Finding Cassie Crazy

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Emily: (being a bit humorous) Wait just one minute! Red paint! Wasn’t Brookfield attacked with red paint? Grapeseed oil? Wasn’t that put on the floor of the Brookfield science lab? I guess my friends here must have found these things in the home of an Ashbury student?! Or did they? Charlie, can you tell us—is that where you found these things?

  (Everyone waits—the boy with the backpack (Charlie, I assume) leans towards Em.)

  Charlie: (politely) No, actually, Em, we found most of this stuff in the bedroom cupboard of a guy from Brookfield. Some stuff was in the wastepaper basket in his bedroom but most was in his bedroom cupboard.

  (Confusion from the audience.)

  Emily: (being theatrical again) So that sounds like a Brookfield student might have attacked Brookfield?! Now, why would he want to attack his own school? Charlie, can you tell me the name of the Brookfield student who had these things in his bedroom?

  Charlie: Yes, Em, I can. It’s Paul Wilson. Our form captain there.

  (There are sharp intakes of breath all around from teachers, judges etc.)

  Judge Koutchavalis: Hey! Isn’t that the name of the witness against our girls?!

  Judge Anderson: Actually, yes, it is. Paul? What’s going on here?

  (The tall handsome form captain from Brookfield is standing up—he has sauntered onto the stage and is standing right beside me as I type, smiling slightly, as if this is all a bit of a joke. He talks to Judge Anderson in a low voice.)

  Paul Wilson: Mr Anderson, look, you can’t believe Seb Mantegna and Charlie Taylor, can you? They hate my guts. I don’t know who this girl is they’ve got with them but she looks like one of the girls I saw committing the crime. How can anyone believe her? She could be some kind of a freak. She could be a pathological liar or something.

  Bindy: (whispering to him) No, that’s Cassie. Be careful what you say about her, okay? Her father died last year and she was really close to him, so you’ve got to be nice to her. Otherwise, you’ll get everyone mad at you.

  (Paul Wilson looks at me, and blinks. He is quiet for a moment, breathing and blinking.)

  Judge Anderson: (looking bemused) Well, just explain to the people why you’ve got those things in your room, would you? Explain to me.

  Paul: (stares at him, wide-eyed and confused) Look. (Uncertainly.) Look, this is ridiculous. (Moves to the microphone.) Everyone, of course there’s an explanation. As you know, I do Food Technology—there was so much grapeseed oil that I took some home and—

  (A Brookfield teacher stands up from the row of chairs at the back; a small, plump woman.)

  Teacher: I didn’t know you were in the food technology class, Paul.

  Student: (calling out—crudely?) Whatcha do with the oil in your bedroom, eh Paul?

  Paul: (blustering; confused) And I got the spray paint from the art supplies, so I could—

  Teacher: We never use grapeseed oil, actually. I prefer olive oil.

  Judge Anderson: (The colour is rushing from his face; he speaks softly.) Paul. You were at school last weekend, weren’t you? For drama rehearsal? And you stayed back to tidy up after we left? Please don’t tell me you went into the classrooms and painted ‘Brooker bites’ onto the walls.

  (I think that Paul Wilson is starting to cry! Yes! Yes!)

  Paul: Of course not!—I didn’t—I just—Mr. And—you know—the, oil—

  (Judge Anderson is a big man; I see traces of sweat around the collar of his shirt; he pulls at the collar of his shirt.

  Across the stage there is a strange little noise from Cassie Aganovic; Paul glances over; I see their eyes meet briefly; Paul Wilson looks back to Judge Anderson.)

  Paul: Uh—(His shoulders crumple; he swivels; he runs across the stage, down the steps, and toward the fire exit. He pushes at the door—‘not that one!’ exclaims Mr Botherit—he runs on to the next door, pushes through it, and slams the door behind him.)

  (A deathly, stunned silence follows fast upon the echo of the slamming door. There are gasps, etc., which I will not bother transcribing; they can be imagined.

  Now: uproar! Everyone talks at the same time—parents, students, and teachers alike—much amazed excitement and confusion.)

  Judge Koutchavalis: (beaming) Well, imagine that! All the attacks on Brookfield were carried out by a Brookfielder!

  Judge Anderson: (shakes his head; grim; a broken man?; at last, distractedly) Hm.

  Judge Koutchavalis: Let me just consult my notes here. Well! Yes, anyway, two of the three Ashbury attacks were inside jobs!

  Charlie: Yeah, the only thing we didn’t find at Paul’s was evidence of that Ashbury school song episode. Remember when it was played over our PA at regular intervals? But we didn’t have much time. There’ll be evidence in his place somewhere.

  Judge Koutchavalis: I don’t doubt it. (into the microphone; jolly-sounding) Well, everyone, it looks like Ashbury’s in the clear, and we all owe those three girls an apology! They were not at Brookfield yesterday at all! They were probably studying in the library!

  Emily: Probably.

  Judge Koutchavalis: Yes, that is the nature of Ashbury students. Diligent. Now, just looking into Brookfield’ role in the dispute—let’ see (consults her notes)—yes, well, Brookfield smashed windows, painted rude words, sent a computer virus, dyed our pool purple—the list goes on! Golly. Presumably, this was all carried out by the criminal element at Brookfield in response to attacks which were actually carried out by Brookfielders themselves! How—extraordinary.

  Judge Anderson: (wearying of her good humour) Extraordinary.

  Judge Koutchavalis: At any rate. (leans to the microphone again) Well! Ladies and gentlemen, I am sure you are all as surprised as we are by this turn of events, and as relieved to discover the true culprit. But there is still work to do! It is imperative that we discuss the best—

  (She looks to the audience, they seem to have lost interest in her—parents are now gathering their handbags, continuing to chat animatedly; I hear many references to the refreshments in the staff room.)

  Judge Koutchavalis: (pretending this is all as she planned) So now might be a good time to partake of refreshments. We will reconvene in half an hour and brainstorm some ideas for forging ties between our schools again.

  (The teachers all begin to stand up too; there is an array of chatting and scraping, footsteps. ‘Ch, I forgot my glasses!’ ‘Is this them on the floor?’, etc., etc.)

  Bindy: When can I stop typing?

  Emily: (with a trace of sarcasm?) Now would be a good time, Bindy.

  PART 33

  ASHBURY HIGH

  YEAR 10

  NOTICEBOARD

  THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

  Isn’t it great that Ashbury was not to blame!

  Turns out it was Brookfield who lit the flame of the dispute.

  Students: On Friday night, a three-hour meeting was held with the objective of restoring unity and peace between our schools. As you will no doubt have heard, it emerged that the ENTIRE conflict was set up by a single, somewhat unhinged Brookfield student. Nevertheless, steps must be taken to ensure that peace reigns true between our schools.

  The Spirit of Co-operation!

  In the second part of the meeting, Mr Botherit argued (passionately) for the reinstatement of his Ashbury–Brookfield Pen Pal Project. He also suggested that his students be asked to meet and co-operate with their Brookfield Pen Pals, in order to demonstrate (to parents) the success of that program—and so that the first step may be taken towards peace and unity.

  Accordingly, each of Mr Botherit’s Year 10 English students must join with his or her Brookfield penfriend and prepare a contribution to the Ashbury Spring Concert! (I shall give the Spring Concert an appropriate new name.) The contribution may be a dramatic, musical or artistic act, to be performed on stage. Or it may be behind-the-scenes—painting backdrops or decorating the hall etc.

  This has been a message from your Form Mistress

  PART 34

  EMILY AND
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  CHARLIE

  Dear Charlie

  Well, I am so happy I feel confused!

  It was so much fun on the weekend having a party at Lyd’s place and getting to know you and Seb, and everyone drinking, laughing, talking etc, and celebrating happily!

  Really, I have to say again though, that you and Seb and Cass were AMAZING the way you came skidding up in your teacher’s Audi, bringing the evidence with you! It was the sexiest thing that ever happened in my life.

  I’m just glad that nobody mentioned that Cass had broken in through Paul Wilson’s bedroom window, as that might have put some confusion into my privacy argument.

  Speaking of which, I only wish you had seen me be a lawyer, as I think (modestly) that I was a real hit. Everyone has been congratulating me today, shouting praise from various distances, and I have been shouting back thanks in every direction! I have even thanked people I’d never heard of! It is a true taste of fame.

  And get this, the Legal Studies teacher was at the meeting and she tracked me down today so she could have a really intense conversation in the corridor. About how she hopes I’m planning to do Legal Studies next year. So I told her I dream of being a lawyer but I’m scared my marks won’t be good enough. You should have seen her gasping denial! She was like a fish! ‘There are so many ways to become a lawyer!’ she proclaimed, ‘and getting good marks is just one of those ways!’ She said that anyone determined enough could become a lawyer, as long as they went to see her in her office so she could explain the options.

  She also said I had the talent for restraint, which means I don’t talk too much.

  Have you noticed how bad teachers look close up? Very wrinkled and some unexpected blackheads on the nose.

  Well, I have to arrange something with you as our joint contribution for the Spring Concert. So I have put us down as running the refreshment stall during intermission, selling cakes, chocolates etc, etc. Okay? Great.

  Guess what, Cass says she is going to SING as her contribution! I was just nonplussed, as I thought she was too afraid of singing on stage, but she told me she’s not.

  You should hear her sing, Charlie. She is an angel in disguise, and I CAN’T WAIT FOR EVERYONE TO HEAR HER. I will be so proud I’ll cry my eyes out. You’ll cry too, Charlie. For sure.

  I’m not sure how she got around the joint Ashbury–Brookfield obligation though! I mean, she’s supposed to do something with her pen pal, and we all know who that is.

  I just hope she hasn’t started some kind of secret liaison with Paul Wilson. Imagine.

  Speaking of secret liaisons, do you want to have one? We could have one at the Blue Danish. I don’t really think we should have lessons, where I teach you how to Date a Girl and so on. I think we should just be us. If that is fine with you.

  Great.

  And soon it will be holidays!

  Speaking of holidays, the only thing needed to make everything perfect is if I could get to see my horses for a couple of days, as I think they have probably forgotten my name. But for sure my parents will have to work during the holidays. Still, at least my dad got to see me be a lawyer. Not that he has said anything about it. Maybe he could see that I wasn’t actually any good? I guess that’s why he hasn’t said anything. I guess the Legal Studies teacher doesn’t know what she’s talking about. What have I been thinking?

  Oh well, you should never trust happiness. Don’t even get me started.

  Love

  Emily

  Dear Emily

  I’m sorry, Em, but the weirdest thing I have heard all year has got to be that teacher saying you’re a girl who has restraint.

  You can be as unrestrained as you like with me, though, Em.

  And even if your dad doesn’t realise that you’re a good lawyer, I believe you’re a genius. I might have to rely on your legal talents in relation to a particular stolen Audi. Although the Rattler seems to be thinking about letting it go, since I’ve promised him free tune-ups for the next five years.

  If your parents abandon you for the holidays, I’ll take charge of entertaining you. I’ll take you for a spin on Kevin’s motorbike if you like. You just say the word.

  Wilson isn’t at school today, by the way. My contact in the principal’s office says his parents withdrew him from the school first thing this morning, probably to pre-empt getting expelled. It’s so weird that every Ashbury attack on our school was actually caused by our form captain, whereas the Brookfield attacks on your school were all by Brookfield criminals.

  Anyhow, looking forward to crying on your shoulder when we hear Cass sing at the concert.

  Love

  Charlie

  PART 35

  LYDIA AND

  SEBASTIAN

  Dear Seb

  Have you heard that Cass has signed up to sing in the concert next week? She’s got an amazing voice, you know. I just saw her at a rehearsal. I was walking past the hall where a lot of people are testing out microphones, stacking chairs, talking etc. Except then I heard Cass testing out a microphone. I looked around the doorway into the hall and she was standing on the stage, with her eyes closed, singing softly, and the entire room had stopped breathing.

  I couldn’t believe how calm she seemed—she used to be afraid of singing in front of anyone except Em and me. But there were about fifty people in the room and every single one was staring at her. She only sang one verse of this Placebo song she likes and then she stopped, and right away everyone was begging her to keep going. But she just smiled and looked embarrassed, and put the microphone back.

  The only thing I don’t understand is how she convinced the teachers that this is a joint act with her Brookfield penfriend. She told me to stop stressing when I asked her.

  Anyway, Seb, we have to do something for the concert ourselves. Do you want to just sell tickets?

  I’ve been thinking about what you asked me before you went home on Saturday night. And sorry it’s taken me a few days to answer but okay, the answer is yes. We can give it a try.

  But if I start to forget my identity, that’s it. We go back to writing letters.

  Love

  Lydia

  Hey Lyd

  If Cass sings like you say she does, she’ll have every guy at that concert falling at her feet. She’s cute, eh, and a nice girl, too, though she doesn’t say much. But, as we said at your party on Saturday, she picked the locks at Wilson’s place in approx 0.5 seconds, which was one of the coolest things I ever saw.

  In relation to you and me, that’s an excellent decision you’ve made there, Lyd. No way will you regret it. And if I catch you losing any personality, I’ll give you a heads up, and you can go back and get it.

  Love

  Seb

  PS I have an idea for something you and I can do for the concert. Maybe I could come by your place tomorrow and run it by you?

  PART 36

  LYDIA

  Hey!!!!!! YOU DID IT!!! YOU MADE IT!! Welcome to the FINAL PAGE of your Note-book™. It was quite a journey, wasn’t it? But a valuable one.

  Go on, write your name in the box!

  Write it big and write it proud.

  And then, for this final page, have a glass of chardonnay and share some of your musings on what it’s like to be a Writer. Because, we guarantee it, if you’ve got this far, then you are a Writer*—so fill your glass and fill this space with words!

  Yeah, I’m just out here in my rose garden, pouring myself a nice glass of chardonnay, thinking back to my sword-fighting days. I should phone up my best buddy, the plumber, really, and ask him what he thinks about being sunburnt. And when he answers, I’ll write down the words EXACTLY AS HE SAYS THEM, because I don’t actually have a mind of my own and the fact is, I am really pretty stupid.

  You have the strangest idea of who I am, don’t you, Note-book™?

  It’s been great getting to know you, of course. You’re a lot of fun.

  But I’m not sure how healthy it is to keep writing to you.

 
For a start, I think I have this idea that I can do anything by writing. Like I can be myself if I write letters, and I can help my friends if I write secret assignments. Like I can change things, punish people, fall in love and find myself, all by writing the right words.

  When actually, maybe I’m just hiding behind the words.

  Just like I’m hiding behind this idea that everything is dark and terrible—like I hate my parents, and I’m always scared that Em and Cass are going to fail at life, and I’m scared I’ll never be a writer. In fact I should just be proud of Em and Cass. And I don’t even know why I hate my parents—I can give reasons, like the fact that my mum’s spaced out and my dad can’t stop flirting with other women, even though he’s such a nerd that no one but my spaced-out mother could ever fall for him. But they’re okay really, and they’ve just had a hard year. Maybe I’m just mad at them for being upset about Cass’s father—like I wanted them to be normal and strong while we were the crazy ones.

  I’ll now be symbolic and dramatic and say this: it’s time to come out from behind the words, and from behind the darkness.

  I still want to be a writer. But I don’t think you’re going to make me one. I’m just hiding behind more words when I try to follow your instructions.

  So what I’m going to do is, I’m going to take one of those 48-page refill books (feint ruled) that Dad has stacked in his study. Oh look, here’s one right beside me.

  And I’ll write a story in this notepad. Maybe something about a girl who falls for a soccer-crazed guy who gets caught by an underground spy group and he has to get clues to the girl somehow, so he sketches portraits using colour-coded paints, which the girl—

  Anyway, whatever I write, the only thing to get in my way will be those pale blue (feint-ruled) lines.