Dreaming of Amelia (15 page)

Thursday, he came home from the chemist's with the antiperspirant in one hand and black hair dye in the other.

I kid you not.

He held them both out to me. ‘Whaddya say, Tobes, want to help me dye my hair?'

I felt bad. I would have stopped him wasting his cash if I'd realised he was serious.

Then late Thursday night he shut himself in his study with his phone and his new black hair. Couldn't hear what he was saying, just some low-voice talk and laughing.

That made my night. Thinking, finally my dad's found love! He's asking that blind date out again!

Woke up happy Friday morning.

School was a riot that day. You remember I mentioned a friend who said there was a ghost in the Art Rooms, but nobody believed her? Well, over the last few weeks, she'd been bringing them around. Now it was like everyone believed. Or was having fun pretending to.

And that day, I guess the ghost went wild. Something about a photo of the ghost. Anyhow, it was like someone had picked up a huge bag of popcorn, opened it, tipped it up and started shaking hard. That's how fast the ghost sightings were coming.
Everywhere I turned, people were running by with pale faces, or were telling breathless stories, or gasping. There was a lot of laughing. And a funny event at lunchtime with a party, and somebody's hair catching fire for a moment.

It was great.

Got home in a super mood. Walked in the front door.

And first thing I heard was Dad's voice on the phone sounding like low and distant thunder.

‘The fact is,' I heard him say, thunder closer now, ‘he's your
son
. You —'

He stopped — silence — then a kinder tone, ‘I guess he didn't know so it won't —' paused, laughed, ‘Yeah, like
that's
going to happen,' laughed again, ‘Take care,' and hung up the phone.

Swung around and saw me.

‘You weren't supposed to hear that,' he said.

It turned out that Mum had been planning to fly down to surprise me tonight. Dad had kept it secret from me. He'd phoned her last night to finalise the details.

So that's who he was talking to on the phone last night, the low murmurs in the study — not the date at all, just Mum.

Anyhow, Mum had just called to say she couldn't come, she had to work.

‘She said she
might
make a late flight tonight,' he said. ‘There's one at midnight apparently.'

‘Yeah, like
that's
going to happen,' I said, kind of echoing how he'd said it on the phone — making fun of him at the same time as showing he was right.

Mum would never stay up as late as midnight. She's one of those people who
turns into a pumpkin at ten
. (Her words.)

Have I mentioned this about black holes?

Black Holes

They're impossible.

I mean, think about it, they're everything crammed into nothing, and they turn time upside down. So I'm pretty sure I'm being scientific when I say they're impossible.

As impossible as Mum getting a midnight flight.

As impossible as Ireland getting out of England's grasp; as impossible as England holding on.

Or those Irish convicts escaping from their ships.

Or Tom ever seeing his girlfriend again.

As impossible as Tom's story changing, now that it's done.

Or of me reaching back in time to warn him.

As impossible as Dad getting Mum to come home by changing the colour of his hair.

WEEK 9

The final thing I'm going to say about black holes is:

Black Holes

Who knows?

That's also scientific.

Cos you know what I get from my reading?

Nobody actually
knows
what a black hole is or what it looks like or, you know, whether it's bad-tempered or sweet. It's all just guessing. Cos it turns out nobody's been
inside
. I didn't realise this at first. Doing all this reading about what happens to you when you go into a black hole and how you can't escape and so on, and I've gotta say, in the back of my head, there
was
this little voice going,
Hang on, something's not right here
.

Eventually I realised what it was. If you can't ever escape, how can you come back to tell us that you can't escape? See what I mean?

I thought maybe they took their mobile phones in with them, but, no.

So, I thought, photographs? Those remote-control flying cameras.

No again.

If a black hole is so strong even light cannot escape, well, you know, total darkness.

Black holes are technically invisible. Nobody can see them. Not even a camera.

Not the smartest scientist in the world. (Not that scientists have great eyesight. I'm thinkin': a lot of them wear glasses.)

Even if you could get a camera inside, it'd go all warped and never get back out.

The scientists even have a scientific name for this situation:
information paradox
. Also known as, we don't have a freakin' clue.

Took me nine weeks of research about black holes before I realised this.

And between us, it made me feel good. Kind of powerful.

Cos we live in a world where most things are all tied up. Everything's labelled and mapped. Nothing new to explore. Reading Tom's letters, I almost got jealous at first — there he was, back in time, all excited about the brand-new world.

It's like the afterlife, like ghosts, or the future — could be something wonderful, or could be pure hell. Either way, it's kind of fantastic that we don't know.

Makes me think of all those kids at school getting high on the idea of a ghost in the Art Rooms. Laughing because they know it isn't true, but also thinking:
Well, who knows?
You could see that in their eyes, that secret hope.

Ghosts could be real. We could have one at our school.

It's the horror and the beauty of the things that we don't know.

Until they pin it down,
I
could be right about black holes.
Not likely, I know, but my guess could be better than a scientist's guess.

There could be dinosaurs or dragons. Those stars that disappear inside black holes, they might take on new personalities. Drive around in sports cars. Eat watermelon. Or teleport and turn into alligators, or newsprint, or water droplets. Or into the spark of understanding between a boy and a girl in a graveyard at 3 am. The girl's hair blowing sideways, eyes confused.

WEEK 10

According to the school's online calendar, this week (the last week of term) there was a meeting of the KL Mason Patterson trust fund Committee and a joint Ashbury-Brookfield Art Exhibition.

I know nothing about the art exhibition, but my dad is on the trust fund committee. He's one of the two parent reps.

Roberto Garcia got him to join.

How?

See my most recent definition of black holes, a coupla pages back.

Anyhow, Thursday night, last week of term, Dad had to go to a committee meeting.

He was heading out into the cold, dark night and I was kicking back with the TV remote, when it occurred to me I should get back to work. You know, schoolwork. What with having taken a personal break the last couple of weeks. And there being only one more day before the school gave us an official break of its own. And this being the HSC year. And my future being on the line, etc, etc.

‘Dad,' I go.

And I head out into the night by his side.

Dad's committee meets in the Art Rooms, and that's where our school has its D&T facilities now. Seemed to me, a little woodwork might be a nice, smooth way to ease myself back into the scholarly life.

So I headed left and Dad headed up the stairs. I took a couple of corners, let myself into a dim, empty, warm room, and breathed it in.

No need for me to go on here about the smell of wood and how it soothes my soul like a long, slow hug, or how working with wood takes up a weirdly big piece of my heart. No need to tell stories of how Dad first taught me how to turn wood when I was seven (I made a toilet-roll holder). Or how we worked together in his shed for years until I got so much better than him that he said, ‘The shed's yours.'

No need for tales of Toby the carpenter here.

You get it, right?

I got straight to work on my cabinet. The cabinet's my major design project this year. Not so flash as the pool table last year — now a key feature in the lives of me and Dad (and Roberto Garcia, of course) — but I want this to be beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful. I don't know if I'll be able to pull it off; it's just what I'm hoping.

I got to work doing something quiet. No need to tell you how I disappear while I'm working, right? Just, that I do. Couple of hours passed. It must have been almost 11, and I hadn't even heard my own thoughts.

So the scream was like a fire hose turned onto a fast-asleep face.

It was a long, loud, high-pitched, full-throttle scream.

Followed by a deep, black silence.

I had no idea where the scream had come from. Felt like somewhere just beneath my feet. Then I realised it had come from down the hall.

I'm ashamed to say I couldn't move for a few moments. Heart was like a hyperactive jackhammer.

And the jackhammer kept on digging up streets as I walked to the door, opened it and leaned out.

The corridor was empty. Building silent.

I remembered that the drama theatre is two doors down the corridor.

They've been practising for the Ashbury-Brookfield production.

I think the theatre's got good insulation but that scream was loud enough to break sound barriers.

That was a scream that could time-travel.

I was dead relieved.

It was drama rehearsal!

Still, a good guy doesn't just assume that a scream's part of a play. Waited a few moments, to be sure.

Heard voices somewhere. Two people laughing — a girl and a guy. A door closing. Quiet again.

Decided I was right about the drama practice.

Headed back into the woodwork room, got out the power saw and switched it on.

It can't have been more than half a minute later, there's this weird, creepy feeling in my shoulders, like something's not right with the world.

I switched off the power saw.

Something was fiercely wrong with the world.

It was a world of screaming, shouting, pounding footsteps and slamming doors.

Once again, I'm ashamed to say, my first instinct was to drop to the floor and hide underneath the workbench.

I resisted the instinct, but did put both hands over my head for a moment.

And then, the silence again.

The clamour of noise can't have lasted for more than a few seconds, but the silence that followed was beyond terrifying.

Where was my dad and his committee? Hadn't they heard the noise too?

Got out my phone.

Decided the police would not respect me if I didn't at least open the door and check things out.

Cos what if it was still just drama practice?

Who'd look like an idiot then?

Leaned into the corridor again. This time I was trembling all over. Still nothing.

And then, once again, the sound of laughter. Distant, murmuring laughter — a girl and a guy once again.

Must be one kick-arse drama they're working on
, I thought.
Audience are going to need earplugs
.

Went back to work, but I've gotta say I didn't feel so peaceful. Also didn't use the power saw. Didn't want that clamour creeping up on me again.

Nothing happened — only the silence — and then it was time to go out front and meet my dad.

I have one more thing to report about this night.

As I headed to the exit I remembered that the Art Rooms were haunted.

It was just a fleeting thought. Gave me a laugh. Kept walking.

Caught up with the committee members all heading out to their cars. Seemed they'd had a good meeting. All very buddy-like with each other. Dad was talking with the other parent rep on the committee. Roberto was off to the side on his own, hands in his pockets looking for his cigarettes.

First thing I said was, ‘How about that noise?'

Roberto looked around him at the still, starry night.

‘What noise?'

I pointed to the building: ‘Blood-curdling screams and pounding footsteps?'

Roberto grinned. Thought I was kidding: referring to the ghost stories.

Funny that I hadn't thought of ghosts myself right away.

‘You telling me you couldn't hear that noise?' I said.

He lit his cigarette, smiled around it.

I remembered that the committee met way up on the third floor. Too far away maybe.

But something else — all the time I was talking to Roberto — something else was bothering me.

Then I remembered.

Roberto is director of the drama production.

Can you have rehearsal without the director? Didn't have a clue how drama rehearsals worked. Maybe you could.

I looked back at the building. The windows deep in darkness. The building like a hulking pool of silence.

Looked out at the parking lot. A handful of cars. Committee members opening car doors.

‘There was a drama rehearsal tonight, right?' I said.

Roberto wasn't paying much attention. He was searching through his pockets again. ‘No,' he said. ‘No rehearsal tonight. What makes you ask?'

And that, as I mentioned, is the last thing I have to say about that night.

You can draw your own conclusions.

Last day of term, I had breakfast with my mother again.

Nice poetic parallel, no?

Back in the Blue Danish Café. Mum down for work for the day.

I was telling her about the episode the night before. The
screams and running footsteps, me thinking it was drama rehearsal, there not being a rehearsal, and so on. She was right into the story, believing the ghost theory, laughing at me for not.