by Kim Curran
The anchor’s head moves right to left, like he’s watching a tennis match. He’s loving this.
‘Because they’re not needed. You’re not listening, Jessica.’ She uses her name like an insult. ‘Our safe-sex programmes are working. And after the election we will ensure they keep working.’
‘Not for under-age—’
‘Dull.’ I wave a finger and move the channel on from the political ping-ponging. It’s an action film I must have seen at least five times, although have no idea what it’s actually about.
‘Duller.’
Another wave and it’s the news.
‘…the latest reports state that racial crime is at an all-time low—’ the newsreader has time to say before I give up and silence the TV by clenching my fist. I pull a pillow out from behind me and cover my face with it. I scream deep into the velvet covering.
Everything about today has been a failure. From my mock geography exam to the visit to Logan’s. I think about Ryan’s kiss and what it means and why it left me feeling so weird. Kiara would know. She would roll her eyes and tell me about her first kiss and how they’re always terrible. But I don’t want to burden her with all my petty crap. Not when she’s going through whatever it is she’s going through. Plus, I don’t want anyone to know. That’s what feels weirdest of all. I’ve dreamt about Ryan, about him smiling at me, kissing me, holding me, for years. And now it’s actually happened, I want to pretend it was only a dream again. I close my eyes tight, trying to block out the image of Ryan lunging for me, his tongue already protruding from of his mouth. It’s replaced with the image of Ethan’s school photo. That was a failure too, trying to find him. But at least, I have his surname.
I sit up and throw the pillow to the floor and concentrate on the screen again. I flick it to net mode and fire up a search bar. The keyboard is buried under a pile of books as we hardly use it any more and they slide to the floor as I pull the keyboard out.
ETHAN FISHER
I hit enter.
There are over a thousand results. Videos. Network feeds. Old Facebook profiles. But as I skip through them, none are him. I didn’t even know someone could exist without leaving a trail.
To make sure I’m not going mad, I key my own name into the search.
I fill the first page. After that, all the results are about Zizi, my name only popping up because of some line in an interview she’d given:
‘Zizi Quinn, single mother to daughter, Petri, and businesswoman extraordinaire...’
‘Zizi Quinn, Creative Director of WhiteInc, shares her slimming secrets that got her back into shape after giving birth to baby girl, Petri.’
I hit back, and back, wiping away the search for my name, returning it to my hunt for Ethan.
‘Where are you, Ethan Fisher?’ I say again.
‘Calling Ethan Fisher!’ A computerised voice announces gleefully through our speaker system. I’d forgotten about the voice control.
‘No!’ I shout, throwing a pillow at the screen.
‘Call failed,’ the computer says, sounding sad. ‘Would you like to send an email?’
Before I can answer, it launches the email programme. There’s an email waiting for me.
From: [email protected]
Subject line: Hi
To: [email protected]
Hey!
I wanted to call you, but I realised I didn’t have your number. Then I went to slide you and I was like all, doh! Like that’s going to work. Then I thought, EMAIL!
So, here I am emailing you to say hi. So… hi!
I also wanted to say how much I enjoyed earlier and how much I’m looking forward to doing it again!!! ;)
You’re not like other girls. It’s like I can actually be me when I’m around you. Don’t know if that makes any sense. Don’t even know if you’ll get this! Does anyone even check email any more!? I hope you do.
Anyway. I’m counting down the hours till I see you again! Till tomorrow!!
R xxx
A wave of nausea passes through me, although I’m not sure if it’s from the overuse of exclamation marks or the mouldy cheese.
‘What’s wrong with you, Petri?’ I ask out loud. I wanted this. I wanted Ryan to like me, but now he does, all I want to do is run away.
Zizi told me once that romantic love was an illusion dreamt up by poets, packaged by psychiatrists and sold to us by the media—to keep us all searching for unattainable happiness. The only love that truly matters in the end, she’d said, was love of self. ‘The only person who can make you happy, Petri, is you.’
Which offers precisely zero comfort when you’re crying over another Valentine’s Day without any cards.
It wasn’t like I was going to take any advice on my love life from her anyway. Not when the only way she was able to have a baby was to place an order via the net.
Max, on the other hand, said you had to fight for love. That like all the important things in life, it comes with a struggle. He’d fought for every ounce of success he’d ever had. Max never knew his father, like me. Although, unlike me, it was because whoever his father had been left his mother before he was born. His mother left soon after, leaving him in a care home when he was only two.
‘I never had a family, Petri,’ he’d said. ‘So you know what? I went out and made myself one.’
At the time, I thought he’d meant me and Zizi. But I know now he meant Glaze.
The pain over the ban hits me again, fresh and raw. It will be years before I’m part of Max’s family. Before I’m part of anything.
I roll off the sofa and start to drag myself upstairs when there’s another ping from the screen. Another email from Ryan. This time, it’s a solitary link to a website and the line:
SHIT! Think you might want to take Logan up on his offer!! X
I click the link. After I’ve finished reading, I really do think I’m going to be sick.
I read the article again and again, not wanting to believe it. I turn the screen off, unable to look at it any more. Maybe it’s a hoax? I pull my tab out of my bag and search for the news, this time via my usual, trusted channels. It’s true. But it can’t be.
I throw the tab across the room and it hits the wall, making the flower pattern image warp for a moment. Then I bury my head under the pillow and sob into the darkness.
I must have fallen asleep like that—face pressed into the sofa, knees bent under me—because the next thing I know, there’s a rattle at the door and grey, pre-dawn light is breaking through the windows.
Zizi opens the door and takes off her coat. She’s wearing her work suit, only it looks crumpled and sweat-stained like she’s been wearing it for days. She must have been working all night.
‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ she croaks, seeing me standing in the hallway.
‘Have you seen this?’ I say, almost slicing Zizi’s finger off as I thrust my tab into her hands.
The article is already open on the screen.
‘CITIZEN CHIP PROMISES TO GET COUNTRY BACK ON TRACK’
‘Petri, what have I told you about—’
‘Read it!’ I yell, not in the mood for another of her lectures on keeping my temper in check.
She takes the merest of glances at the headline. ‘Citizen chip? Oh, that’s a terrible pun.’
‘This isn’t a joke, Mother. They’re saying only those on Glaze will be able to vote.’
She turns away and heads for the kitchen. ‘I’ve been working for 22 hours straight, Petri. I need coffee.’
I race after her. ‘Citizen cards and Glaze all rolled up in one. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? This was your idea!’
‘No,’ she says, offended. ‘Not really. My idea was to encourage a higher turnout in the elections by enabling people to vote through Glaze. I never said that it should be compulsory. And it won’t be introduced till the next election anyway.’ She pours a mug of coffee from the maker, picks up a knife and starts cutting a grapefruit into chunks.
‘W
hat about this?’ I say, prodding the bit in the article that really terrified me. ‘It says anyone with a record won’t be able to get on Glaze, ever? What about that?’
‘Well, you don’t have a record, Petri. Which is precisely why I didn’t take the matter to court, despite your screaming.’
‘But they say even a CDO will keep you off for life.’
‘Oh do “they”? Well, I think I know a little more about what’s going on with Glaze network than “they” do.’ I don’t believe her. She’s hiding something.
‘You have to do something! No, don’t give me that look, I know you can. And if you can’t, Max sure as hell can.’
She makes a non-committal grunt and I’m close to tearing the knife off her and impaling it through her hand. I take another deep breath and count to ten like my counsellor said. It barely helps.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I can wait till I’m 21. But you have to promise me that it’s not for life!’
She sidesteps me, reaching for a plate. She’s refusing to meet my eyes.
‘You can’t stand by and let this happen. What about your suffragettes? What would they say?’
‘Come off it, Petri. Don’t pretend you actually care about politics.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘Tell me one of the policies of either of the parties running for election then.’
‘I... I... That’s not what matters,’ I say, stupidly as she stares at me with that faux-patient smile she always uses when she thinks I’m acting like a brat.
She lays the knife down and pops a lump of the pale yellow flesh into her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Petri. But there’s nothing I can do.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ I scream, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. ‘You can’t! You can’t take my future away.’
The room goes foggy as tears of rage cloud my eyes. I wipe them away with the cuff of my jumper.
‘Petri, use a tissue,’ Zizi says, like I’m still six.
A stillness comes over me. The rage slips away. And that’s when I decide, staring at the back of her head as she makes coffee, that I hate her. Truly hate her. Like I’ve never hated another human being in my life. It’s also when I decide that I’m going to give Logan what he wants.
Her DNA in return for my freedom. Fine.
If he wants, he can have her blood.
11
I FOLLOW ZIZI AROUND for the next few days, waiting for an opportunity. I check chairs after she’s stood up, scour her pillow in the morning, looking for a hair or something I can use. But she’s had her hair cropped recently so it’s no good. I even steal a half-eaten sushi roll, wondering if there might be enough DNA on that. But it starts to smell in my bag, so I throw it away.
If my behaviour is strange, she doesn’t notice it. We’re not talking. Me because I’m so angry with her I can hardly look at her without flying off into another red-hazed rage, her because she’s so busy with some new product launch.
Finally, on Friday morning, as I’m getting ready for school, I get my chance.
Zizi and I meet in the upstairs hallway. She’s coming out of the bathroom as I’m about to go in.
‘Morning!’ she says brightly, like everything’s fine between us. ‘You’re up early.’
‘I’m up at the same time I am always up, Mother.’ I’m refusing to call her Zizi and it’s driving her crazy. ‘Which you would know if you’d ever bothered to check what time I have to be at school.’
She opens her mouth to respond, but I push past her and lock the bathroom door behind me. Mist fills the room, condensation blocking out the mirrors and the windows.
I approach the cabinet above the sink and wipe the mirror clean, revealing a streaky reflection. I hardly recognise myself. I’m pale. Even paler than normal. My eyes look sunken and there are dark rings that no amount of concealer is going to hide.
Not surprising given I’ve not slept properly in days. Each night since the news about the Citizen Chip was announced I’ve tossed and turned, rage and frustration filling my limbs with hot energy. My head is a storm of angry thoughts, like wasps caught in a jar. It’s not fair, I keep thinking, over and over, till it burns a track in my brain and starts to sound like it’s someone else’s voice playing in my head rather than me thinking it. Worst of all, I know what Zizi would say if I spoke those three words out loud. ‘Life never is.’
The condensation covers the mirror once more, taking my reflection away.
With a squeaking finger, I draw two crosses where my eyes should be and give myself a big smile. A dead smile.
I sigh and turn to the shower. Lying in the plug hole, winking up at me, is a single, dark curled hair.
I initially recoil and open my mouth to scream at Zizi for not running the cleaning program after her shower. Then I stop.
Whatever it takes, I say to myself. I pluck the hair from the drain. It’s thick and more like a wire than a hair, like something from a metal scrubbing brush.
I place it within a square of toilet paper, which I fold over three times and then place in the pocket of my dressing gown. And have my shower.
You’re right, I think, life isn’t fair.
Logan buzzes me in before I even open my mouth. I called him straight after my shower. It took him about ten rings to finally answer, and when he did, it took him even longer to remember who I was. It wasn’t till I reminded him of my mother’s name that he told me to come over straight away.
The elevator is out of order, so I have to walk up the seven flights of stairs. I’m hot and sticky by the time I get to the top.
Room 1701 is in exactly the same place as it was last time I came; the far end of the corridor. I don’t know why I’m surprised, but there’s something about this place that makes you believe rooms could move and vanish.
I go to knock on the door, but it swings open revealing a tall girl with short spiky hair, a silver stud in her upper lip and an angry expression.
She turns and shouts back into the room. ‘You are not your brother, Logan. Don’t forget that.’
‘Thanks for reminding me!’ Logan roars from behind her.
The girl steps forward and bangs into me, noticing me for the first time. She looks me up and down, and doesn’t appear impressed.
‘Well? Are you going to kiss me, or get out of my way?’ she says.
I fluster and step aside. She tuts loudly and heads straight for the exit.
‘Wait, let’s talk about this!’ Logan calls after her. He’s standing in the doorway with his little dog tucked under his arm. Its eyes stare up at me, bulging like they’re fit to explode. Finally he turns to me. ‘You brought it?’
I nod. He grins.
‘Hey, Corina! Forget that. I won’t need you after all. I got my own way in.’
Logan places his hand on my shoulder. Corina turns back and looks from Logan to me. I swear, if looks could kill I’d be six feet under. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she has a chance to say anything, Logan pulls me into the room, slamming the door behind us. I don’t know who that girl was, but I’m glad there’s now a solid door between her and me.
Logan guides me into the room. We’re not alone. Three kids are sitting around the coffee table.
‘If you have company, I can come back later.’ It’s a total lie. It took all my willpower to come here this time. I know if I leave now, I’ll never come back.
The kids look at me, grinning cruelly at my grey school uniform. I wish I’d worn casual clothes. But then Zizi might have asked questions about why I was bunking off again and I couldn’t bring myself to even look at her. Not with what I was about to do. I’d emailed school a fake sick note, hoping they don’t think it weird Zizi didn’t slide it to them. Hoping they don’t think to contact her to double check. She’s so busy with her new campaign that maybe even if they do she won’t have time to reply.
‘It’s ice,’ Logan says. ‘They’re my comrades-in-arms.’
He gestures to the two boys and a girl. One o
f the boys and the girl have to be twins; identical clothing, identical pale, almost albino faces, wearing identical expressions of mistrust. The only thing telling them apart is that the girl has long hair and the boy has his cropped. Logan’s third comrade is a slim boy with messed-up hair, dark eyes and a shark smile.
‘I know you,’ the kid with the shark smile says, a long thin finger pointed at me. He clicks his fingers, like he’s trying to make the memory come to his bidding. ‘You’re the one from the riot.’ He turns to his mates. ‘She was all like, no, don’t do it, you’re all so terrible,’ he says, in a squeaking voice, which I guess is supposed to be an imitation of me. ‘And I was all like “screw you, bitch” and boom!’ He mimes throwing a bottle over his head.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I say, fighting the instinct to turn around and run away from him and this place. His eyes are no longer completely black, but they still scare me. ‘You’re the one who throws like a girl.’
Logan and the twins laugh.
‘Burn, Skank!’ the twin with the short hair says in a high-pitched voice and I realise that I was wrong. He is a she. I look closer at her long-haired twin and realise that she is a he. I wonder if they’ve done this with their hair on purpose. To trick people?
Bottle-boy has gone red in the face. ‘My name is Shank. When is anyone around here going to get that?’ He throws himself back onto the sofa, muttering under his breath.
‘So, Petri. What have you brought me?’ Logan says, stroking Proxy’s ears.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the crumpled ball of tissue paper. Logan goes to snatch it out of my hand, but I’m faster.
‘First, the deal. I want on to Glaze. And I want the CDO wiped.’
‘No problem.’
‘And I want it now. No more waiting. I want to be sixteen. Now. You can do that, can’t you? Fix my files?’
