program? There’s been a spelling error? The system’s broken? We’ve got to fix the system?’
‘We’ve definitely got to fix the system,’ says Nat. ‘And I’m going to fix the hell out of whoever’s behind these cartoons for trying to pull one over me.’ Her words are sharp with fury. ‘Believe me, Will, it’s way too risky for me to keep accepting these cartoons. Amelia Westlake’s publishing days are over.’
Chapter 10
* * *
HARRIET
As a general rule, I enjoy the bathrooms at Rosemead. The paper canisters are always well stocked, as are the supplies of perfumed soaps and hand creams at the sinks. A small wall-mounted machine emits pleasant scents into the air – Mountain Breeze, Baking Bread, or Scent of New Car. The whole aesthetic is so agreeable that I sometimes forget I’m in a school toilet block and not in one of our en suites at home.
So you can imagine my surprise when, on the very day our fourth cartoon is supposed to be published, I enter a bathroom cubicle and find the words Amelia Westlake woz here – or woz she??? scrawled on the back of the bathroom door in what looks suspiciously like black art pen.
A sudden thrill goes down my spine, quickly overwhelmed by a firmer, more reliable sense of indignation. Who would be perverse enough to vandalise school property using that name?
It is a rhetorical question; given the precise brand of humour on display, I already know it was Will.
Taking out my nail-polish remover, I quickly scrub off the graffiti. I have five minutes until Maths, so I hurry to the year-twelve common room to check on the volunteer list for the Formal Committee. We already have a core membership, but a few extras wouldn’t hurt. Then we can get started with the preparations, which I am incredibly excited about.
I was elected chair of the committee in February, but organising our year-twelve formal is something I have basically been doing on a pro bono basis for years. Every time I see an innovative table setting in a magazine I cut it out to add to my collection. I have a list of top venues, which the committee recently narrowed down to one: a haute cuisine restaurant at Circular Quay, called Dish. I cannot wait to hit the dance floor with Edie – she has learned ballroom dancing and has some really terrific moves.
On my way to the common room I hear the sound of familiar heels behind me in the corridor.
‘Hello, Harriet.’ Principal Croon is beaming. ‘How lovely to run into you.’
‘Principal Croon!’ What a pleasure it is to see her! Is that shirt made from kimono silk? The woman’s taste is flawless. ‘I didn’t realise you had returned! How was Japan?’
‘Simply wonderful,’ she says gravely. ‘The cherry blossom at this time of year …’ She sighs luxuriantly. ‘And how is the Tawney training coming along?’
Her mention of Tawney training makes me think of the Sports Department, which makes me think of Coach Hadley. I consider asking Principal Croon about his suspension, but decide not to. Now that she is back, she will announce it soon enough. ‘On track, I’m pleased to report,’ I tell her.
‘Keep up the good work.’ She briefly places a hand on my shoulder before continuing down the corridor.
I am still basking in the warmth of this encounter when I reach the common room. Beth is at the kitchen bench, stirring Milo into a full glass of milk. ‘Hey, lover,’ she greets me, bending over to take a sip without moving the glass from the bench.
‘Hi, Beth.’
She laughs and chokes on her Milo and coughs, and a cloud of chocolate comes out of her mouth like a speech bubble.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ says Beth, wiping her lips. ‘I just realised I called you lover, that’s all.’
‘You call everyone lover. It’s your new thing.’
‘Ye-es,’ says Beth, stirring her drink, looking at me with low-level amusement, the way she might look at someone with food in their teeth or a grossly deformed nose. Beth is so good at deadpan humour. ‘But with you it’s not as, you know, wacky.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re a lesbian, stupid.’ Beth picks up her glass. ‘Hey, I wanted to ask you something. You know James, that friend of your brother’s? The dreamy one with blue eyes who plays the keyboard in their band?’
‘Of course.’
‘He’s in year twelve at Edwin Street, isn’t he?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Does he have a girlfriend?’
I frown. ‘Not that I’m aware of. But then I wouldn’t really know. Arthur and I don’t talk all that much about his friends’ romantic pursuits.’
‘Could you make some inquiries? I was thinking of inviting him to our formal.’
‘All right. I’ll talk to Arthur.’ I walk past her to the noticeboard.
There are only two new names on the Formal Committee volunteer list. Liz Newcomb’s is one. Amelia Westlake’s is the other.
This isn’t good at all.
I find Will Everhart midway through lunch exactly where I expect to find her: coming out of the Messenger newsroom. When she sees me, her face sort of spasms, as if it is spinning through a giant carnival-wheel of emotions and doesn’t know where to land. Horror, doubt, anxiety, suspicion and anger: all of them flicker past. Unless I’m mistaken, there is also briefly something in the neighbourhood of pleased, but within seconds the carnival-wheel needle has caught on vitriolic outrage and I find myself firmly attached to Will Everhart’s hand, being towed down the hallway at a threatening speed.
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘I’m not the person abducting someone in broad daylight,’ I say, breathless.
‘We need to talk.’
‘We certainly do. I’ve just been to the bathroom!’
‘You’re telling me this because?’
‘Because of what’s written there!’ I am not going to let her pretend she doesn’t know. ‘Not to mention what’s written on the list of Formal Committee volunteers! And you’ll never guess who just signed up for tetherball.’
I expect some remorse, a small shrug of acknowledgement at the very least, but instead Will Everhart’s outrage seems to balloon. ‘What a coincidence,’ she says. ‘You’ll never guess whose Instagram profile Nat Nguyen was just showing me.’
I get a constricted feeling in my chest and regret eating boiled eggs for lunch; they may be high in protein and amino acids but they always give me indigestion.
Will’s grip on my hand tightens. Is that a fresh love bite on her neck? Has she somehow smuggled her groovy older boyfriend onto campus? I wouldn’t put it past her.
‘At least tell me where you’re taking me,’ I gasp.
‘As far away from the newsroom as possible.’
We are at the edge of the second oval and in front of us the pathway forks. If we follow Cassowary Path to the left, we’ll end up at the gymnasium. Bronte Path, to the right, takes us to the southern block of the Performing Arts Centre.
Will turns right.
When we reach the PAC, instead of heading up the ramp to the front entrance, Will swerves to the side and follows a path I’ve never noticed before that takes us down some steps and between the pillars at the base of the building. We go around the side until we come upon a door. Will presses the keypad beside it. I hear a click. She leans against the door and it opens.
Inside is a narrow room, about the size of my walk-in wardrobe. One wall is lined with shelves. On the bottom shelf is a neatly folded pile of clothes – an embroidered cavalry jacket and vest, as well as pants and a shirt – presumably a costume left over from one of Rosemead’s annual musicals. Otherwise, the shelves are empty. At the far end, beneath a row of windows and streaked
with sunlight, is a stack of padded chairs, like the ones populating the PAC foyer.
How perfect for an illicit rendezvous. Is this where Will brings her boyfriend? She lifts two of the chairs off the stack and places them facing each other on the carpet.
Of course. This is probably what she does with him. They probably put the chairs together, lie down together and …
But enough of these completely irrelevant thoughts. God, my collar feels tight all of a sudden. I undo the top button of my shirt.
‘What is this place?’ I ask.
‘One of the PAC storerooms,’ says Will. ‘Not that they’re using it to store anything right now. They shifted everything out about two weeks ago.’
I gaze around. ‘How do you know the door code?’
‘I watched Mr Tipper plug it in one time.’ She sits down on one of the chairs. Her eyes become slits. ‘You don’t know who Mr Tipper is, do you?’
I rack my brain. Tipper, sounds like ‘clipper’. An image comes to me of a sailing ship. I wonder if he is a boatswain of some sort?
‘Of course you don’t. He’s the janitor.’ Will gives me a scathing look.
The intensity of her outrage sends a strange heat through my veins. It is vital that I change the topic at once. ‘You’ve heard about Coach Hadley’s suspension, I expect.’
Will’s eyes widen. ‘They’ve suspended Hadley?’
I try, somewhat unsuccessfully, to tone down the triumph in my voice. ‘He hasn’t been at school since Easter break.’
Will looks thoughtful. ‘Of course, he could just be on extended holidays …’ She meets my eye. ‘But if you’re right about the suspension, it means Amelia Westlake really is getting the message across.’ She pauses to glower at me. ‘What a shame you’ve just sabotaged the whole project.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I cry.
Will throws up a hand and slaps the air. ‘Nat is refusing to publish any more cartoons because she knows Amelia Westlake is a pseudonym because you posted that bloody Instagram profile.’ She is staring at me again like I committed armed robbery.
