The Story Makers

By Tamara Pratt

When the Story Makers drop their golden envelopes from the sky inviting sixteen-year-old Eden Mellor and her friends at Arlington Academy to attend their dream mining auditions, the competition is on to demonstrate who has the most explosive dreams, and who will become Hollywood's next big hit.

But Eden doesn't want to be a superstar. For three years her family has told her she was responsible for her baby brother Liam drowning - something Eden can't ever recall occurring.

Will her dreams unlock the memories of her past?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tamara Pratt
• Release date: Dec 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781922061256

Tamara Pratt

Tamara’s fiction and short stories have been published in USA and Australian anthologies and journals, including Queen of Crime Anthology and Tincture Journal, and she has placed in several short story competitions, including the Glass Woman Prize. In 2011, Tamara was awarded a Varuna Writers’ House fellowship for her crime manuscript, and has since gone on to pen young adult and adult fiction manuscripts. She is currently studying a Master of Arts (Creative Writing) through Macquarie University. She lives in Brisbane with her husband and three teenage children, and works full time as an IT Program Manager.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I’m lying on my back, Cynthia beside me, the mounds of grass feeling plush under our bodies. The schoolyard is like a big bed that the groundsman keeps permanently soft. We angle our faces towards the sun. Cynthia is so comfortable she has drifted into a deep sleep. I hear her small snorts; see her eyes flicker in REM, her nose twitch.

I won’t give in to sleep, not during lunch hour. My ears are always at attention, listening to the sounds in the distance, mostly other girls, calling out, laughing. I close my eyes tight and pretend I’ve at least catnapped, so when Cynthia wakes and asks me how I slept, I can tell her just fine.

Today, though, her timing is different. She shakes me by the shoulder, but she doesn’t tell me there’s one minute to class. Instead, she whispers, Oh my God. What is that?

I open my eyes tentatively and squint in an effort to see through a glittering haze suspended in the sky. It’s as if a sequined fog hangs above our heads. Cynthia gasps and reaches for my hand as dozens of pocket-sized gold envelopes descend from the haze. As they drop from the sky, they turn over and around, shimmering in the sun’s light as it reflects off their sharp edges.

One envelope falls near my hand, another at Cynthia’s feet. They are small, fitting perfectly in our palms when we pick them up. And they are marked with precision. The label bears my full name, Eden Renee Mellor, in black cursive writing, and Cynthia’s name on hers.

I can’t see how or from where these envelopes could fall. It certainly hasn’t happened how I thought it would. There’s no aeroplane, no blimp behind the clouds – but maybe there shouldn’t be. Maybe the envelopes have fallen from somewhere infinite, out of something that resembles a fabricated machine, something only the senders would know how to do.

Ahead of us, I see Jacinta Hilt and Mary Allen holding envelopes. Other girls are empty-handed. They stare at the sky, waiting for theirs to fall. Others rush to check the names on unclaimed envelopes dangling off the school’s conifers. They elbow one another out of the way, but despite all of this activity, there is a strange calm. Seconds ago, we were in the middle of an ordinary school day. Now, everyone lingers, stunned.

Eden! Cynthia’s squeal breaks the quiet. She grips my arm. The Story Makers are here.

Her words are as electric as the air. I take a deep breath, running my fingers across the smooth surface of my invitation.

Girls around us hug one another, cry and punch the air.

Then I hear the wails; the girls who haven’t received an invitation. They sound like dying magpies, flapping around in a mess, making circles in the same spot, looking for what should be there but isn’t. I see girls from my grade, Year 12, break down in tears. Lillian Steele, House Captain. Georgia Taylor, Class Captain. I haven’t seen them lose control – ever – and now they turn on each other like dogs, barking madly.

Lillian is livid. You’ve got my invitation! she yells at Georgia. You must have! Let me see that, you stupid bitch!

Cynthia is oblivious to all of this. She grips my arm again, her blue eyes fierce with determination. Eden, I mightn’t have to apply for NIDA. I mightn’t need that scholarship after all.

Cynthia is a gifted student. I know she will get into Australia’s performing arts academy next year, even without this invitation. She drops back into the soft grass, kicking her legs in the air bicycle-style while my heart thumps away. It’s a mixed feeling: if I want this too much, I might jinx my chances.

You’ll apply for this with me, right? she asks, shooting upright. I couldn’t audition for the Story Makers without you. She has both hands on my shoulders, twisting me at an awkward angle.

We don’t know much about the Story Makers, just what we hear in their advertising campaigns: that they can tap into our subconscious minds and solicit ideas for the next blockbuster movie, or use our dreams as backdrops in their films. For four years, they’ve travelled from school to school, inviting students to audition, the winning candidate offered the starring role in their next film.

Cynthia and I both want what the Story Makers’ offer for different reasons. Cynthia wants to be a superstar, and I need to prove my innocence.

Of course I’ll apply with you, I say.

She must sense the apprehension in my voice. What’s wrong?

I force a grin. Nothing. This is going to be great.

I wish I could catch the butterflies in my stomach, halt their beating wings. These auditions will be more of a challenge for me, but now is not the time to tell Cynthia. I’ve never told her about what happened with my brother’s death, how my family believes I’m guilty, or how I experience these night terrors, what I call shadows: masked men who come for me at night.

I’m just thinking this really is your big break, I tell her, wrapping my arms tight around her neck. She’s satisfied with my response, presses her cheek against mine, and squeezes me.

Excellent, she says. This is the best thing that will ever happen to us, Eden. You’ll see. This is our chance to be famous!

The bell rings, but Cynthia doesn’t move. "I have to steal this minute!"

It’s something she always says when she has her Flip camera in hand, filming life around her. She takes it out of her skirt pocket and opens it.

Smile! she says before she even starts recording.

The flashing red dot on her camera instantly triggers a taunting reminder: Liam’s first birthday. The video at home, a scattering of images, capturing something real. His baby face pushed up against the lens, sticky fingers obscuring the screen. He grins as he mashes his birthday cake into his mouth and giggles as he smears it all over the camera. And as always, I hear the words in my head: This was your fault.

Come on, I urge Cynthia. Let’s go.

The school grounds quickly become deserted. There are no girls, no more envelopes. It’s as if the invitations hadn’t arrived.

Cynthia and I collect our lunch scraps, brush the grass off our white uniform skirts and patent leather knee-high boots. Cynthia kisses her envelope and pushes it down the front of her blouse, tucking it inside her bra.

Where’s yours? she asks.

I wave it at her. Here.

She looks at me with imploring eyes and pushes her forefinger into my breastbone. Promise me we’ll do this together.

To anyone else, her words might sound like a demand, but I know her too well. Of course, I assure her. We’ll do this together.

CHAPTER TWO

The afternoon bus has barely pulled away from the school when Gillian Beaumont starts singing a West Side Story number from last year’s school musical.

She belts it out at full volume to her captive audience before prophetically announcing, "I’m talent waiting to happen! When those Story Makers are up close, it will be a fait accompli. They will choose me in the auditions. Right here, girls. She places both hands on her chest in a sincere gesture and lowers her voice. You’re looking at the next Lisa Rae."

Lisa Rae was crowned a Hollywood hit last year after her dreams became the next big thing.

Some girls laugh and wave their invitations in her face. You’ve got competition! they singsong.

Georgia Taylor sits across the aisle from me. She lies back, her knees pressed against the back of the seat in front, staring out the window. Normally, she’s up front, organising chaos and plotting pranks against teachers. I’ve never seen her so quiet. I suppose it’s because she didn’t receive an invitation.

I exit at my stop. Gillian waves at me as I get off the bus. I avoid her self-righteous grin. She must assume I’m not a contender, regardless of my invitation. She’s been with me when I’ve experienced these night terrors.

At Camp Mapleton last year, Gillian and I shared a cabin for a week. Every night I woke up suffocating, screaming for help. I could explain it away at first – just a bad dream – but when I woke with bruises circling my eyes, and two nights later broke a wrist mid-dream, Gillian asked to move cabins and the Principal called my father to collect me.

I feel as if the shadows follow me everywhere, torturing me. Proving their existence has been impossible, until now. I know they had something to do with my brother’s death, that somehow they must be real, and they were there that night.

My hand brushes against the gold card in my pocket, and I think of how this dream-mining could restore my family’s trust in me. I also think of Cynthia. I can’t forget the way she implored me to apply, as if her application depended on mine.

The streets in my suburb of Hamilton are narrow and steep. My home is at the very top, nearly half an acre of perfectly manicured gardens consumed by a white-rendered monstrosity with too many bedrooms and bathrooms.

I know other girls in school who live in this suburb, and their houses are similar, but I also know what their parents do for a living – bankers, lawyers, and property developers. None though, is a volunteer in their profession, like my father.

My father tells us our lifestyle, particularly our wealth, might buy us more opportunities, but it shouldn’t change us as people. I wish we could buy time. I’d buy back years for Liam. He was three years old when he died, I was thirteen, and it happened three years ago.

Bad things come in threes, I think.

*****

I strip off my uniform and change into my swimmers before going downstairs to find my mother in the kitchen with Nadia, our housekeeper. They’re busy preparing for tonight’s dinner party with the Medical Board of Innes.

The Cartier chandelier, my mother is saying, will need to be on display. I want it hung directly above the table, as a centrepiece, so I get that lovely little sparkle off the black dinner plates before the meal is served.

My mother is often reserved, polite, unreadable, but when she’s entertaining, a child creeps in. I hear it in her voice, see it in her mannerisms.

Hi, I say, light and airy. How was your day? I kiss her on the cheek and put an arm around her shoulder. As usual, she flinches, so I pull away.

Are you going to use the pool? Whenever she sees me in my swimmers, she looks me up and down, as if I’m going in there for first time since Liam’s death. Shouldn’t you be starting your study soon?

I have, I reply.

This is her routine, these questions every afternoon. I nod and wait for the next one.

Have you done your piano practise?

Not yet. I’ll do that after the swim.

Tennis?

Manning is in the UK for six weeks. On tour, remember?

That’s right, I forgot, she says. I hear her disappointment.

I’ll fit in some trampolining practice, I say. One of the few activities my mother has me pursue that I enjoy. I suspect she keeps me occupied so she doesn’t have to see me as often. Something that dates back to Liam’s death – she believes I’m solely responsible for the tragedy. Some days, she can’t even look me in the eye.

My sister Kristina walks out from the laundry behind the kitchen. Mum, I have found the perfect tablecloth! she says, her voice oozing delight. She’s holding it in her hands: pure white linen with a silver and gold embroidered pattern.

Oho! my mother says, her bright red lips turned up high at the corners. "I haven’t seen that in years. It’s perfect!"

Kristina looks at me, one eyebrow arched. And doesn’t all that gold remind you of something that happened today, Eden? Mum, wait till you hear all about it from Eden. I can’t believe she hasn’t mentioned it yet.

I don’t know what she’s angling at, not at first, and then I realise it’s because just last week she saw the rope burn on my wrists when the tailor fitted my new school gloves. She knows that I’m going to have some difficulty qualifying for the Story Makers’ auditions.

Mention what? I ask anyway.

Kristina lifts her chin. Her dark eyes are dancing. Don’t play dumb. I was there. I got one too.

An invitation? I’m genuinely surprised she received one, given so many didn’t, but I deflect candidly. Good for you.

Are you going to apply? she asks.

My mother is sitting back on the counter stool, hands in lap, watching this exchange. She’s moving her head from Kristina to me as we talk, her black curls shifting on her shoulders with each turn.

I don’t know yet.

Oh? Why not? my mother asks.

I haven’t mentioned the shadows again to my mother, not since the night Liam died.

I think she must be leaving her place for me, Kristina says. She spreads the tablecloth out across the kitchen counter. Why waste your time, right?

My mother returns to the conversation with my sister. I forgot I had this, darling, she says. Marvellous find. Then she turns to me. Will you be joining us tonight?

She has never invited me to this dinner. I have known about it for weeks, she has been planning it for months and my father talks about it all the time. It’s his best opportunity yet for direct monetary contributions, equipment and aid for the work he does with Medecins Sans Frontières.

I don’t know how to answer. Would I insult her if I said no, or offend her if I asked why? She knows how we struggle to be in the same room.

I have a massive history assignment due, I lie.

Very well. She goes back to flipping through a magazine, engrossed in the table-setting displays, while Nadia polishes the cutlery. Kristina fossicks through the refrigerator, sampling hors d’oeuvres. I don’t realise how hungry I am until I see her stuff those caviar tarts into her mouth. I start to walk through the French doors that lead from the kitchen into our backyard when my mother calls out, Your father will be home half an hour early today.

I continue walking. It’s difficult to ignore what she’s implying – that I will have more time to spend with him, but it’s just that I find him more supportive.

As I follow the grassed pathway to the pool, the overwhelming scent of gardenias is refreshing. I exhale deeply then inhale. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath since lunch.

The flowers remind me of Nan, the days we spent by the pool after Liam died, how she helped me plant them. We talked about so many things. How life is fragile. How family can be fleeting, which makes the memory of our loved ones that much more important.

She told me never to forget my brother. She told me that would be more difficult the older I grew because the brain is fickle, it easily forgets. Remember his giggle. Recall his eyes, his dimples.

You’ll find him again one day, she said. It may not be where you expect, but nothing is permanent, Eden. Of that, I’m sure.

I suppose she meant Heaven.

If I try hard enough now, I can feel his pinched baby hands grip my hair as he pulls me in close for a wet kiss. I can feel his arms around my neck, grasping for a hug, unaware of his own strength as I tell him to be gentle.

As I dive into the pool, the sudden rush of cold snaps me into action. I push through the images of the shadows, the terror of what they do to me in this pool, what it is I think they do, and I swim my heart out, trying to recall that night, always trying to recall that night.

But I can’t.

As hard as I try, I can’t recall anything about Liam’s drowning. I can’t remember how it all unfolded.

With my head under the water, I breathe out; let the bubbles rush to the surface. It’s all I hear.

I always wonder what Liam heard. Did he hear my parents call out to him when they first realised he was missing? Did he hear them scream when they traced his path, frantically following his soiled footprints across my bedroom carpet and through my balcony doors, to the pool?

What did my family see that I didn’t?

Soon, I’m pounding through the water with precision. I work through this question every day, in this pool. It’s here where I can face my guilt head-on and try to reconcile my brother’s death.

With direct strokes, I try to forget everything about that night, and remember something, all at the same time.

CHAPTER THREE

I dry off before walking through the entertainment area at the back of the house where Nadia strings white and gold paper lanterns under and around the stone pillars. The fragile candle cases sway back and forth in the light breeze.

Pretty, I say.

She smiles at me. How about I bring your peppermint tea up early?

Thanks, I reply, grateful for the thought.

As I climb the curved stairwell that leads from the kitchen to the upstairs foyer, I hear a light hum. Kristina sings a Tegan Ryan ballad, and it’s hard to tell which voice is that of the international pop star.

I pass her bedroom to get to my own and see her dressed in a royal blue strapless gown. Swinging her hips in front of the mirror, her long dark hair falls to her waist and moves as she moves. She turns to me with an indignant glare. I’m rehearsing.

No need to explain, I say.

Well, you’re probably going to need an explanation after I get through auditions and you don’t. You’ll have to explain to everyone how your little sister took first place. She adds, Again.

It’s her way of reminding me that while we both excel in many things she outdoes me in most. I do well at school, but she’s an A-plus student. I make the zones in sport, but she’s a district superstar. I sing in school musicals and she performs at international eisteddfods. I wish I could make her feel like she doesn’t hold any cards.

But maybe I’m not applying, I say.

Doesn’t matter what you do. I’m the one who’s going to be the star.

Well, I’ll congratulate you now. I try to hide the sarcasm, but it’s there, hanging in the hallway. I can’t count the number of times we’ve batted hurtful words back and forth like this. Some day, I would love to break the cycle.

Thanks, she says, but there’ll be plenty of time for that when I’m crowned winner.

Are you really thinking of doing this? I ask as I towel-dry my hair. It’s more to keep my hands from taking on a life of their own and accidentally strangling my sister.

Why wouldn’t I? This is an amazing opportunity. And isn’t that what we do? Seize opportunities? Our father’s words, not hers, and I think I hear cynicism.

How do you know what they really do?

I say the words realising that deep down, it’s probably how I feel about the Story Makers. How do they access our dreams, our subconscious minds? Can they access our memories, even the ones our family say we’ve repressed?

They don’t just make stories, Eden, they make stars. Dan Glades, Mary Harten, Jamie Lindon. She holds her fingers up, counts off each name. And there’s not one girl in our school who doesn’t want this. She steps towards me, crossing the threshold into the hallway. But there is one who probably wants it more than all of the others.

She doesn’t take her eyes off me. But your problem is you won’t be able to apply. You have nightmares – ones that come with injuries you can’t explain.

My hand is on the doorknob. I’m about to slam it closed, starve the air out of this spiteful space.

"The Story Makers have finally come to us. They are choosing us. And I’m going to take full advantage of this opportunity. Too bad you can’t."

Her hands are on her hips and she draws before I do. She slams her door shut, and I feel the air hit my face.

*****

Minutes later I hear another door close. My father is home.

I change into tracksuit pants and a t-shirt and re-enter the kitchen via the curved stairwell. Selecting his mug – the one embellished with my finger painting attempts from pre-school – I start on his cappuccino. It takes precisely 60 seconds for the coffee beans to grind, for the milk to heat and froth with the steam maker, with a few seconds at the end to perfect a pattern. Today, I’ve given him leaf-like swirls, the light and dark brown shades creating a three-dimensional effect in the foam. I set the mug on a saucer and take it to him.

Hey kiddo, he says, looking up from his desk at his coffee. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. A vision of Mary?

I laugh. I would have sold it on some online auction site if it was.

OK, then, he says, rubbing his chin, his fingers grazing the stubble. Is it a picture of some extinct animal? A Tasmanian tiger, perhaps?

I shake my head. I’m not a trained barista, Dad.

Then it must be an image of the most beautiful girl I know. His green eyes are smiling, his black cropped hair providing the contrast that highlights them.

Nope. And I’m not going to give you another chance. It’s a plant species. I don’t know which one. Maybe a fern.

He blows gently on the froth, the image I’ve created on the surface disappearing, before reclining in his chair and lighting a cigarette.

You’re smoking again? Since when?

I’ve a lot on my mind. Adults aren’t infallible, Eden.

He draws back, while absently running his fingers through a pile of white envelopes, like he’s flicking through a pack of cards.

Bills? I ask. It’s possible we could have big debts given our house, the school we go to, the activities we do.

My father hesitates. Just medical prescriptions I need to fill, that’s all.

He stops playing with the envelopes and picks up his coffee cup. So, what’s new in your world today?

The Story Makers came to town. I say it with a lilt in my voice, as if it’s the first few words of a Christmas jingle. I guess I’m feeling a little cynical after my conversation with Kristina.

My father stops sipping his coffee.

Too hot? I ask.

He shakes his head, sets the coffee cup down. The Story Makers? How do you know it was them?

The invitations dropped from the sky, and everyone went gaga. Honestly, I can’t believe how they turned into such a screaming, giggling mess. Or a crying mess, depending on whether they got an invitation.

Well, I’m not surprised, he says. You’ve all wanted this for so long, since they first advertised the idea. He says this more to himself, then rubs his temples with his forefingers.

Kristina got an invitation, I say. She’s going to apply.

Really? What could they possibly want with her?

I want to tell him her dreams of course, but he watches the news, reads the paper. He must know by now what the Story Makers do.

I got an invitation too.

He looks at me. You got an invitation? I can see his face has turned pale.

So, what do you think? I press. When he doesn’t answer and his face turns another shade of pale, I reach out and touch his shoulder.

Dad, are you OK?

His hand rests on mine. Big day, that’s all.

And a big night, I remind him.

Yes, he agrees. Look, I’ve got a few things I need to do before then, so is that all?

But you didn’t answer my question, I say.

And what was that?

He seems so preoccupied now that I feel like a child hassling him for a stupid candy bar.

What do you think of me entering the Story Makers’ auditions?

Not exactly what I asked a moment ago. I had just told him I had received an invitation, not that I was going to do anything with it.

He shakes his head. Well, I just assumed you wouldn’t. I mean, what about their fine print? he says. At what point in the application process do you intend to lie about your nightmares?

My father knows about the shadows because I told him the night of Liam’s death, when I saw them for the first time. Though now, when he refers to them as ‘nightmares’, I wonder if he finally feels the same way my mother does – that I probably concocted the shadows as an excuse, or that these shadows and the injuries they inflict is how I punish myself.

This is my chance to see for myself what happened that night.

It’s a morbid thing to say, but it’s impossible to let Liam rest in my heart when I don’t feel I have the closure I need.

My father leans forward. "Liam’s death was an accident, Eden. And I know your mother and Kristina, they say they witnessed it as something else, but I’ve said before that