GLAZE

by Kim Curran

  With an angry flick, he pulls his hood up over his head and storms away. Leaving me standing in the rain, with only a rat for company, my face burning and my head pounding.

  14

  TWENTY-TWO HOURS. Twenty-two hours and 26 minutes down. They have been the longest hours of my life.

  I was drenched by the time I made it home.

  ‘I’m not even going to ask,’ Zizi said, when she greeted me by the front door. She threw me a white towel and told me to stop dripping on the Afghan. I’d crawled up stairs, pulled my clothes off and thrown myself on my bed. And started to count.

  Now, back in school, I have one hour and 34 minutes to go. I rattle a pen back and forth between my teeth, like a metronome counting down the seconds. Tick tock. Tap tap.

  ‘Can you stop that?’ Paul Taylor, my geography partner says, scowling at me.

  Till the end of class, I think, ignoring Paul. Till class is over and then I’ll turn it on.

  I can sense the switch in my mind. I’ve been prodding at it, like a hole in a tooth, resisting the temptation to let down the drawbridge. I can almost feel the flow of information behind it, like a dam holding back an ocean.

  The school grounds outside the window are deserted. In a matter of minutes it will be swarming with chatter. I decide I can’t wait any more. I flick the switch.

  A swirling pattern of rainbows explodes in front of my eyes, they chase each other till they form three dots making out the shape of a triangle. The logo of the corporation and the network they designed.

  // WELCOME TO GLAZE. //

  The welcome message appears as an overlay between me and an image of Miss Whittaker, who is pointing out something on a map of the world. I’ve used overlay lenses before, of course, although they gave me headaches. I thought Glaze would be like that. Or maybe like the logo overlay I saw after the blank was first fitted; faint and a little annoying. But it’s more than that. It’s like the message and the logo exist in the real world, not just placed over it. If I wanted to, I could reach out and touch those words.

  After a few seconds a second line of text appears.

  // WELCOME, PETRA. //

  My heart swells. It recognises me. Or at least, the person I’m pretending to be.

  The writing disappears leaving a small spark of light I know to be the cursor. Focus your mind on that pinpoint and move it. Apparently, after a while, the cursor disappears as you gain total control over your feed. But to start it’s there to guide you. It twinkles at me, like Tinkerbell.

  I focus on moving it toward the triangles hovering over Miss Whittaker’s face.

  It’s hesitant at first. Moving left when I mean right. But slowly, it creeps towards the three dots. I blink, registering my command. The triangles disappear and then...

  Nothing.

  Only the classroom and Miss Whittaker, who’s now holding up a lump of rock.

  It hasn’t worked.

  I look over at Amy who’s staring out of the window. If everything was working I should now be matching her face to Glaze’s database, pulling up her profile and giving me the option of adding her to my feed. Nothing. She sighs as she gazes out at the school grounds. I look around the classroom, focusing on person after person, object after object. Still nothing is happening. Dave Carlton is picking his nose and flicking it at the back of the girl in front of him, Pippa and Karl are holding hands under the table. Karl places her hand on his groin and she pulls it away, before hitting him playfully. But nothing is registering with Glaze. There’s just a loud buzzing in my head.

  Maybe I’ve activated it too soon? Maybe Logan double-crossed me and it was all for nothing?

  Then I remember. The blocker. Of course I can’t access it in the classroom.

  I’m on my feet before I even know I’m doing it.

  ‘Petri?’ Miss Whittaker says.

  ‘Oh, I need the bathroom,’ I say, scooping up my bag and running for the door.

  There’s a chuckle in the class and Dave Carlton says, ‘Pee-Pee-Tri’.

  It’s hardly genius as insults go, but it earns a few laughs. Proof of how boring our geography class is. I don’t care.

  I smile at Dave as I pass him. ‘Good one, Dave.’ He looks disappointed I’m not in tears.

  I race out the classroom door and down the corridor, the soles of my shoes squeaking on the newly-polished floors. The exit is up ahead. I chuck my bag through the metal detector, pick it up again, and throw open the double doors to the yard.

  I skid to a stop a few feet away from the small fence that designates the play area and where I know I’ll be out of the blocker’s range. I take a step forward.

  The buzzing in my head lessens and I take another step, over the fence and onto the grass, my shoes crunching on the rain-coated blades.

  I look up at the sky.

  // IT IS CURRENTLY 12ºC WITH A NORTHWESTERLY WIND. 98% CHANCE OF RAIN. TEMPERATURES DROPPING TO BELOW FREEZING TONIGHT BUT A BRIGHT AND SLIGHTLY WARMER DAY IS EXPECTED TOMORROW. //

  I’m hit by a wave of relief and so much joy that I can hardly stand it. I’m on.

  I watch a large cloud pass by overhead and text follows it as it moves across the sky.

  // CUMULONIMBUS CLOUD. //

  A plane cuts through the cloud leaving vapour trails and more information in its wake.

  // FLIGHT B4562 TO NEW YORK. CRUISE SPEED OF MACH 0.85. 354 PASSENGERS ON BOARD. MR J. BLACKNER IN SEAT NUMBER 1A. MR S. JONES IN SEAT 1B. STACY LAMB IN SEAT 2A ... //

  Name after name flows out of the tail of the plane. And my first slide:

  // ON MY WAY TO NYC BABY! OH, I SHOULD PROBABLY HAVE THE FLIGHT-SAFE MODE SWITCHED ON. OOOPS! LOVE YOU LOADS, SUGAR PLUM. CAN’T WAIT TO SNUGGLE YOU ALL UP! //

  An image of a huge pair of lips looms out of the sky at me, glistening with too much lipstick.

  The message is so unexpected and so clearly not meant for me that I wince and raise my hand to fend off the incoming kiss.

  The alarm bell rings behind me. Seconds later kids pour out of the doorways and race onto the grass. Messages pour off them.

  // BO-RING. SO GLAD THAT’S OVER. //

  // SEE YA AT THE SHOP LATER? //

  // THE ONLY THING THAT SUCKS HARDER THAN SCHOOL IS MRS MCKENZIE. AND I SHOULD KNOW. ;) //

  As well as the slides, there are so many images that I can’t see the building in front of me any more. They slide pictures to each another; trading experiences—past and future. In every image they’re laughing, having the times of their lives: girls running through train stations wearing top hats, boys racing after them feather boas flapping; faces pressed in against each other as they all squeeze into the fun; photos taken of crowds at gigs. As I track across each face the focus of the image shifts bringing them into sharper focus, making each person the centre of the shot, the centre of the experience. Each frozen moment looks like it’s been taken on a glorious autumn day; golden and saturated with sunshine. Memories trapped in amber.

  ‘I’m on!’ I scream, punching the air. ‘I’m on!’

  A group of kids have stopped and they’re watching me, sliding comments from one to the other and laughing.

  ‘On acid,’ someone says.

  // ACID. BLOTTER. CHEER. UNICORN JUICE. SLANG FOR LYSERGIC ACID DIETHYLAMIDE, ABBREVIATED ‘LSD’, IS A SEMI-SYNTHETIC PSYCHEDELIC DRUG KNOWN FOR ITS PSYCHOLOGICAL... //

  This is amazing. This is everything I thought it would be. A world of knowledge a thought away. I feel a part of everything and everyone.

  ‘Better together,’ I say, giggling. Damn right.

  My schoolmates have stopped staring cruelly and are now laughing, not at me, but with me.

  ‘You’re so funny, Petri,’ they’re saying. And ‘crazy Petri’. It’s kind. Fond almost. Like I’m one of them. Even though I know my account doesn’t register for them, it’s like they know somehow that I’ve joined the Glaze family.

  I smile around at everyone, catching names of people I’ve never met, learning more about peopl
e I thought I already knew. What they like, love and hate. Their birthdays, star signs, favourite cheeses. Their clothes and where they bought them are tagged along with their names. I should be able to add all of them to my feed, to see what they’re up to all the time, but I can’t work out how to do it. That’s OK. I’ve got time.

  The assembled group fades away, off to catch their rides home and I’m left standing in front of the school on my own.

  ‘OK, Glaze,’ I say. ‘Let’s see what you can do.’

  I race out the school gates.

  The company van is waiting to take me and a couple of the other kids from the compound back home. The driver looks at me through the tinted glass, impatient to be off. Tom, the boy from number ten, is sitting behind the driver, tapping an invisible watch on his wrist. But I’m not going home. Not when there’s a whole world to explore.

  I wave at the driver, telling him to go and not bother waiting.

  // FRANK BENNETT, 36, SINGLE, WHITEINC CHAUFFEUR... //

  I never knew his name. I never even bothered to ask. He was just the driver. The man who arrived each morning to take me to school and each afternoon to take me home. He’s not even a driver really: Glaze takes cares of the actual driving and navigating through the streets. He’s there to open and close the doors and to make sure we behave. A backup in case Glaze goes down, which it never does.

  I got him in to trouble last week, when I took off with Ryan without telling him. But it doesn’t seem like he’s going to hold it against me. Frank tips his cap and starts up the engine.

  The van pulls into the flow of traffic. Cars hum past, drivers staring into Glaze rather than the road ahead, letting the car do its thing. I focus on a blue car. My feed tells me it’s a Toyota Proxius, three years old, full warranty, but the driver has three points on his licence. Which means he must have turned Glaze off at some point and driven on his own, because there’s no way a hooked car could break any traffic laws. It disappears around a corner, taking this little mystery with it.

  I can see the make and model and history of every car in the street. Boring, I think. I need to test Glaze on something bigger, something more meaningful.

  I walk down the street, registering the name of every person who walks past me, every tree, shrub and insect scurrying through the leaves along the way.

  I walk past a building, which is broadcasting information about the next election.

  // HOW WILL YOU DECIDE? REGISTER TO VOTE NOW! //

  By simply looking at the image, I know I could download a personalised manifesto from either party, expertly adapted to reflect how the party will meet my unique concerns.

  I walk past the grinning faces of Harris and Walters and try to think what to search for myself. I remember the riot and the song that I wasn’t able to hear.

  ‘Nathaniel Buckleberry,’ I say out loud, even though I know I shouldn’t have to use voice commands.

  An image of the singer instantly appears before my eyes; he’s leaning against a tree, his guitar swung over his shoulder, and he’s looking up at a night sky. I align the image, so it looks as if he’s leaning up against the bus stop in front of me and there’s something satisfying about this. The mix of the real and the feed. It’s hard to tell them apart.

  The video starts running automatically. I can’t hear the song, only see the video: Nathaniel skipping through fields with a burning city in the background. At times, it looks like he’s walking alongside me. Or rather, I’m walking with him, joining in his protest. It’s such a stupid video, but I can’t help but grin as I head home, Nathaniel striding next to me. People smile back, nodding hello. It must be infectious.

  Why is Zizi always so insistent on be being chauffeured to and from school? Everyone’s so friendly.

  Buckleberry’s video comes to an end, which is a relief, as he was starting to creep me out. I try to search for something new, but it plays again. Nathaniel, strumming his guitar. I struggle to move the cursor towards the stop button, my face scrunched up in concentration. I can’t make it work.

  ‘Adjustment period,’ I sigh. It’s normal for it to take a while to get used to the controls. I’ll get the hang of it soon. But for now, I’ll have to watch the stupid video once more.

  By the time I get home, I’ve seen it seven times and it’s really starting to get on my nerves.

  Zizi would know how to stop it, but I don’t dare ask her because then she’d know I was hooked up. Besides, she’s not here. The house is empty. Or at least, no one’s home. But it’s not empty. It’s full of information.

  It’s weird seeing the house through the filter of Glaze. Objects I have walked past every day for nearly ten years look different. I also realise I’ve been wrong about some of the ornaments. The wooden mask, with the big teeth, hanging in the hall, is not from Honduras like Zizi let me believe. It’s from a shop I’ve never heard of called The Pier. And the white vases with pink blossoms curling up them, that Zizi said were given to her by a Chinese diplomat, are from an oriental outfitters in Islington. No wonder she wasn’t in any rush to let me on. Anyone with access would have been able to see straight through her stories. Unless … I’d read that you could re-tag items if you could hack the code. Or if you had access to the network itself. I bet that’s exactly what Zizi did. Changed the data so that no one would know the truth. Well, it doesn’t seem to work on my chip.

  ‘Busted,’ I say, not that I really care. Zizi and I have made a life out of lying to each other.

  I head for the kitchen, as the video starts again, and it looks like Nathaniel is leaning against my kitchen cabinet.

  ‘Bugger off!’ I shout. And he does.

  It’s such a relief that I start laughing again. Until I get the hang of the controls, I’m not going to risk playing another video. Besides, I can still see Nathaniel’s grinning face when I close my eyes.

  I pour myself a drink from the fridge and read the label on the side. A cartoon figure jumps off the carton and begins dancing on the sideboard.

  // HI, I’M JUICYLICIOUS JUICE AND I’M JUST CHUFFED YOU’RE DRINKING ME. I’M MADE FROM FIVE WHOLE ORANGES... //

  I put the carton down, staring at it suspiciously. I’ve never been fond of brands that insist on anthropomorphising themselves. Especially ones that you eat or drink. It always makes me feel guilty.

  Everything in the fridge is tagged, even the fruit and veg. Where it was picked, and by whom. A whole trail of data going back to the day it was planted.

  I shut the fridge door. This is going to get some getting used to. So far, Glaze hasn’t given me anything useful. But that’s my fault. How can I expect it to provide meaningful information when all I’m using it on is the contents of my fridge?

  I’ve been trying to add people to my feed, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Another thing that will have to wait till the adjustment period is over. So I need to get out. I need to be around people.

  ‘Kiara Roufail,’ I say out loud, hoping I’ll be able to slide her a message.

  Instead, the wall screen in the living room glows into life. ‘Calling, Kiara Roufail.’

  ‘No,’ I complain. But what does it matter how I contact her anyway? Kiara’s face appears on the screen.

  ‘Hey, Pet. What’s up?’

  ‘Where do the cool kids go?’

  15

  KIARA AND I ARRANGE to meet outside a club called Douma.

  I’ve heard of this place; a lot of the kids at school used to talk about it before the discussions about their social lives took place on Glaze and I stopped being able to take part. I smile at the memory. At how that’s all in the past now.

  According to Kiara’s instructions, the entrance to the club is down a narrow alleyway behind a bar called the Freedom. This place isn’t even marked on the grid.

  There’s already a queue of people waiting to get in. Eight guys and six girls, and I know each of their names even though I’ve never met them. Every item of their clothing is tagged. I don’t even recognise s
ome of the brand names. The bouncer on the door is called Bunny, and he will, his feed says, break your teeth if you mess with him.

  The overlay on the tiny entrance behind him is an image of an angel, her fingers pressed to her lips. Douma, my feed tells me, is the angel of silence.

  ‘Hey!’

  I jump as someone pounces on me from behind.

  // KIARA ROUFAIL, AGED 16, 467 FOLLOWERS, LOVES MUSIC, ART. HATES PRETENTIOUS BULLSHIT AND LIARS. //

  ‘Hey!’ I say back, grabbing her in a tight hug. I can’t wait to tell her.

  ‘You OK, Pet? You look so... happy.’

  ‘I’m great. Everything’s great.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I feel great too!’

  ‘You do? That’s amazing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kiara says. ‘I took Zizi’s advice and got some treatment. I’ve never felt better.’

  I pull my best friend in the whole world into a hug, breathing in the smell of her hair. Life is so good, I could cry.

  The queue moves as the doors are opened. I take Kiara’s hand and drag her forward.

  Inside, I expect to be hit by a wall of sound; the latest track being laid down by the freshest DJ. But all I can hear is the crowd. Everyone dancing and singing along to nothing.

  I look to Kiara, confused.