Finding Cassie Crazy (42 page)

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Authors: Jaclyn Moriarty

BOOK: Finding Cassie Crazy
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Judge Anderson:
(
enjoying himself
) Go ahead.
Emily:
And to conclude, I will now read out a short declaration that I have written this afternoon, in some hastefulness. (Reading:)We were dismayed to be accused of a crime that we DID NOT
COMMIT. We bet a million dollars that if we could just find out who the so-called witness was we could prove that he is making it up.
  But, let me tell you, we were even MORE dismayed when the teachers went through our lockers. That was a terrible invasion of our privacy, and it would be an even worse invasion to read our letters and diaries. Mrs Lilydale thinks that our letters et cetera are just frivolous and that it does not matter if she reads them.
   But, I must say that I think our diaries, notebooks and letters are the most important things in our lives. Just about.
  Ladies and gentlemen, you might be thinking to yourself: why do I think that? So! I will tell you.
  When you are our age, you are thinking about many important things, such as who you are going to become. Maybe you have to choose subjects for ears 11 and 12, and those subjects will decide what you do at university, and that will change your life!
  When you are our age, you do not have much space to do this figuring out.
  So, where do you do all this thinking?
  Not when you talk to your parents:
they have known you all your life and can't really imagine you as a grown-up.
  No, it is only when you talk to yourself or when you talk to your friends.
  And the way that you really talk to yourself and your friends is through things like diaries and notebooks and letters.
   When you're an adult you have so many private places to put things, for example homes and attics, filing cabinets and desk drawers.
  When you're our age, you spend most of your life at school. And where can you put your diaries and notebooks and letters when you come to school? Nowhere. Except in your locker. That's it.
   If you teachers go through our lockers, and read our notebooks et cetera, well, you know what you will be doing? You'll be taking the fragile pieces of paper that decide who we are going to be—and you'll be tearing them to shreds.
  In a metabolic sense, anyway.
  Excuse me. In a metaphoric sense, which means symbolic.
  And which is a lot more important than you think.
  In conclusion, it is wrong to get in trouble for something you didn't do. But it is even more wrong for you to be able to read our private things.
  That concludes my declaration. However, I have attachments that I will now hand up to the judges, and which I have taken from a folder of material belonging to Cass Aganovic's mother.
   Attached and marked with the letter ‘A' are copies of Articles 16 and 40 of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, which say that children have the right to privacy.
  Attached and marked with the letter ‘B' are copies of cases from around the world in which teenagers are given privacy protection, even in their lockers. Attached and marked with the letter ‘C' is a copy of the notice that Mr Botherit, our English teacher, put up on the noticeboard at the beginning of the autumn term, and which specifically said that our letters to Brookfield would be ‘completely confidential'.
(
Emily takes a deep breath, hands over a pile of papers to the judges, and sits back down next to me. She reads over my shoulder, so she can see how her speech looked.
  There is general silence—a sort of rippling of disbelief from the stage and across the hall—‘Was that really Emily Thompson?' is the impression I get from the rippling.
)
Emily:
Bindy's doing the adjectives again.
Bindy:
They're not adjectives.
Emily:
YOU CAN'T SPEAK AND TYPE AT THE SAME TIME, BINDY.
Bindy:
Watch me.
(
Note that the above exchange between Emily and Bindy was drowned out by the sound of the entire assembly hall beginning to clap and stamp their feet.
)
Emily:
(
returning to the microphone
) And anyway, our private papers don't have any evidence at all of our attacking Brookfield. They might have evidence of other wrongful conduct by us, but—
Mr Thompson:
Objection!
Judge Koutchavalis:
On what basis?
Mr Thompson:
She's shooting herself in the foot. (
Emily sits back down again.
)
Judge Koutchavalis:
Is everybody finished?
Emily:
Yes.
Mrs Lilydale:
Well, I rather think that I should be entitled to—
Mr Thompson:
You've had your turn.
Judge Koutchavalis:
(
to Judge Anderson
) Then we should make a decision I suppose—shall we have a little chat?
(
Whispering between the two judges, which presumably should not be typed, although if I just lean over slightly, I can ALMOST hear
—)
Judge Koutchavalis:
Ladies and gentleman, we have reached a decision. Although it does seem quite likely that these girls were involved in attacks on Brookfield, there is a right way to go about dealing with that. The teachers will discuss the right way in private. But, in the meantime, nobody should be allowed to read their private things.
Mr Thompson:
As adviser, I must say you have given the correct decision.
Mr Pappo:
You know, it occurs to me that Mr Thompson might be a
biased adviser.
Can that be allowed?
Emily:
Why is he speaking? Why is Mr Pappo speaking?
Judge Koutchavalis:
As I said, we agree with Emily. The girls should have their things returned to them at once.
(
Exuberant cheering and stamping in the audience.
  There is the noise of a speeding car just outside the assembly room! People hear it over their cheers and gasp a bit, as it seems to be very close. Squealing tyres, slamming car doors, rushing footsteps— the door bursts open—everyone looks up
expectantly: it's Cassie Aganovic! And she's with two Brookfield boys. One of the Brookfield boys, dark-haired and rather sexy-looking, runs up the steps onto the stage, two steps at a time, and raises his eyebrows at the judges, indicating where Em and Lyd are sitting
.)
Judge Anderson:
(
grimly
) Seb Mantegna.
Seb Mantegna:
(
taking that as permission
) Thanks. I won't be a moment. (
Goes over to Emily and Lydia and talks to them in whispers that I cannot hear.
)
Emily:
(
leaping to her feet and returning to the microphone
) Ladies and gentlemen! Just finally, I have a few very interesting things to show you! (
She beckons the other Brookfield boy, who runs up onto the stage, looking serious, carrying a large backpack
.)
Emily:
First, I must show you some half-empty cans of RED SPRAY PAINT!
(
The other Brookfield boy takes three cans out of the backpack and holds them up, one at a time, like a sort of cooking show
.)
Emily:
And now, I must show you some empty plastic bottles of grapeseed oil!
(
The audience looks bewildered. The teachers are beginning to reach towards Em, as if to gently lead her away from the microphone
.)
Emily:
(
being a bit humorous
) Wait just one minute! Red paint! Wasn't Brookfield
attacked with red paint? Grapeseed oil? Wasn't that put on the floor of the Brookfield science lab? I guess my friends here must have found these things in the home of an Ashbury student?! Or did they? Charlie, can you tell us—is that where you found these things?
(
Everyone waits—the boy with the backpack (Charlie, I assume) leans towards Em.
)
Charlie:
(
politely
) No, actually, Em, we found most of this stuff in the bedroom cupboard of a guy from Brookfield. Some stuff was in the wastepaper basket in his bedroom but most was in his bedroom cupboard.
(
Confusion from the audience.
)
Emily:
(
being theatrical again
) So that sounds like a Brookfield student might have attacked Brookfield?! Now, why would he want to attack his own school? Charlie, can you tell me the name of the Brookfield student who had these things in his bedroom?
Charlie:
Yes, Em, I can. It's Paul Wilson. Our form captain there.
(
There are sharp intakes of breath all around from teachers, judges etc.
)
Judge Koutchavalis:
Hey! Isn't that the name of the witness against our girls?!
Judge Anderson:
Actually, yes, it is. Paul? What's going on here?
(
The tall handsome form captain from Brookfield is standing up—he has sauntered onto the stage and is standing right beside me as I type, smiling slightly, as if this is all a bit of a joke. He talks to Judge Anderson in a low voice.
)
Paul Wilson:
Mr Anderson, look, you can't believe Seb Mantegna and Charlie Taylor, can you? They hate my guts. I don't know who this girl is they've got with them but she looks like one of the girls I saw committing the crime. How can anyone believe her? She could be some kind of a freak. She could be a pathological liar or something.
Bindy:
(
whispering to him
) No, that's Cassie. Be careful what you say about her, okay? Her father died last year and she was really close to him, so you've got to be nice to her. Otherwise, you'll get everyone mad at you.
(
Paul Wilson looks at me, and blinks. He is quiet for a moment, breathing and blinking.
)
Judge Anderson:
(
looking bemused
) Well, just explain to the people why you've got those things in your room, would you? Explain to me.
Paul:
(
stares at him, wide-eyed and confused
) Look. (
Uncertainly
.) Look, this is
ridiculous. (
Moves to the microphone
.) Everyone, of course there's an explanation. As you know, I do Food Technology—there was so much grapeseed oil that I took some home and—
(
A Brookfield teacher stands up from the row of chairs at the back; a small, plump woman
.)
Teacher:
I didn't know you were in the food technology class, Paul.
Student:
(
calling out—crudely?
) Whatcha do with the oil in your bedroom, eh Paul?
Paul:
(
blustering; confused
) And I got the spray paint from the art supplies, so I could—
Teacher:
We never use grapeseed oil, actually. I prefer olive oil.
Judge Anderson:
(
The colour is rushing from his face; he speaks softly.
) Paul. You were at school last weekend, weren't you? For drama rehearsal? And you stayed back to tidy up after we left? Please don't tell me you went into the classrooms and painted ‘Brooker bites' onto the walls.
(
I think that Paul Wilson is starting to cry! Yes! Yes!
)
Paul:
Of course not!—I didn't—I just—Mr. And—you know—the, oil—
(
Judge Anderson is a big man; I see traces of sweat around the collar of his shirt; he
pulls at the collar of his shirt.
  Across the stage there is a strange little noise from Cassie Aganovic; Paul glances over; I see their eyes meet briefly; Paul Wilson looks back to Judge Anderson.
)
Paul:
Uh—(
His shoulders crumple; he swivels; he runs across the stage, down the steps, and toward the fire exit. He pushes at the door—‘not that one!' exclaims Mr Botherit—he runs on to the next door, pushes through it, and slams the door behind him.
)
  (
A deathly, stunned silence follows fast upon the echo of the slamming door. There are gasps, etc., which I will not bother transcribing; they can be imagined.
  Now: uproar! Everyone talks at the same time—parents, students, and teachers alike—much amazed excitement and confusion.
)
Judge Koutchavalis:
(
beaming
) Well, imagine that! All the attacks on Brookfield were carried out by a Brookfielder!
Judge Anderson:
(
shakes his head; grim; a broken man?; at last, distractedly
) Hm.
Judge Koutchavalis:
Let me just consult my notes here. Well! Yes, anyway, two of the three Ashbury attacks were inside jobs!
Charlie:
Yeah, the only thing we didn't find at Paul's was evidence of that Ashbury school song episode. Remember when it
was played over our PA at regular intervals? But we didn't have much time. There'll be evidence in his place somewhere.
Judge Koutchavalis:
I don't doubt it. (
into the microphone; jolly-sounding
) Well, everyone, it looks like Ashbury's in the clear, and we all owe those three girls an apology! They were not at Brookfield yesterday at all! They were probably studying in the library!
Emily:
Probably.
Judge Koutchavalis:
Yes, that is the nature of Ashbury students. Diligent. Now, just looking into Brookfield' role in the dispute—let' see (
consults her notes
)—yes, well, Brookfield smashed windows, painted rude words, sent a computer virus, dyed our pool purple—the list goes on! Golly. Presumably, this was all carried out by the criminal element at Brookfield in response to attacks which were actually carried out by
Brookfielders themselves!
How—extraordinary.
Judge Anderson:
(
wearying of her good humour
) Extraordinary.

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