Amelia Westlake

by Erin Gough

  She glances along the row of blossoming roses before turning back. She settles her gaze on me. She smiles sadly. ‘Amelia Westlake was a pretty great girl, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I’m definitely going to miss her now we’re leaving the school and everything.’

  ‘Now I’m leaving, you mean.’

  Harriet says nothing to this.

  ‘She was the best of both of us,’ I say, measuring my words. ‘The best of all of us, in the end. We gave her the best of ourselves. You know that, don’t you?’

  I watch her eyes flicker the way rooms do in a storm. Or plane cabins. Winged tubes flashing dark, then light, balancing on tenuous currents of air – Harriet Price, trying to keep her world from falling apart.

  ‘I guess this is it, then,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t do this.’ I put a hand on her arm.

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s already done.’

  I watch as fury constricts her jaw line, fear drains her cheeks, hope reddens her ears. She holds my gaze. Then she steps forward and places both hands firmly on my face.

  She kisses me, and I lose all my breath. Her lips are soft. Her tongue is warm in my mouth. She pulls me close, and for a moment we are indistinguishable. One skin. One crashing heart. No space between us.

  In the middle of the rose garden, with our bodies pressed together, we break at least five school rules at once.

  I pull back to find our borders and, upon finding them, press into her again. Breath upon cheek, fingers on spine. I grasp the edges of her like a wave does the rim of coastal rocks, touching her with burning hands, marvelling at her shape, her otherness. The back of her neck, the small of her back, her waist. And for the first time she lets me; she touches me, too. Oh, Harriet. She is something else entirely.

  I kiss her until her bottom lip swells. She kisses me until my mouth is numb. We ply at each other until our tunics are crumpled, our hair tangled. Twenty-three teachers could walk past, and possibly have.

  We come up for air.

  ‘What about Edie?’ I pant, close to her ear.

  ‘Fuck Edie,’ says Harriet.

  Chapter 38

  * * *

  Former Olympian Faces Sexual Harassment Claims

  CHRIS ANDREOU

  It was the day the former Olympic champion could never have foreseen on the medal podium.

  For two decades Jack Hadley, silver medallist turned swimming coach, has been moulding young women into competitive swimmers for the prestigious Rosemead Grammar.

  But yesterday, Hadley learnt his future as a coach and educator was on the line. A source close to The Guardian has revealed that a series of complaints lodged with the school’s administration claim Hadley has been routinely sexually harassing his students.

  One mother sent a letter to The Guardian stating: ‘We only recently found out what’s been going on at the school and we are devastated.’

  Attempts to reach Hadley for comment were unsuccessful.

  Meanwhile, Hadley’s family insists the complaints are a ‘witch hunt’.

  ‘There is no way he’s capable of what they’re claiming,’ Hadley’s mother, Merryn Hadley, says. ‘He loves kids and that’s why he teaches.’ She added that Hadley is also a devoted family man.

  But the complaints paint a different picture.

  Hadley routinely referred to female students ‘in sexualised terms’, according to one complaint, which accuses the coach of making regular remarks to students ‘about their body shape, sexual attractiveness and bra sizes’ and regularly entering the change room without notice.

  Another complaint paints a picture of grooming behaviour, detailing how Hadley lured a student to meet him off-campus to discuss her ‘promising swimming career’.

  According to the complainant, when she arrived at the agreed meeting point he tried to kiss her, so she left. The complaint further alleges that since the incident, Hadley has ridiculed the student in question in front of other students. He has also failed to support her entry in interschool competitions, even though she has faster race times than other entrants he has supported.

  Rosemead Grammar declined to provide a comment about the allegations, except to say they were still being investigated.

  ‘It’s no secret that political correctness is not a strong point of Jack’s,’ said one former colleague close to the former Olympian. ‘But he wouldn’t have meant any harm by it. Personally, I don’t see this affecting him going forward. Everybody respects him and appreciates what he does.’

  A former Rosemead student whom Hadley coached for six years agrees. ‘He’s done so much for me and my swimming career,’ the 20-year-old said. ‘If it wasn’t for him, there would be no way I’d be competing at State level. He’s the best coach I’ve ever had.’

  Chapter 39

  * * *

  HARRIET

  Here’s the tricky thing about Defining Moments: they can be difficult to spot. You may think you’re having one when in reality you’re having something else entirely. I once believed that starting at Rosemead Grammar was the moment that changed my life, when in fact it was simply a continuation of the course I was already on. What changed my life was not starting at Rosemead Grammar, but leaving it.

  In the last few months I’ve done quite a bit of leaving. It is definitely a skill I am refining. Right now, for instance, I’m at Departure Gate 6 at Terminal 3 of Sydney Airport, cabin luggage at my feet. I have my boarding pass in one hand and my phone in the other. Planes are taking off outside the window into a hazy sky. There is a lot of cloud, but the stretched-cotton-wool kind, tinted yellow from the sun. It’s a funny sort of day, but I like it.

  A message comes through on my phone, a reply to one I sent earlier this morning.

  She’ll be pleased, believe me. What a lovely birthday treat you’re giving her! Safe travels, Liz x

  Liz Newcomb has been my saviour. Things were extremely tense between my parents and I when I told them I was quitting Rosemead. After my mother called Will a bad influence and a ‘degenerate’, Liz suggested I stay with her and her family for a while.

  I appreciate how lucky I am. Alternative accommodation in a time of crisis is more than a lot of people can count on. I spent a lot of that time in tears, on the verge of tears, or recovering from tears. After a good many negotiations, my parents and I agreed that I would finish my schooling at Queens College, a local private school that is smaller than Rosemead but still one of the ‘elites’. It is also religious, which I was wary about. I didn’t want to be closeted, especially after what we had just been through at Rosemead.

  I talked it through with Liz and Will before deciding. Liz was very pragmatic about it. She said that all I had to do was put my head down and get the results I needed for university. To my surprise, Will agreed. ‘It’s only for a few months. Get the piece of paper you need to make your mark on the world.’

  I feel grateful to have such wise women to talk to.

  It has been a while since I’ve heard from Beth or Millie. In all honesty, I haven’t missed them. I realise how much we’ve grown apart in the last few months.

  I did see a lot of Rosemead people at the Tawney Shield, which was hard in some ways. I was playing for Queens, and we ranked eighth in the end: a disparaging result, although we would have done worse had it not been for my efforts in the Doubles.

  I didn’t win: Edie and Bianca, predictably, earned that honour. But third place isn’t bad, particularly considering Liz and I only started training together as a team a month before. Not only did Liz play amazing tennis, she also calmed me down between sets, for example after Edie deliberately aimed a volley shot at my head.

  I suppose I deserved it. She got thrashed in the National Public Speaking Competition after I failed to deliver the notes I’d promised her. Breaking up with her added insult to injury. But her on-court anger was still a blow, figuratively as well as literally.

  Luckily I had Liz to offer sports drinks and soothi
ng words. I can see now why she was chosen as Rosemead’s team captain: she has a gift for level-headedness I can only dream about.

  My phone beeps again. It’s Natasha. I accept the call and she appears on the screen. ‘Price. Got a minute?’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got. We’re about to board.’

  ‘Then I’ll be quick.’

  ‘Is this internal investigation news?’

  ‘It is.’

  I feel suddenly queasy.

  After I made a formal written complaint against Coach Hadley the week I left Rosemead, nothing happened. It seemed like they weren’t going to bother investigating because I was no longer at the school. That’s when Natasha strategically leaked my complaint to a few classmates. The news quickly spread. As Will predicted long ago, it was enough to prompt other students to start lodging their own complaints.

  But it wasn’t until Natasha spoke to an editor at The Guardian that things started to move forwards on the investigation front.

  I was glad the article had the desired effect, but it also infuriated me. I hated how so many people leapt to Coach Hadley’s defence. The focus seemed to be on his Olympic record and what the complaints meant for his career, rather than the experience of those he mistreated. After reading it, I hid in the Newcombs’ spare bedroom with my head under the covers for two whole days. I have never felt so small, so powerless.

  I had to keep reminding myself why I came forward in the first place. For example, I found out that one of the complainants was Lucy Parnell, the young girl I tutored in maths whose parents let me hire their club for the formal. It turns out she was the one who wrote to Amelia Westlake. Whenever I think about that, the regret that I did not come forward sooner deepens.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know Hadley’s still suspended,’ says Nat into the screen. ‘What I wanted to tell you is that Channel 7 has picked up The Guardian story.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ I ask, my pitch rising.

  ‘It’s going to air on Monday night.’

  I breathe in. This is not something I anticipated and I don’t know how I feel about it. It makes sense that the national media would be interested in an Olympian’s fall from grace, but to have the story in the paper was horrible enough. And it’s not guaranteed that Rosemead won’t find a way to retrieve its reputation – and Hadley’s.

  Then I remind myself how important it was to speak out, whatever the consequences. As Will keeps saying, with privilege comes responsibility.

  ‘Will’s about to return from her coffee run. Want to say hi?’ I ask Natasha.

  Her face clouds. ‘I’ve got stuff to do. Talk soon.’

  The screen goes blank.

  Despite the pleas Arthur and I have made to Natasha to extend an olive branch, she still won’t talk to Will. She feels betrayed. After Will and I left Rosemead, she chose to quit the Messenger, reasoning it was either quit or wait until Principal Croon sacked her, and that she would rather leave on her own terms.

  Will knows she played a part through her actions in pushing Nat into that particular corner, and regrets this a lot. She is taking Natasha’s silent treatment hard. I’ll tell Will I tried to get Nat to talk to her, of course. And I’ll tell her the news about Channel 7.

  I look at my watch. What’s keeping her? I want to tell her about everything these days. I suppose if I’m honest, it’s been that way for longer than I care to admit. Nothing is more of a comfort, or a joy, or a revelation, or a challenge, or a turn-on, than talking to Will.

  Except for kissing Will, which is every one of those things as well.

  The thought makes me impatient. I want her back with me. I want to see her face, with its unwilling smile. How long does it take to buy coffee anyway? She had better be back in time for boarding.

  Chapter 40

  * * *

  WILL

  I’ve been thinking a lot lately about hoaxes. My life, for instance. Have you ever gone through a period when your days are such smooth sailing that it’s hard to believe they’re real?

  Take right now, for example. The coffee I’ve ordered smells amazing. I mean, good coffee at an airport? Who would blame me for looking for the hidden camera?

  It’s possible I’m paranoid. Naturally I’m going to think of hoaxes after everything that’s happened. Although if someone’s trying to trick me into believing I’ve got stuff sorted, they have a way to go.

  There’s the Harriet-and-me thing, which is really good. Fantastic, even. But I need to be realistic. How long can the two of us last? To begin with, we argue a lot. Not just about normal things like politics and whose turn it is to pay for lunch: about everything. We argue about whether we’re arguing. Harriet claims they’re discussions, not arguments, which apparently makes them okay.

  We even argued on our way to the airport. Harriet has a bee in her bonnet about a recent decision of mine. A prestigious gallery offered to display my year-twelve major work and I declined.

  ‘It could have been your big break,’ moaned Harriet as the taxi pulled away from her house.

  ‘The gallery is funded by a morally bankrupt media empire. I’m exercising my democratic right to conscientious objection,’ I explained.

  ‘While fading into artistic obscurity. Surely your political stance would pack more punch if you became a famous artist first?’

  ‘If I sell out at this point I lose my moral high ground.’

  It’s a shame. I’m proud of my work and would love to give it a bigger audience than just Mum, Harriet and Arthur. If only Nat were speaking to me, my audience would be twenty-five per cent larger.

  Bloody Nat. I miss her. Despite everything with Harriet, her absence has left a huge hole in my life. I have no-one to talk to about the latest Pacific oil spill or government corruption scandal. Harriet’s politics are evolving, but she’s not ready to be my protest-rally buddy quite yet.

  I know that Nat is spending most of her time with Arthur these days. Harriet tells me that the two of them are really happy, which is great. But that’s not why she hasn’t been in touch. It’s because I screwed up.

  Nat was right when she said I’m bad at being a friend. So I’ve decided to do whatever it takes to make it up to her. I’m going to find a way back to what we had before this whole mess started.

  I’ve joined a bunch of job alerts and media lists, and am emailing her every journalistic opportunity I come across. So far she hasn’t replied, but she hasn’t sent back any abuse-filled rants either, which I’m taking as a positive sign. A year ago her silence would have made me so indignant I’d have given up, but I’m all about fresh starts right now.

  Speaking of fresh starts, I decided to make peace with Graham, Mum’s boyfriend. A month ago he came over to take Mum out and I opened the front door. ‘Come inside. There’s something we need to talk about,’ I told him.

  Naturally, he was terrified. As he perched on the couch I admitted I had been a shit to him and said that if he was so convinced Mum was the one for him, I wouldn’t stand in his way. Except if he hurt her in any way. If that happened, I said, I would hunt him down and punish him until he bled. I think he really appreciated the chat.

  Taking a new approach is also how I got out of the rut I was in with my major work. I was going nowhere with my air travel idea. Mum reckons some things are best left to professional therapy, and she’s going to help me arrange that. I spoke to my new Art teacher at the state high school I’ve transferred to – Ms Lejus, who is one part Fimo jewellery and three parts awesome – and she encouraged me in another direction.

  The final work I came up with is a realist portrait, of sorts. It’s in the style of Chuck Close, the artist with face blindness that Harriet got all excited about that day in the taxi. It’s painted on a giant grid. In each square of the grid is a portrait of one of my classmates from Rosemead. All one hundred and twenty of them are there, in different shades of light and dark. When you stand back, though, it makes another larger, single portrait of a schoolgirl in silhouette.
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  At first glance the girl may appear faceless, but she’s the opposite of that. Step a little closer and she has many faces, many souls. Her experience is as deep as it is wide. She has failed and despaired and learned and loved and triumphed. She is the glorious sum of her parts. She is one girl, containing multitudes.

  When I arrive at the gate, I push through the crowd to find Harriet.

  ‘Thank goodness. No time for those.’ She points to the coffees. I put them down on a nearby table.

  ‘They’re boarding?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. I should get in the queue.’

  I grab the front of her shirt.

  Did I mention the kissing? Kissing is another thing we’re doing a lot of lately: in bedrooms, on couches, and at inappropriate places like airport boarding gates.

  Her lips taste like peppermint, as always. I pull her closer.

  ‘You really have to stop now, Will,’ says Harriet at last, pulling away.

  ‘Hey! You were kissing me just as much as I was kissing you.’

  Kissing, and arguing about kissing.

  ‘That kiss went for at least three minutes,’ I continue, ‘and it’s not like your mouth was just sitting there that whole time waiting for a bus.’

  ‘Don’t bring public transport into this. You know how I feel about public transport.’

  ‘As for your tongue, it was arguably behind the bloody wheel.’

  ‘They’re about to close the gate …’

  ‘And when it comes to kissing, the question of who kicked things off becomes irrelevant at the three-second mark.’

  Harriet smiles. She picks up her cabin bag. ‘I’ll call you from Brisbane.’ She takes my hand.

  I run my thumb across her palm. ‘Your grandma’s going to be so happy you came.’

  Harriet’s smile wavers. ‘I don’t know. Now she knows from Mum about you and me. And how I sacrificed Tawney …’