Dreaming of Amelia (21 page)

A mystery!

Anyway, they smiled across at us in their uncanny
way — they had come to a couple of Lyd's parties over the holidays. I quickly scanned the Brookfielders. But no reaction (apart from Seb, who blinked twice). So the rumours were true! Even though they used to go to Brookfield, nobody had ever seen them there!!!

I was lost in the intrigue of this thought when Mr Garcia finally leapt through the door. He loves a dramatic entrance. But this was even more dramatic than usual, for just as he landed, there was a HUGE, CREAKING SOUND.

The creaking came from somewhere in the building.

You know when you're in an ancient ship in the middle of the ocean on a deep, dark night and the ship tips slowly sideways and there's a slow, spooky
cre-e-e-a-k
?

Sure you do. You've seen the movies.

Well, it was exactly like that.

Everybody stopped. Eyes opened wide. Mr Garcia's eyebrows jumped to the top of his forehead, and that's a lot of eyebrow to be leaping.

Then there was nothing. A long silence.

‘It's an old building,' Mr Garcia shrugged.

And the rehearsal began.

5.

But where, you say, was the ghost?

Well, the ghost crept up on me slowly. This was creepy of it but I suppose that's the way with ghosts.

For a start, every time I had an English class in Room 27B I felt cold. Sometimes it was just mildly cold like when you fold your arms and go, ‘brrr', but not in an openly distressed way. More a kind of sparkle-eyed way. But sometimes it was an EXTREME cold as if a giant frozen person was giving me a bear hug. At those times I felt hostile. I hate being cold. It hurts my feelings.

Lydia is also in that English class and she didn't know what I was talking about. She said she found the weather in Room 27B to be balmy.

Around this time I realised that whenever somebody mentioned Room 27B I would get a twitch in the centre of my lip, like the one I first got with Astrid.

Lyd and Cass said I might be getting a cold sore and should start putting ointment on it, but that was false.

So, then there was the first drama rehearsal, and now, dear reader! Come with me directly from that creaking drama rehearsal straight to an English class in Room 27B. Hurry. We are running late.

As usual, I felt the twitch in my lip as I reached the classroom. It was getting annoying. And, as usual, I shivered as soon as I sat down. That made me sigh.

Anyway, I wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck, and made my hands into fists so I could blow warm air into them. Lydia, beside me, watched all this and breathed in slowly through her nose. Further along I saw Amelia, who had come with us from the rehearsal. Her arms were bare, and she was leaning back and gazing at the teacher.

I sighed again. I picked up my pen and rolled it back and forth between my palms rapidly. Trying to start a fire with it. Useless. Not even a spark. I let it fall to my desk and stared at it moodily. (I was very sleepy.)

The pen was lying on my desk.

I was thinking,
Why am I always so cold here
?

And,
What's this weird thing with my lip
?

And,
Why does this building creak so much? I mean, is it even safe
?

It seemed to me that something very strange was going
on. I was thinking about taking it up with the teacher—he was talking about irrelevant things so it was a good time to interrupt—when suddenly a thought hit the side of my head.

It could be a ghost
.

I was so shocked by the thought that I gasped.
Because it was so obvious
. It was like, say you'd been trying to figure out an answer to a crossword puzzle for weeks, then suddenly it comes to you, and it's such a simple word and fits so perfectly that you can't believe you didn't get it right away. The shock of your own stupidity! Sometimes it's the greatest shock of all.

(Not that I ever do crossword puzzles, but I know what I mean.)

And, listen, it fit so perfectly!

The Art Rooms is a very old building. It was once a mansion where people lived, and therefore they died, because people used to always die in those days. Then Ashbury bought it for boarders. Then, when they stopped taking boarders, it became the Art Rooms, and now it's been renovated.

Exactly
the thing to wake a ghost! Noisy renovations! Or make a ghost angry!! Ghosts don't appreciate change.

Then there was the coldness. Well, everybody knows that you don't feel cold on a warm day unless you're in the presence of a ghost! Why had I not thought of this before?

Also, I'm a very intuitive girl so I realised that I must have been
sensing
the ghost in the middle of my lip.

And the creaking! That's what an angry ghost would do. Creak. It was probably trying to push down walls—leaning on beams, trying to make the place unstable.

See what I mean? It was very clear.

And we were in danger!
The ghost wanted to topple the building
.

So there I was, sitting at my desk, gasping at this thought, when my pen began to roll across the desk.

I am not kidding. I did not flick it with my fingernail or help it along with my elbow—nothing like that. It just moved.

Objects do not move on their own.

It's not possible. Everybody knows that.

The pen rolled slowly across the desk while I watched in heart-gasping terror.

What further proof could I need?

At that point, Mr Botherit said, ‘Emily, are you hyperventilating?'

I looked at him witheringly for a second, and when I looked back at my desk, the pen had stopped.

‘There is a ghost in this room
,' I announced. I was pleased because my voice had strength of character.

People turned and looked at me with interest. Many of them then looked up, as if the ghost was on the ceiling. Maybe they thought that ghosts rise, like hot air. That was a flaw, as ghosts are cold.

They looked back at me.

‘There
is
,' I said.

I hadn't planned to be defensive but if you had seen the way they looked . . .

Anyway, I explained my theory and some people seemed interested when I talked about how old the building is, and how people used to always, like, poison each other with darts, or cut each other's throats in wardrobes, in the olden days—but then I got to the twitch in my lip and I lost everyone's respect.

It was a fatal error to include the twitch.

Yet, it was honest. I'm a very honest girl.

After that there was a lot of laughter at my expense, and people, especially boys, can be cruel.

But I can defend myself if I need to, and I did. In a way that used up a lot of the English class. And every time Mr B tried to get back on track, somebody would veer him off again demanding to know if the renovations had disturbed a hidden cemetery,
and did they move the bodies, or did they JUST MOVE THE GRAVESTONES
(quoting from some old movie), or they would reach over to put icy cold hands on my neck (which I did not need), or slam a book down suddenly (so that people, especially me, screamed), or they'd laugh in a blood-curdling, ghostly way.

Boys can be cruel but they can also do good impressions. Why are boys such good actors? A lot of them are, you know.

Anyway, it was funny. Or it would have been if I hadn't feared that we were all in mortal danger.

Let me tell you this, though, that at one point I sighed loudly and turned sideways for dramatic effect, and there was Amelia. She was sitting at her desk as usual, and she was gazing at me.

She never gazes at me. She always gazes at teachers.

But she was watching me, and when she saw me look, she gave the faintest, faintest smile, and turned away.

Later that day I saw my friend Toby and I am pleased to say that he believed me about the ghost,
without even hearing my evidence
.

He is the unsung hero of the corners of my life, that Toby. As solid as wood, which is spooky actually,
because he's excellent at woodwork
.

6
.

Speaking of corners, the next couple of weeks, the ghost retreated to the corners of my mind.

Isn't it strange that one day I could be fearing mortal
danger, and the next I could be all like,
whatever
. But that is how it was. I blame the mysteries of the ghostly world and I also blame the HSC.

Whatever the reason, I kept going to rehearsals, and to parties at Lydia's place, and doing (some of) my homework, and living my busy life. I
did
write a blog entry, which began:

I am about to say something that may surprise and possibly even terrify you. There is a ghost living in the Art Rooms. Specifically, the ghost resides in Room 27B of the Art Rooms, but it strolls around the building at its leisure
.

This was a tricky blog to write as Mr B has continued to request that the blogs be entitled ‘The Journey Home'—which makes me question his teaching credentials, even as I applaud his stamina in the face of a growing underbelly of resentment. He might not know about that resentment and I mention it here in the spirit of letting him know—

Yes, so, what was I saying? When I wrote my blog about the ghost, I had to twist things around to make it relevant to my journey home. Who has the time for such twists?

Not me.

And nor did people appreciate my efforts. Most comments on the ghost blog went beyond the bounds of stupid.

Anyhow, as I said, the ghost retreated to the recesses of my mind, where no doubt it enjoyed fruit, chocolate and conversation, in the international language of the recess.

But then, in Week 4, it got in touch.

7
.

Not just once.

Three
times that week it contacted me. To be honest, it was a bit like harassment.

The first thing that happened was the mandarin peels.

I expect you will laugh. Everybody else did. But I know in my heart it was not funny.

It was Monday and another morning rehearsal. Winter mornings cause more sleepiness than other seasons, and, in addition, contain a disproportionate amount of the day's cold. It's like when you read on a cereal box that one serving of this cereal is 90 per cent of your recommended daily intake of niacin. Each time I see this I think,
What, and you're PROUD of that? Aren't I going to be overloaded with niacin, whatever THAT is, if you're filling me up with it now
?! And so on.

But that is an aside.

The fact is, mornings are for sleeping, and in winter, sleep should be the law. (Another aside.)

This particular morning, the weather (or maybe the ghost?) was rattling our teeth as we waited outside the Art Rooms for the rehearsal to begin. By now there had been a blending of Ashburians and Brookfielders. I mean, we were friends. Partly this was because working together on the drama had made us bond, and partly it was because Mr Garcia often brought Caramello Koalas to the rehearsals (which I applaud, in a teacher, the providing of chocolate), and
partly
it was because, at the third rehearsal, which had ended late in the afternoon, I had invited everyone to come to a party at Lydia's place for further bondage.

I was high on Amelia and Riley that day.

It was the first time I had seen them act.

Dear, sweet reader of this ghost story, have you ever seen Amelia and Riley act? If so, you can skip the next paragraphs. For you will know, in your heart, what I mean.

They improvised a scene and I nearly fell off the window
ledge. I mean, I expected them to be great, but I had no idea they would illuminate the corners of my soul. That is not exaggeration. Their acting makes everything around them seem pointless. They immerse themselves so completely that it makes me want to dive right in and join them. (And that's saying a lot, considering how stupid the play is.)

So, I felt like crying, dancing and having sex with strangers the first time I saw them act. (That part about sex, I mean it symbolically. I would never actually do that.)

Also, that day, I was in love with the Brookfielders. Maybe because Amelia and Riley's acting was making me see the world in a beautiful new light, or maybe there is actually something sexy about Brookfielders? I think there might be, you know. They're so wild. And Charlie, my Charlie, was a Brookfielder.

If all that is not enough justification for inviting a roomful of people to somebody else's place for a party, I don't know what is.

Lydia raised an eyebrow at me—but she didn't mind. Everybody came, and thus began the tradition of afterrehearsal parties at Lyd's.

So, as I said, we had blended, like pineapple and watermelon in my mother's juicer.

And now, on this Monday morning, we stood or sat on the wide front steps doing various things to warm ourselves: running up and down the steps; smoking cigarettes; and hugging each other. I used the traditional technique of shivering. Now and then, I watched hopefully, but Seb and Lydia did not hug flirtatiously: in fact, they did not hug at all. They were friends by now, and made each other laugh all the time—it seemed to me that their primary goal in life was to make each other laugh. When either succeeded, you'd see proud little smiles.

But if Seb took a step closer or reached out a hand, Lydia would take a step away.

Cass and I sighed with our eyes. Lydia was making us crazy.

Eventually Mr Garcia arrived. Around me people were hiding their cigarettes; at the same time, Mr Garcia was stamping out a cigarette in the carpark, looking guiltily our way. Students love Mr Garcia so they're always trying to make him quit smoking, for the sake of his longevity. Other teachers are welcome to smoke. It would not bother us, for example, to see Mr Ludovico's lungs collapse in an Economics class. My only request would be that he face away from me when it happened as that might be disgusting to behold.

Anyway, so there was Mr G, trying to smoke quickly before we saw him.