Dreaming of Amelia (3 page)

And worse, what do you suppose will happen, pray, when they miss out on the scholarship? Why, hell will have no fury! The vengeance they will wreak — It is THEN that we will see their truly hideous — I can scarcely grasp this pen for —

For, do you not understand? They will have seen our faces. They will know our names.

Strike them from the shortlist at once.

Yours,

Constance Milligan

Tobias George Mazzerati
Student No: 8233555

If you could just ease your way out of the nineteenth century, and back to modern times?

Back, in actual fact, to a couple of weeks before the summer holidays last year.

Cos that's when my dad had his tennis buddies round.

Thursday night and my feet're up, cold pizza, rain outside, TV bright like it's superkeen tonight, when a tennis shoe hits the back of my head.

I turn around and there's Frankenstein.

Laughing his arse off at me, on account of the direct hit to my head.

I kid you not: Frankenstein standing in my living room.

Couple of his monster buddies, too. Big sweaty shadows in the twilight-fading room.

‘Toby!' go the monster buddies. (That's their way of saying hi.)

‘Tobias,' says Frankenstein — that's his way.

You'd think his accent might have faded (like the twilight), cause he's been in this country 20 years, but no — ‘Tobias,' says Frankenstein, accent smooth and sweet, ‘you still have leetle ping pongs for balls?'

In one smooth move I had his shoe up off the floor and hurtling high speed towards his neck.

He took it from the air and let it drop.

‘What happened to your tennis game?' I go.

All three monsters stand there looking at me; sound of rain outside.

None of us blinked.

Next thing my dad's there, handing out beers. ‘I'm thinking a pasta,' he says. ‘Whaddya say, boys?'

Skinny monster goes, ‘That one you do with the olives?'

Fat monster goes, ‘And the anchovy fillets?'

And Frankenstein: ‘You kick
ass
, my friend!'

Frankenstein's real name is Roberto Garcia.

Also known as a buddy of my dad's. They met at this winetasting course my parents did, back when my parents were an item. Roberto Garcia was running the course.

Turns out, by spooky chance, he's my History teacher now. Gets my dad onto school committees too. (He has Frankensteinesque powers of persuasion.)

Anyhow, this particular night, tennis rained out, big plates of pasta, monster glasses of red wine, hangin' with Dad's buddies, the stereo blasting out their favourite toons — I played them some sets of my own — I'm a superstar DJ is what I am, in my spare time — and they started off ready to be full of mock and scorn but ended up kind of nodding along, eyebrows jumping with the beat, now and then making that face. Lips turned down, head tilted sideways:
Huh, who'd have thought it, this ain't bad.

So I'm taking a break some point that night, nice and sleepy — Dad and his fat buddy shootin' some pool, skinny buddy frowning at the stereo (trying to replicate my DJ success) (no chance), when Frankenstein lands his big arse
on the couch, shoving my legs to the floor at the same time, and gets me with a face full of garlic-red-wine breath.

Folks, he truly is one mother of a monster. Big acne-scarred face, nose like a landslide, hairiest arms and legs you ever saw so you'd think he was a mountain goat in his spare time, but — if you will forgive a bit of sentiment please — also the nicest guy in the world.

And this is the night when the story begins.

Let's just say, the short version is, Frankenstein recalled he was my History teacher.

‘Tobias,' he says, ‘Toby, my boy, you wish for an idea for your History project — you wish maybe to start during this summer?'

I'll tell you what he meant:

He meant: Toby, my boy, your marks are running down the gutter to the sewers of the earth. Your future, my boy, is a flying fox strung up in electrical wires. Yes, you're a superstar DJ, my boy, but your future is a maggot in a chunk of rotting cheese.

That's what he meant.

But he's a nice guy like I said, so he didn't use those words.

‘Roberto,' I said, ‘I wish.'

He'd been hangin' with his homeboys down the local history club, he said. Some guy there had found some old papers in a termite-rotting blanket chest.

‘The originals,' says Roberto with that shrug he always does, like he thinks he's a South American sex god, when in fact he's a big ole ugly Frankenstein, ‘the originals, we give to the Mitchell Library, naturally. But I have copies. You can look at the —'

He gets a bunch of papers from his briefcase. They're the letters belonging to a guy named Tom Kincaid. Once lived
right here in Castle Hill. The letters tell a story, and it's true. That's the way of history I guess.

You're yawning, folks, I can see your drooping eyes.

You're thinking timelines, dates, import/export, sealing, whaling, sextant, compass, let me quietly die of boredom, let me slip so far in my chair that my chin smacks the edge of the desk and my teeth go through my tongue.

You'd prefer the names and sexual preferences of my cousins and their kids.

Or the tragic tale of my parents' splitting up a few years back.

Or the story of Riley and Amelia, scholarship kids who came to my school this last year.

Too bad.

By the time Riley and Amelia started at my school, I was deep into the Tom-and-Maggie story.

It's blood, gore, betrayal, torture, murder — plenty of murder. And it's kind of a love story, too.

Wake up and I'll tell you the story.

 

Riley T Smith
Student No: 8233569

Three years later and my fist's in the air at the same door.

The fist hits a gust of moving red and rushing ponytail. The fist hits Amelia's voice: ‘What
was
that?'

‘Blank it,' I tell her.

My hands are on her chest. I'm moving her back into her room.

‘Who were those people? What was that place?'

She means the new private school where we started that day.

‘Soak it in bleach for half an hour.'

I'm moving her into her room. My elbow juts back to slam the door.

Those wild, crazed eyes of hers can change to moonshine softness in a doorslam.

Her skin is as pale as watermelon sucked free of its juices.

That's the steel-grey desk, that's the wardrobe, the bed, that's her giant stuffed cow, her guitar. Her bag spilling sheet music and water bottles. That's her hands, cheekbones, lips, that's the space behind her knees.

I love her bare legs from a distance. When she's standing by a pool. When she's facing the water, thinking. Her legs are as white as watermelon rind, veined with blue from cold. There's that H shape behind her knees. The H that trembles softly with the swimming water cold.

Or when she swings in the park, when she sits on the swing in a short, short dress, and she pumps her bare legs, pumps all those muscles in her pale, slender legs. You watch
from behind and you can see the long hair flying. She holds so tight that her knuckles turn dark pink.

She never wears makeup.

She wears this khaki cap sometimes, and the cap stays on her head even when she tips her face backward to the breeze. She puts her ponytail through the gap at the back. That's how it stays on. The ponytail flies free and holds the cap.

And there's that H behind her knees, stretching and contracting, stretching and contracting while she swings.

You know when somebody pushes you on a swing? The thud of their hands on the small of your back. You swing through the air then you spin back down and there's the thud of their hands pushing you higher. The hands are there to help you. They want to push you higher. They want to make you fly.

But there's the pressing of the hands on the small of your back, there's the force, there's the thud of their hands.

Don't ever push me.

 

Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson
Student No: 8233521

How did I know it was they?

This, I cannot explain.

Except to say that it must have been one of those previous sentiments of doom.

Anyhow, there they were! In the doorway of the Year 12 common room. At that
very
moment, the room lit up with lightning. And for a split end of time, I think I saw Riley and Amelia laugh! Their faces seemed to crack in two with laughter! Sudden, howling, shrieking, horrifying laughter! (No doubt it was also demonic.)

Perchance it was my imagination. I do have a hyperthyroid in my imagination so who knows. Anyway, before I could be sure, the lightning was gone and the room was dim again.

And there they stood. Riley and Amelia. Not laughing at all. Just looking calm.

Their eyes wandered the room.

They both put one foot forward and paused.

The air was silent. Every person in the room had stopped breathing.

In fact, the blood had stopped pumping in my veins. (Which was death-defying conduct on my part.)

There was an insufferable sense of
waiting
: a sense of
terrible suspense.
As if Riley and Amelia were lions, and we were a ménage à trois of lively, prancing deer.

The lions were stalking the deer.
Which of us would they devour?

(Oh! Who could have predicted? If only I knew
then
what I know now!!)

Riley and Amelia did not enter. They turned at exactly the same moment — and they walked away . . .

Why
?

Was it that they knew, even then, that they did not belong? Did they sense the fear, and wish to torment a little longer?

Or was it simply that the bell had rung forth for the end of recess? So they had to go to their next class. I suppose it might have been that.

Nonetheless!

I turned to my friends in amazement. Lydia raised a single eyebrow. Cassie raised both eyebrows and gave me one of her dimples-in-the-corner-of-her-mouth looks which means she is trying not to laugh. I will say this about Cass: when a person is supposed to find something dramatic and mysterious, she will often find it funny.

I will also say this. That I wondered when I would see Riley and Amelia again.

I did not have to wonder long. It was four minutes later.

The girl (Amelia) was in History Extension 1 with Mr Garcia.

And so was I
!!

But nothing of note happened in that class.

Plus, I couldn't see her. She was three seats behind me.

By the next day, I knew they were here on scholarships. In fact, Cassie's mother is on the committee that chose them! But she couldn't tell Cassie (or me) anything about their backgrounds, because it was ‘confidential'. Hmm, I thought.

That day, Amelia was in English Extension 3 with Mr Botherit . . .
and so was I
!!!!!

And so, normally, was Lydia. But she was not at school.

Now, I will here display two details which might seem
shady now, but later? — the blood-red moon will shine upon them.

First! Our English class took place in Room 27B in the Art Rooms across the oval.

The Art Rooms? Oh, you don't know how important that is! Hearken! I will tell you!

Well, the Art Rooms are not the Art Rooms any more. Oh no! That building is now the KL Mason Patterson Centre for the Arts. Because it turns out that a very rich man succumbed to death, and left a HUGE FORTUNE to our school.

A fortune which I could have taken off his hands with ease if he had only had the foreskin to ask me. But oh no, he had to go and waste it on our school.

Therefore, there is now a committee going mad, trying to think up ways to spend the money. I'm sure they have better reasons to go mad. But did KL think of that? No.

One thing they have spent the money on is, of course, scholarships. Another is the crazed renovation of the Art Rooms.

The Art Rooms were once the building where students slept, back in the olden days when our school was a boarding school! Anyhow, but then it became the Art Rooms, and now it has been renovated and includes conference rooms, drama theatres, auditoriums, art galleries, kitchens and ‘state of the art resource centres' (ie classrooms), and furthermore its name has grown so long you need mouthwash to loosen up the muscles of your teeth before you say it.

But we all still call it the Art Rooms.

Second! Mr Botherit talked about how English Extension 3 is a new subject this year with an emphasis on ‘memoir' and so he thought we should write blogs.

I had a lot to say about this idea, but Amelia, who happened to be sitting five seats away from me (horizontally speaking), paid no heed to me.

She spoke to not a soul. She was as silent as a chocolate bar.

Her posture was good. I'm not suggesting here that she hunched over or hid behind her hair or suchlike. Oh no. She was poised and clear-eyed and her posture was exquisite —
and her eyes followed the teacher every moment
.

He pranced around the room (as he responded to my many things to say), and Amelia's eyes followed so closely it was as if he had magnets in his face.

(I'm not suggesting here that Mr B is hot.)

Eventually, Mr B asked me to stop talking. He said he was going to give us topics for our blogs, and the first one was, ‘My Journey Home'.

And then I had a lot more to say.

Nevertheless, in the end, I wrote my blog. And as I typed, I heard the sound of Amelia typing. I looked across at her. Her long hair slid down her back like a waterfall. (I don't mean that it was wet; I'm being meteorological.) She would type very quickly and then she'd stop. There'd be a long, silent pause.

Her fingernails were the extreme short of someone who bites their nails overtly. And her fingers wandered across the keys, gently stroking them whenever she paused.