it’s the TV series
lost
lost on the dew-green
grass beside the path.
hit the
wall,
the floor
the nappy box
the wheels of the cot.
Or it’s a lost
lost poster
its own lost poster
lost on the boot-crushed
grass beside the path.
she never gives
up,
he says,
chases hard
reaching little hands
for the
circle of light
riley talking
his little sister
playing
flashlight
games with his sister
you can’t
stop,
he says,
if you stop . . .
you have to
keep the light
twitching
out of
reach.
if you stop,
let her catch it
then she’ll
see that it’s
nothing
nothing but
the carpet or the wall
he means
us
can’t stay
still
or they’ll see
what we are
you end the game
he says
by switching off the torch.
or he might mean
himself —
can’t stay
still
or he’ll
have to see
thursday.
thursday’s
too big
when I try to
hold it for him —
put my arms
around
him
can’t get
my arms
around
both.
riley,
I say,
let’s stop.
label ourselves
with a smudged and running
word, and
lie down by the
side of the road.
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9.
Lydia Jaackson-Oberman
Student No: 8233410
Story’s winding up.
Guessed what happens? Are you even concentrating?
WAKE UP!
Too much herbal tea.
It’s the final week, then a two-week break, and the HSC begins.
See any contradictions there? Endings and beginnings. Festive and tragic. Coming to school at strange hours in regular clothes. Saying goodbye to people you’ve seen every day for the last six years. Knowing that, in a couple of weeks, you’ll be back in uniform, sitting behind them in exams. Contradictions everywhere you turn. Opposites clashing and turning —
Okay, maybe I’m overdoing this a bit.
But, seriously, that week was weird.
And it seems to me that Young People Today are neither Designed nor Equipped to cope with Confusion of this kind.
The people in my year were strung out/doped up/and/or drunk.
They were hysterical, weeping and wild-eyed.
(Em was a combination of most of the above.)
I saw one guy throw an egg at a teacher’s head, do a kind of victory yodel when it hit, then run up to that teacher and ask, in serious, polite-boy voice, for some extra revision notes. (The teacher couldn’t see him for the egg yolk in his eyes.)
I saw a girl write Love u 4-ever in green ink on another girl’s thigh. The second girl promised that she’d never wash it off but worried that it could look like cheat notes in an exam.
Ah, humanity. It lets you down sometimes.
So. Here we are in the middle of that week.
It’s Wednesday night.
Tomorrow’s the last day — there’ll be a final assembly, and then tomorrow night, a once-only performance of the drama.
Tonight, an Ashbury tradition, a farewell reception in the teachers’ gardens.
They open the gates, let us in, and we gasp in awe! Paradise! Hiding behind those gates all this time! (We used to break in here a lot, so we’re more: huh, tulips looking fine. Like what you’ve done with the hydrangeas.)
Girls in tight dresses, boys in suits, teachers wearing makeup. It’s Ashbury saying: ‘Welcome to the grown-up world! Turns out, it’s lantern-lit with floating silver trays. Isn’t it the best?’
The kids are impressed. They’re controlling their madness. But it quivers in the hands that take the pastries from the trays.
I find Amelia on a garden bench. A dark corner. Blue mosquito zapper just behind her.
She looks sane.
We’re friends now, Amelia and I. We’ve spent some time together. But our friendship is just joking around. We’ve talked about — what? Spiders. TV. Sausages. Shared some stories, too — turns out we both like telling stories. She tells me fairytales she’s heard, and makes some up herself. Her imagination is wild.
I like Amelia, but I don’t trust her yet. All along, I’ve wondered if she’s cheating on Riley, and I don’t like cheats.
I don’t want to know, but no point being friends unless it’s real.
So tonight I’ve decided to find out. I’m thinking about what Riley told me the other day. That Amelia has a friend in a mental institution down the road.
If it’s a cover, it’s a strange one, but Amelia’s a strange girl.
She’s never mentioned a mentally ill friend to me. But then, why would she? I didn’t even know there was an institution nearby.
The story could be true. I want it to be true.
The way to get a friend to share is to share a secret of your own.
I surprise myself: I tell Amelia something that I’ve never even told Em and Cass.
It’s boring but I’ll tell it for the record:
My dad moved out last year when he discovered my mother had been having an affair. She promised it was over, so he moved back in. Therapy and Tuscany saved their marriage. (That’s what my mother tells her friends. Ho ho!) These days Mum and Dad are so sweet together it makes me want to rip out my own tonsils. (Or theirs.)
But just before Tuscany, my mother told me a secret. In her bathrobe, diamond bangles sliding up and down her arm, she said that her affair isn’t over at all. It’s with some TV star — which is probably why she told me (‘See, Lyd, I’m still a star!’). It’s not over, she said. It’s too beautiful. But the TV guy is married. So is she, and —
Then my dad arrived home, and Mum shut up.
My house is a lie. I hate lies. I hate affairs. I hate cheats.
Let me know if I can make myself clearer.
Moving on.
I tell Amelia the family secret on the bench at the garden party.
She listens with her eyes and says: ‘That’s not fair.’
She says: ‘Your mum should never have told you that. You shouldn’t have to live with that.’
She’s so emphatic, I feel confused. Try to laugh but panic I might cry.
I want to say: This is not about me, I want to know YOU.
So I say, in a tumble: ‘But people have affairs. Sometimes they can’t help it. Is there something that you’re keeping from Riley?’
I hadn’t meant to be so direct. It’s Amelia’s fault — she’s too nice.
We’re silent a few moments. Look around. Across the gardens. There’s Riley, talking to Mr Garcia. As we watch, they both laugh.
Amelia says, ‘Yes.’
Riley T Smith
Student No. 8233569
I’m talking to Garcia and we’re laughing.
Something about tomorrow — Thursday — the drama.
He’s a funny guy, Garcia, good director, good guy, but what’s so funny about Thursday?
So, I’m laughing but I’m looking for Amelia.
And there she is.
On a seat across the garden,
&nb
sp; talking to Lydia.
And it comes to me, it hits me all at once. It’s so much all at once, that the only way I could make you understand would be to crowd the words together, in red ink on my knuckle, and punch you once, hard, in the face.
What I’m trying to say is these thoughts were not in sequence, they were one, big, chaotic black hole of a truth.
Here they are.
that:
every time I see her she’s talking to Lydia, or lost in thoughts about her stepdad, or somewhere with her crazy friend
so she’s never there, she’s never here for —
that:
too much time with ghosts and you turn into a ghost, too much time with richgirls, and you —
that:
she is one. she’s a richgirl.
that:
she and lydia look alike — on that seat, facing one another, facing forward, talking, they’re the same — different hair but something in their bright eyes and intensity
that:
she’s always been a richgirl when you think about it, which now,
in the teachers’ garden, while Garcia laughs, and I laugh along, keep right on talking, while, for the first time ever, I do
think about it,
she’s always been a richgirl— you think about it too —
that:
when she ran away from home, she brought along the following:
guitar, stuffed toy, liquor, gardening gloves, silk scarf
your typical streetkid right there, ha ha.
that:
she ran away from home because she had a fight, on her birthday, with her mother — have I told you what the fight was all about?
the dress she wanted to wear to her party, and
something burning in the frypan while her mother said, no, you can’t wear it
have I told you that?
her mother was cooking for the party, and she ran away from home
Spoiled brat.
That thought — spoiled brat.
That was separate. That one I can write on the knuckles of my other fist, and hit you with it separately. Under the chin maybe, snap your chin up. Moving on —
that:
all this time, she could have gone home, but she’s been waiting for her stepdad, refusing swimming coaching even, loyal to her stepdad — but have I told you this? That her family home is ten minutes from here? We drove by once, saw the horseshoe on the door, she looked at it then slipped down in her seat. Her mother sends money to help her pay the rent, and have I told you this? She used to write her letters? When I first knew Amelia, now and then, her mum would write something like this:
We both said some hurtful things, so let’s make a deal? I forgive you, if you forgive me? Come home and we’ll figure it out!
but Amelia stayed, then we ran away, and after that the letters stopped (but she still sends money).
that:
even the flavours she likes — cinnamon, ginger, blueberries — those are richgirl flavours.
that:
all this time she’s been living in that hostel with the old men and their hacking coughs, the bandicoots, the mould-rimmed showers, fungal infections waiting to get her pretty toes on the tiles. The rats, cockroaches, dust-stained lights — all this time
she’s a fake.
I say something to Garcia, and he laughs again — my voice comes out in the same smooth tone — and I look at Amelia and Lydia — they’ve stopped talking now — they’re looking towards me, they’re standing up, I smile at them and they float my way, past lanterns, waiters, boys in suits. Lydia’s wearing something tight and white that glows in moonlight, Amelia looks hot in a dress as black as night —
and
Lydia’s the real one.
Amelia’s the fake, the reflection, the —
I’ve known it all along.
She’s the shadow.
Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson
Student No: 8233521
Plunge with me into the teachers’ gardens in the middle of the final week of school!
It is lantern lit and highly enchanting, and . . . listen to what befell —
Amelia and Lydia were talking on a bench.
Just behind me, Riley was chatting with Mr Garcia. Their conversation leapt back and forth like an antelope across a laughing brook.
Amelia and Lydia stood up from their bench, and walked towards us. Amelia looked pale. Lydia had an odd gleam, her eyes like silver coins.
Some other students began to prattle at Mr Garcia, and he moved slightly to join their circle.
Lydia switched directions. She crossed the gardens, away from us. Amelia continued towards us, and joined Riley.
‘I have to go see my friend,’ she said.
Riley was silent a moment. ‘Now?’
‘She seemed kind of crazy when I saw her yesterday.’
‘That’ll happen,’ said Riley, ‘with a crazy person.’
Amelia smiled. Riley smiled back.
At that moment, they both sensed that I was watching them. They glanced towards me, smiled quickly, then turned away and their serious faces resumed.
Amelia touched Riley’s cheek.
I had never seen Amelia touch Riley’s face before. They were not that kind of couple. But this? This brief, trembling, tender touch — I can honestly say that it felt like the most loving touch I’d ever seen. (And I am a student of love.) My heart swooned.
And then Amelia walked away.
Riley watched the gate close behind her.
At which moment the strangest thing happened. It happened to Riley’s face. Imagine hitting a cymbal so hard that it vibrates violently, clashes and flashes with light. That was Riley’s face.
Within a fraction of a second, however, it was Riley again.
I was understandably bewildered.
I saw Lydia and Cassie chatting across the garden. I joined them.
Lydia was telling Cassie something: ‘She pretends she’s going to see a crazy friend,’ she was saying. ‘But I don’t think she is. She’s cheating on him.’
Amelia was cheating on Riley? The crazy friend she just mentioned was not real?!
But that loving, gentle stroke . . . ?
I made a decision.
I turned and walked through the garden gate.
I was not too late. There was Amelia, a shadow in the distance, and I followed her into the night.
Tobias George Mazzerati
Student No: 8233555
4 March 1804
It’s a darkening Sunday eve, the moon slipping upwards of the trees — and it begins.
Fire is set to a hut. I smell the smoke before I see the flames, and the bell rings out sure and true.
Phillip steps from the shadows, watches the smoke rise in a column. ‘Well, Tom Kincaid,’ he says, solemn-like. ‘You’ll be coming home to Ireland with me on the morrow?’
‘Aye,’ says I, ‘that I will.’ And we both smile sudden, frightened smiles.
The bell and the smoke bring a constable running, but there’s some, as planned, who surround him, and he’s under control without fuss. Others come, likewise, and it’s all so easy it takes the breath from me. They’re our prisoners at once. Now our men run from every direction, eyes alight, all afire themselves.
Phillip speaks to the constables under our guard.
‘Join us and we’ll play you fair,’ he says, and there’s a moment of stillness. The crackle of the hut burning. Its heat on my cheek. Constables white with fear. The shadow of the barracks that Phillip built, casting its darkness over all.
‘Whatever you choose,’ says Phillip, voice ringing out into the night, ‘by first light tomorrow we’ll be sailing toward home.’
Now a great roar of cheering, native dogs howling, another hut catches the flame, and we’re running, stumbling along — over a hundred of us convicts, and most of the constables too — to the nearest farm. We’re fast and strong, we’re men, and we are free. For the first time in
four years, I taste the truth of that.
The farmer stands to fight then sees our numbers, curses, and stands back. There’s convicts who work his farm, and I hear their shouts outside as they join us.
It’s weapons we’re after — the shout flies about — and I run from room to room. Catch sight of myself in a mirror, face determined, eyes a-gleam, like a child in a game. The mirror’s above a fireplace, and if it isn’t a poker beside it! A weapon, sure! I grab for it. But it’s flimsy in my hands and, ashamed, I put it back. A moment later, another man pounces on the poker. I feel cast down, as if I’ve lost points in the game.
Then I’m in the kitchen, and there’s men up on the table, and standing on chairs, singing, eating and drinking. It seems wrong, and then it swells inside me. The joy of it. There’s meat and gravy, cinnamon cakes, apples, grapes, and someone has a keg.
There’s the sound of Phillip calling us outside.
I’m ashamed of the crumbs on my chin, but if it isn’t an axe leaning up against that wall! A weapon, sure, and I’m back in the game, and my vision blurs with tears of home and rum.
We head to a hill behind the farmhouse, and Phillip’s eyes, they gleam like stars on a frosty night, and his voice catches us all in its glow.
Aye, and it’s proud I am of my friend, to be sure.
‘No violence,’ Phillip is saying. ‘It’s weapons and men that we’re after, not a bloodbath.’
We’ve friends all over the colony, he says, and as we stand here now, they’re out collecting friends and weapons too. (Shouting and laughter.)
The rum fans out in my chest as he speaks, and I feel the force of his words — how we’re fanning out across this colony, how the hills about us will be ours.
‘Once they’ve secured Parramatta,’ Phillip says, ‘they’ll set a thatched cottage alight’ — he throws his arm and we follow its line with our eyes — ‘and the flame will be our signal. Then we know it’s time to meet at Constitution Hill.’
We’ll fan out and snap together as one.
‘From there, we march on Sydney. Plant a tree of liberty at Government House. Head to the harbour, and home.’
Dreaming of Amelia Page 28