Dreaming of Amelia (10 page)

Em said
… Lydia, finally. Don't waste time typing your own blog like that again. We need you in our conversation, eg when we were asking if you were all right about seeing Seb. You can talk about it now if you want.

Lyd said
… Coupla things, Em. One, just read over your above conversation with Cass and you're not exhibiting any upper middle-class conservative prejudices re A and R or anything, oh no, don't worry about that. And two, I'm guessing you only let Cass and me have access to this blog? Cos, if not, why aren't we doing this conversation the normal way? You get that the internet's kind of like a public forum?

Em said
… Don't even worry about it, Lyd. I didn't lock this blog down or anything, but seriously, nobody else will ever find it. Because, I mean, why would they? One thing I have learned in this tough, mysterious world is that the best way to hide is
not
to hide but to get out in the crowd. And that works even better online.

Bindy Mackenzie said
… HELLO EM, LYD AND CASS! BINDY HERE. JUST SEARCHING THROUGH THE GLASSHOUSE ASHBURY BLOGS AND FOUND YOURS. AND I HAD TO STEP IN TO CORRECT YOUR DEFAMATION OF MY CHARACTER, EMILY! BECAUSE I
MEANT
MY PROMISE TO DO YOUR DETECTIVE WORK ABOUT AMELIA AND RILEY IN CANBERRA AT THE LEADERS' CONFERENCE! I don't make empty promises. Thank heavens, I finally figured out how to undo the capslock, it was jammed.

Lyd said
… What a relief.

Tobias George Mazzerati
Student No: 8233555

7 March 1802

I'm in Sydney Town now. It's pure madness and even the moon is topside turvy.

The weather, she's like an Irish jig; I mean, she's mischievous and you can never pin her down.

I'm living in a wooden shack with three other men: neither bars on the windows nor padlock on the door. I could slip down the cove and sail away! We talk of it, Phillip and I, of sailing home. (Phillip misses his wife and children with the fierceness of a wildcat.) We've even designed a boat with a stick in mud, and all we need is the materials.

And a little free time to build.

Or we could borrow a boat. Sure, and that might be simpler.

In the meantime, I'm in the carpenters' gang. That'll help me with the building of the boat when the time comes. Phillip's the overseer of stonemasons, which makes me proud, how important he is. We'll not be needing stone on our boat though, it'd sink.

You can't leave your property alone here, what with the thieves everywhere. And they've public floggings of men, and
women too; and they shave the women's heads if they catch them having a good time.

The girls here have wild ways, crinkle-set eyes, sun-browned faces and fine, long hair that they wear in braids down their backs. It's enough to tear your heart out, they're so pretty. And they're up for it, too.

Sure and the people here have not done a bad job, so far as building a colony from scratch goes. It makes me strangely proud to be a man. That men could start with nothing, and turn it into this. Five thousand people living under roofs, eating their breakfasts, and washing their clothes (or not washing them, if not inclined).

You know, all my life I've thought myself a country boy, and now it turns out not to be so. Lives exploding or anyway breathing all around me — some days, it's like I've fallen in love and want to kiss strangers and walls.

I'll never go back to the countryside or farming or it'll mean the death of me. I swear it on the good book and on all books ever opened or closed.

Maggie's letters fret that I must be miserable, surrounded by the English in an English colony. But my friends are Irish, and it brings us closer, makes us more Irish than we ever were at home and, to be sure, I think I like that.

All in all, it's not so bad. Provided you keep out of trouble, make the overseer like you by cracking a joke, get enough grog, see enough pretty girls, and have enough laughs with the men —

And speaking of that, it'd make you laugh if it didn't make you cry — for what was I just saying about myself and farming life? Here and if it isn't Phillip telling me they've started a new government farm at a place they call Castle Hill.

There's talk he and I might be sent there.

They can't be sending me out to this farm, for haven't I just now sworn an oath?

 

Emily Melissa-Anne Thompson
Student No: 8233521

I have mentioned Mr Garcia, have I not?

He is a large and mountainous man, Mr Garcia, with a voice — an accent — that belongs on television.

If only television were the radio.

How shall I put it delicately? Rugged and startling of appearance? A regular Frankenstein's monster to look upon? Yes. That will do.

Hearken though! Mr Garcia may be hideous to look at but he is kind-hearted, funny and he wears two hats.

Not literally. I mean, he teaches History but he also teaches Drama.

Now, near the end of Term 1, there came to be a History class, and Mr Garcia, as is his wantonness, had led us astray from the school. We had walked to Castle Hill Heritage Park.

That is an immense and flowing park not far from our school where historical events of irrelevance took place.

So, this day, we were at the park. It's just stretches of grass, distant patches of gum trees, paths that rise too steeply for my calf muscles, and a series of those historical signs which, naturally enough, nobody reads.

Mr Garcia was talking.

I said that he wears two hats? Well, oft he lets his Drama hat fall into his eyes when teaching History. That can be enchanting, but sometimes it's just, you know, please, you're giving me a headache. Especially when I'm feeling sleepy.

I can't recall exactly what he was talking about this day but it seemed that
he
at least had read those signs. The land we
were standing on had once been a government farm where convicts worked. (Woohoo.) I remember he said that. And I remember he said: Look! Just behind him! It's the stone barracks where those convicts lived!

No.

Clearly not.

There were no convict barracks, just grass.

The barracks then became this country's first lunatic asylum! Mr Garcia was saying. And then, look, it crumbled into nothing!

Yes. Exactly.

In disgust, my mind wandered, and so did my eyes.

And there I beheld Amelia on the very edge of our group. She was facing away from us, watching the trees.

She was standing very still, poised like an antelope.

Her long hair fell behind her.

Amelia's hair is soft and beautiful. It's the colour of a gingerbread man, only without the white spots gingerbread men often have to indicate their eyes, their nose and buttons.

I was distracted by a kerfuffle. Mr Garcia had stepped back, theatrically, and landed on Toby Mazzerati's toes. It seemed he had asked Toby to come forward but had immediately forgotten he was there and had stepped onto his toes. There were apologies, mild laughter, and then Mr Garcia asked Toby to speak. Toby, it turned out, was doing a case study relating to this very park. So he had a
lot
to say.

I am fond of Toby, he's a friend of mine, but I had no need for his history.

I looked, once again, for Amelia.

And she had drifted even further from the group.

She was almost lost amidst the trees, but once again was standing very still. Her head was tilted to the side now, almost as if she was listening.

Listening for what?

For the future?

Could she hear the amazing things that were just about to happen?

 

Lydia Jaackson-Oberman
Student No: 8233410

Amazing
things began to happen.

It started with Drama.

I don't do Drama, but I hear it was
amazing.

At recess one day, near the end of term, I saw Em walking into the school with her History class. She told me they'd just been to Castle Hill Heritage Park. She didn't know why.

Amelia is in the class. I saw Mr Garcia lean over and speak to her. I think he said, ‘We missed you in Drama yesterday. You coming today?'

As far as I could tell, Amelia didn't answer. Just looked into his eyes.

There was a flicker of something like uneasiness on Mr Garcia's face. Or maybe I imagined that. But then he leaned closer and murmured something else I couldn't hear.

Turned out she did go to Drama that day.
And I hear it was
amazing
!!

Sorry if I sound cynical.

My mother is an actor. She used to be a soap star, got some endorsement deals, made some investments, and now she's got money growing in her ears where the wax used to be.

My father's an actor too. Of course, if you ask
him
what he does, he'll tell you he's a Justice of the Supreme Court of New South Wales.

My father, a Supreme Court Justice?

Don't make me laugh!

Ha ha! Ha ha!

Well. Okay. He is.

But only because he likes dressing up in a gown and wig and playing the role of Supreme Lord King High Commander of The World.

They act their way through their days and nights and my home is a television set.

So. You know. Forgive me if I think that acting's just a whole lot of deception.

Turned out Amelia and Riley could act.

Not just swim; also act.

The story was that all term long they'd been silent in Drama class. Often they didn't turn up. The classes had been mainly theory, so no special reason for participating — but this day, Mr Garcia started talking about IPs. (IPs are individual projects that you have to do for HSC Drama.)

Amelia said that she wanted to change her IP. She'd been doing costuming, she said, but now she'd decided on performance.

She didn't seem nervous when she spoke, people told me. That's what they found strange. She'd been silent all term, and when a silent person speaks the voice is often quiet. Faded and broken. Or accidentally loud: an unexpected clatter while a blush floods the silent person's face.

But Amelia's voice, they said, was perfect. Its edges curved smoothly; its tone was like cream.

Technically, Mr Garcia told Amelia, it was not too late to switch her IP. The official choices hadn't yet been sent in. Did she have a monologue in mind?

At this point,
Riley
spoke.

Now, people
had
heard Riley's voice before — it had been there all along, but unobtrusive, part of the background noise, just some regular guy. Nobody seemed to remember what he had said.

These were the first real words. The first words that referred to
himself
as a human being.

‘I'm thinking of switching to performance too.'

He said he had an eight-minute monologue prepared, and then he looked at Amelia, who said she had one too.

There was an intense moment of suspense.

Mr Garcia squinted thoughtfully, spoke in a quieter voice than usual, and asked if they wanted to perform.

They did.

One after the other, without a break.

Their monologues were independent, but also, and this is apparently unusual — they were interlinked.

Mr Garcia shrugged when they were finished. ‘Not so bad, you know?' he said. ‘We can work on them.' And moved to another topic.

But both of them — both were amazing.

 

Riley T Smith
Student No: 8233569

One day everything changed at our new private school.

Amelia said: Okay, it's time to —

I don't think she said:
Step it up.

Or
take the next step
, or
step out from behind.

I don't know what she said or

what we said

but what we meant was:
Here we are.

(But we weren't.)

First time we'd ever done this. You'd think it would have been too late, but no. It was easy.

Her teacher made it happen.

He said — she said — he said into her ear:
You can be invisible.

That's what he said.

‘I know that's what you want,' he said. ‘Okay, you've got it. But please, just come to class.'

It
was
what she wanted, to be invisible, but how did this guy know? It made her mad, him knowing. It changed everything. It tightened her — the newspaper rolling tighter all through lunch.

After lunch was this teacher's Drama class.

And we went.

After that was Art. We went there too.

We'd been before, of course, but not like this.

They liked our acting. They liked our art.

That night, we sat at the kitchen table and wrote our first English essays. That weekend, we went to the library and researched our first History assignments.

Amelia and I were doing the same subjects: English (with different teachers), Drama, Art and Music. The only difference was History — I'm Ancient and she's Modern.

In Music, we stayed quiet. We had no respect for that teacher. And that would not have fit into our plan.

But in everything else —

Also in those last few weeks of term, there was the Area Swimming. The next step up from Zones. I stopped getting places, but Amelia kept winning.

Then a week off to study for the half-yearly exams.

‘Should we study?' she said.

‘No.' (I'd had enough now.)

But we studied anyway. On the floor of the Goose and Thistle before opening each night.

The exams were fine. And now there would be holidays.

This living in their world
, we said,
it's easy.

The Committee for the Administration of the KL Mason Patterson Trust Fund
The KL Mason Patterson Scholarship File