Finding Cassie Crazy (36 page)

Lyd
I can't stand your silence. What can I do to make it up to you?

Dear Seb
You can't.

Yours sincerely

Lydia Jaackson-Oberman

Thursday, 4.30 am, Half a Moon in the Sky

Hello there, Diary
I guess you've been missing me.

Also, I guess you're supposed to write more frequently than this in a diary, like say, every day? As opposed to when you can't sleep. And you're supposed to talk about what's going on in your life and what the weather's like and who you've got a crush on, and how many pimples on your face etc, etc, but you know what I think? I think it's all just:

words
words
words

so why don't you write them yourself?

Friday, 7.30 am, Cloudy

I wonder if Claire, the counsellor, knows that I'm crazy.

I guess my mum keeps her distracted most of the time by giving her imaginary legal advice.

And Lyd and Em are also distracted these days, seeing as they want to get revenge on the perfect stranger, even though I keep telling them not to. They know who he is, even. Lydia tracked him down. From the glitter in an envelope I sent him.

I didn't want to know his name.

But you want to know something? I've been secretly checking the mail box at school, in case Matthew Dunlop (or whoever he is) replied to my glitter letter. Which he hasn't, of course.

Wednesday, Night Time, Raining

It's cold outside, but we have gas heating. One small gas heater is making this whole studio toasty warm.

Here is my attempt to write a diary like a normal girl who goes to school.

Well, you're not going to believe this, but Mr Pappo has not been turning up to any classes for the last three days! Everyone is trying to keep this quiet so the school doesn't notice and send in substitute teachers. Mrs Lawrence broke her collarbone trying out a dance step on top of her desk! Damien Carrol and Helena Wong broke up on Wednesday because Damien needed more space but then they got back together on Thursday, and then they broke up this morning because Helena wanted to consider her options.

Also, a bird flew into the classroom in my History class, but why would you care about that?

Later on Wednesday, Also Night Time

Sometimes, bits of craziness escape into the outside me. Like, I get addicted to writing a letter to a boy who hates my guts.

Plus I forget a lot of stuff. I forget to do homework or to meet up with friends or to finish sentences when I'm talking. I'll go into the bathroom to clean my teeth but won't even get out the toothpaste. I'll just stare at my fingernails for half an hour and then come back out again. Once, I came to school without my socks on. Just my shoes. I pretended I did that on purpose.

Tuesday, Afternoon, Blue Sky Outside

Today, Em and Lyd were arguing about a story Lyd wrote for English. Mr Botherit read it out to the class and everyone was practically crying at the end because she'd killed off all her characters. She always does that.

So, at lunchtime, Em said that Lydia should have let the characters get married and move to a mansion by the sea. But Lydia said that's dishonest because a week later they'd be divorced and the house would be knocked over by a tidal wave. Em said Lydia just had to keep writing until the characters fell in love again and built a cottage in the mountains. Lyd said that was impossible because the man would be dead, drowned in the tidal wave and the woman would have been left destitute etc, etc, etc.

Claire can't say the word ‘dead'.

She keeps saying we
lost
Dad, which is stupid because, if you lose something, you can usually find it if you make enough effort and phone up all the lost property offices and taxi companies. Unless maybe someone stole it, in which case it isn't really lost.

Sunday, Maybe Lunchtime, Some Sun Around

Sometimes when Claire uses the word ‘lost' I think she's trying to point out that we didn't put in as much effort as we should have. Like, if we'd just tried another herbal remedy or started eating zucchini all the time, then we might have found a cure for Dad.

I don't really think that.

Just like I don't really think that I'm crazy. I know that it's
common to forget stuff and be absent-minded, and it's just called SADNESS.

I know for a fact that it's not our fault that Dad died and I know Claire is not trying to say that.

But it's a lot easier to be crazy or mad than to just get on with living.

Tuesday, Raining Quietly

Imagine if my dad was downstairs right now, calling me to come and have breakfast.

Hey, Diary, it's two o'clock in the morning and you know what? That would be a weird time to have breakfast.

And you know what else? I hate myself. Because in actual fact, I'm lying to Lydia and Emily. They're being so nice, like, they came over for dinner last week, and stayed really late talking to us, even though I'm sure they were bored out of their minds hearing my mother lecture them about life and careers etc.

And they don't even know that the whole thing with Matthew Dunlop was all my fault.

Because I kept writing.

Okay, let's think about what a NORMAL person would have done when they got that first letter from Matthew Dunlop. A normal person would have said, ‘Jesus, Brooker kids are psychopaths' and chucked the letter away.

So what did I think I was doing, eh Diary?

Every day, I try to make myself tell Lydia the truth and every day I can't because I don't want her to know that I'm deranged in the head.

Tuesday After School, Eating Ginger Biscuits

Actually, writing here in Dad's studio, feel like I should just talk about my dad, really.

It's like when I first came back to school, and it seemed strange that anyone could talk about anything other than my dad. Like we shouldn't have been analysing
My Brilliant Career
in English, we should have been sitting around chatting about Dad's favourite books. And getting mad about how unfair it was that the leukaemia came back after four years. The doctors had said that if it stayed away for more than five years, then it probably wouldn't come back. But it just made the deadline.

After a while I stopped wanting to talk about Dad at school. I just wanted to keep it all in my bedroom and in this studio, because I didn't think I could carry it outside.

Remember when Dad was feeling bad, and he'd lie on the couch over there and sometimes I read stories to him? His favourite books were Roald Dahl's
Tales of the Unexpected
. When there were bits about sex, he'd tell me to keep reading but cover my ears.

Hey, guess what, I just looked out the window and Lydia's standing at the front door.

Wednesday, Early Morning, Frost on Lawn

I've noticed that in movies there's always just one reason for everything.

Like, it turns out that the guy's a murderer because of this one time when his mother made him wear a pink hat to school and all the kids teased him.

That's it: bang. He's a murderer.

It would be good if it was as simple as that.

Or maybe not: there'd be too many murderers.

So, anyway, Diary, last time I spoke to you it was yesterday afternoon and Lydia was standing outside my front door.

And you know what happened? I told her about how it was all my fault with Matthew Dunlop. How I kept writing to Matthew Dunlop even when he threatened to break my fingers.

She just blinked once when I told her and said, ‘I wonder why you kept writing back.'

Not like it was a question that I had to answer, but like an unexplained event in a movie we just saw. Like we could figure it out if we talked long enough.

We couldn't figure it out though.

I said, ‘Do you think I'm crazy?'

She looked at me and said: ‘Hmm.'

Dear Cassie
Well! Lydia has given me a secret assignment, which is to send you an email explaining that you are not crazy. She has given herself the same assignment, so expect an email from her too.

Her assignments have really
changed
lately, haven't they? There is almost no shoplifting or ‘prank calling' or cake baking. It is all about writing things down, and I have to say
I'm a fairly different person when I write things down. So, that's interesting.

You are not crazy, Cassie. That needs no explanation.

But you are confused as to why you continued writing to Matthew Dunlop even when he made strange and unlikely threats? You have been keeping that a secret from us because you thought it would make us aghast?

Well! Cassie, no! I am not aghast. I am tilting my head to the side, with understanding. And I am glad you gave Lydia permission to tell me the story. For it is perfectly clear to me.

I shall explain it as follows:

I think you were probably looking for a way to feel hurt. Because maybe you can't believe you still feel bad, even a whole year after your dad died. Remember how you used to get so many injuries, Cass? Because you are athletic. And remember that one time when you tried to high jump a bookshelf in your living room, and somehow a big heavy vase got knocked over and landed on your toe? Lyd and I gasped, but you just looked down at the bloody, mushed-up toe, in true Cass style, and said, ‘Interesting.'

Then I kind of fainted so I don't know what happened next.

It is my consternation that, by writing to a boy who was cruel, you were looking for an injury that would interest you and distract you from the hurting of your heart.

That is my theory.

My recommendation for the future is this: if you need someone to be cruel to you, make sure you come to Lydia and me. We would be glad to be cruel.

Now, one final thought for this email and then I'd better go and do an exam. Although you might not know it, Cassie,
EVERYBODY loves you. You are very popular here at Ashbury, as is the nature of skinny girls who are excellent at sport (running, high jump, basketball etc) and who do not have a single drop of blood.

By ‘blood' I mean to say ‘bad blood'.

But there is more to this, Cass. It is your gentle and interested way of listening, and your dry and/or musical way of being funny.

The point is, Paul Wilson could have had the privilege of you for his friend. If only he had given you a chance.

If anyone is crazy here, Cass, it is Paul Wilson. He, my friend, is a psychopath.

Lots of love
Emily

Dear Cass
Well, just pondering the mystery of why you decided to keep writing letters to a person who belongs in a high-security mental institution.

And what I think is that it was maybe a power thing. Like this therapist, Claire, was telling you what to do. And you knew it was stupid, what Claire wanted, so in a weird way you got power back by going ahead and
doing it.
It's like when you're little and your mum says you have to eat your vegetables even though you hate them, so you go ahead and eat so many of them and so fast that you throw up.