Future Girl Read online

  Mum sighs. ‘Yes, that might not be appreciated.’ She pours herself a second glass of wine and takes a big mouthful. ‘Science, Piper. There are always jobs in research. And depending on the role, maybe your Ddeafness wouldn’t matter.’

  ‘Boredom, Mum! I can barely keep my eyes open during science. How do you expect me to survive fifty years in the field? I’ll be in a coma by the time I’m twenty.’ I rub my hearing aids. My ears are itching again. ‘So that leaves one option: art!’

  Mum rolls her eyes. ‘No one except Picasso ever made any money from art, and he was probably dead before the dollars started rolling in. Think of your dad.’ She reaches for her recon box and I see the light’s gone off. I never hear the beep.

  I open mine. It smells delicious; I love pad thai. ‘Dad could be a famous artist by now.’

  Neither of us would know it if he was. He left when I was a baby and we haven’t heard from him since. Mum doesn’t seem too cut up about it, and I can’t say I miss him given that I never really knew him.

  ‘That reminds me,’ Mum says. ‘A certain package from Spain arrived today.’

  I jump to my feet. ‘Mum! Where is it? How could you forget?’

  She gestures towards the hall and I tear down to the table by the front door. Yep, there’s a plastic box there with my name on it. I rip open the packaging, and there it is: my long-awaited real paper journal. The cover is plain, bound with tape. I’ll paint something to stick over it. I open the journal and finger the pages. The texture is lush, nothing like plastic. It’s smooth but not slick, creamy but still white. Everything, everything I draw and paint looks better on real paper.

  I bring the journal to the kitchen and throw my arms around Mum. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

  She smiles. She does love to indulge me, I’ll say that. ‘Happy sixteenth birthday, Piper.’

  My birthday was two months ago. It took this package ages to arrive. But it’s here now. Real paper! I’ll keep it with me always, and make myself a little kit to keep with it: a pencil case with a few colours of paint, my favourite pens, scissors, an eraser, a set of graphite pencils … and I can’t forget a glue stick …

  I rush to my room, flick on the light, and open my desk drawers. Which paint colours? Definitely red. And I love black. But not too many or it will be too much to lug around. I’ll include my tin of watercolours for sure. And a few brushes … Maybe I can fill a little bottle of water to keep with me. I grab my largest pencil case and begin collecting supplies.

  The light flicks off, plunging the room into dullness. Mum is standing in the doorway. ‘Guv the letriss situation, we’re going to have to conserve it until my pay comes through. One lie at a time. And I’m turning off the heating. And the hot water too, unless you stick to threemy showers once a day.’

  It’s hard to lipread her when it’s so dim, so it takes me a moment to figure out what she’s said. ‘Electricity? One light at a time?’

  Mum nods.

  Threemy? Oh! ‘Did you say I can only have three-minute showers?’

  ‘That’s right. You’ll have to learn to wash your hair faster.’

  Whoa. I can’t believe Mum’s serious. At this rate, she’ll single-handedly save the world after all.

  She holds out my dinner. ‘You forgot this.’

  But who cares about pad thai and chips, or electricity for that matter, when I have a portable art studio to set up? ‘Do you think you could bring your dinner in here, Mum? So we can have the light on in my room instead of in the kitchen?’

  Mum obliges, and once the room is bright again and she’s settled on my bed, eating, she says, ‘You know, there are plenty of jobs with QuestTool, and they probably wouldn’t rely much on hearing. You could start at the bottom, approving content, and work your way up.’

  ‘Mum! Not now!’ I turn back to my drawer and fish out an 8B pencil. I’ll need a rag, too, to wipe my brushes on.

  I follow Taylor into a lounge room. The house is dark, but the party’s not exactly rocking: there are maybe ten people sitting on mismatched old couches and armchairs set around a table littered with half-finished beers, vodka and cherrygrog. Incense is burning, ash spilling onto the table. I hope it won’t melt the plastic. The smoke is cloying. Music blares and the beat thumps in me, but the rest is a jumble of random sounds. I want to rip my hearing aids out, but figure I’d better leave them in to be sociable.

  A tall, skinny guy with dirty-blond hair and a tattoo of a menacing crow on his forehead peels himself off the couch and greets Taylor, pulling her into his arms. Is this Beau? He’s wearing a thick shirt with a high ruffled neck, and neat trousers with zips in the legs going up to his knees.

  Now I see why Taylor’s all dressed up. She’s pulled her hair into two buns on top of her head, and suddenly her fringe looks chic instead of weird. Heavy black eyeliner rims her eyes and the effect is tragi-glam. She’s wearing a short blue dress made of some kind of fake wool, with long sleeves, ruffles at the wrist, and a high white faux-fur collar. Despite the warm dress and some platform boots, her solid legs are bare. I’ve never seen this outfit before. I didn’t think Taylor had the money for new clothes.

  I glance around the room and see that the other girls are dressed similarly, with upswept hair, dramatic make-up and gorgeous dresses. I feel underdressed with my bare skin, flat hair, jeans and thick jacket. I look more like one of the guys, only not as clean and sharp.

  Taylor grabs my arm and introduces me. I was right, this is Beau. He takes my hand and leans in to kiss me perfunctorily on the cheek, assaulting me with an intense cloud of perfume. I resist the urge to step back, giving him my best smile instead.

  ‘How are you?’ I ask. If Taylor likes him, he must be nice.

  He says something back that I don’t catch. It’s too dark for me to have a hope of lipreading.

  I glance up at Taylor. ‘Drink,’ she mouths, miming herself downing a cup.

  ‘Thanks, that’d be sweet.’

  Beau disappears, and Taylor finds a spot for us on one of the couches. I squash up against a beefy guy who’s leaning back against the cushions and looks half asleep. He eyes me lazily and says something.

  I don’t think I’ll hear him if I ask for a repeat, so I just smile. Taylor turns to a girl on her other side and starts having an animated conversation.

  The beefy guy speaks to me again and I glance at Taylor, nervous, but all I can see is her back. I smile, nod and give him the thumbs up. That seems to satisfy him for the moment. I hope no one else speaks to me.

  I wait for the guy to look away and then surreptitiously slip my hearing aids out of my ears and zip them into my jacket pocket. The world goes quiet, save for the rhythmic thump of the beat, which I feel more than hear. That’s better.

  Opposite me on another couch, three guys and two girls are immersed in conversation. I can see them shouting to be heard, laughing. I think the blonde girl is flirting with one of the guys. Two of them have implanted wristlets.

  Next to them in a chair is a couple making out, and that guy has a wristlet implant too. The girl’s kneeling on his lap and he’s holding her butt cheeks while they tongue each other. I watch, curious and mortified. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed, that’s me. I can’t picture any guy wanting to kiss me, and while I like the idea of being kissed, I’m not sure I’d want to have my arse groped in public like that. It seems undignified.

  Beau reappears and hands me an opened can of cherrygrog. His wristlet is implanted too. He leans down and says something into my ear.

  I lean back, turn my head, and strain to see his mouth. ‘What did you say?’

  He tries again to access my ear and we do this weird dance, with me trying to keep my eyes on his face. I win. He repeats himself, confused, but it’s hopeless. I shrug.

  ‘I can’t hear you over the music,’ I shout. I can’t bring myself to admit I’m deaf. I just want to fit in, be like everyone else, despite the fact that my outfit is all wrong. Why didn’t Taylor tell me?
Though if she had, what would I have worn? It’s not like I own platform boots or a short dress. Taylor and I always wear jeans when we hang out. Maybe I need to go shopping.

  Beau tries again and gestures to the other people in the room.

  ‘Cool place …’ I say.

  He nods and gives up on me, probably thinking I’m too inane to have a real conversation with. He reaches past me for Taylor, pulling her to her feet. Then he wraps his arms around her and they dance. It seems that things have progressed in the Beau department.

  I sip the cherrygrog. It’s sickly sweet and burns my throat, like cough medicine. The air starts to take on a surreal texture, the faces opposite me seeming to move almost in slow motion, luminous against the shadows. I take a deep breath, try to clear my head, but the incense smoke catches in my throat and I cough.

  I wish I’d brought my journal.

  I can’t do this.

  The couple making out are practically lying sideways in the armchair now, and the guy’s hand slides up the girl’s leg.

  The beefy guy shifts. He’s waving his hand slowly near my face, a patronising gesture: Earth to plain girl. I realise he’s been speaking to me and I’ve been ignoring him.

  ‘Sorry. What did you say?’ I ditch the cherrygrog on the table. I’ve tried Mum’s wine before and never liked it. I don’t like this stuff either.

  He leans towards me, and I feel his breath on my face as he speaks. But I can’t catch even a single word. His mouth barely moves. I smile and nod, my fallback, but it doesn’t satisfy him, and I realise he’s asking me a question.

  ‘What? Sorry, I still didn’t hear you.’

  More breath on my face. I try to guess the possibilities. How do you know Beau? What do you think of this party? Where do you go to school? But nothing I can think of matches the shapes his mouth makes. I throw him an uneasy smile, shrug and stand up. I’ve got to get away. This is not working.

  Taylor is still dancing with Beau. She’s smiling a flirty smile, but I can tell she’s not quite comfortable. After a moment, I see why. Beau has dipped down and is sliding his hand up her leg, all sexy-like. Taylor flinches slightly and spins out of reach, dodging him, but he does it again, and this time she lets him. Only her head is ducked forward, and when Taylor does that it means she’s thinking about what to do next.

  When his hand disappears up her dress, Taylor’s head tips back and she laughs. She’s decided to go with it. But I know he’s moving too fast for her. Can’t he read her body language?

  I tap her shoulder and she turns to me, eyebrows raised. Beau says something and they both laugh, their faces friendly and warm towards me. I have no idea what’s so funny, but it seems mean to stand there with a stony face and I really do want to make a good impression on Beau, so I laugh too. Beau makes another comment and we all laugh a bit more.

  Finally, I grab Taylor’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go.’

  She turns from Beau, who stops dancing and reaches for another drink. She makes sure she’s facing the light and mouths clearly: ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Can we go outside for a minute?’ I ask.

  I take her hand and Taylor traipses after me. The air outside is cold and crisp, clearing my head instantly. I inhale deeply. We stand under the verandah light, Taylor facing it so I can lipread her. I put my hearing aids back in.

  ‘Don’t let him do anything you don’t want him to do,’ I say.

  ‘I know. But it’s exciting being with him. He’s kind of bad. Know what I mean?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t think I’ve felt that.’

  ‘I can handle him. Why are you leaving?’ Taylor rubs her legs.

  ‘I can’t lipread in the dark. Aren’t you cold?’

  Taylor nods. ‘But it’s worth it. Gotta suffer for beauty.’

  ‘I guess that’s why I’ll never be beautiful. Not prepared to suffer.’ I gesture to my boring clothes.

  ‘You’re always beautiful, Piper,’ she says. ‘Me, I need a funky dress and make-up to pull it off.’

  ‘Where’d you get the dress? It’s gorgeous.’

  ‘Lollies and Dirt.’

  My eyes widen. ‘It must have cost a fortune!’

  Taylor laughs. She’s shivering.

  ‘You’re cold. Go back inside. It looks like Beau fancies you as much as you like him.’

  ‘Maybe tonight’s going to be my night. Will you be okay to get home without me? I’d come, but …’

  But she might have sex with Beau. ‘I’ll be fine. Go.’

  As soon as I’m alone I pull my hearing aids out of my ears again. I walk slowly to Smith Street and hail a tram. It’s crowded even though it’s late. There are hardly any cars on the road. When I wave my wristlet past the tram’s check-in point, it vibrates.

  Insufficient funds.

  What? I had plenty of money in my account! I should get off the tram, but I don’t. I cast my eye around for inspectors but don’t see anyone official. Bringing my bank account up on my wristlet, I see that I have exactly fifteen dollars left. That should be plenty.

  Then I see the last transaction: me checking in on the tram to go to the party. Eighty-five dollars at 9.12 pm. Eighty-five dollars?!

  I hope Mum’s pay has been sorted out. I’m going to need some more pocket money. The guy in front of me gets off at Clifton Hill and I see a row of new ads above the windows.

  We apologise for an unavoidable fare rise due to increased fuel costs. Please check updated fares before travelling.

  It’s a bit late for that. Have they increased fare evasion fines too?

  I think of what I’ll paint in my journal tomorrow: A page of deep blues and greens. Lots of layers and texture. A tiny sliver of grey sky at the top.

  You’re NOT drowning. Just swimming DEEP. I’m not sure I can do this teenager thing. Perhaps I’m doomed to stay a child FOREVER.

  Three days later I’m on the tram again, on my way home from school, and an inspector climbs on, scanner ready. I push urgently through the throng and manage to dive off just before the doors close. About ten other people dismount with me. Are we all travelling without checking in? I don’t know how else to get home.

  Organicore still hasn’t paid Mum, and she didn’t give me this week’s pocket money. We haven’t talked about the fact that I can’t pay my tram fare. I wonder whether she can’t either; she ditched the car this week as promised. Thanks to the lack of heating and light, we’ve both basically been spending as much of our time at home as possible in bed.

  I shake my head, trying to push the worry away. I’m only in Church Street, so it’s a long, long walk home, with the wind whipping my hair. I switch off my hearing aids but leave them in my ears for warmth.

  The roads are quieter than usual. The streets and sky are grey. I miss trees, and green, and I curse the tree vandals who stole them all, leaving only stumps behind. If only wood never became so valuable. I sigh. There are some shrubs behind garden fences, but they’re dry and listless thanks to the water restrictions.

  I jump as a guy races past me on a bike, grazing my arm. Couldn’t he have given me a little space – like, ridden around me? He probably rang his bell, presumed I’d move out of his way. I wish the possibility that I can’t hear would occur to people. Taylor has reported this to me before: the swearing and yelling as I walk calmly on, ‘ignoring’ cyclists and their bells.

  Over an hour later, I trudge into my street and it’s the same: grey, grey, grey. There’s a wide island down the middle of the road sprinkled with dead grass – thank you, drought – and no one in sight but me and an old guy trudging along slowly. I’ve seen him before, working his way up and down, up and down the street, going nowhere; it seems lonely. Organicore has delivered – there are recon cupboards inside the gates of about half the houses, including ours. Even the cupboards are grey.

  My feet ache. I push the cupboard aside, knowing I should bring it inside, but wondering instead whether my old bike might be in the guesthouse with the rest o
f the stuff we don’t use anymore. Taylor and I used to mess around on our bikes together, but after I crashed mine the handlebar was twisted and it felt weird. I haven’t ridden it since.

  I drop my schoolbag by the back door and head for the guesthouse. The smell of damp and dust assaults me as I flick on the light, illuminating piles of crap Mum and I haven’t dealt with in years. I move a box out of my way and it shoots up a puff of white powder when I plonk it down, so I check out the packet inside – plaster! Wow. I reckon I could use that in my journal.

  I find the bike and fiddle with it, wondering if I can fix the wonky handlebar, or maybe learn to ride with one hand further forward than the other to compensate. Then I take it for a test ride. It’s in pretty bad shape. I think there’s a repair place in High Street.

  Leaving the bike out the back, I take the plaster inside. In the kitchen, I mix it with some water and spread it over some pages in my journal. It doesn’t take long to dry, and the texture is amazing, like an old wall. I turn a page and it feels substantial, heavy. The plaster cracks a bit, and even that looks good.

  I decide I’ll add layers … collage some stuff over it. I take a sheet of plastic and paint it yellow. Then, using black, I add stripes. I tear the sheet into strips and glue it down randomly onto empty pages. The effect is strangely appealing. I dig out my sewing kit and stitch a plastic pocket inside the journal’s front cover, then slip in the leftover part of the striped sheet to use later.

  Thud. The house vibrates. Surely it’s too early for Mum to be home?

  But I put my head into the hallway and it is Mum. She’s standing at the hall table by the front door, face red, mouth working furiously, hair wild. She always talks – okay, shouts – to herself when she’s angry.

  ‘Mum?’ I say tentatively. ‘What happened?’ I need my hearing aids.

  She turns to me, furious, her mouth going a mile a minute, and thumps her fist on the table. The hall reverberates. This is bad.

  I hold up a finger and retreat into my bedroom. When I put in my hearing aids, I’m slammed with the noise of Mum shouting, the sounds random and incoherent. My head throbs. How to calm her down?