We’ve come back to our chalets to unpack. Le Temps had to help me with my suitcase. He complained it wasn’t on wheels but the only ones on wheels were black and I wanted a white one.
‘What are you carrying in there, Elle, dead bodies?’
‘No. Yams,’ I said.
I don’t know why he was smiling. It wasn’t a very good joke.
Ama and I are here first, as the others had to register. Mrs C Eckler has come across to help me get unpacked. I get upset when she opens my suitcase. There’s a blanket I don’t recognise and some white bras.
‘They’re not my clothes.’
Mrs C Eckler pulls out a white cotton jumper a few layers down. ‘This is definitely yours, I’ve seen you wearing it.’
Then I realise Grandma must have packed some extra things. Grandma is obsessed with bras. Bras are her specialist subject. She kept shouting from the bedroom, ‘Elle, remember to pack your brassiere. No wibble-wobble!’ She knows I hate wearing bras. I can’t breathe in them.
Mrs C Eckler takes my yams to be stored in the pantry, then leaves. They’ve labelled our beds. I’m on the bottom bunk and GMT is on the top. Ama’s on the bottom of the other bunk and Noon is on the top. The rules say the older ones take the top bunk so there’s no arguing. Ama stares out of the window for a second.
‘Elle, thanks for covering for me earlier.’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘He asked why you came here and you went tongue-tied. Why did you come here?’
‘Can you keep a secret?’
I nod. I’m very good with secrets but you have to be careful. Some secrets can get you into trouble.
‘What kind of secret?’ I say.
She turns to face me, but her eyes are looking elsewhere. She’s looking up at the ceiling above her bunk bed. ‘Oh my God!’
I look where she’s looking. A huge brown spider stares back at us. It’s so big I can see its multiple eyes. Its legs are as thick as my fingers, but it’s a mutant. It only has six legs, like a daddy-long-legs. I hope it can’t fly. They warned us spiders are bigger in the future because of global warming. More insects for them to eat. It should be in a zoo, not in our chalet.
‘Wow!’ I say.
‘Get a teacher!’ Ama doesn’t like spiders. But I don’t mind them. I climb up the steps onto Noon’s bed and very very slowly reach out my hand and Ama screams and it scuttles away across the ceiling. She scared it away, not me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘It’s only a spider. I need a cup.’
‘I’ll check the bathroom.’
The bathrooms are underground. I haven’t been down there yet, but I saw the stairs spiralling down from the lounge. The spider’s moved across the ceiling above the other bunk beds. I’m quicker this time. I reach out my hand and grab one of its legs. The spider scrunches itself up, playing dead. I open the window and it scuttles down the wall.
I join Ama in the bathroom.
‘Check out the showers.’
They’re motion-operated. You flutter your fingers to make them come on and push your hand up to make them stop, push your hands out to make them hotter and pull your hands in to make them colder. The lights are motion-operated too. And you can programme the walls so they look like a tropical rainforest or a scene with blue sky, green fields and mountains. It will take some getting used to. But Ama lives in 2048. It’s normal for her.
She’s still thinking about the spider, even though it’s gone away.
‘You were so brave, Elle.’
‘I’m only scared of things I can’t see.’
Like whether I’m going to be bullied or excluded. And Grandma not being able to get back up the stairs. And SOS L. Things are always worse when you can’t see them, when they MIGHT happen and you don’t know HOW they’ll happen and your mind thinks of a thousand horrible things that COULD happen. When they happen, I’m not scared any more.
We go back up to the lounge because the showers make me feel claustrophobic. I don’t like not having any windows, even though it’s clever to build showers underground that look like you’re outdoors and they’re very eco-friendly. Then I remember Ama wanted to tell me a secret. She looks out of the windows like she’s scared the spider will come back.
‘Elle. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘I’m here undercover.’
There’s silence in the room. Then I speak.
‘Are you a police officer?’
‘No, of course not. I’m only 14. No . . .’ She looks serious again. ‘I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to find my—’
GMT bursts through the door with her battered cream suitcase. Noon follows silently behind. Ama smiles at them.
‘You took your time. These chalets are wreckage!’ and she’s bounding up the stairs and we follow and she’s throwing clothes out of her suitcase onto her bed, leaving me standing in the middle of the room thinking if I don’t find out what she was going to say, I’ll die. If she doesn’t tell me soon, I’ll spend the whole day guessing what she was going to say until I get a headache or have to do running round the track or the woods or whatever.
Luckily, I happen to look down at the floor and see Noon’s beautiful pair of two-tone leather shoes and decide to talk to her instead.
I say, ‘Where did you buy your shoes?’
and she says, ‘Do you have a gramophone for the Charleston?’
at exactly the same time.
I don’t know what a gramophone is, or the Charleston, and I’m scared to repeat my question in case it comes out wrong, so I turn away from her to GMT, who’s sorting clothes onto hangers and in drawers. I sit cross-legged in the middle of the rug.
‘Are your clothes from the future?’
‘No, honeybee, they’re ’68 head to toe. Don’t mix my years.’
‘What do you mean? Do you only wear clothes from 1968?’
‘Sure,’ she says in her American accent.
‘Are you autistic?’
‘In the here and now, I might be diagnosed. Back in ’68 they thought only boys with speech delay had it. But my parents were cool, they taught me to vibe off my strengths.’
She’s hanging some outfits in the wardrobe and they all have patterns on them or are made of suede, which is the opposite side of leather, in lime-green and mango.
‘Are you from New York City? Have you met Bob Beamon?’
‘No to both. Who’s Bob Beamon?’
She hasn’t heard of Bob Beamon! I can’t believe she’s never heard of the greatest long jumper of all time! But I carry on. ‘Are you from Boston, Massachusetts?’
I know Boston, Massachusetts is in America and I want to go there because it’s the best place name ever, all those sibilants. Sibilants are when you repeat the letter S. Mississippi is the name of a river and a state in America which has four Ss too and is my second favourite. Missouri is my third.
‘No, I’m from everyplace. But I’ve looped California, West Coast,’ she says, hanging up strings of beads on the dressing- table mirror, ‘’67 to ’68. Then back to Britain till ’71’ – she takes out the hair tie, shakes out her wild, black hair. Now she looks like the girl in the photo – ‘when they went decimal and put the clocks back again.’
I read somewhere that people went crazy in 1971 because they got used to the clocks not changing for three years then the government made them go back again, plus they changed all the money so people didn’t know how to buy a loaf of bread. 1971 sounds like hell. No wonder GMT went back to 1968.
‘Are you from Britain or America?’
‘Both. Born in Britain 2004, bred late ’60s, West Coast, United States. Flower Power loopers. Kinda raised myself.’
‘Didn’t you have any parents?’
‘They leaped all over the timeline so I didn’t see them much. Papa’s Annual, so he held tight onto Mama’s hand. She sure can leap!’ She pulls out a crumpled black-and-white photo of a man and woman with black hair and olive skin who look like twins. ‘That�
�s them. Free spirits both. Native blood.’
‘Why do you look like a boy?’
‘A boy?’ She smiles. ‘Thought I was more, kinda, androgynous. Look like a girl AND a boy. Anyway, easier to look like a boy when you loop the past. Less hassle.’
‘Are you a bisexual bissextile?’ I’ve always wanted to say that.
She throws back her head and laughs out loud this time. ‘Guess you’d call me that in ’68. But now . . .’ She looks out of the window as if the word is hidden somewhere in the woods. ‘Who knows? They don’t care WHO you love, long as you love Planet Earth.’
She didn’t answer my question properly, but at least I know she’s a girl. If she was a boy, she shouldn’t be sharing our chalet. It would be breaking the rules. If I was a boy, I wouldn’t be called Elle. I’d be called Il and it wouldn’t be a palindrome.
I sit down at the mirror and start taking out my cornrow. It still hurts and I don’t like looking different in the mirror. And I love combing my hair, its frizz, the fuzziness of it in my hands, the smell of the pomade when I rub it down the parting into my scalp. I’m using my white afro comb, combing my hair out to a halo almost as big as Ama’s.
There’s strange music playing in the background. While I was talking to GMT, Ama was talking to Noon. Music was coming from Noon’s phone and she was doing this strange dance in the middle of the room with her arms and legs flapping so she looked like Big Ben when he’s excited. I’ve never seen anything like it! Ama started copying the moves till she was in synch with Noon. Then I saw why Ama goes to Triple M School. She’s a brilliant dancer. Noon was dancing so hard she almost trod on me. She looked happy for the first time. She must be very brave leaping all on her own from 1924. Also, she’s clever because she learnt to use the Chronophone in five minutes and in the 1920s they didn’t even have mobiles. I part my hair down the middle and comb each side into a bunch. I take the white bobbles out of my pocket and secure the bunches. Now I look like me.
I look across the room at Ama. She’s still chatting to Noon, who’s sitting on the top bunk where the spider was living. Noon doesn’t speak much but Ama fills in the gaps. I wonder whether Ama wants to be my friend or does she prefer Noon now because Noon doesn’t speak as much as I do. I feel sad when I think that. I wonder what Ama’s really thinking. Ama is a secret agent. She hasn’t told me her secret yet. Maybe I’ll stay up all night wondering what her secret is. She said, ‘I’m here to find my—’
What has she lost? What is she looking for?
Chapter 09:00
CAKE
I don’t have a chance to speak to Ama again before lunch, when they announce an Oops. Due to the heavy rain, they’ve postponed the tour of the grounds till tomorrow. Our cookery session with Season will take place instead. I like cooking but I find it difficult to edit the changed timetable in my head. Mrs C Eckler has to sit with me at the end of lunch because I haven’t eaten my potato soup. It feels like my voice is stuck halfway down my throat.
‘Elle,’ she says, ‘how about a walk outside? Season won’t mind if we’re a bit late back.’
I nod. I think I need to do some running. Big Ben is running up and down the café. I think he could do with some running too. As if Mrs C Eckler reads my mind, she calls Big Ben over and we put our waterproofs on.
It’s raining cows and bulls, hurting my face as it turns to hailstones the size of golf balls. But it’s still mild. Big Ben and I start running as soon as we get outside and Mrs C Eckler’s finding it difficult to keep up with us. There are lots of woodland paths and we have no idea where we’re going but Mrs C Eckler says we have brilliant voice-activated maps on our Chronophones so we can ask them to direct us back to the centre. We MUST stay together and keep our phones on so she can track us.
‘I know I can trust you both.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say.
‘Not to get lost. Or . . . leap somewhere else.’ Mrs C Eckler looks like she’s aged ten years since this morning.
‘We wouldn’t do that. We’re running.’
I look at Mrs C Eckler. Does she know I did a solo leap on Wednesday?
Big Ben and I accelerate into the woods. The hail is falling through the leaves like an orchestra. Everything’s green and shiny. I love it here.
‘Am I your boyfriend?’ says Big Ben, jogging beside me on his tiptoes.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Can I time you?’
‘OK.’
I’m not wearing the right trainers, but it feels good to be in the fresh air. There are lots of trees which shield us from the golf balls. It’s always easy to talk to Big Ben because he doesn’t make fun of me. I have to explain things to him sometimes, and sometimes he takes a long time to answer, but he likes running and he doesn’t tell me I speak like a robot.
There are lots of mushrooms under the trees, all different kinds in clusters like flowers. Mushrooms look beautiful but most of them are poisonous and can kill you. The brightest- coloured ones are toadstools, mostly red and yellow. Some look like ears that have been twisted and stretched. Some look like the ones that grow out of the wall in our lounge. They make me think about Grandma. I hope she’s all right on her own.
Big Ben starts making humming noises, pretending to be a Ferrari. He accelerates up a side-path so fast I have trouble keeping up with him, even though I’m almost 90% age grade on the junior Parkrun. I’m tall but nowhere near as tall as Big Ben. He’s 5 foot 11 and still growing!
There are slippery steps which go on forever. I notice large clusters of bluebells each side. They’re a deep shade of lilac and smell heavenly. At the top, a field with a few cows. I forgot there might be animals. I thought they didn’t farm animals in 2048 because it was against the law as they make too much poo which makes global warming. There are only ten cows in the whole field. I came here on a school trip in Sixth Year when it was a country park and we saw some ponies. I don’t think it belongs to the council any more. Maybe it belongs to the Time Squad.
We run along the right side of the field and follow the path all the way round. It’s stopped hailing now and is only lightly raining. The birds are singing, as if to say thank goodness the hail has stopped. It’s lighter up here and the sun’s trying to come out. I wish for a double rainbow. I love rainbows. I’m just getting into my stride now Big Ben’s slowed down, getting into the zone.
I’m in the zone when I see the hat.
I think it’s a toadstool at first, because it’s bright red and covered in mud and set back in some trees. But it’s not the right shape to be a toadstool.
‘Big Ben,’ I say, and he slows down beside me. ‘Look!’
I don’t know why I’ve stopped. It’s only a hat and I don’t need a hat. I have my own white one and I’d never wear a red hat. And it’s covered in mud. It’s not like a February day in 2020 at all. It’s like April, mild and raining all the time. Not hat weather. You can smell the bluebells, even in the rain.
Big Ben picks it up and puts it on his head. I can’t believe he did that.
‘You’ll get a disease and die,’ I say.
He just runs off. And I want to be in the zone again, so I run off too. We go all the way round the outside of the field. The cows ignore us.
Even though I’m sweaty from running, and in the zone, the rain’s so heavy it’s going through my clothes. I want to keep running because it feels good, but there are too many puddles to jump over. Even Bob Beamon wouldn’t want to jump over that many puddles. I tell Big Ben I want to go back. He turns round immediately. I always decide how long or far we’re going to run and he never argues. He’s still wearing the hat covered in mud and twigs. It makes him look like he has mini antlers, like a man-beast hybrid. I don’t tell him, though.
Mrs C Eckler is still standing outside, totally soaked. When she sees us, she puts her phone away. I think she likes the rain. Why else would she stand outside so long?
We’re in The Beanstalk kitchen. Like the café, there’s lots of light. It’s
a large square, with white ovens all down one side. In the middle is a huge, square worktop covered with mixing bowls and ingredients. Season is making a birthday cake for the Leap Party. We’re making cupcakes that will decorate the main cake. The main cake will be made up of four cakes: a two, a zero, a four and an eight. As so many of us have a birthday today, they can’t put the right number of candles on, so it’s better to celebrate the year.
We help Season put coconut cream and white sugar in a bowl, then sift in white flour and lots of baking powder to make it rise. The baking powder is instead of eggs. The cake is totally vegan and made of all white ingredients! I’ve never heard of a cake like that before. We all have a go at making the cake because Season says food made with love tastes better. Season tells us what to do but sometimes forgets the right words and we help her fill them in. She says it’s her age. She does lots of meaningful pausing when she speaks. And she gets power surges. Her body gets so hot she can burn toast.
‘It’ll be brown on top when it’s cooked,’ Season explains as she puts the cake in the oven, ‘and a creamy colour inside, but we’re going to cover it in white icing.’ She smiles at me. ‘I hope you’ll have a slice when it’s finished!’
‘Maybe,’ I say. Maybe it would be OK to eat a different colour food here. It’s so different here in 2048 – not being bullied by Pete LMS, my words coming out the RIGHT way. It’s nice being with the 2048 pupils too. Ama’s telling me all about her school.
‘We don’t have bullying,’ she says, ‘because everyone knows the cameras record it as evidence.’
‘Don’t the bullies steal your phone?’
‘Nah.’ She shakes her head. ‘Overhead cameras. Concealed, like CCTV. They know they’re being filmed, so they don’t try.’
The Infinite Page 7
