Finding Cassie Crazy

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Still, I have a supersonic memory, which not all other people have. So I’ve got to make allowances. The first memory I have is from before I was conceived, I mean, before I came into being. About a fortnight before.

  It’s a ‘kooky’ thing about me, as you would say, like you and your secret assignments in the candle-wax envelopes.

  I’ll be straight with you, that’s the only interesting thing that I found in your letter. Those secret assignments. Tell me what they are.

  I can’t think of anything else to say. As I mentioned though, I have a sister and if you want to write to her, you just say the word.

  Yours sincerely

  Charlie Taylor

  Letter to Lydia Jaackson-Oberman

  Dear Lydia

  Happy Birthday for the other week.

  It’s great that you’re a fish because I’m a heron of the kind that flies around the sky and then swoops down to the ocean and screws your brains out.

  You thought I was going to say I was the kind of heron that swoops down and eats you, didn’t you?

  I was, but I thought that might be offensive.

  My mother is a food processor and my father is a wall-mounted clothes dryer. I have a kid brother, too, but I don’t know what kind of appliance he is yet. He’s too small.

  You’re a freak, you know that?

  I can’t figure out when you’re being serious and when you’re not. Example: does your mother really fly planes? Why?

  Other example: do you really want me to send you what you were saying you want me to send you? How much would you want me to send? We should talk about this. Suggest a place to meet.

  I don’t think you need to be sorry about your name. That can’t be your fault, a thing like that. It would have to be the fault of your parents. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with the name Lydia. I think it’s cute.

  Catch ya

  Seb Mantegna

  Dear Cassie

  Eat shit and die, private school slag.

  Yours faithfully

  Matthew Dunlop

  PART 7

  LETTERS

  FROM

  ASHBURY

  TO CHARLES TAYLOR

  Dear Charles

  This is what Mr Botherit wrote up on the blackboard as a suggestion for our responses to the letters from your class.

  Try commenting on the letter! Was it: amusing?

  interesting? Eg: ‘Thank you very much for your letter,

  which was amusing.’

  So, Charles Taylor:

  Thank you very much for your letter, which was a BIG PILE OF CRAP.

  This is the LAST and FINAL and SUPERLATIVE letter you will ever get from me.

  The only reason I wrote to you in the first incidence was because I thought it was an assignment. I thought he was going to read the letters and give us feedback and incorporate the feedback into our assessment grades. And I am aiming to come first in English this year so therefore I put A LOT of effort into that letter.

  Now it turns out that he meant it when he exclaimed that there would be full confidence for our respect. EXCUSE ME. Full respect for our confidence. (You see what you have done to my English? You’ve got it all twisted.)

  Anyway, I didn’t believe that for one millimetre, about having confidence in our respect, but he just gave exactly the same speech today. The arsehole.

  Plus my friend Lydia told me that she has already started up a drug trafficking scheme in her letters to your school, and she does not appear to me to have been arrested, so therefore it must be true: NOBODY IS READING THE LETTERS.

  Which brings me to the point: why would I keep writing to you? That seems to me like an incompetent waste of my time.

  And no, I do NOT want to write to your sister. How sexist of you to think that just because I like shopping it means that all girls like shopping and that’s the only thing girls talk about. My friends Lyd and Cass both HATE shopping, and guess what, they both happen to be girls. So you are therefore proved wrong.

  You are so old-fashioned you need EXIT MOULD sprayed under your arms.

  And furthermore, if you just imagine for one MOMENT that you might show anyone this letter, you’ll be face-to-face with a lawsuit so brutal you’ll never eat another chicken pie.

  And I think I have a few more connections in the legal world than you do.

  Ciao, Roma

  Emily Thompson

  PS There’s nothing wrong with the expression ‘Don’t get me started’. It’s expressive and humour filled. I can’t believe you think it’s incorrect to use that expression when a person has already got started. You don’t understand satire or irony or sarcasm or effectiveness. That’s Brookfield High all over, I guess.

  PPS AND YOU CAN TALK. ‘Just say the word.’ JUST SAY THE WORD? What kind of an expression is that? WHAT WORD WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO SAY ANYWAY?

  MORON?

  Letter from Lydia Jaackson-Oberman to Seb Mantegna

  Dear Seb

  In one letter only you have blown my cover. You are right.

  I am no fish.

  Bravo, my friend, bravo.

  It was nice of you to say Happy Birthday, but I notice you didn’t send me any kind of gift. Are you one of those careful drug traffickers? I’ve heard about them. I don’t think they have a very good reputation. The way to break the law is to be really upfront and open about it. I know this because my dad’s a judge.

  I’m sorry, but my mum does not fly planes. She drinks a lot though, so she’s often flying. And she’s part owner of a film studio, which will cater to all your film needs: sound recording, editing, lighting and really bad TV commercials. Plus it has a great makeup studio, which is second on the right after the reception desk. Keep it in mind if you ever need a makeover.

  I have decided to tell you about the morning of my birthday, which, as you know, wasn’t long ago.

  This will be me telling you about the morning of my birthday:

  The scene is the Breakfast Pyramid.

  The Breakfast Pyramid is built out of frosted glass and is reached by a tunnel from the back door of our house. It is filled with Egyptian treasures, such as ashtrays.

  The mother, Mum, dressed in a tissue-paper nightgown, sits at one end of the breakfast table. The father, Dad, dressed in a suit and tie, sits at the other end. They are both buttering croissants in a very deliberate way so that croissant flakes are floating all around the pyramid.

  Occasionally, there is a thud as the family dog, Pumpernickel, hurls himself at the frosted glass, trying to get someone’s attention. There is an outside shot of Pumpernickel backing away from the Pyramid to line up and take another hit at the frosted glass.

  Mum: (sweetly) Take it easy on the butter there, honey. You’ve already forgotten the results of your latest cholesterol test, haven’t you?

  Dad: This is low-fat margarine, as a matter of fact.

  Mum: (surprisingly) Up yours, as a matter of fact.

  Pumpernickel: (Thud)

  The beautiful daughter, Lydia, enters.

  Lydia: (happily) Great, croissants.

  Dad: Honey, you’re still in your PJs. We need to be out of here in five minutes, kiddo.

  He dissolves a tablet into a glass of water.

  Lydia: (through the glass to the dog) You can do it, Pumpernickel.

  Pumpernickel: (Thud)

  Dad: (pressing his thumbs to his temples) Lydia.

  Don’t tease the dog, honey.

  Lydia: (sympathetically) Do you have a headache, your worship?

  Dad: (chuckling) Well! You’re going to have to figure out the difference between a magistrate and a judge if you want to stay in this family! Your worship is what you say to a magistrate. Your honour is what you say to a judge. And what’s your dad, eh?

  Lydia: (charmingly) I know that, Dad! I was messing with you!

  Dad: (pushing back his chair) I’ll wait in the car for five minutes for you, Lyd. But then I’ll just have to go, I’m afraid. It’s late, kiddo.

>   Exit Dad.

  Lydia: Hey, Mum. You know what day it is today?

  Mum: (staring distractedly at the dog which is now sliding down the frosted glass with a slow, squealing sound) No, darling, I haven’t the faintest idea. (Frowns for a moment, deep in thought) I think it might be Tuesday.

  END OF SCENE

  So that’s the end of me telling you about my birthday morning.

  (But then on the way to school I reminded my dad what day it was and he spun the car in the middle of the highway, took a right into a one-way street doing about 180 k, parked in a disabled spot outside Dymocks, picked up a book for my birthday, and then jumped back into the car. I just wish I’d had a camera with me and I could have taken a photo of my dad’s car in the disabled parking spot and sent it to the papers.)

  I don’t think we should meet.

  I think this will work better by mail.

  I have decided that we have to tell each other the dreams that we had the previous night. Well, last night I had a dream that I was a snail. Nothing really happened, I just sat there being a snail and sometimes stretching my neck a bit. That’s it.

  What did you dream?

  See you

  Lydia

  Dear Matthew Dunlop

  Thank you very much for your letter. I loved it.

  So anyway, how have you been? You didn’t give away much in your letter.

  Mr Botherit told us that sometimes boys have trouble expressing their feelings and he hopes the boys in our class can work through that in their letters. Also, he hopes we keep it in mind if we’re lucky enough to get a boy for a penfriend. Those were his words:

  Lucky enough to get a boy.

  Does he mean it’s unlucky if you get a girl for a penfriend?

  I am one of the lucky ones. I got a boy. YOU. And you are a champion. Don’t let anybody tell you any different, k?

  I don’t think you have that much trouble expressing your feelings, but you should try to share more. You could tell me what your favourite subjects are and what you do to relax after school. Do you soak your feet in tea-tree oil?

  Don’t feel under any pressure though, because I like you just the way you are.

  After I sent that letter of my mother’s to you, I felt pretty bad, like what was I thinking? Betraying my mother’s privacy and everything. I confessed to her, but she didn’t mind at all. She said she left the letter out on purpose because she really meant it as a message to me, reminding me how cute I was as a baby. And she’s happy for me to share that around with my friends, she said. So that’s lucky.

  Well, it’s been fun. I can’t wait for your next letter.

  Love

  Cassie

  PART 8

  LETTERS

  FROM

  BROOKFIELD

  Dear Emily

  Wow. That letter really kicked arse. Do you want to chill or something for a minute though? Getting worked up like that can’t be good for your blood pressure.

  I didn’t mean to offend you. Okay, now I’m lying to you. I did mean to offend you, because I thought you were buried under a landslide and we needed a few rounds of explosives to get you out. I thought maybe there was a real you under all that crap.

  And I was right! There’s a real you and like I said, she kicks arse!

  I see now that all the crap was for your teacher. Why didn’t you just say so? I did think maybe you had a bit of a thing for your teacher, like maybe you wanted to get into his pants. But I didn’t realise it was to do with your assessment.

  Wow, if you can degrade yourself that badly, maybe you should get into his pants? Have you thought about asking if he would give you extra marks for a blow job?

  You’ve got to learn some pride, Emily.

  You’ve got to make me proud of you.

  Yours sincerely

  Charlie Taylor

  PS You actually think that only private school kids have connections? You want to know what my brothers do? Brian’s a cop with connections with the local Triads. Jack’s a cop with connections with the local Mafia. And Kevin’s a charter member of a motorcycle gang called the Pitbulls. As in those dogs that get their teeth into your flesh and don’t let go, even if you hit them with a sledgehammer.

  And you think I’m wetting myself because your daddy’s a partner in a law firm? Bite me, baby.

  Hey Lyd

  Inside this envelope, you will see my painting of your dog nose-diving into the Breakfast Pyramid. I spent the whole art class doing sketches to get it right. Is it right?

  Okay. Here’s the thing. How do I know you’re not a snake?

  We need more than a couple of letters to establish that you can be trusted. Don’t get me wrong, you seem pretty cool, but if I’ve figured it out right, you also seem to be the daughter of a judge.

  Now, he might be a loser who forgets your birthday, but that could be exactly what I need to be concerned about. Maybe you’re looking for ways to get Daddy’s attention?

  For all I know, you’re waiting to get enough dirt on me and then you’re heading for the Breakfast Pyramid and saying: ‘I’ve caught you a drug dealer, Daddy. Now will you say Happy Birthday?’

  That’s all hypothetical of course. I categorically deny that I deal in drugs.

  So what we’re going to do is, we’re going to do a few tests. If you can do these things for me, even though you might get caught, then I’ll know you’re not your daddy’s little angel.

  This is the first test:

  It’s to set off my school’s fire alarm. That’s it. You might think it’s kind of unimaginative but I haven’t got an imagination. You ask Radison. (That’s our English teacher.)

  The alarm has to go off straight after lunch on Tuesday next week and it has to be serious enough that the whole school spends fifth period on the oval.

  If you pass my tests, then I’ll know you’re not a snake.

  Okay, and I’ll show my respect by obeying you too. You want me to tell you my dreams?

  The dream I had last night was this: I was a kookaburra sitting up high in a eucalypt with my feathers camouflaging nicely into the bark and way down on the ground I see a slither of something sharp. It’s a snake. So I move.

  I move without stopping to figure out a strategy. I don’t stop or think, I just fly. Straight down like a jet plane, heading for a crashlanding in the grass, and next thing I’ve got the snake.

  Then I fly it to the nearest rock so I can smash it against the rock until it’s dead. Then I rip open its middle and eat out its guts.

  Catch ya

  Seb Mantegna

  Cassie

  Why don’t you ask someone who I am?

  And then ask what I do to people I don’t like.

  Matthew Dunlop

  PART 9

  LYDIA

  Hey! You still with us? Still enjoying our questions?! In this Part, we leave more room for your answers, so you can spread your wings! A recurring theme will be ‘senses’. Tell us about your five senses!

  Okay, well, first you should try less open-ended questions. What do you want to know about my senses, exactly?

  And second, you should know that I’m only doing this because I want to be an author. It’s not because I respect you.

  No offence.

  I’m in German right now, and this is what’s happening. Frau McAllister is getting off on humiliating David Corruthers. She wanted him to write up the sentence, ‘If I had a donkey, I would ride it to school every day’ and he’s written, ‘If I were a donkey, I would ride myself at school every day.’ Big deal, it’s close enough.

  It’s weird the way some teachers are happiest when you make mistakes.

  Anyway, as I was saying, I’ve decided I’ll keep writing in this Note-book. Because I’ve noticed something: I never get right inside my head when I write. So I’m going to use this book to try.

  Great! We loved that! Now, tell us, what are your favourite things to eat?

  My favourite things to eat include tortoise shells
and eucalyptus leaves.

  BUT IT’S NOT TRUE. IT’S A LIE! I’M TAKING YOU FOR A RIDE!!!

  What star sign are you? Does it capture your personality?

  I think we need to invent some new star signs. None of the old ones work for me. I’ve thought up one called ‘Britney’.

  A Britney is a happy-go-lucky person who wants to be a nurse or a meteorologist when he or she grows up. Britneys have fingernails that break easily. Britneys need plenty of calcium.

  Tell us something surprising about yourself. Are you a smoker? Or perhaps you are a sword fighter!

  I can’t believe you know about my sword fighting. Who told you? So, you also know how I spend a couple of hours each afternoon slaying dragons?

  Actually, I’m not a smoker either. I used to be but I quit last year because Emily made me. The things you do for your friends.

  Em made me quit smoking after they did anti-smoking at school. They showed us this ad which has a girl putting a cigarette in her mouth and not realising that the cigarette is a metal hook. You would surely realise. But anyway, the hook goes through the girl’s lip. Do you get it? Hooked. Brilliant.

  But after that, Em could never look at me with a cigarette without imagining the hook through my lip. She’s such a sucker for mind games.

  Now you tell me a little about yourself.

  Write down a thought for the day.

  Today, I’m thinking that this book is a waste of time and I’ll never be an author in a million zillion years.

  Time for another QUICK FLICK! Tell us the first memory that comes into your head!

  I remember Cassie walking towards us across the primary school playground, carrying her skipping rope. It’s her birthday, so she got to ring the Old Bell for the start of lunchtime.