When my phone rings it jolts me off the bed, I fumble and drop the thing, and it lands face up- Oh God- but Dad has not materialised. The phone is still ringing and it’s only Cliff, his name on display. I cut him off. Of course it wouldn’t be Dad, his message is a week old. I already ignored that call. Adios, Dad. His single attempt- no doubt he considers that a fulfilment of parental duties. My stalker is more persistent; I wait for Cliff’s text message to arrive, and it does, with a self-satisfied ping.
Did you find your Mum’s question on the C.O.F site link I sent?
Chapter Twelve
It’s the lingering sadness that gets me, the hooded eyes, the weighted flesh. The different generations were so much more obvious back then. I’ve got a group photo up, it must be an extended family because it’s study material for Human Biology: the History of Genetics. It’s a site we use for school, an archive of old photos. You can’t see too well with these 2D images, but if I stare for long enough at this girl I’ve picked, my brain can start to scoop her out of the artificial flatness. Imagine if she were calling on my phone. That same face every call, so solemn. Family is a serious business. Her mouth is tiny, almost pretty. The same mouth sits on the creased-faced woman beside her, her mother? A blurry arm is moving behind the girl’s head, the clasp for-the-camera coming too late.
The shades of their skin mean something too- more than this is a family. Something about geographical region of origin, they’re adverts for their ancestors, if you like. They vary from medium brown to medium white. Back then they liked to categorise themselves on set combinations of features and skin tones they didn’t choose, which couldn’t have said too much about those people in themselves, their values and desires. It’s all they had, though..
I study each face in turn, fanning outwards, and spot similar lips on a dying man. Not literally, but death is clearly due soon. It’s a version of the mouth, fanned creasing around the narrow lips, grooves that don’t stop. He clearly loves a family get together; that old-fashioned happiness that twists the face so deeply that it looks like pain. You couldn’t begin to count the creases. He doesn’t care. The girl is what, twelve? I could be wrong, she’s boyish, might be ten. They always look older, the Naturals. She’s sulking, she doesn’t want to be on display. Cosmetics did a cover-up back then- but not for children. Not for a bad mood. Youth was as good as it was going to get. Doesn’t she know?
It’s impossible to skim over this photo; each face is damaged in its own way. Nature doling out the physiognomy of the face like sweeties in a jar, shaken and counted out. They all got the same number, but check out the combinations! The unfairness strikes me above all else. Genes are despots, taking over the face. This girl is not an individual with hopes and dreams for the future; she’s a monument to all her relatives that have gone before. Let the poor girl emerge from the unlucky flesh.
I find a boy about my age. My gaze ferrets around, unable to settle, so many different planes to his face. His nose is flattened as if punched, and what’s more, it veers to the left. A stiff smile, held too long for the camera. The type of fake grin I can’t do anymore, I’m free from his face ache. Straight whites, he got lucky there; the teeth stand out. I get a gut twinge of something- not attraction, but fascination, like a car crash. This boy understands it ends like this, his people a piece of history for future generations to gawp at. A face captured in the moment of realisation.
One final female catches my eye because she is all wounded pride, doing a Mum. Old Mum. What has she just been told? Her skin is smooth and taut, except the neck, which is folded as whipped cream. Cavernous cheeks draw the eye to sausage lips, glossy and deflating at the corners. Doughy skin stretched inhuman. Lived-in Natural skin, doing what it shouldn’t in its lifespan- defy gravity. The eyes have seen it all before, and didn’t enjoy it much the first time around. Who would love her? Somebody just like her, I guess. Dating must have been like, matching up your flaws.
None of these faces are choices. They just are, for a lifetime. A lifetime! There’s no manufactured tug in the eyes. No clear advertisement of self. I am left oddly detached; who knows what this lot dream of, behind the camera? Or what they might do, given the chance.
I won’t find the face of my future sibling here.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time I reach the park gates the shadows are pooling underfoot and it’s all turning alarmingly pretty. I stop in my tracks, zip myself up to the chin. Is this a good idea? Clearly not, but is it even passable? If nature intrudes, if there’s some kind of show-off sunset, I’ll angle my back to it. I don’t want any misunderstandings.
The children’s play area is at the far end, fenced in. Underfoot the grass is spongy with rain, radiant with health, part of the palette of hyper- greens used in the Virtual School window. I get this sinking sensation with each step, a tug of my calf muscles, but I’m cutting across to arrive first. I stalked the stalker; I made the verbal contract, a venue and a time. But if I get the gut twist, I’m gone. Appearance made, contract fulfilled, adios Cliff.
I circle a broad oak tree, halt as the whole area comes into vision. The swings are motionless, all four. The red of the roundabout textured with gold, the sun’s early evening enhancement. Elongated shadows of branches advance, no sign of Cliff. The only sound is of a bird, frantic, a cross between a trill and a scream. Music therapy for the highly strung.
Most people are late. My friends, I mean. My plan is to wait on top of the tunnel, the best vantage point. Analyze his approach. You can tell a lot about somebody from their walking style. Dad is apt to wander like he’s received a blow to the head, cheerfully directionless; but Mum, she’s a stomper, her feet go exactly where she wants them to go. Proper stalkers- I’ve never had one before- would be, what? A geeky, uncoordinated marching? Blinking at the fresh air. A light-footed predatory approach and I’d be out the back gate long before his arrival. Hang on, psychopaths are super- smooth talkers- surely that’s Cliff out? But first impressions are often deceptive.
The gate clanks shut behind me. The metal on metal sound triggers a memory of this gate, taller, being held open for me by Dad, his low bow and expansive arm gesture:
“Queen True, I took the liberty of instructing your people to construct a monument to your loveliness... and behold!...the roundabout was born, so that you may be admired from every angle.”
A flush of warmth at the memory. The sort of rush that’s supposed to come when recalling someone who’s died at a ripe old age, when in an instant, all the whopping great mistakes he made in his life serve only to reflect poignantly on the frailty of the human condition. He did the best he could, under the circumstances. Instead of reflecting- with greater accuracy- on their complete and total failure as a human being. Anyway, I like to come here because it never changes. Every surface feels familiar.
I reach up and place a palm on the toasted metal of the tunnel, conjuring the row of skinny legs swinging above my head, the soles of the shoes far bigger than mine: zigzag grips, wiggly grips, dirt-streaked socks, stripy socks. The hierarchy of age, the battle for the best seat in the park. I’m not telling anyone, but I still get that rush of triumph when I see the whole of the top of the tunnel deserted. A couple of slaps dong, dong, to my old friend, and-
“Hi.”
Of course, hiding is his favourite game. The voice had an echo. I do a wide loop around to the entrance, and discover him reclining at the far end, trainers up on the inside wall, hands crossed behind his face- which is covered. The sort of pose I might have pulled to fake nonchalance.
“We meet at last.” Cliff slaps the tunnel, a double-handed drum roll.
I put my foot in the tunnel and hoist myself smoothly onto the roof, turn side-on straight away. The sun is almost touching the tops of the furthest tree line, nothing too cheesy. He appears at the far end, clambering awkwardly onto his knees, around and down. He’s less familiar with this seat. I can feel him staring directly at me so I raise my chin and make a point of e
xamining the scenery, although I cannot say much about the detail. He totally should have looked away by now, and hasn’t. He’s wearing a fedora pulled down to his eyes, black with a black band- I pluck that from my first glimpse of him because he’s still watching- so the park is all mine. I have the same hat on top of my recycling pile, in cottonleather, the Careworn shade of black. Between the fedora and the scarf edge is a slit of skin, and his eyes.
“How’s your Mum handling the news?” Cliff says.
“Fine.”
“Has she had the baby yet?”
“Should have had it two days ago.”
“Boy or girl?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Ah. I’d have thought she’d had enough of surprises.”
I get a jolt as I register he’s on the dimpled side of me, ridiculous. Seven is wrong- my face is not why we’re here. We both study the view and the silence expands. Not so much as a dog-walker for distraction. I risk a fast glimpse- I can’t not- he’s all knees and elbows, braced. Trainers are the full-on moulded type, for serious runners.
“You know they give ‘em the test for Electro-Magnetic Sensitivity around one year old?” Cliff says.
Jabbing at what I know- it’s virtually nothing, but I’m not letting on. I’m not the kid here.
“So they zap them with an electromagnetic field...” I say
“Kind of,” Cliff’s voice curls in amusement. “The computer administers a short-lived dose of nanobots under controlled conditions, to test if there’s a reaction to its own electromagnetic field. You get your answer: Electro Magnetic Sensitivity, or not.”
The rim of his fedora is pulled low. The scarf starts at the bridge of his nose, crosses his cheeks to underline his eyes, and finishes in ripples of pale grey on his chest.
“So tell me Doctor Cliff, what will the results be? As you seem to know a creepy amount of detail about my family, even the as yet, unborn.”
“Hey that’s not fair. Your Mum advertised the information.”
Cliff presents indignant eyes, I avert my gaze.
“She posted a question.”
“She didn’t have to leave her full name on the website, along with yours. She meant for you to find it.”
The idea amuses me, the concept of Mum forward-planning, not careless. Cliff is not the expert he thinks he is. He’s inviting me to lock gazes now; he has to work harder with no other features as back-up.
“My Mum used to do it too,” he continues. “Post stuff about me on the C.O.F website. ‘Help! I’ve got a teenager who won’t come out of his room. What do other parents do to smoke them out?’ It’s easier for her to offload onto the internet, the faceless masses.”
I can tell from his voice that he thinks he’s lightening the tone. I picture the online community of Naturals, rows and rows of hideous faces- just like my cartoon of him.
“She even posted my baby photos! What about my human rights? It’s sick.”
He won’t get a smile from me. Cliff sways back in amusement; it only takes a second to throw your balance up here. I seize the moment to stare: the structured fabric expertly masks his profile, there’s not so much as a ripple, even as he chuckles at his own joke. Cliff’s arms tense, a line of muscle, and his long, lean torso is rebalanced.
“Would your Mum..?” I start, and stop because Cliff is talking over me.
It’s hard to flow a conversation without eye contact. We both wait, only he watches.
“...Did your Mum post a reply to mine?” I say firmly, to disrupt his gaze.
Cliff has seen my Updated avatar in class, and again in the Library, so what’s with the continuing surveillance? I’m not the one hiding my face here.
“Mum’s strictly C.O.F,” he says “the whole legal battle over EMS Naturals is not her thing.”
“Right.”
“Mum and Dad run the Campaign for Original Face, it’s their site. That’s how I found your Mum’s request. I help out with the message board sometimes.”
What dedicated, supportive parents you have Cliff. Well done. (I am a tiny fraction impressed. Campaign for Original Face are the biggest, the last of their kind.)
“My Mum would tell your Mum exactly why she shouldn’t be campaigning for the right to Enhancements for her EMS child,” Cliff continues. “But it’s not usually want they want to hear at this stage...”
“Are you EMS Natural?”
“No, I could Update anytime, if I wanted. I’m different to your sibling.”
Cliff’s silence is loaded. I get the first gut twist.
“Actually I prefer to call myself an Original.” Cliff continues. “I choose to be this way.”
I feel my Smile Blocker tug at the word, Original.
“Your sibling will be an Original too. A face that is not a product. Think about that, True.”
Cliff hugs his knees in and I see the line of a bitten down fingernail, sunken in raw skin. My stomach lurches.
“Not everybody can appreciate a fine art work, but that doesn’t diminish its value-”
“- in comparison to a reproduction.” I interrupt. “I read that one on your parents’ site earlier.”
Cliff laughs like he surprised himself.
“It’s still a fact. If you give it some thought.”
He sounds so certain; this confident voice shouldn’t come from that sort of face. Because what use is an art work that nobody can bear to look at? Where’s the value in that?
“So what happened to your face?” He says
I throw him a dirty look with no idea if it hits the mark. Frustrating.
“I Update because I can. Who wants to stay the same for the rest of their life?”
He looks away across the tree tops and I glare at all that tough grey fabric in profile.
“So Cliff, your turn now: why did you change schools?”
“Home study at Virtual School suits me better.” Cliff gestures with a sweep to his hidden face. “Obvious reasons.”
I follow the gesturing hand as it drops to chest level, and burrows unexpectedly under the scarf edge. The fabric contorts. The folds billow outwards, and this is not what I meant at all- to be shown the problem that forced him to move schools! The hidden fingers make an up-and-down movement- it was an itch! Only an itch. The hand wriggles free. The folds settle down, intact. I try to relax my face.
“You should meet my parents.” Cliff says. “They love talking to people like you.”
People like me? Easy converts? Families with no choice.
Right about now I get this rush of clarity as to exactly why I need to leave. Cliff has been my psychology experiment; I needed to assess what it does to a kid, growing up with the wrong face. In Cliff’s case, he’s clearly delusional. I mean, both of his parents actually devote their lives to campaigning for everybody else to look like him, to make him less of a freak. His parents are trying to bend the world around their son, to force a reversal into history. He appears to have absolutely no understanding of how desperately sad that is. In Cliff World, we all get to re-label the bump an “Original” and hey presto, problem solved. As if my thoughts alone could alter reality.
“Do you like my hat? Cliff says, sliding closer. “It frames my eyes. I find that people need to see my eyes.”
I don’t need anything, so I make a point of watching the gate and making him a part of the scenery and nothing more. He stares so that I can’t, not without creating unwanted intimacy. I get that now. A defence that works precisely because he puts people on edge.
A young couple enter the play park holding hands. Just recently I’ve taken to imagining myself as a bird of prey taking it all in, without the need to play it back on my face. Cool, calm and definitely no unearned smiles. Cliff continues to slide along the tunnel, closing the gap. I get the final gut twist.
“For future reference: you are allowed to look at me.” Cliff whispers. “It’s not against the rules.”
The sudden softness in his voice is startling and I accidently l
ook straight up into his quiet eyes. Cliff is leaning in to press the point and for a fleeting moment I imagine myself reaching out to unwrap him. Cliff cries out. He is falling backwards and I lunge for him too late. (I didn’t even touch him!) Cliff lands squarely on the safety mat, his right hand calmly smoothing the scarf back into place.
I don’t want to look down, don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but I do: the fedora is retrieved with a flourish, given the once over, no damage. The way he moves, he’s pleased by my reaction, delighted with his whole performance here today. The perfectly stage exit. The young couple glance up in tandem as he walks away; a tall masked male, the girl is already on her guard in the fading light. Cliff moves at a loping strut. He could be any sixteen year old boy from behind. Only he’s not, he’s a Natural. An Original.
So why do I suddenly feel like I’ve been played?
Chapter Fourteen
There’s something addictive about being watched. Made-up extensions of the conversation with Cliff keep going around in my head; all his crazy opinions and statements, and all the clever replies I didn’t make in time. I’d just decided to be the one to leave, so how come I ended up last on the tunnel? That grates. I want to say something more to him, lots of things actually, but I don’t know where to start and it’s driving me mad. It’s time to get him onto paper and out of my head.
I pick up my pencil and sketch an oval with short, precise strokes. The next stage is to shade it into the structure of a face and as the shadows appear, I settle into a kind of flow. I find that people need to see my eyes. Does that mean he thinks his eyes are his best feature? He could wear shades to conceal them, and he doesn’t. My pencil nib presses into the paper, darkening the rims, creating eyes that stand out from the Enhanced crowd. I spend a long time on them, pretty them up under his brows. (The angry cartoon brows have gone.) I looked into these eyes and yet, I cannot recall their colour or their exact shape or size, only their stillness. As if I was the dangerous one.
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