Hopelessly Devoted to Heathcliff 2: Owl League, #1

Claudia Lennox 1

Everything went quiet . I should have been suspicious. The library door opened and I nearly crashed into Mum. She wasn’t a dream doctor, but she was still allowed to go to dream doctor meetings even though I wasn’t. It wasn’t fair.

‘Claudia, would you please stop eavesdropping?’ she said, glaring at me.

Dr Gruber was glaring down at me from her portrait above the fireplace of Professor Syx’s library like she disapproved of my eavesdropping too. I knew Mum wouldn’t believe any excuses I made up, so I told her the truth. ‘I want to read the case you were all discussing.’

‘No,’ said Mum. ‘You’re far too young to be involved. Besides, you have too much homework to do.’

‘You should let her help, Gemma,’ said Professor Syx. He was standing in the middle of the library, staring into space like he always did when he was partly somewhere else. ‘You can’t protect her forever.’

‘It’s bad enough being forced to raise her without her father,’ said Mum and she stormed off down the hall towards our tower.

‘You know what, Claudia?’ said Dr Woo, getting up from her armchair. She was a dream doctor like Professor Syx and she liked to wear owl hats even when she was indoors. She was wearing her favourite knitted one now. ‘I have this weird feeling we’ve missed something in Grace’s case, only I can’t quite put my finger on it. Don’t worry, I’ll convince your mum to let you help, just in a really basic non-threatening way.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, trying not to be too hopeful because Mum was the most stubborn person I knew. I followed Dr Woo down the hall into our tower and up the stairs to the top floor. The tower was three storeys tall and attached to the side of Professor Syx’s house.

Dr Woo went to Mum’s study where Mum wrote her novels about parallel universes and I went to my bedroom and listened near my door. I couldn’t hear a word.

Finally, just when I couldn’t stand it any longer and I was about to barge into Mum’s study, Dr Woo came to my bedroom.

‘Well, Claudia,’ she said. ‘I convinced her you need to improve your analytical skills, so she’s letting you read the case. But that’s all.’

‘Yay!’ I did a victory dance in the middle of the room. Reading the case was better than nothing. Everyone always thought it was too dangerous for me to be involved in dream doctor work, like I was nine years old and not a very mature and responsible fourteen. At last I would be helping.

‘Professor Syx downloaded the case from Grace Trindale’s mind into a crystal with her permission’ said Dr Woo. ‘This is the transcript.’ She downloaded the case onto my e-tablet from her e-tablet, that she calls Fiona. My e-tablet doesn’t have a name. ‘See what you can pick up about Jesse Barraclough, even though he doesn’t come up until halfway through the case. Grace was my confidential client, so only talk about the case to other dream doctors.’

‘And their trainees?’ I asked.

‘That should be fine.’

Dr Woo adjusted her owl hat. ‘You also need to be alert for clues about what Dr Hellermann could be planning next.’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘You may be interested to know that Grace fell in love with a guy she called Heathcliff 2 and that she had some problems in Wuthering Heights. She and her friends were huge fans of the movie, Grease.’

‘You know I’m a huge fan of Grease too.’

‘Isn’t everybody? I’d better get back to my clients.’

After Dr Woo had left my room, humming, Hopelessly Devoted To You, she was replaced by Mum.

Mum sighed. ‘How often have I told you to wear something more lady-like instead of those shapeless flannel shirts and jeans?’

‘Every day.’ For some reason, Mum seemed to think being dressed up like a princess was really important even though she hardly ever left the house herself. I supposed I looked a bit like her. Or maybe I looked a bit more like Dad. I didn’t really know because we had hardly any photos of him. Mum was taller than me and her brown hair was thicker and wavier than mine and she always wore it in a bun. She was wearing an immaculate brown suit without a single wrinkle in it. She looked like a super-efficient secretary even though she’d never worked in an office. ‘At least Dr Woo trusts me.’

‘Goodness knows why,’ she said. ‘I still think it’s too dangerous for you to be involved, but Lillian’s offered to take full responsibility if anything goes wrong. Now, you know I don’t trust Daniella Ostermann and I don’t want you accepting any more souvenirs from her. Do you understand?’

‘OK,’ I said, only to stop her nagging me. She was the one who didn’t understand that I was collecting Daniella’s souvenirs because of Dad.

As soon as she left, I sat at my desk and found the case on my e-tablet. Straightaway I changed its name from Grace Trindale to Hopelessly devoted to Heathcliff 2.

This was my chance to prove to everyone, especially Mum, that I was dream doctor material.

Section 1

305 Cools

Iturned over the pages of my essay on the topic, Heathcliff and the First Cathy’s relationship. Discuss its symbolic nature .

I looked at my mark.

0.

The red egg shape was right at the top of the page, beside my name, Grace Trindale, waiting to hatch even more failure. The word average wasn’t in sight.

I wished I was my favourite character, Freya, Girl Detective and very bad Relationship Adviser, because then I would have been climbing up a precarious ladder to enter a house and search for clues to solve a murder instead of trying to unmask my father.

Not that I was surprised I’d received zero for my essay since I hadn’t bothered reading Wuthering Heights properly. I’d used the word cool in nearly every sentence and Dad had circled every one in red. It must have taken him days. This proved he really did read my essays and that he didn’t automatically give me 68% as soon as he saw my name. This proved I was genuinely average and I deserved every 68% he’d ever branded me with in Year 9 English. He’d given both my friends, Astrid Cranley and Zoe Fulton 83%.

The laminated wood of the desk under my essay was scarred with initials and love hearts like a relief map of hope and happiness. Even though I hadn’t read Wuthering Heights, I did know from the internet that it was one of the most romantic books in English literature ever and that Heathcliff was one of the most brooding passionate heroes of all time as voted for by readers. If only I had my very own real-life Heathcliff, I wouldn’t have felt so average and I could have carved our initials into the desk, GT 4 H, for all eternity too. Or until the school bought new desks.

The bell ended the torture of English at last.

Dad stared around at the class with his piercing brown eyes. His voice boomed out over the scraping chairs. ‘OK, everyone, don’t forget our school fundraiser is on soon. Ideas for Year 9’s contribution are due by the end of school on Monday, otherwise we’re performing a scene from Shakespeare. The other years have started their rehearsals already.’

Calliope Presley-Prince’s arm shot up into the air from opposite the teacher’s desk. ‘Mr T, can we do a production of Grease with Saint Martins Boys’ High?’

‘No, we can’t. Grace Trindale, I need to talk to you. Now.’

‘We’ll wait for you in the hall,’ Astrid said to me.

Picking up my schoolbag, I approached the teacher’s desk, feeling as if I was about to perform embarrassing boy band moves on stage like we had for last year’s fundraiser, choreographed by Calliope Presley-Prince.

I was the third Trindale daughter and the youngest. The word average was a good description of me and Dad. He was named William after William Shakespeare. In my first English class with him, I’d accidentally called him Dad. Ever since then I’d vowed never to repeat that humiliation. He was an average height for a man, with average stockiness. I was an average height for a school-age teenager. We both had averagely brown-blond straight hair, except Dad’s was short and slightly balding, while mine reached to my shoulders and I had a fringe. I felt like my whole family was doomed to averageness for life.

Dad crossed his arms. ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’

I recognised the quote from King Lear. I’d heard it a few times already over the years. ‘I know Shakespeare’s always right, but ...’

‘That was a 1,500 word essay and 305 of those words were the word cool. Look, while none of us will ever be Shakespeare, your work is usually ...’

‘Average.’

‘Competent I was about to say. There’s nothing wrong with being average, but this essay was just ...’

‘Drivel.’

‘Even Vim Neuelangehosen would have done a better job. If you want to be a writer one day, this isn’t the way to go about it.’

Vim Neuelangehosen was a genetically enhanced chimp created by Julius, Junior Genius Inventor from the children’s book series of the same name written by Gladys R Peabody. Gladys R Peabody also wrote the Freya, Girl Detective and very bad Relationship Adviser series. Freya was my favourite series. Gladys R Peabody was holding a writing workshop for high school students during the school holidays and I was determined to go. I’d wanted to be a writer ever since I was nine when I read my first Julius, Junior Genius Inventor book. Gladys R Peabody had a lot to answer for. Vim Neuelangehosen once randomly typed the entire works of Shakespeare on a computer. Dad was right. Even Vim would have received at least 80%.

‘Dad, I still don’t understand why you always give me the same mark for my essays, no matter how much work I put into them. Apart from this one.’

‘Grace, be satisfied with 68%. Your sisters never complained. There’s nothing wrong with being reliably and consistently average. If you don’t set your goals too high, you’ll sail through life without any dramas. I expect better work from you when we start studying Macbeth next week.’

I nodded. I knew he didn’t want to admit that instead of average, he really meant mediocre.

He picked up his books from the teacher’s desk and stopped, staring at the door. ‘How may I help you?’

A woman was standing in the doorway. She was wearing a brown and white woollen beanie with an owl face sewn on it in felt. Her huge round glasses made her eyes huge and owl-like too. She was Asian and looked too young to be the mother of high school students. She was probably a new teacher, trying to bond with the students through her quirky hat. ‘Hi, Mr Trindale, I’m Dr Lillian Woo. I know this will sound weird, but we’ve received a message from your father. I tracked you down here on the internet and –’

‘My father died over twenty years ago, Ms Woo,’ said Dad. ‘And the internet isn’t infallible. You’ve clearly tracked down the wrong William Trindale. My father has no messages for me.’

‘No, the internet didn’t get it wrong this time. We –’

‘You’re trespassing, Ms Woo.’

‘OK, I’m going. In case you change your mind and you want to find out your father’s message, here’s my card.’ She placed a business card on the teacher’s desk and hurried out of the classroom.

‘Don’t say a word about what just happened,’ said Dad to me. ‘I intend to work out a proper punishment for you for that essay.’ He threw the card in the bin and left the room too.

I sighed. I hoped he wouldn’t ground me for a whole week, because I’d never been grounded for that long before. I reached into the bin and picked up Dr Woo’s business card from a magazine about teen idols. A logo of an owl was on the card and underneath were the words, Dr Lillian Woo, qualified in the Gruber Dream Method. Follow your dreams to find solutions to your problems! I did have a lot of problems, including being average, and I did want to find out what Grandpa Oliver’s message was, so I put the card in my pocket.

I found my friends waiting for me in the hallway.

‘What did that woman in the owl hat want?’ asked Astrid. She was the tallest out of my friends and had long straight red hair and very pale skin like a romantic heroine in a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Not that this made any difference to her because she only believed in science.

I handed her the business card. ‘Her name’s Dr Woo, and she has a message for Dad from my dead grandfather. Dad told her she was trespassing.’

‘Dream therapy, what a load of rubbish,’ said Astrid, shoving the card at Zoe.

‘What if she can cure my averageness?’ I said. ‘And what if Grandpa Oliver’s message is important?’

‘She got into a pink VW in the teachers’ parking lot and drove off,’ said Zoe. She read the card and handed it back to me. ‘I wonder if dream therapy could help me put on weight. I might even stop looking like some kind of drug addict.’ She was Anglo on her mother’s side and Greek on her father’s, although she only had her mother’s word for it, because she’d never met her father. Her hair was dark and frizzy and her skin olive. She had a problem most people would love to have. She was thin and couldn’t put on a single gram of weight no matter how much she ate.

‘Don’t you dare contact Dr Woo, Grace,’ said Astrid, narrowing her eyes at me. ‘She’s an adult who wears an owl hat.’

‘Personally, I liked the hat.’

With its googly eyes, the owl on the business card seemed to be challenging me to fly off on an adventure. I kind of believed in ghosts. On psychic TV programs the dead often communicated with their living relatives. It couldn’t possibly hurt to find out Grandpa Oliver’s message. Using my mobile phone, I dialled the phone number on the card.

Section 2

115 Zebras

We were all at the Zebra Café, mugs of hot chocolate on the table in front of us along with a slice of chocolate mud cake dissected precisely into four by Astrid. Our other friend, Rita Nguyen, had also decided to protect me from Dr Woo.

I flipped open my notebook. I’d bought it yesterday at the supermarket as soon as Mum told me about the Gladys R Peabody writing workshop. Places were limited, so Gladys R Peabody would be selecting the participants who submitted the best piece of writing. By taking notes, I would really be honing my writing skills.

Dr Woo is sitting at a table on the other side of the café with another woman, whose untidy grey-brown hair trails down the back of her out-of-date brown leather jacket. The woman is kind of hunched over. Unfortunately, they’re too far away for me to hear what they’re saying.

‘Shouldn’t a therapist have an office?’ said Astrid.

‘Maybe she really likes zebras,’ I said. I liked them myself. Plenty of paintings of zebras surrounded us on the walls, 115 zebras in total, the street number of the café. Right now we were sitting underneath a zebra knitting a penguin. I noticed Calliope Presley-Prince out of a window. I made some more notes in my notebook.

Calliope Presley-Prince is in the paved plaza next to the café with a guy from St Martins Boys’ High. He’s tall and thin, and his shaggy blond hair hangs to his shoulders. He’s grabbed her around the waist and is trying to caber-toss her. Cabers are usually as long as a tall tree, but since Calliope is compact and bonsai size with shiny chestnut brown hair cut in a bob, she’s much easier to caber-toss than a real caber. She always signs her name with two crowns linked together at the sides, one for Elvis Presley, the King, and one for Prince, even though she isn’t related to rock royalty. She’s only lived in Sydney for just over a year. Before that she lived in Melbourne and before that she lived in Brisbane. Before that she lived in Adelaide and before that she lived in Hobart.

‘Where does Calliope find these guys?’ I asked, wondering what it would be like to be caber-tossed. Unfortunately, I only saw myself landing on the ground in a heap. ‘I thought she didn’t have a boyfriend anymore.’

‘That guy’s not her boyfriend,’ said Astrid. ‘But he wants to be.’

‘She’s so lucky she’s allowed to talk to boys,’ said Rita with a sigh. She was Vietnamese and her black hair hung in plaits on either side of her face and she wore black-rimmed glasses. The only reason her father even let her come to