by Wendy Harmer
:-/
Reliable, loyal and honest? Well, this is where Nan has tripped up, because Will isn't any of those things. So much for the experts! If I was a graphologist I'd be seriously thinking about a new career – with everyone using computers everything looks the same now. People write all kinds of random stuff and they don't even have to sign their real names.
As we are leaving, Nan gives Mum a stack of envelopes, all addressed in her handwriting, which is almost the same as it was when she was seventeen.
'Eleanor can post those for you,' says Dad. He kisses Nan goodbye and wanders off jangling the car keys.
I'm trying to remember where the Oldcastle Post Office is. I can't ever remember having to send anything snail mail. I suppose I have to put the stamps on. How much does it cost to post a letter anyway?
'I've almost got everything ready for the party.' Mum claps her hands with excitement. 'We've got the whole back room at Eugenie's restaurant and I'm getting in lovely pink cloths and the sweetest little paper lanterns. It's all going to look gorgeous. I meant to ask you, Mum, what sort of flowers would you like?'
'Roses,' says Nan without any hesitation. 'I'd love to have red roses.'
Sunday. 5 pm. PM. AW.
On the way back to Oldcastle in the car with Mum and Dad, my wrecked life is slowly coming into view. Sunday afternoon at Nan's cottage was like being in a cosy Hobbit-hole – Bag End in The Shire. Now I'm on the road again and heading back towards Buckingham Palace being chased by the evil Nazgûl.
With every landmark we pass – the statue of King George splattered with pigeon poo; the suit of armour with one arm missing on top of the Lionheart Dry Cleaners and the Princess Beatrice skate park covered with graffiti – I start to feel more and more depressed. I know what's waiting for me there in The Dungeon – dark creatures sent by the all-seeing Eye of Sauron. As soon as I log on, they'll know where I am and that scorching great eye will seek me out.
'Don't forget those invites, and bring that tray of your Nan's hedgehog slice inside,' says Mum, who has parked the car right up against the hedge for the millionth time. Dad and I are battling a heroic path through the thorny undergrowth when we hear Mum's strangled cry through the castle's kitchen window.
'Oh my God! Rick! Rick! Come here! NOW! We've been robbed. WE'VE BEEN ROBBED!'
Dad tears across the lawn and hurtles through the front door. I run after him, watching as bits of hedgehog slice flip over the edge of the baking tray and land on the red brick path in an explosion of chocolate and desiccated coconut. Invitations flutter onto the grass.
It's a hideous scene in the lounge room. The cushions have been torn from the couch and thrown on the floor. The big blue-and-white Chinese pot with the palm tree in it has been pushed over and smashed. The palm fronds have been ripped off the plant and stuck in the ceiling fan. They're rotating like a crazy giant shredded green umbrella. Why? Who would do something like that?
All our framed family photos have been ripped down from the walls and Nan and Pop look up at me through broken glass. The vase Grandpa and Grandma Pickering gave us for Christmas has been shattered. The stuffing from the cushions is swirling in the breeze and where the TV used to be is just a bare square of nothing with some old, stale Twisties rolling around in the middle of it. How long have they been under there . . .?
'BLOODY HELL, LIBBY! See what the bastards have taken! Call the police. CALL THE POLICE!' yells Dad from the kitchen.
And then I hear Mum screech from the back of the house.
'My laptop! I left it here on the bed. It's gone! If they've taken my jewellery . . .'
Mum's laptop? I feel sick at the thought. I didn't know it was possible to feel so sick in an instant, although I should. It's what I felt when I first saw those photos of Will. And then I think photos? They couldn't have taken my computer and ALL MY PHOTOS? Not the ones I was going to print out and put in an album in a box covered in floral wrapping paper for my great-great-grandchildren?
I run through the kitchen, throwing the slice tray in the general direction of the bench, and race up the hall to The Dungeon. Looking at my desk I can see that where my computer used to be is just an empty patch of dust containing one amethyst stud earring. The earring I've been looking for since . . . MY COMPUTER HAS BEEN STOLEN!
OMG!!!! :-><
My last two and a half years of photos were on my computer! From when I started at Oldcastle High until . . . now.
So much history lost, as Pop said in his letter. I feel like that old church that was taken apart – stone by stone.
Mum appears in my doorway cuddling her red leather jewellery box.
'They didn't take it. Thank the Lord!' she gasps. 'They got my laptop, but everything's still inside my jewellery box – my rings, my pearls, Mum's gold locket, Dad's cufflinks – they're all still here. It was boys, probably. Looking for things they could sell fast for drug money.'
Mum sees my face, then my empty desk, turns and pelts back down the hall to Tilly's hovel in the South Wing. Even from there I can hear her.
'Oh no! No, no, no! They've taken Tilly's laptop as well! Her final exams start next week! This is a disaster!'
All three computers are gone. Mum's business contacts and files, Tilly's schoolwork and my ENTIRE LIFE have all been stolen!
I suddenly realise that I'm now invisible. Even as I hear Dad calling with relief from the garage that his toolbox is still there; even as I see Mum running down the drive to give Tilly the terrible news before she's out of her car.
There is no way I can ring, text, email, message or poke anyone, anywhere. For any reason. Not to deliver glad tidings or impart bad news. Not to say 'I love you', 'I hate you', or anything in between. Not to say 'I miss you and want to see you' or 'I don't and please forget I exist'.
:%)% :-------------) :-< :-@! :->X==|::=)) :^)oO
Everyone can forget I exist now, because I don't. I'm a ghost, haunting my own life.
I slump back on my bed and my thumping heart is the only sound in the dead silence that descends on The Dungeon.
Sunday. 7 pm. PM. AW. PPC
(post personal computer).
'Well, you're lucky they didn't take any of your valuables,' says the policeman from New Oldcastle Police Station. 'Looks like it was only your computers and they can easily be replaced.'
Where do I start with the rank stupidity of this statement? This bloke's probably over fifty, and obviously has no idea.
'Thank goodness,' says Mum, 'that only last night I got the rest of the family photos off and put them on a disk. It was all this stupid business with Will on the net that made me think of it. I can't believe I was so lucky! And Tina's got all the documents for the business on her computer too, so I'm fine.'
I'm so glad that my personal tragedy has been of help to everyone! Sitting on a kitchen stool opposite me, Tilly's got her head down, her face covered by a shiny sheet of dark brown hair.
'My advice is to buy another computer as soon as you can,' says the policeman. 'And immediately change all your PINs and passwords to your bank accounts and suchlike. The only advice we can ever give is to backup all your data on a separate hard drive and keep that under lock and key in a safe place when you leave the house. Or take it with you. Imagine if your house was flooded or burnt down?'
I've already imagined.
'Do you have contents insurance?' asks the policeman.
Dad shakes his head. 'We've only got the house covered.'
'Well you wouldn't be the only one; so many people find they're underinsured.' The policeman shakes his head as he writes in his notepad.
I can't help feeling he enjoys telling people stuff like this.
'What we'll do is replace the TV and buy one computer that you can all share,' Dad says wearily. 'I'll just have to put it on the credit cards – if we're not over the limit already. Thank you, officer. We appreciate you coming over at this time on a Sunday night.'
'No problem, Mr Pickering. We'll be in touch if we hear
anything. But I have to tell you we've had a rash of these kind of robberies in Oldcastle lately and it's hard to trace stolen computers. They sell easily. Well, I suppose it's a lesson learned,' the policeman scolds, and puffs up his chest importantly. 'Please upgrade your home security. I don't want to be here again trying to recover your wife's precious family jewellery. Good evening.'
He's not even out the front door when Tilly starts to moan.
'I'm going to fail the exams! How am I going to keep studying without the net? I start next week!'
'Well, we'll have another computer soon, and there's always the Oldcastle library,' suggests Mum.
Tilly jumps to her feet and rakes her hair from her face with skinny fingers.
'The library?' she gasps.
She's appalled. Why wouldn't she be?
'You think I'm going to be poking around in millions of dusty books at the library? I haven't been there since I was five, sitting in the corner reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar! All my exam notes were on my computer! All my bookmarks, contacts, email addresses, photos.'
'Did you back any of it up on a disk, darling?' asks Mum.
Seriously, I don't want to be around to hear Tilly's answer. Sure enough, before I can escape she starts screeching and grabbing crap off the kitchen counter and chucking it at the wall. An eggslice bounces off the kitchen window and lands in the sink with a hideous clang! She throws the remains of Nan's hedgehog on the floor and does a crazed war dance on the top of it.
'MATILDA PICKERING! ENOUGH!'
Tilly is frozen with her arms in the air holding a frying pan and a spatula as we all turn to see Dad standing in the doorway.
'You will get your spoilt little bottom down to that bloody library if that's what it takes! I will see if we have any money to buy a new computer. But we just might not. You may have heard about the Global Financial Crisis and everything? In the meantime, both of you . . .'
Me? Why me? How come I'm included in the Tilly Tantrum?
'. . . get to your rooms! NOW!'
Tilly drops everything with clattering defiance and marches off, punching the wall in the hallway. I'm not going to argue with Dad either. I can't remember seeing him so angry. I'm about to join Tilly's parade when Dad turns on me. I should have got away faster.
'YOU WANT TO HAVE A GOOD THINK ABOUT ALL THE PEOPLE IN THE WORLD WHO DON'T HAVE COMPUTERS AND WHO'VE NEVER HAD ONE, MISSY,' Dad roars.
Then Mum decides to chuck in her two cents.
'And what about all those poor unfortunates in refugee camps, or living on rubbish tips, who haven't even got a proper roof over their heads? Most of them have never even seen a computer, let alone a telephone or had the chance to talk on one. And here's you losing three mobile phones! Three of them.' Mum wags her finger at me.
This is so not fair! I've already been yelled at for the whole mobile thing. I wish I could get past and go to The Dungeon, but they're both blocking the way.
Dad picks up the frying pan and bangs it down again on the bench for no good reason, making me jump with fright.
'I refuse to be held to ransom by some idiotic invention called the World Wide Web!' Dad rages. 'I promise you that if every last computer on earth was dumped down the tip, life would still go on and the world would be a better place for it . . .'
'Now, Rick, that's going a bit far . . .' says my mother, who thankfully has stepped in as a human shield. 'There's a lot of diseases in the world that have been cured by doctors using computers, and then there are all other kinds of scientific research that . . .'
'I GREW UP WITHOUT A COMPUTER IN THE HOUSE, AND I DID JUST FINE!' Dad interrupts. 'I knew how to look up things in the encyclopedia. I read books. I asked my mother and father how to do stuff. And what about this financial mess the world's in? I can guarantee there would be less thievery and greediness if people had to talk to each other face-to-face instead of just sending emails and texts and rubbish.'
I manage to duck out and avoid the rest of the lecture on the Days Before Computers Were Invented.
BTW, when was the computer invented? I realise that I have absolutely no idea, and without my computer, no way to look it up.
But I have to wonder, if I didn't have a computer or a mobile phone, would I still have Will? I can feel the tears rushing towards me again as The Dungeon door clunks behind me.
Monday. 9 am.
PM. AW. PPC.
Today as I drag myself up the school steps I notice how many people are almost walking into the flagpole as they concentrate on typing their last-minute texts.
Who are they talking to? What are they saying?
SKL now, See U LTR.
s4mvl8r
Huh?
Gotta go. Catch U.
SISDU
SPYS
SOZ?
AYT?
There are billions of these messages swirling in the air – a constant invisible whirling tornado of vowels, consonants, question and exclamation marks.
EEEK. LOL. HAHA! ROFL. OMGGGGG!
My mobile's been gone more than a week and I've noticed that my fingers have stopped straying without my permission and given up trying to tap on an imaginary keypad. This morning my hands are all mine and I stop to pick one of the first gardenias of the season from the glossy dark green bushes that crowd the front steps of Oldcastle High. I pin it on my navy blue blazer pocket – just above my broken heart.
A sign outside the principal's office warns that mobiles are forbidden in class, but most of us push the rule to the max. We're always buzzing and texting under the desks. It sounds pretty sexy, until you see that it's Jai who's the main offender. When you see a huddle of bodies up the back of the room it's a sure sign that Jai's found a YouTube clip of a surfer being savaged by a shark or some psycho raving on about something weird – usually wearing a balaclava and waving an AK-47!
Today as I walk across the quadrangle, everyone's looking at me sideways since I'm the latest loony to make a spectacle of herself on the World Wide Web. I hate what Will's done to me and I don't think I'll ever recover from the humiliation, but something Carmelita wrote keeps going round and round in my head – that I should have worked it out with Will in private.
Too late now.
Everyone in school laughing at him – and me – as they follow every gory detail of our break-up online is not something I ever wanted. And even though I know Will probably deserves to be made a fool of, I also remember what Nan said – that he's a self-contained sort of fellow. He must be hating this even more than me. I'll bet his dad has told him that it serves him right.
And it does serve him right. If what I saw is true. Photos can't lie. Can they?
I'm approaching the north-west terrace when Tenzin Choepel, a boy from my year, jumps out from behind a pillar.
'Good morning, Elly!' he says with the biggest dazzling white smile that almost splits his handsome brown face in half.
Tenzin's family is from Tibet. They came here to Oldcastle three years ago. I know his story well because I interviewed him for the March edition of the Posh Post – the month that marked the fiftieth anniversary of the occupation of Tibet by the Chinese.
His mother and father escaped their country sixteen years ago by hiding in the back of a truck under some boxes of engine parts and were really lucky not to be found by the Chinese guards at the border. From there they had to cross a river by pulling themselves hand-to-hand on ropes in the middle of the night. They made it to Kathmandu and from there to the Tibetan refugee camp in Dharamsala in India where the government-in-exile rules. It's where the Dalai Lama lives and it's where Tenzin and his sisters were born.
