Finding Cassie Crazy Page 20

  You are not crazy, Cassie. That needs no explanation.

  But you are confused as to why you continued writing to Matthew Dunlop even when he made strange and unlikely threats? You have been keeping that a secret from us because you thought it would make us aghast?

  Well! Cassie, no! I am not aghast. I am tilting my head to the side, with understanding. And I am glad you gave Lydia permission to tell me the story. For it is perfectly clear to me.

  I shall explain it as follows:

  I think you were probably looking for a way to feel hurt. Because maybe you can’t believe you still feel bad, even a whole year after your dad died. Remember how you used to get so many injuries, Cass? Because you are athletic. And remember that one time when you tried to high jump a bookshelf in your living room, and somehow a big heavy vase got knocked over and landed on your toe? Lyd and I gasped, but you just looked down at the bloody, mushed-up toe, in true Cass style, and said, ‘Interesting.’

  Then I kind of fainted so I don’t know what happened next.

  It is my consternation that, by writing to a boy who was cruel, you were looking for an injury that would interest you and distract you from the hurting of your heart.

  That is my theory.

  My recommendation for the future is this: if you need someone to be cruel to you, make sure you come to Lydia and me. We would be glad to be cruel.

  Now, one final thought for this email and then I’d better go and do an exam. Although you might not know it, Cassie, EVERYBODY loves you. You are very popular here at Ashbury, as is the nature of skinny girls who are excellent at sport (running, high jump, basketball etc) and who do not have a single drop of blood.

  By ‘blood’ I mean to say ‘bad blood’.

  But there is more to this, Cass. It is your gentle and interested way of listening, and your dry and/or musical way of being funny.

  The point is, Paul Wilson could have had the privilege of you for his friend. If only he had given you a chance.

  If anyone is crazy here, Cass, it is Paul Wilson. He, my friend, is a psychopath.

  Lots of love

  Emily

  To: Cassie.Aganovic@ashburyhigh.com.au

  From: Lydia.Oberman@ashburyhigh.com.au

  Subject: Crazy Cassie

  Dear Cass

  Well, just pondering the mystery of why you decided to keep writing letters to a person who belongs in a high-security mental institution.

  And what I think is that it was maybe a power thing. Like this therapist, Claire, was telling you what to do. And you knew it was stupid, what Claire wanted, so in a weird way you got power back by going ahead and doing it. It’s like when you’re little and your mum says you have to eat your vegetables even though you hate them, so you go ahead and eat so many of them and so fast that you throw up.

  Which is the sign of an interesting and powerful person, Cass, not a crazy person.

  Anyway, that’s my theory and you can take it or leave it, but just keep in mind that I am a genius, so I’m probably right.

  Lots of love

  Lyd

  Friday, Midnight, Full Moon with Small Tear out of Corner

  I think it was because I was scared of him.

  That doesn’t make sense, I know.

  I’ll explain.

  See, to begin, nobody knows what causes leukaemia—they think there are some contributing factors such as smoking cigarettes, or exposure to radiation, or even some kinds of cancer treatment (brilliant). But my dad didn’t have any of those reasons. So he got this idea that it was because he’d always been kind of nervous—all his life, he was anxious in social/professional situations. He said that he bet it was all the fear that got caught up inside him and made him sick.

  And one time, he was talking about this idea of his and he said to me, ‘You never be afraid of anything, will you, Cassie?’ And I said okay.

  So, okay, earlier this year they were asking for volunteers for the Spring Concert. And when I saw the notice about that I thought about how I’d like to be able to sing on stage, and maybe even make a career out of being a singer one day. But then I just said to myself, Yeah, right, and walked away. Because I’m always too scared to sing in front of a crowd.

  And then SUDDENLY I remembered that conversation with my dad—how he told me never to be afraid, and I’d said okay, like it was a promise or something.

  I made up my mind I would definitely volunteer for the stupid concert. It would be like a message to my dad that I was doing what he wanted, and a good example too because he liked to hear me singing.

  But, guess what, I didn’t raise my hand when they called for volunteers.

  I just left it there, by my side. With my heart thumping like crazy. I was so scared even of the idea of raising my hand. My hand scared me when I looked at it.

  I hated myself for that.

  I hate myself for it still.

  After that I got more and more depressed, wishing I’d raised my hand and thinking how hopeless I am, and kind of like how I let my dad down, because actually I’m scared all the time, like scared of the night time, now that it’s just Mum and me here. I keep thinking I hear someone breaking in. One day I spent the afternoon putting extra deadlocks on all the doors.

  This is a long story, but I’m almost at the end.

  The end is this: when this Brookfield guy wrote his first threatening letter, I was really frightened. I’m kind of scared of Brookfield kids to begin with but this guy seemed like a lunatic.

  So I thought, Okay, here’s where all the being scared finishes.

  And I wrote back to him.

  And I kept thinking the whole time that the being scared was finished, and I kept writing back, whatever he said, and it was like, the scarier he got, the better it was for me, and every time he tried to make me go away, I’d think, kind of angrily, Okay, Dad, you want to see how unscared I can be? and then I just kept talking like a crazy girl, I guess.

  Anyway, that’s my long theory for why I kept writing.

  I don’t know.

  Probably, I did it for lots of different reasons.

  Probably, my dad got sick because of lots of different reasons too. Not just because he was afraid sometimes.

  Sunday, Night Time

  Today we were at Lyd’s mother’s studio, because she invited us along to get makeovers. We didn’t tell her that we go there all the time on our own. There was no reason for her to know that.

  It’s strange to think that Mrs Jaackson used to be a famous celebrity and now she just wears long satin jackets and a lot of lipstick. She’s kind of dreamy a lot of the time, which Lyd says is senile dementia or alcoholism, one or the other, but I think she’s maybe just dreamy.

  Anyhow, while Mrs Jaackson was doing our makeup, we were having this argument about whether we actually exist or not, because how do you know it’s not all someone else’s dream? Emily thought it could be her dream.

  Also, about whether the colour blue is actually blue.

  And then Mrs Jaackson said out of the blue (but what is blue?) that the trouble with us is that we all need to get nose studs.

  Lydia and I wanted to do it but Em went ballistic, so we didn’t. We went to a pub instead, because we all looked about twenty-five the way she did our makeup, I swear.

  Sunday, Later, Raining

  Actually, now I think about it, what Lyd’s mum said was that we’ve all forgotten who we are. We were having philosophical arguments about whose mother was right between my mum and Em’s mum, and then Lydia’s mother said that the only thing that counts is to be true to yourself.

  Whatever, I thought. Because people are always telling us to be ourselves or be true to ourselves and I always think: Whatever. Because who is myself ?

  ‘But who is myself ?’ Emily asked.

  Then Lyd’s mum said she didn’t mean it that way. She meant that we had to listen out for the truth inside our heads.

  ‘If you have a thought,’ she said, ‘ask yourself why. And then a
lways ask: “Are you sure?” For instance: “I’m angry.” “Why?” “Because he ate my cherry pie.” “Are you sure that’s why you’re mad?” “Okay, because he often eats the pie.” “Are you sure?”’

  ‘Mum,’ said Lydia, ‘what are you talking about?’

  But Mrs Jaackson just laughed and finished putting eye shadow on Em. And then she kissed the tops of all or our heads.

  And then she said the solution was to go and get silver nose studs.

  Monday, 3 am, Unable to Sleep

  Am I angry?

  Yes.

  Why?

  Because the leukaemia came back.

  Are you sure that’s why you’re mad?

  And because Dad didn’t fight it hard enough.

  Are you sure?

  Okay, because Dad wasn’t strong enough to fight it. Are you sure?

  No. He wasn’t weak. He was just scared.

  Are you sure?

  Okay, well, that’s the thing. What if I inherited that? That being scared.

  Are you sure?

  So I’ll never be brave. So he’ll never be proud.

  Are you sure?

  What do you mean am I sure?

  Are you sure?

  Do you ever say anything else?

  Friday, Late Afternoon, Dark Blue Sky

  I thought I would give you an update, the update being that Lydia and Emily have both got broken hearts.

  You never know what direction things are going to go in, do you? One minute they’re figuring out how they can bring Seb and Charlie to the formal (even though we’re not allowed to bring guys from other schools) and next minute it’s all gone down the sinkhole. I’m not clear on why they’re fighting with the boys but it’s something to do with letters and, I have to say, I don’t know about letters. Maybe talking is better.

  I should try to be more decisive like Mum. She always has a definite opinion. An example being that she has had a definite opinion about Claire the counsellor from our very first session, the opinion being that Claire is an idiot.

  I’ll tell you one thing though, Diary, and it’s this: that even though Lydia is upset about Seb, she’s been coming over to my place every couple of days, lately (ever since I confessed the truth to her about Matthew’s letters), like pretending she was just in the neighbourhood. Usually, we talk about nothing, maybe watch TV, maybe play a game of pool on Dad’s old table, which he built himself, by the way, and which is a work of art.

  And since Dad’s table is in his studio, it seems normal to chat about Dad and I just smile to myself sometimes, because Lydia knows my dad almost as well as I do. She even remembers stuff that I’d forgotten, right back to when we were little and Dad used to teach us Croatian words, and make the first ice-cream spider for whoever pronounced the words best.

  And I’ll tell you something else. This afternoon, while we were playing pool, I accidentally told Lydia my theory about why I kept writing to Matthew Dunlop. About how I felt like I had to write because I’d failed my dad, seeing as I was too scared to volunteer to sing on stage.

  So, I was just leaning against the wall as I said all this, while Lydia was sinking one ball after another, not looking at me but occasionally nodding to show she was listening. And then when I finished, she chalked the pool cue, leaned forward and sunk the eight-ball.

  And then she narrowed her eyes at me and said, ‘Well, Cass, do you know how mad I am with you about this?’ Her voice actually did sound angry.

  And she said, ‘You think that your dad wants you to do things which might get you hurt? You think your dad’s disappointed in you for not singing on stage? You’ve forgotten your dad? Is that what you’re saying?’

  Then I got a bit mad too and started talking on a rising voice like, ‘You think I’ve forgotten my dad? You think you know him better than I do?’ Stuff like that.

  Lydia calmed down and said no, she didn’t think she knew him better than I did, only that she knew one thing for sure.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘I know exactly what your dad would have said if he could see you sitting at the assembly, trying to raise your hand to volunteer to sing but feeling too scared of the stage. You want to hear what he would have said?’

  She didn’t wait for my answer, she just put on a fairly good imitation of my father’s accent and his way of speaking and she said:

  ‘Cassie, I’m so proud that you even think of singing on the stage and do you know how much I will cheer for you when you do?’

  Then she looked at me in her fiery way. ‘Disappointed?’ she said, kind of to herself and all full of contempt. ‘Give me a break.’

  Monday, Evening Time, in the Kitchen, Very Windy Outside

  Sometimes I think the trouble with talking to you, Diary, is that everything seems so serious when I write it down. Okay, Friday was kind of dramatic and I was crying half the night but when I woke up on Saturday morning I felt kind of calm and happy, and Mum and I had pancakes with maple syrup and strawberries for breakfast. And then today, at school, Em arrived wearing her summer uniform and her beret, because someone had told her that all heat escapes out the top of your head. So she thought she could stay warm if she just wore a hat all day. Lydia and I found 127 goose bumps on her arms at lunch, while she pretended not to hear us counting, and it was just funny and I thought—

  Hang on, I think someone just put a letter underneath the front door. Weird.

  Monday, 6.35 pm

  Dear Cassie

  Well, you are going to think this is strange, me writing to you now.

  My name is Paul Wilson and I’m at Brookfield. I got your letter last term in the Ashbury–Brookfield Pen Pal Project—and I was pleased to hear a little about you. And obviously, I was supposed to reply and become your pen pal.

  But I didn’t reply! (As you probably noticed.) I’ve just been way too busy—I’m an actor and I’ve got the lead role in our school drama this year so I’ve been rehearsing my arse off!

  To tell you the truth, the only reason I’m writing now is that I’m a wreck. I’m ashamed to tell you this, but I was the ‘loser’ in an (unprovoked) fight this afternoon.

  This guy in my year (Seb Mantegna) ambushed me as I was walking home from school. I’m walking along, minding my own business, thinking about my gorgeous new girlfriend (sorry to bring her up, but she’s never far from the top floor of my consciousness)—what was I saying? I’m just walking along and out of nowhere Seb Mantegna turns up and starts laying into me.

  Now, I’m not a little guy, but he’s got a black belt in karate or whatever and, the fact was, I was just not interested. I don’t believe in violence. So I was trying to calm him down, you know, defend myself.

  The result was a black eye, bloody nose etc, and me lying on the ground getting kicked in the gut.

  Wow. Not a pretty picture.

  So, why am I telling you this?

  Well, when Seb kicked me for the final, vicious time, he said, ‘This is for what you did to Cass Aganovic, you scum-sucking arsehole.’

  Whoa! Who’s Cass Aganovic? I pondered, as I tried to get my breath (and my dignity) back.

  And then I remembered—it’s that Ashbury girl who wrote to me way back last term.

  So, Cassie, do you happen to know anything about this? Is Seb a great friend of yours? Or are you as lost as I am?

  The one good thing is that this guy—Seb—has been in trouble for fighting before.

  So, this should be enough to get him expelled.

  All the best

  Paul Wilson

  PS I just looked up your address (your last name is fairly unique!) and I think I’ll swing by and put this under your door right away. The faster we get to the bottom of this, the better. Hope you don’t mind that I now know where you live! Maybe I’ll spot you through a window!

  PPS You know, it occurs to me that Seb Mantegna is going off to Newcastle for some art show tomorrow. I’ll make sure I get to the principal first thing in the morning and stop them from lettin
g him go! Am I wicked to look forward to the disappointment on his face? No. In any case, he shouldn’t be allowed to represent the school—he’s obviously unhinged.

  Deranged in the head.

  Take care Cassie

  Paul

  PART 30

  SAVING

  SEB MANTEGNA

  Tuesday

  Dear Charlie

  GUESS WHAT WE HAVE DONE?!?!

  WE HAVE KIDNAPPED PAUL WILSON!

  I’m not joking, it’s true. (And Charlie, therefore you should speak to me again and listen to me! And forgive me. Forget all about the gas leak incident, okay, as that incident just fails by comparison.)

  We had to kidnap Paul because he was going to tell the school that Seb attacked him, which would have stopped Seb from going to the art show! Which we all know was his dream.

  Don’t worry though, it is not an illegal kidnapping as Paul does not know he has been kidnapped.

  Please forgive me now, okay. Great, thanks. I have to go as I’m just rushing this at afternoon roll call, which I’m attending on behalf of Cass and Lyd and me.

  Love

  Em

  Dear Seb

  I might be mad at you, but I didn’t want you beating someone up or getting thrown out of your school. And I really wanted you to go to your art show.

  It’s now Tuesday afternoon, so I’m hoping you’re at your show right now. I won’t go into details now but we’ve been keeping Paul distracted for today. I don’t know how we can stop him going to the principal tomorrow though.

  Lydia

  Wednesday

  Dear Em

  You guys took care of Paul Wilson so Seb could go to his art show? I just saw Seb and, guess what, he won some prize at the show.

  I don’t just forgive you, Em, I completely adore you.

  Love