Dreaming of Amelia Page 8

  No.

  Clearly not.

  There were no convict barracks, just grass.

  The barracks then became this country’s first lunatic asylum! Mr Garcia was saying. And then, look, it crumbled into nothing!

  Yes. Exactly.

  In disgust, my mind wandered, and so did my eyes.

  And there I beheld Amelia on the very edge of our group. She was facing away from us, watching the trees.

  She was standing very still, poised like an antelope.

  Her long hair fell behind her.

  Amelia’s hair is soft and beautiful. It’s the colour of a gingerbread man, only without the white spots gingerbread men often have to indicate their eyes, their nose and buttons.

  I was distracted by a kerfuffle. Mr Garcia had stepped back, theatrically, and landed on Toby Mazzerati’s toes. It seemed he had asked Toby to come forward but had immediately forgotten he was there and had stepped onto his toes. There were apologies, mild laughter, and then Mr Garcia asked Toby to speak. Toby, it turned out, was doing a case study relating to this very park. So he had a lot to say.

  I am fond of Toby, he’s a friend of mine, but I had no need for his history.

  I looked, once again, for Amelia.

  And she had drifted even further from the group.

  She was almost lost amidst the trees, but once again was standing very still. Her head was tilted to the side now, almost as if she was listening.

  Listening for what?

  For the future?

  Could she hear the amazing things that were just about to happen?

  Lydia Jaackson-Oberman

  Student No: 8233410

  Amazing things began to happen.

  It started with Drama.

  I don’t do Drama, but I hear it was amazing.

  At recess one day, near the end of term, I saw Em walking into the school with her History class. She told me they’d just been to Castle Hill Heritage Park. She didn’t know why.

  Amelia is in the class. I saw Mr Garcia lean over and speak to her. I think he said, ‘We missed you in Drama yesterday. You coming today?’

  As far as I could tell, Amelia didn’t answer. Just looked into his eyes.

  There was a flicker of something like uneasiness on Mr Garcia’s face. Or maybe I imagined that. But then he leaned closer and murmured something else I couldn’t hear.

  Turned out she did go to Drama that day.

  And I hear it was amazing!!

  Sorry if I sound cynical.

  My mother is an actor. She used to be a soap star, got some endorsement deals, made some investments, and now she’s got money growing in her ears where the wax used to be.

  My father’s an actor too. Of course, if you ask him what he does, he’ll tell you he’s a Justice of the Supreme Court of New South Wales.

  My father, a Supreme Court Justice?

  Don’t make me laugh!

  Ha ha! Ha ha!

  Well. Okay. He is.

  But only because he likes dressing up in a gown and wig and playing the role of Supreme Lord King High Commander of The World.

  They act their way through their days and nights and my home is a television set.

  So. You know. Forgive me if I think that acting’s just a whole lot of deception.

  Turned out Amelia and Riley could act.

  Not just swim; also act.

  The story was that all term long they’d been silent in Drama class. Often they didn’t turn up. The classes had been mainly theory, so no special reason for participating — but this day, Mr Garcia started talking about IPs. (IPs are individual projects that you have to do for HSC Drama.)

  Amelia said that she wanted to change her IP. She’d been doing costuming, she said, but now she’d decided on performance.

  She didn’t seem nervous when she spoke, people told me. That’s what they found strange. She’d been silent all term, and when a silent person speaks the voice is often quiet. Faded and broken. Or accidentally loud: an unexpected clatter while a blush floods the silent person’s face.

  But Amelia’s voice, they said, was perfect. Its edges curved smoothly; its tone was like cream.

  Technically, Mr Garcia told Amelia, it was not too late to switch her IP. The official choices hadn’t yet been sent in. Did she have a monologue in mind?

  At this point, Riley spoke.

  Now, people had heard Riley’s voice before — it had been there all along, but unobtrusive, part of the background noise, just some regular guy. Nobody seemed to remember what he had said.

  These were the first real words. The first words that referred to himself as a human being.

  ‘I’m thinking of switching to performance too.’

  He said he had an eight-minute monologue prepared, and then he looked at Amelia, who said she had one too.

  There was an intense moment of suspense.

  Mr Garcia squinted thoughtfully, spoke in a quieter voice than usual, and asked if they wanted to perform.

  They did.

  One after the other, without a break.

  Their monologues were independent, but also, and this is apparently unusual — they were interlinked.

  Mr Garcia shrugged when they were finished. ‘Not so bad, you know?’ he said. ‘We can work on them.’ And moved to another topic.

  But both of them — both were amazing.

  Riley T Smith

  Student No: 8233569

  One day everything changed at our new private school.

  Amelia said: Okay, it’s time to —

  I don’t think she said: Step it up.

  Or take the next step, or step out from behind.

  I don’t know what she said or

  what we said

  but what we meant was: Here we are.

  (But we weren’t.)

  First time we’d ever done this. You’d think it would have been too late, but no. It was easy.

  Her teacher made it happen.

  He said — she said — he said into her ear: You can be invisible.

  That’s what he said.

  ‘I know that’s what you want,’ he said. ‘Okay, you’ve got it. But please, just come to class.’

  It was what she wanted, to be invisible, but how did this guy know? It made her mad, him knowing. It changed everything. It tightened her — the newspaper rolling tighter all through lunch.

  After lunch was this teacher’s Drama class.

  And we went.

  After that was Art. We went there too.

  We’d been before, of course, but not like this.

  They liked our acting. They liked our art.

  That night, we sat at the kitchen table and wrote our first English essays. That weekend, we went to the library and researched our first History assignments.

  Amelia and I were doing the same subjects: English (with different teachers), Drama, Art and Music. The only difference was History — I’m Ancient and she’s Modern.

  In Music, we stayed quiet. We had no respect for that teacher. And that would not have fit into our plan.

  But in everything else —

  Also in those last few weeks of term, there was the Area Swimming. The next step up from Zones. I stopped getting places, but Amelia kept winning.

  Then a week off to study for the half-yearly exams.

  ‘Should we study?’ she said.

  ‘No.’ (I’d had enough now.)

  But we studied anyway. On the floor of the Goose and Thistle before opening each night.

  The exams were fine. And now there would be holidays.

  This living in their world, we said, it’s easy.

  10.

  The Committee for the Administration of the KL Mason Patterson Trust Fund

  The KL Mason Patterson Scholarship File

  Memo

  (By email)

  To:

  All Members of the KL Mason Patterson Trust Fund Committee

  From:

  Chris Botherit and Roberto Garcia

/>   Re:

  KL Mason Patterson Scholarship Teachers’ Progress Reports

  PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

  Dear Committee Members,

  It is with great pleasure that we attach the first ever KL Mason Patterson Scholarship Teachers’ Progress Reports!

  With just one exception, the reports show remarkable progress by our scholarship recipients. You will recall that they had not demonstrated any academic proficiency in the past? That their focus was to be swimming? Well … some highlights:

  • ‘Amelia’s approach to essay writing is unique — to say the least — but her imagination is quite astonishing. She can also be perceptive and razor-sharp. After a shaky beginning, she began handing in all her overdue essays in the last few weeks of term, and has now established herself as one of the top-ranked students in the year.’ (Chris Botherit — English)

  • ‘At first I thought Riley was going to be a write-off — no participation, skipping classes, etc — but in the last couple of weeks he’s attended every class and made some interesting comments. He finally handed in an assignment last week and, to be honest, it blew my mind.’ (Stephen Latimer — Ancient History and English)

  • ‘Have been teaching Drama for several years. Have seen plenty of talented performers. Am not exaggerating when I say that I have never, never seen performances like those of Riley and Amelia. They will participate in the Ashbury-Brookfield Dramatic Production or I will cut my own throat. Both of them! Am so filled with wonder and awe that I don’t know where to put it. No font big enough to express it. Have been weeping, dancing, getting drunk on Jacob’s wine. Seriously.’ (Roberto Garcia — Drama and Modern History)

  • ‘I realise I’m not technically supposed to provide a report, since Amelia does not take PDHPE, but think it’s important to get this on the record. Amelia should be swimming for her country. Riley is talented, but Amelia is astounding. Yet she has never been properly trained and refuses to have a coach. If she had been, I have no doubt she’d have been representing Australia three years ago. It may be too late — and it will be too late soon. Is there anything the committee can do to persuade her? Sorry to be dramatic but this is a matter of life and death.’ (Sarah McCabe — Personal Development, Health and Physical Education)

  • ‘In recent weeks, Riley and Amelia have both revealed that they are talented artists: technically competent and with a sound knowledge of art history and theory. Riley, in particular, has a refreshing, original and often startling approach — his work is a delight.’ (Damian Carlton — Art)

  • ‘Neither Riley nor Amelia has impressed me in the slightest degree. They seem completely uninterested in music and have not handed in any work. So far are they from participating that I frequently don’t realise, until near the end of a lesson, that they simply are not there. Ranked bottom of the class. Clearly have no knowledge of, nor aptitude for, music. Not sure why they’ve taken the subject. Disappointing.’ (Lucy Wexford — Music)

  Of course, we will need to deal with the issue of their absences from class — particularly from Music. I do not mean to suggest that this is not a serious issue. However, I trust you are all proud and delighted!!! I think a celebration is in order — Roberto suggests cocktails at Jacob’s place. Jacob?

  Best wishes to all,

  Chris Botherit

  PS Just confirming that we’ll be interviewing Riley and Amelia on Thursday 3 April (last day of term), Conference Room 2B, the KL Mason Patterson Centre. The interview will take the form of a casual chat during which we’ll try to gauge their comfort levels/needs/etc (and deal with that serious issue of absenteeism).

  PPS Also confirming that Constance has stated that she will not be at this interview and is resolved never to be in the same room as Amelia and Riley — unless perhaps the attached reports have changed your mind, Constance?

  11.

  Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson

  Student No: 8233521

  You may recall that the first day of term was gothically stormy?

  Now, come closer, let me chill you to the bone — for the last day of term?

  It was ungothically bright.

  I’m not kidding around here.

  Golden sunshine and a blue, curvaceous sky — birds dancing — puddles asparkle — bits of glitter dazzling in the asphalt.

  Such a reversal, such a strange twist in weather from the first day to the last.

  What could it mean?

  Perchance it was just, you know, the weather. It happens.

  But I bethink me it was more than that. And, in honour of the strange, solemn mystery of it, I have not used a single exclamation mark.

  But now I will begin exclaiming again! For that day, I naively saw the weather as a reward! I did not take it as imperative of doom!

  You see, we had just completed our half-yearly exams and our fingers, our shoulders, our very minds, ached with confusion. Facts, figures and formulae, exam times and places — all had been spilling from our sweat glands! (If I had any sweat glands. Which I doubt. Sweating is disgusting, plus I never do sport.)

  And here it was, the morning of the final day and we were about to go home!

  Who among us does not love the strange, cascading bliss of leaving the school grounds before noon on the last day of exams?! Who?! Show yourself!

  Anyway.

  Picture this: me and Cassie, standing near the front gate of the school. We were quiet for a moment, happily sleepy, allowing the clutter in our minds to drain away.

  Probably, also, we were both thinking of the two-week holiday. Lydia’s parents were about to go away, leaving Lydia alone in her fantastic house! (The parents would be gone not just for the holidays, by the way, but also for all of Term 2.)

  SO MANY PARTIES WOULD BEFALL US!!

  Tonight, there would be the first party at Lydia’s place!

  And looking up to the festive blue sky I saw a little white moon. It was pretending to be a cloud so it could stay in the sky through the day.

  Oh, I laughed, a quiet, tender laugh. Moon, I thought, you cannot fool anybody! You look exactly like yourself!

  Yet I also admired it, the moon, for its madcap bravery.

  I include these details to give you a clear picture of the happy hilarity of my mood.

  Beneath the moon was the oval — and here at last came Lydia. She was walking back from the Art Rooms — she’d just had German Listening over there. Cass and I brightened even further. Lydia waved from the distance. Her wave had the joyousness of one who has just finished her last exam.

  And then, we saw them.

  They had come from the direction of the school.

  They were heading across the oval themselves, towards the Art Rooms.

  Who do I mean?

  Riley and Amelia, of course. Who else?

  Here I must tell you something extraordinary. In the last few weeks of term, the entire school had become me.

  I don’t mean that literally. But everyone was talking about Riley and Amelia.

  Their talents knew no gothic moats; their explosion of ability was beyond all shadow of reality! Swimming, acting, essay writing — and the question went spinning through the school: Who are these people?!

  Of course, it was now common knowledge that they were from Brookfield.

  (Thanks to that information being on my blog, I guess. Blame Mr B for that. Making us write blogs.)

  But people wanted more. They wanted the why, the how, the other how, the where and the what!!

  Why had they chosen Ashbury? How had they hidden at Brookfield without news of their brilliance getting out? How was their existence humanly possible? Where would it end? And what would it take for Riley and Amelia to notice us?

  That last question was key.

  Truly, everyone was me, for everyone wanted to be noticed by them.

  That, by the way, includes the teachers. I am not kidding when I say that teachers were dressing differently and trying to liven up their classes. Students, meanwhile, wer
e trying to be cooler, tougher, funnier or more intriguing, just to make them blink.

  You could see people changing as soon as Riley and Amelia walked into a room. Some would pretend they were not in the room. Everything became exaggerated. People moved in ways that were slightly slower than usual. Or slightly faster. Some people smiled more; others didn’t smile at all. Girls would sit at their desks, eyes half closed, pushing hair behind their ears with whimsical expressions that said: I’m lost in a sort of sighing thought here. And then their faces would exclaim: I just remembered a really cool thing that I have to tell my close friend about! And they’d swing around to the girl sitting behind them, prance their hands on that girl’s desk and say, ‘Guess what?’

  Oft, the girl behind them would be a total stranger.

  Oh! There were conversations! So many conversations! All to impress Riley and Amelia! I remember once walking into History and seeing a boy pick up a soccer ball and gently thunk another boy on the back of the head with it. At which the second boy turned around, breathed quickly out of his right nostril, and asked the first boy if he’d started his case study yet. At which the first boy gave a half-grin and changed the subject to the demographics of democracy or somesuch. To show he was profound, possessing insights beyond a thunking football.

  All of this, I guarantee, took place because Amelia was near them.

  You see, we all wanted Riley and Amelia to think we were interesting. We wanted them to see us as languid people who simmered with interesting thoughts. We wanted them to want us as their friends!

  (A lot of boys just wanted to have sex with Amelia.)

  Some people actually believed they were cool enough for Riley and Amelia’s attention. They invited them around. They said, ‘You guys want to come get coffee with us?’ They tried to strike up conversations.

  But every single time, they were thwarted.

  Riley and Amelia listened. They concentrated even. A strange kind of head-tilted concentration. As if the person was speaking a language they had heard once before in a jungle long, long ago.