Amelia Westlake

by Erin Gough

  ‘Raising money for a new swimming pool is not exactly evil,’ Harriet says.

  ‘Self-interest, then.’

  Harriet’s brow creases. ‘Let me get this right. You’re saying we call up the printing company and ask them to replace the text on the envelope?’

  ‘Exactly. We choose a worthy cause, describe it on the envelope, leave the usual space for people to fill in their card details, and include the charity’s address so that people can post donations to them directly. I was thinking we could choose the Fund for Australian Women. Its focus is on supporting women and children who are victims of domestic violence. And its initials double as Amelia Westlake’s calling card. By the time the mail-out has happened it will be too late for the school to do anything about it. Sure, a lot of people will ignore the envelope, but some will donate. And it will send a message to Rosemead that its uncharitable ways haven’t gone unnoticed.’

  ‘But how are we going to convince the printers to change the envelope details?’ Harriet asks.

  ‘We’ll call them up and pretend to be someone from the school. I’m pretty good at putting on a mature voice,’ I say, in a mature voice.

  ‘I guess all that leaves is finding out who the printing company is.’

  ‘Oh. I assumed you’d know,’ I say, disappointed.

  Harriet shakes her head.

  Damn. This could be the one detail that holds us back. ‘Are you sure you’ve never heard a name mentioned in a Sports Committee meeting?’

  ‘Not that I remember,’ Harriet says. ‘Although it would make sense for Rosemead to use the same company it uses for other projects. Has Natasha ever mentioned who prints the Messenger?’

  ‘Possibly, but the name doesn’t spring to mind. Although I bet the information is somewhere in the newsroom.’

  ‘Why don’t you look around next time you’re in there?’ Harriet suggests.

  I try this on Wednesday. I figure I’ll find the name on the boxes of undistributed Messengers, or the contact details on one of Nat’s Post-its. But I don’t. I even try casually opening the filing cabinet, but Nat’s warning stare stops me. ‘Don’t touch my shit, Will. It’s taken me months to arrange those files.’

  ‘We need to find a way to get into the newsroom when Nat’s not there,’ I tell Harriet when we meet up at the storeroom later on.

  ‘How about when she’s in class?’

  ‘During school hours is too risky. She’ll skip class if she has a deadline to meet, and anyway, there’s too much foot traffic in that corridor. Someone will see us.’

  ‘Then we sneak back one evening.’

  I shake my head. ‘Nat’s there most nights.’

  In fact, the only time of year you can depend on Nat not being in the newsroom is during September, the month before deadline for Rosemead’s annual literary journal, Falling Leaf. It’s the time of year Nat hates most. For four weeks, Nakita Wallis and her team of budding literati take over half the newsroom to sort through poetry and short stories, sip piccolos, and argue the comparable merits of haiku and pantoums.

  Exam time aside, it’s the only time of year Nat spends more hours out of the newsroom than in it. But it’s only June. So how are we going to get in there alone?

  It’s Harriet who works out a plan.

  My mother is standing in the door to my room. She’s been doing this a lot lately – loitering there with her hip on the frame. Sometimes, to mix things up, she’ll pick at one of the nuggets of Blu Tack on my door. Sometimes she’ll hum a line or two from a Paul Kelly song. When I finally stop whatever I’m doing and bark ‘What?’, she always says the same thing.

  ‘How’s your major work coming along?’

  This has been going on for weeks.

  The truth is, my creative juices are not exactly flowing – not in the direction of my major work, anyway. Yes, I’m thinking about its subject matter, but this is less from conscientiousness and more from my anxiety disorder. Every time a plane flies over the house I think about it. For example, I think about how supposed experts always claim that air travel is ten times safer than other modes of transport when actually this is only when you measure deaths per kilometre. When you measure deaths per journey it becomes clear you’re safer playing hide-and-seek with a jaguar in heat than getting on a plane.

  Luckily, the fundraising prank has me preoccupied. The potential impact of our latest operation is bigger than the others put together. We’ll be hitting Rosemead’s coffers directly, possibly to the tune of thousands of dollars. It’s the Robin-fucking-Hood of heists.

  I hear Mum’s fingernail scraping at the timber.

  ‘What?’

  I ready myself for the major work question.

  Mum’s lips part.

  Here it comes.

  ‘Who’s Amelia Westlake?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Amelia Westlake. I’ve never heard you mention her before.’

  ‘Who told you that name?’

  Mum looks at me strangely. ‘She did. She’s on the phone for you. Or should I tell her to call back?’

  I grab the phone from Mum, heart slamming in my chest. ‘Hello, Will speaking?’

  ‘Hi,’ murmurs a voice. ‘It’s me, Harriet.’

  I breathe out.

  ‘I know we promised not to call each other. So I thought I better use a … well … fake name.’ She gives a half-laugh.

  ‘Where did you even get this number?’ Nobody calls our landline except for Dad, Mum’s boyfriend, Graham, and a persistent market researcher named Atari.

  ‘On the year-twelve contact list.’

  ‘There’s a year-twelve contact list?’

  ‘I needed to talk to you urgently, and you weren’t answering your mobile. I just checked the Rosemead student’s Instagram account,’ Harriet says. ‘The swimming pool picture and the comments beneath it are gone.’

  I had a feeling this would happen. ‘But the account’s still there?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet confirms. ‘Do you think we should send her another message?’

  Mum is still loitering. I give her the thumbs-up before closing the door. ‘If you think it would help.’

  ‘What should we say?’

  ‘The same thing again, I guess. That she should make a formal complaint,’ I say.

  There is a pause on the line. I don’t know what Harriet expects my advice to be, if not this.

  ‘There was another reason I rang, in fact,’ says Harriet at last.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘I’ve worked it out. I’ve thought of a way to get Natasha out of the newsroom.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Remember you were telling me the other week about Natasha’s musical taste? It was when you sprained your ankle. You said something about her being obsessed with garage punk.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ I say.

  ‘It’s given me an idea. Have I ever told you about my little brother, Arthur? He’s in a garage punk band. And they have a gig on Saturday.’

  Harriet has a brother in a garage punk band? ‘I don’t know. Nat’s taste is pretty specific.’

  ‘I’m not saying I know that much about their music, but they’re quite successful. Not as big as Doktor D or anything, but then he’s hip-hop, not garage –’

  ‘I’ve heard Nat mention Doktor D.’

  ‘They’ve played gigs with him before.’

  ‘Where at?’

  ‘On Saturday they’ll be at Deep Fryer in Surry Hills.’

  Only the best bands play at Deep Fryer on Saturdays. This little brother of hers is clearly pulling her chain.

  ‘If you’re unsure, why not come over and check them out?’ says Harriet. ‘They’re rehearsing at our place right now.’

  Mum is on the couch watching Midsomer Murders: she’s a sucker for formulaic, predictable crime shows. ‘I’m going out for a bit,’ I tell her, flipping my wallet in the air and catching it again.

  She looks up. ‘You’re in a good mood.’

  ‘No
, I’m not. Is it okay if I take the car?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Just to see someone from school. About an assignment. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Your major work?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve made another friend at school.’ Mum’s eyes widen in exaggerated shock.

  ‘You can be a real cow sometimes. Have I ever told you that?’

  She smiles. ‘I’m pleased for you, honey, that’s all. Anyone special?’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘What? I just happened to notice you’re wearing your favourite T-shirt.’

  I look down. ‘This isn’t my favourite T-shirt.’

  ‘That’s not what you said last week.’

  ‘I’ve moved on since last week.’

  Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘So which one’s your favourite now?’

  Harriet Price’s house is the most insane place I have ever been to in my life.

  First, due to the number of cul-de-sacs and one-way streets in Mosman, it takes ages to find. When I finally drive down the part of the street where it’s supposed to be, there doesn’t appear to be a house there at all. It’s as if the block has been compulsorily acquired for a medium-sized nature reserve. Then I spy a sleek red letterbox bearing the number 18 nestled between two bamboo fronds.

  Beside it, a timber path lit by louvered lights winds its way through the trees. I start up it. The sound of mating frogs chokes the air. There’s a squawk; a bat shoots out of the darkness. I stop to watch it flap across the sky.

  I finally reach an opening where I find Harriet waiting for me in front of a Palladian monolith. The doorway is twice her height. She’s still in her school uniform and a pair of shiny white slippers. ‘Come in!’ she says. ‘They’re in the central atrium.’

  The ‘central atrium’. Of course. Where else would the next generation’s Ausmuteants choose to rehearse?

  I follow Harriet through a hotel-style lobby, up a hallway the width of the school gymnasium, and to the doorway of a glass-walled room the size of our flat. Inside it are three boys on keyboard, drums and guitar, making a freak-load of noise.

  We listen for almost an entire song before the guitarist notices us and comes to the door. ‘Hey!’ he greets us.

  ‘Will, this is Arthur,’ Harriet says.

  This is Harriet’s brother?

  Arthur Price is not what I expected. His vibe is relaxed. His clothes are fashion-forward. He has excellent hair. He looks like Harriet only, well, cooler.

  ‘And that’s James on the keyboard. And Bill on drums.’

  James is a lanky guy with bright blue eyes. Bill has bushy eyebrows and a head the size of a planet. I like them immediately.

  Arthur is glancing between Harriet and me. ‘You two are friends?’

  ‘In a way,’ Harriet says uneasily.

  ‘Associates is probably closer to the mark,’ I say.

  Harriet turns to me. ‘So what do you think? Is this the type of music Natasha Nguyen likes?’

  Bill looks at James. ‘Hey, I know that name. Doesn’t Nat Nguyen hang out with Duncan?’

  ‘You guys know Duncan Aboud?’ I ask.

  Bill and James exchange glances and grin. ‘Everyone knows Duncan,’ says Bill, scratching his leg with a drumstick.

  Harriet tugs at my elbow. ‘Let’s leave them to it. Carry on, boys. Sorry to disturb!’ She pulls me back into the hall.

  The music starts up again with a high-pitched wail from the guitar.

  ‘Well?’ Harriet asks.

  Above the guitar racket I can hear footsteps. Someone’s coming down the hallway. A blonde-haired woman wearing a skirt suit and heels appears. It’s either a Harriet clone with slightly older facial features, or Harriet’s mother.

  ‘Hello,’ she says when she reaches us.

  ‘Mum, this is Will.’

  ‘Hello, Will.’ Her expression is cool. ‘Are those friends of Arthur’s still here? I have two apicoectomies scheduled from eight tomorrow morning and I need an early night. I really think it’s time they went home.’

  Harriet gives her an efficient nod. ‘I’ll have a word to him.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you, Will,’ says Mrs Price’s mouth while her eyes wish me a thousand frozen winters.

  I watch the back of her heels strike the tiles until she reaches the end of the hall.

  ‘So, the band,’ says Harriet when she’s gone, completely unaware of this wordless exchange. What I’m beginning to learn about Harriet is that sometimes things happen in her line of sight that she simply doesn’t see. It’s like she walks around blindfolded half the time. And yet, just when I’m about to write her off completely, she’ll share a thought or an idea that totally nails everything. The problem is, there’s no way to know what you’re going to get: the smart stuff or the dumb stuff. You just have to flip the Harriet coin and wait to see which side it lands on.

  ‘I reckon Nat would like them,’ I say. ‘But I’m still not clear how we’re going to make sure she goes to the gig so we can get into the newsroom. I could invite her to go with me while you raided the newsroom, I suppose …’

  ‘You inviting her is absolutely not what I had in mind.’ Harriet sounds panicked by the thought. ‘The invitation has to come from Amelia, obviously.’

  And there it is: the spinning silver has landed on smart. I smile. There’s no way Nat will pass up an invitation from Amelia Westlake.

  Chapter 18

  * * *

  HARRIET

  On Saturday night I shower early and dress by six. Arthur has sound-check at seven and I have offered to drive him to the venue. That way I can park, find some dinner nearby and return in time for their set.

  It is usually Dad who goes to Arthur’s shows – venues won’t normally let him in without an accompanying adult, even when his band is the lead act, and anyway, Dad rather enjoys it. In his pre-dentist days he had his own band. He likes to boast they almost made it big. How truthful this is, given they mainly played Doors covers, I don’t know. But tonight Mum and Dad have a teeth-related function to attend.

  I have a couple of essays due that I should be working on instead. I have already missed a recent Biology essay deadline because of Amelia Westlake. But I have no option other than to attend Arthur’s show to ensure the success of Operation Newsroom. My presence at Deep Fryer will mean that if and when Natasha Nguyen shows up I can let Will know the coast is clear.

  A little after six I am in the kitchen preparing a pre-outing snack of balsamic-glazed pecans with rosemary and sea salt when Mum comes in.

  ‘Goodness, Harriet. What on earth are you wearing?’

  I look up from the stove. ‘You’ve seen this shirt before.’ It is black with a few deliberate tears in the lower stomach region held together by oversized safety pins. ‘Arthur lent it to me. I’m going to his concert tonight, remember? I need to blend in.’

  Mum frowns and opens the fridge door. She takes out a tub of hummus and a carrot. ‘That friend of yours. The one I met on Thursday. Will she be there?’

  I shift the pecans in the pan with my wooden spoon. ‘Will Everhart? No.’

  Mum lays the carrot on the chopping board and slices it down the middle. ‘I haven’t seen Edie for a while,’ she says.

  ‘She’s been very busy.’

  ‘Edie is a lovely girl, Harriet. And she’s a perfect friend for you while you’re finishing school.’

  ‘We’re a little more than friends, obviously.’

  ‘Mmm,’ says Mum, chopping the carrot carefully. ‘Being a teenager is a very intense time. And experimentation is a healthy part of the maturity process.’ She dips a slither of carrot into the hummus. ‘Edie is such a good role model for you. Not to mention your best chance to win Tawney. It’s not like you have the talent to win the Singles event. Really, you are lucky she chose you to be her partner. Very lucky. Which is why I wouldn’t want to see you taking your experimentation in another … direction.’ She looks at me inte
ntly. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  To be honest, I am not a hundred per cent sure. Is she talking about experimentation in the bedroom? How embarrassing! She has no cause for concern, though. Edie and I have already agreed to keep things at second base until the Tawney Shield and exams are over. We are both of the view that it is important to avoid unnecessary distractions in the lead-up to the competition. I am fine with this arrangement. I can wait. I tip the pecans from the pan into an earthenware bowl. ‘Don’t worry Mum, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Mum pats my hand.

  After dropping off Arthur at Deep Fryer I walk to the restaurant strip around the corner. I have just ordered some rice paper rolls and a prawn crepe in a sweet little place halfway down the block when a shadow looms across the tablecloth.

  ‘Harriet Price.’ Natasha Nguyen leans her palms on the table. ‘What a lovely surprise.’

  She is dressed in a leather jacket and drainpipe jeans. Her jacket is covered in zips. The metal studs along the sleeves look sharp enough to puncture a bike wheel. I nervously dab the corner of my mouth with my napkin. ‘Natasha! What are you doing here?’

  She looks around. ‘This is a Vietnamese restaurant. Where else would I be on a Saturday night?’

  ‘Oh,’ I stammer. ‘Right!’

  Natasha’s expression darkens. ‘That was a joke, Price. I could probably tell you my father runs this place and you’d believe that, too. Because what else could a Vietnamese refugee do other than run a restaurant? For your information, Dad’s a management consultant and his spring rolls taste like shit.’ She rolls back on her heels. ‘The bigger question is, what are you doing here? Alone? Wearing – oh my – a retro-punk T-shirt? Off to the opera, are we?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to see The Sphere at Deep Fryer tonight,’ I say calmly.

  ‘Is that right.’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  ‘What an amazing coincidence.’