‘I would like to marry your daughter, Mr Phee. With your blessing, of course.’
Dad was halfway through chewing a piece of sausage. He spluttered, choked and spat the sausage at speed over the table, where it landed in Mum’s water glass and bobbed about unpleasantly. To be fair to Mum, she fished it out with a napkin and a minimum of fuss.
‘Excuse me?’ said Dad.
‘I love Candice.’
‘Er, she’s thirteen, Douglas. Just thirteen. Do you not think that’s a little on the young side?’
‘I don’t mean right now, Mr Phee.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Maybe in three or four years’ time.’
‘And what do you bring to the table, Douglas?’ said Dad, after a long silence [though I might have heard a stifled giggle from Mum].
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Phee?’
‘A herd of goats? A flock of sheep, maybe? I’m not sure I could let her go for less than two buffalo and a couple of suckling pigs.’
Douglas Benson From Another Dimension scratched the knobbly bits on his head.
‘Wow, Dad,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you were funny.’
Mum washed up while Douglas and I followed Dad to the shed. Dad spent forty-five minutes grilling Douglas on every aspect of other dimensions. It was a subject that Douglas was much more comfortable with than marriage proposals, and he answered with enthusiasm. I didn’t understand why Dad was asking. I also didn’t understand why he was getting more and more excited.
I got the answer after Douglas’s facsimile father picked him up and Dad and I were alone. He told me about his new project. Though I didn’t understand most of the technical details, I knew it was brilliant.
Some things you can just feel. Unfortunately, he made me promise not to speak to anyone about it.
And I never break my promises.
V
IS FOR VISIONS
Dear Denille, I am excited and I will explain.
To start with, here is a line:
Forget about the line. That’s not what I’m excited about. Just answer this: What is it that everyone in the world is obsessed with? While you are thinking that one through, here is another diagram:
Got the answer?
It’s YOURSELF!
This is the way Dad explained it. Why are social networking sites so popular? Why do reality television programs rate so highly? Why does everyone post videos on YouTube (I’m not exactly sure what YouTube is, but I hear about it at school and Dad was quite excited about it and I was carried along with his enthusiasm)? The answer is . . . people want to feel they are important, that the Earth revolves around them. It is, according to Dad, like staring into a mirror, not caring that the world is going on without you.
So, what have the lines got to do with it? Good question. Think of that first line as representing your life – a timeline from birth to where you are now. We think of it as a line because we can trace the path clearly. It is all the moments we have lived and it runs straight because we have not deviated from our life (duh, obviously). But what about the life we might have led? Look at the branch in that second line and think of it as a moment in life when a decision was made that affected you. Here’s an example: Let’s say the point where the branch occurs is when you were two and your parents had another child. If they hadn’t, your life would have gone along one of the arrows on the line, but if they did, then your life goes along the other line. What if your father or mother had been offered a job that meant he or she had to move to another country? In this life, he/she turned it down. But if he/she had accepted, then your life would have changed enormously. You would have different friends, have gone to a different school, maybe have learned another language. Then think how just a few decisions, big and small, might have changed you. Your possible life. Then the line looks something like this:
You see? After only three decisions, there are eight possible lives. Now think of ALL the decisions made, not just big ones, but small ones as well. The answer is clear. There are an infinite number of possible lives that might have been, though you are only aware of the one you are living.
Now, this is where Douglas Benson From Another Dimension comes in. You see, his explanation of alternative dimensions is close to this. According to him, there is an infinity of worlds in which an infinity of possibilities are played out.
What fun, Denille!
And now I get to the heart of the matter. Our obsession with ourselves. The infinity of possible lives. Dad put it like this: Imagine a computer program, Candice, that allowed you to alter the path you have taken in life by changing decisions inside and outside your control. What would your life have been like? What if that program then created an alternative you (or a number of alternative yous) based upon the information you fed in and allowed you to communicate with her? A multi-dimensional social media site where you could interact with as many yous as you wished. You could see how you might have looked, you could view pictures of the children you might have had, watch videos of holidays you might have gone on, share in the glorious successes and failures that were denied you in this life. And you could talk to yourself, post messages, get replies. You could explore the full potential of your existence, not just plod along the path you are trapped on. How many of us have wondered what would have happened if we had only done this, or not done that? All of us! This program would allow you to find out. Why should we be content with one life when there is an infinite number available?
‘And could you write that program, Dad?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I could. It would be enormously complicated for one person to do and it would need a significant amount of investment, start-up capital and the like. But yes, I can do it, though it will take years.’
It’s such a simple idea, Denille, but also exciting, even for someone like me who can’t find a computer’s on button. What would my life have been like if Sky hadn’t died or if Mum hadn’t got breast cancer or if Dad and Rich Uncle Brian hadn’t argued? Now, I know it’s theoretically a fiction – the alternative yous would be created by the computer program. But people love fiction. And if Douglas Benson From Another Dimension is to be believed, it’s not truly fiction, since whatever the program does is happening in an alternative universe anyway. It would be a real glimpse into a real world.
I found this so amazing that I thought knobbly bits would break out on my head, but they didn’t. So there you have it, Denille. My father’s dream. And do you know something? It’s as if he has lost years in the space of a few days. He smiles (dreamily) and it suits him. I am getting back the father I’d almost forgotten existed. My alternative father.
Okay, I had better stop here.
Please don’t tell anyone or write to them about this idea, Denille. According to my Dad it could be worth billions of dollars, but that’s not really important. It’s Dad’s idea and it would be horrible if someone stole it. In fact, I promised I wouldn’t speak to anyone about it, but, as you can tell, I haven’t.
I have written it down. No speaking involved.
Anyway, you are my third-best friend in the whole world (after Douglas Benson From Another Dimension and Earth-Pig Fish) and I trust you absolutely.
Best wishes,
Your penpal,
Candice
Suddenly my life had become very exciting, what with Mum having a proper birthday, Dad following his dreams [and talking to me about them] and Earth-Pig Fish finding an atheist perspective on life.
The following day was no less exciting. Firstly, Rich Uncle Brian met me at school and handed me a plastic card worth fifteen thousand dollars. It didn’t look like it was worth that much, but I know as much about banking as I do about computers, so I just accepted the situation. And the card.
Douglas Benson From Another Dimension came with me to the library at lunchtime. I needed him to help me with some online research and purchasing, and he thought there might be a kiss in it for him. While the signs on the walls are clear
about eating and drinking, there was nothing about kissing [which might be a serious omission]; however, I suspected the librarians, who are generally tolerant of my eating [and my personal chair], might frown at snogging, and I told Douglas this. We spent all lunchtime huddled over a computer until I had made my choice and paid for it [Douglas operated the mouse and clicked all the links].
‘I’ve got exciting news, Candice,’ he said as we headed towards Maths.
‘All news is exciting at the moment,’ I replied.
‘I think I know where I have been going wrong.’
I thought he might be referring to proposing to a thirteen-year-old in front of her parents, but I was mistaken.
‘It’s the nature of the tesseract,’ he continued. ‘I think I have made a serious error with one of the dimensions. It would explain everything. And if I’m right, then there is no reason why I shouldn’t return to my own dimension.’
‘That is exciting,’ I said. ‘When are you going to try?’
‘I need to check the maths fully. That will take a few days. Once I’m certain, then I’ll probably go back on Sunday.’
‘That is a good day to cross dimensions,’ I said, though I have no idea why. Sometimes you need to say something.
‘Will you watch me?’ he said. ‘I know it might sound insensitive, given I could be leaving you forever. But it’s important to me. Will you, Candice? Please?’
How could I refuse to watch my best friend jump out of a tree on a Sunday?
‘I will be there, Douglas Benson From Another Dimension,’ I said. He looked delighted, but he didn’t try to kiss me. That was probably sensible, since we had entered the classroom and our Maths teacher would undoubtedly disapprove. Mr Gemmola disapproves of everything except differential equations.
There was a knock on the front door at eight-thirty that evening and I opened it [Mum had gone for a lie down and Dad was in his shed, making a start]. I was expecting Jen Marshall.
Instead I got an ape. An ape in a balaclava and a black trench coat. This was, not surprisingly, alarming. It was even more alarming when the ape barged me to one side, rushed into the house and slammed the door behind it. It is possible you have never experienced having your house invaded by an ape in a balaclava, but take my word, it is definitely alarming. The ape raised a hand to its face and ripped off first the balaclava and then what turned out to be a latex mask.
‘Hello, Jen Marshall,’ I said. ‘You look nice.’
‘Did you see anyone behind me, Essen?’ she hissed.
‘The door was open for half a second, Jen. And I was so focused on the ape mask I didn’t look over its . . . your . . . shoulder,’ I said. ‘Is this a fancy-dress themed homework session?’ I added.
‘You should’ve seen the looks I got on the bus,’ she said. ‘But I wasn’t taking no chances, Essen. If anyone had seen me come here, then I’d a been . . .’
‘An outcast?’ I suggested.
‘Whatever,’ she replied. ‘Let’s get this done, okay? I don’t want to miss the last bus, ’cos I can’t walk home in an ape costume, can I? There are weirdoes out there.’
But not many dressed as King Kong, I thought.
‘What’s the assignment?’ I said.
‘It’s crap,’ she said. ‘Soc. Ed., which is, like, a really crap subject. And this is a crap assignment for a crap subject and I’m crap at it.’
‘Let’s scrape away some crap, shall we?’ I suggested. ‘Do you want me to hang up your ape mask?’
W
IS FOR WITNESS
Thursday.
Mum’s birthday was on Friday [tomorrow], but I had everything arranged apart from the card. Dad had booked a table at a local restaurant. I asked him what he had bought Mum and he showed me a brooch in the shape of a bird. It might have been a parrot. I am not expert in the identification of birdlife, so I won’t swear to it.
‘I’ve got her something else,’ he said. ‘But it’s a surprise. Actually, I’m worried how she will react to it. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow. And what have you bought her, Candice? If you need to borrow money, by the way. . . ’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I replied, ‘but I’m okay.’ Actually, I only had twenty-two dollars, but that was enough for an amusing card that poked fun at middle-aged people. In the meantime I had two days of school to get through. It turned out they were interesting.
Not as interesting as the weekend that followed, though.
English was after lunch. I really hoped Miss Bamford was back. For one thing, I was worried about her. What if she had some life-threatening illness? Maybe she was, even now, in a hospital ward recovering from an operation and in desperate need of a cheery visit from her favourite student [Miss B has never spoken openly of this, but I am a good judge of character and know she holds me in high regard]. I could make her laugh. Without trying, apparently.
But I was also worried about me. I am a creature of habit and routine. Miss Cowie was obviously a talented teacher [though not as good, clearly, as Miss Bamford, who – I think I might have mentioned this – is the best teacher in the whole world as far as I am concerned], but I knew it was oral presentation time today and I didn’t know if I could speak in front of her. So I had spent time in the library writing a note.
Dear Miss Cowie,
I am Candice Phee. Maybe Miss Bamford has mentioned me. If she hasn’t, there are a couple of things you should know. I have an ex-dysfunctional fish and a pernickety pencil case, with a divider so my pencils don’t get mixed up. I always have to sit in the same seat. I don’t talk to people until I feel comfortable with them. This sometimes takes weeks. In the meantime I communicate through notes like this one. Some people think I am on some sort of spectrum, but I don’t think I am. It’s just that I am different from most students. I know all students are different, but I am more different than most.
Now, you strike me as a person who also has routines and I imagine making eye-contact during an oral presentation is something you require. Please don’t make me do this, Miss Cowie, as I will suffer from severe anxiety. I will also have to read from a prepared speech which I know is not ideal. I will quite understand if you fail me because of this, but I would fail anyway if you made me speak without a script because I wouldn’t be able to.
Very best wishes,
Candice Phee
P.S. I very much admire your refusal to read newspapers, knit, surf the internet or build plastic models while we are working.
P.P.S. I am not, as some students in this class would say, trying to be a ‘brown nose’ (mine just peels in the sun anyway). I am sincere and like you very much.
P.P.P.S. Is there any news about Miss Bamford? I miss her. Thank you.
Miss Cowie sat at her desk with a back so straight bricklayers could have used it for a plumbline [I read about this in an encyclopaedia – the plumbline, I mean, not Miss Cowie’s back]. As I shuffled past I placed the note in front of her and quickly sat at my desk. I kept my head down so I had no idea if she’d read it or simply screwed it up and thrown it in the bin. She certainly gave the impression of someone who would screw up notes without a second thought. The class sat in silence for a minute.
‘It is oral presentation time, class,’ said Miss Cowie finally. ‘Now I know some of you are nervous about speaking in front of your peers, so I should stress that this is practice only. When Miss Bamford returns – and I believe that will be tomorrow – she will doubtless have her own ideas about the oral assessment. So today, if you wish, you can read prepared speeches or use notes or simply talk without any aids. Relax and do your best. That’s all I ask.’
I was so surprised that I glanced up as she paced between our desks. She bent down to pick up some litter next to my seat and, as she straightened, gave me a long, slow wink.
Miss Cowie is the second-best teacher in the world [as far as I am concerned].
The second-best teacher in the world [as far as I am concerned] returned to her desk, sat down and examined her roll.
‘The first pair to present will be Candice Phee and Jennifer Marshall. Candice, would you like to start, please?’
I got to my feet, opened my English book and cleared my throat. I could hear giggles from the back of the class. Jen’s friends, presumably, but they quickly shut up when Miss Cowie, I imagined, did a steely routine with her eyes. I kept my head over my book.
‘Jennifer Marshall is beautiful,’ I read. ‘That much is obvious when you look at her. She has wonderful hair, a delightful complexion and legs to die for. But that is not all that Jen Marshall is. Physical beauty is an accident, often not earned. But Jen is also a beautiful person on the inside. We simply need to look closely and carefully to see it. Her life has not been easy. I could give details, but this is not the time or place. So I suppose you will have to take my word for it. Jen has suffered. Under these circumstances, some people would become angry. They might despise the world. They might give up on themselves.’
The class was deadly quiet. The silence was a dark pressure and I could feel sweat stand on my forehead. I ploughed on.
‘But Jen has not. She tries to improve herself. She understands her weaknesses and works to improve them. If I have any criticism of Jennifer Marshall, it is that she lacks self-confidence. She thinks she is not worthy. She cannot see what the rest of us see so easily – that underneath that beautiful exterior is a beautiful person. One thing is clear. Jennifer Marshall is an exceptional person. She will become an exceptional adult. It is my dearest wish that, one day, I may call her my best friend. Thank you.’
I sat down, which was wise since my legs were on the point of folding. I busied myself with putting my English book back in its proper place on the desk and tidying my pernickety pencil case. Nonetheless, I heard the applause from the rest of the class. It sounded genuine, though I could, of course, be mistaken. It is difficult, in my experience, to distinguish between false applause and genuine applause. They sound very much the same. Anyway, when the clapping died, I heard Miss Cowie.
My Life As an Alphabet Page 13
