THE WESTBURY HIGH FILES

Eleven /Amelia

I was good at research; research papers were my specialty. This also brought the knack for expertly stalking people on Instagram and finding intricate facts about their lives. Which was helpful when moving schools. And infiltrating friendship groups. Possibly shady, but what the hell, it wasn't hurting anyone.

There was a rivalry between Westbury High and the two private schools, seeing both sides put things in perspective for me. Public schools have everyone, the rich, the poor and the kids who have slept in cars before. Private schools care too much about the rich. About the uniforms and school presence. Public school is kill or be killed. Mourn or be mourned. Avery would struggle after high school. Good at school, but drew up a blank when asked what to do with her life. Go to university? And what? I wondered if every teenager was like that, I know I am. Being a teenager makes me wonder if we'll always be this confused. I don't know anything about life and I want to know what everyone is thinking. All. The Time. Surely, I can't be the only one. I used the investigation as an outlet. I called it that at least, it was more light online stalking.

            The school Tumblr was set up in a way that posting anonymously was impossible to track. You couldn't search the post in the search bar, you had to scroll back and find it. Anonymous posts were often swept under the mass of posts flooding in, from people mourning Gina to blatant I hate school remarks. I paused at the first post, some Rebecca was creating a club, an investigative group into the bucket list. Like I was doing. A surge of urgency I started scrolling. It took five minutes to find the original post. It was a photo of a handwritten note torn from a lined notebook. It could be written by anyone. Why would someone fake it? I found this mourning game off, it stank of strangeness. The handwriting was curly and small, hard to read. Someone who takes a lot of notes would have written it.

Opening a new tab, I logged into Instagram. Everyone was on Instagram, from the year eights on the Tik Tok high to the art students with art accounts with tens of thousands of followers. Everyone was following everyone. It wouldn't be too hard to find Gina's. I knew Harry had a small connection with her, I had a way in. Harry's page was mainly videos of him playing jazz improv on various instruments and the occasional selfie with Avery. All from three years ago. When he was a brace face and acne ridden fifteen-year-old. I lingered on his page, he looked more awake back then. Now I don't see him without a coffee and eye bags that could carry all my baggage. I scrolled through his follower section, musicians and the occasional tattoo inspiration page. Tattoos weren't very Harry but who knows, I'm probably wrong, I thought. I didn't know Harry that well anyway. Scrolling by in the follower section, familiar faces of louder students who were more present within the school, the head of the feminist club, the drama kids, the people who weren't afraid to speak their mind and perform.

I almost missed Gina's page, her profile pic a black and white daisy. There were only two photos posted. One of her sitting with a friend on a bench in the park, the other a picture of her smiling, swivelled around on a piano stool. She looked happy. The photo was almost four years old. I snapped a screenshot. This was all I had of Gina. It was sad, but in a weird way; a history that I was never part of. She was a statistic to me. Which is a kind of shit thing to say. But I don't know how to word it in a non-shit way.

My eyes caught the sheet music sitting neatly on the piano stand. I zoomed in, trying to make out the red writing scratched beside the notes on the music. It was rough and jagged with sharp lines and large letters. The photo was old, but handwriting doesn't change that drastically. It might not even be Gina's writing on the sheet music. It could be her teachers. I had a good gut and trusted it. Including this. There was no way Gina would have written the Bucket List. Not with that handwriting. 

—

I was getting dressed in my not appropriately altered school uniform. Sporting badges and pins on my blazer and button down grey shirt was fine. Trimming the length of skirts and embroidering over the school logo, however, was not. I liked it like that, mastering the evil eye to anyone who dared make a comment. My mirror told the story of someone more confident than they felt. I'd grow into her, eventually.

I always found school quite easy. Straight A's weren't out of reach. But I didn't want to be the straight A top o' the class kid. I wanted to live. The boom in your heart when a firework goes off; the rhythm of your body when the music is so loud and sweaty bodies are pressed against you; the thrill of taking a leap of faith over a broken bridge. It's how I liked to take my tests; spontaneous. Dangerous, considering my marks relied on getting into university, which was something I did want to do. Ma supported me no matter what. A drooping grade with a happy child was better than a soaring student and anxious one.

The bucket list still twisted my gut.  It kept ticking as I ate toast: if Gina didn't write it, who did? Was it any of my business? I didn't know. I did, however, enjoy playing detective. I wanted to find out who wrote the note, I needed to beat Rebecca. The school may have The Mourners Game, but I had The Mourners Race.