Amelia Westlake Was Never Here

by Erin Gough

  The paper always comes out on Mondays, but 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 passing day it has seemed less real.

  Did I really collaborate on a protest art project with Harriet Price in detention last week? The girl, it is rumored, who sends her teachers a Christmas basket 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 as 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 asphalt. She riffles through her book bag and pulls out a copy of the paper. “Duncan’s delivering it to all the drop-off points now.” 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.

  “Who is this Amelia Westlake?” Liz Newcomb says, calmly undoing her netball skirt. “Does anyone know her?”

  Millie squeezes into our huddle. “I don’t get it. What’s Coach Hadley supposed to be doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” says Liz.

  “This is seriously controversial.” Beth grins, ignoring them both. “Hasn’t Ning Nong heard of defamation? My dad would never let something like this go to print in his paper. Coach is going to hit the roof.” She looks up as the rest of our phys ed class spills into the change room. “Hey, guys, check this out,” she calls.

  A dull pounding, rather like being hit repeatedly with a brick, starts up behind my left temple. Beth is absolutely right. Of course Coach will be livid. What if the school somehow finds out it was my idea? What if Coach guesses? And how can I trust Will Everhart, of all people, not to tell anybody? What on earth have I done?

  This could basically end my school career, I realize. With one impulsive act I’ve potentially waved good-bye to the Tawney Shield, to the school formal, to finishing year twelve.

  All the oxygen leaves my throat. In for six, out for eight, I silently recite. I press my back to the wall and slide slowly down it.

  “You okay, Harriet?” asks Millie, looking over, the freckles on her forehead crowding.

  Thank God for Millie. I don’t know how I would survive without her and Beth. Happily, I rarely have to think about it because they have been there for me since I began at Rosemead in grade four.

  Well, except for the first few months. I was No Friends Harriet to begin with. That’s what happens when you start at a new school after the cliques have already formed.

  Young girls can be quite horrible, especially with wet crepe paper and safety scissors at their disposal.

  Not that I like to think about that time very much.

  All I will say is that if Beth hadn’t been going through a spa bath phase and discovered we have two at my house, who knows how my life would have turned out?

  Beth glances up from the Messenger. “God, Harriet. Not another one of your migraines. Hey, do you know this girl? Amelia Eastlake?”

  “Westlake,” I correct her impulsively, and silently curse myself.

  “The name does sound familiar,” says one of the girls who has just come in. “I think she might be in Ms. Pile’s hockey squad.”

  “Hang on. Isn’t she the one who sings alto in the choir?” Beth asks. “A boat person of some sort?”

  “That’s Amelia al-Assad,” Millie answers promptly.

  “Oh. What about the girl who sits next to her? Who never says anything? Muppet eyes.”

  One of the others shakes her head. “Nobody knows her name.”

  “Whoever Amelia Westlake is, she deserves a medal,” says Liz Newcomb, grabbing her stockings from a pile of clothes on a bench and putting them on. “I think the cartoon’s fantastic.”

  “It’s pretty mean about Coach Hadley, though, don’t you think?” says Millie, frowning. “He’s not that bad. He just likes to muck around sometimes.”

  Liz Newcomb snorts.

  There is a loud crackle from the wall speaker, signaling the start of prelunch announcements.

  “A reminder that the computer labs will be closed on Friday so the new computers can be installed,” booms Deputy Davids’s voice. “All of Friday’s classes will be held in the Lower Hall instead. And a reminder to Kimberley Kitchener. Kimberley, if you don’t collect your trombone from lost property by four o’clock this afternoon, it will be sequestered by the Music Department. Thank you.”

  After a final crackle, the speaker goes silent.

  “What’s taking you girls so long?” says a voice from the door of the change room.

  My chest grows tight.

  Around me there is a flurry of hoisted towels and half-dressed girls shuffling into cubicles. Liz holds up her netball skirt to cover her lower half. In a swift one-two Beth drops the school paper and slides it under the bench so that by the time Coach Hadley pops his head around the doorway it is out of sight.

  I feel my jaw tense. He must know I came up with the cartoon. That is why he is here. I press my fingers into my palms so hard that my knuckles go white.

  Coach Hadley peers inside, his expression as smooth as the surface of an empty pool. His eyes twinkle. He smiles. “Chop, chop. The junior squad will be in here soon.”

  A sort of squeak escapes Millie’s mouth.

  Scratching his cheek stubble leisurely, Coach Hadley looks at her. “Something the matter, the divine Miss Levine?”

  Girls giggle nervously. Millie shakes her head, her freckles disappearing in a sea of red.

  He gazes at each of us: Beth, Millie, Liz, and, finally, me. He looks at me the longest. Does he know about the cartoon? Oh dear God in heaven, is he reading my mind?

  “Move along, girls,” he says cheerily, and disappears from the doorway.

  In for six, out for eight. I breathe.

  I run a finger along the metal badges pinned to my lapel. There are five of them: my house badge, my prefect badge, my Sports Committee badge, my Tawney team badge, and, of course, my Rosemead badge. Feeling them there, freshly polished and pinned in perfect symmetry, is a comfort.

  With the immediate danger past, I look around for Liz Newcomb. She has put on her uniform and is doing up her shoelaces nearby. Privately I have always considered Liz to be overrated. She runs the annual spelling bee for the lower-school kids, which is obviously very commendable, but there is certainly nothing outstanding enough about her to merit, for example, her being elected as prefect or, to take another random example, her being chosen as Rosemead’s Tawney Shield tennis captain over other highly qualified candidates. It is n
ot Liz Newcomb who is poised to bring home the shield in the doubles competition this year.

  However, I am willing to put all this aside for a moment to hear more about what she thinks of the cartoon.

  “Do you think Beth is right?” I murmur. “Will Coach Hadley sue?”

  Liz glances at the door before meeting my eye. “How can he? Did you see what he did just now? He shouldn’t be loitering around the change room at all. He gets away with it because of how friendly he pretends to be, but really he’s just a perv. Heaps of us know it, but nobody’s brave enough to say anything about it. Maybe now, thanks to what’s been published, they’ll have to do something about him.”

  “Really?” A flight of butterflies fills my stomach.

  “I don’t see how they can’t.”

  “But what will happen to the girl who drew the cartoon? It’s a pretty serious accusation,” I venture.

  Liz Newcomb shrugs. “They can hardly get her in trouble for pointing out what’s in plain view.”

  I hope that for all her faults, Liz Newcomb is right for once.

  I stand up. My head feels slightly better. “Are you going back up to the main building?” I ask Liz.

  “Yeah, to the cafeteria. I think it’s about to rain, though. Should have brought my umbrella down.”

  I am about to offer to share mine with her when she speaks again.

  “I saw you and Edie training on the courts the other week. Looking good.”

  “Oh! Thanks.”

  “Although your backhand volley still needs a bit of work, doesn’t it?”

  That’s when I remember my umbrella has a broken spoke. It will be no good to share with anyone. I had best return to the main building by myself.

  Besides, I am in a bit of a hurry: I need to find Will Everhart before the end of lunch.

  chapter 7

  WILL

  I get to the newsroom just after twelve thirty. I knock on the door, and Nat hauls it open. She kicks aside a stack of empty boxes and ushers me in.

  I survey the familiar chaos: Nat’s desk covered in piles of paper. Her beat-up computer with Post-it notes fluttering along its side. The stereo, with Nat’s awful garage punk blaring. The corkboard, set lopsided against the peeling wall, where draft Messenger pages jostle for space. The rusted filing cabinet. The moth-eaten couch.

  Duncan Aboud, Nat’s unofficial editorial assistant, is sorting papers on the floor. No one barring Nat herself knows how Duncan manages to spend so much time in the Messenger newsroom when he’s supposed to be in class at Edwin Street Boys’ Academy across the road. When questioned on the subject, he tends to mumble the phrase “cross-institutional learning” a lot.

  “Duncan, out,” Nat commands.

  Duncan pushes his glasses up his nose, gets to his feet, and rushes for the door.

  As soon as it closes behind him, Nat’s demeanor shifts. She steps toward me. With a coy smile she leans in and kisses me on the lips.

  It’s new, this thing between us. It started last Monday night. I was helping her with a Messenger article on refugee policy. We’d drunk a tank load of Red Bull. Then Nat found a bunch of cat videos online that had us both in hysterics. I was crouched against the filing cabinet wheezing with laughter, saying, “That is so funny,” and Nat was saying, “You are,” and I was saying, “No, you are,” and then in a different voice, a low-down voice like she was telling me a secret, she said, “You’re seriously great. You know that, right?”

  That’s when things heated up.

  But that was a week ago, and now it’s Monday again, and lunchtime. Daylight is streaming onto the crumb-caked carpet, lighting up the floating dust whorls and catching the scratches on the desktop. The voices of our classmates echo in the corridor. As I kiss Nat back, it occurs to me that what was exciting a week ago on Red Bull in a dark room now seems weirdly sordid.

  I hear the boom of Deputy Davids’s voice outside. “Inez Jurich, get down from that balcony rail at once.”

  I pull away from Nat, indicating the door.

  She nods in agreement. “Another time.” Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she falls into her desk chair. I flop onto the couch.

  We look at each other.

  “So. About this cartoon,” says Nat, turning businesslike.

  My stomach turns. Here it comes: the moment I’ve been dreading. Nat’s worked out that I drew it and is going to blast me for it.

  Her eyes light up. “How great is it?”

  I release the wall of breath inside my chest. “Incredible,” I say.

  “Hadley deserves it,” Nat says. “More than deserves it. What a creep.” She grins. “Do you know this Amelia Westlake person, by any chance? The name sounded familiar to me, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

  She hasn’t a clue it’s me, then. Better still, she thinks it’s someone real. This is exactly what we were aiming for.

  I furrow my brow. “There’s a girl in year ten who’s in the Rhythmic Roses who’s called Amelia,” I say. The Rhythmic Roses is Rosemead’s prize-winning modern dance troupe. “Mousey hair, I think. Actually, I have a feeling she’s related to Duncan,” I throw in.

  Nat shakes her head. “He has a cousin Emily at Rosemead, but her hair isn’t mousey, and she doesn’t dance,” she says matter-of-factly. “She’s into horses,” she adds, as if being into horses completely excludes either of those things. “Which means the Rhythmic Roses girl could be Amelia Westlake, which would be a relief”—she is saying all of this incredibly quickly—“because I had this awful feeling that it might have been a pseudonym, and you know the school rules about publishing anonymous contributions. And after the investigative piece I ran on the cafeteria’s supply chain, Croon’s already looking for an excuse to ditch me as editor.”

  “Of course.” A wave of guilt sweeps over me. How could I have forgotten about the shit Nat copped for that supply chain piece? It exposed a link to an egg farm known for animal cruelty—a farm that also happens to be run by a prominent Rosemead family.

  Croon wanted Nat’s head on a plate. She would have kicked her off the Messenger in an instant if she’d been able to find a flaw in her research.

  This is the tightrope Nat’s always walking: breaking meaningful stories without getting offside of Principal Croon. Or if she does get offside, making sure it’s in a way that’s beyond criticism. Publishing a cartoon under a pseudonym is definitely not in the “beyond criticism” category.

  “I’ve done a bit of searching already,” Nat says. “There are no references to Amelia Westlake in any recent Rosemead publications. They keep the student rolls on the staff intranet behind a firewall, so I haven’t been able to check those yet, but I’ll find a way. I really hope I can locate her,” she says. “This cartoon is one of the best contributions I’ve received for a long time.”

  “I agree.” I’m burning with guilt, but still pleased she feels this way.

  “Usually all I get are excursion reports or rants about how there should be more gluten-free food options at the cafeteria.” She sets her mouth in a line; when most people do that, it means they’re furious, but when Nat does it, it means she’s impressed. “I’ve been wanting to do something on Hadley for ages, but there’s no way I’d get away with it in an editorial. A student’s contribution is a different story. I’m at arm’s length. It’s perfect. It’s about time Hadley faced the music.” She laughs and looks at me. “Of course, when Croon finds out about the cartoon, and if Amelia Westlake doesn’t exist, I’ll be in deep shit. Luckily Croon’s not back from her trip until later this month.”

  Principal Croon is currently on her annual junket to Rosemead’s Japanese sister school in Osaka. Why she needs a whole month there each year is anybody’s guess.

  “It’s the only reason I took the risk of publishing the cartoon,” Nat says. “It’s unlikely Deputy Davids will even see it. She never reads the Messenger. But if Croon were here…” She shakes her head. “And if someone shows Croon the cartoon when she gets back,
before I can confirm that Amelia Westlake is legit…” Nat draws a finger across her throat. “Anyway, I thought you might be able to help me.”

  My stomach flips. “Why me?”

  “I thought of you as soon as I saw the cartoon,” Nat says. “There’s something about it that’s similar to your drawing style, don’t you think?”

  “I wish I could have drawn this,” I bluff, chest thudding. “I can think of plenty of other people who could have, though.”

  Nat flips a paper clip in the air and catches it. “That’s exactly why I thought you could help. This Amelia person is obviously artistic. Maybe you could have a word with Mrs. Degarno about whether she has anyone called Amelia in her art classes.”

  I nod, swallowing hard.

  Nat looks thoughtful for a moment, then grins. “You know who’d know, of course.”

  “Who?”

  “Harriet Price.”

  I stare at her. “Why the hell would she know?”

  “Calm down. I’m just saying she knows everything about Rosemead. I’m sure she could tell us the names and terms of each of the principals back to 1835 if we were interested.”

  “Oh yeah.” I laugh loudly.

  Nat looks at me like I’m a weirdo.

  It occurs to me that I could simply tell her the truth. So, Harriet and I got stuck in detention together last week.…

  But once she knew she’d been tricked I’d never hear the end of it, not when her position at the Messenger is at stake. Also, Nat hates Harriet Price almost as much as she hates her rich princess friends, Beth Tupman and Millie Levine. She likes to call her Harriet the Why?

  “Look, Nat, I’ve got some equipment to return to Degarno’s supply cupboard before the end of lunch.…”

  “Fine.” She’s riffling through a folder on her desk. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Let me know if you find anything out.”

  “You too.” She waves me away.