Future Girl Read online

  ‘What do I owe you?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’ He’s waving his hands around in the air again. Then he grins at me and winks.

  He’s flirting! And he knows that I’m deaf. How is this possible?

  I’m so shocked that I twirl the tip of my hair between my fingers for a moment before I remember my manners. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ I hold out my hand.

  He laughs and shakes it, then he says what I assume is his name since he’s pointing to himself, but I don’t catch it. His palm is warm and dry, his fingers dirty from my bike.

  ‘Piper,’ I say, with as much confidence as I can muster.

  He motions me to the counter. Is he going to make me pay after all? But no, he pulls out a slip of paper (yes, more actual paper!) and leans forward to write: Marley.

  He knew that I didn’t understand him. I flush, he winks at me again, and somehow it’s all fine.

  ‘Well, Marley, it’s nice to meet you. Nice shop you have here. Though I don’t know how you make any money.’

  God, why did I say that? I sound inane! And maybe now he’ll charge me. Stupid. I grab my bike and make my exit before I can put my foot in it further.

  Riding home I feel bright, energised, my fingers strangely warm, like the bite has washed out of the winter cold. Even my hunger has faded to a background gnaw.

  Marley. No one’s ever seen through me quite so efficiently. Well, maybe Taylor has, but never some guy. Not someone I’ve just met in a bike shop. I roll down the hill, wind whipping my hair back, and think about how I’ll draw him. He’ll be all colour, warm and vibrant, the bikes surrounding him, a pattern of black silhouettes.

  I shove my hearing aids into my ears before I unlock the front door. Now that Mum’s always at home I don’t even get those few quiet hours after school to unravel my headache before dinner. I wonder if we can eat early, because I’m starving.

  I stop abruptly. Something’s not right. The hall table’s gone. So’s my painting at the far end of the hall. The house feels hollow, empty. I rush to my bedroom, and my bed and desk are gone, though my wardrobe still spills my clothes onto the floor and the shelves are still crammed with old toys, things I’ve made, and photos of me, Taylor and Mum. What the hell?

  The lounge looks bare too, without its huge visi-screen and floor rug. A shadow flashes over me and I turn as Mum bursts through the back door, wearing old clothes and rubber gloves.

  ‘Mum! Where’s my art stuff? What have you done?’

  ‘Relax, Piper. I’m just setting up the guesthouse. Come see.’

  She leads me out the back door and through the little concrete courtyard. She’s bristling with energy.

  My heart starts beating like crazy. The piles of junk are gone. The dust, cobwebs and dirt have gone too, though not the yellowing water stains on the wall, nor the cracks in the ceiling and windows. In the far corner is my bed, neatly made. My desk is beside it, with my art stuff stacked on top, and the amateurish painting I did of the ocean has been nailed to the wall above. I can see through the doorway next to my desk that the tiny toilet room has been cleared of boxes. Mum’s bed is in the corner to my left. There’s barely enough space to stand between the foot of her bed and the foot of mine.

  I can see Mum’s worked really hard, but the effect is … dingy. It’s the bare lightbulb and naked aluminium windows, and the pitted concrete showing around the edges of the rug from the lounge.

  ‘We have space for the dining table and chairs, or the armchairs and table from the breakfast nook. Which do you think?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Definitely the breakfast nook stuff.’

  I try to sound normal, but a huge vice is crushing my chest, squeezing out all the air, and my head throbs wildly. Surely we’re not going to live here? There’s no bench. I won’t have anywhere to spread out my art. My desk is too small to count. But the blue velvet chairs might help this space feel cosier.

  ‘Can we bring the curtains too?’ I ask.

  Mum shakes her head. ‘The people who rent our house will need to be able to close them for privacy. Otherwise we’ll be able to see straight in from the courtyard.’

  I swallow, hard. Keep it together, Piper.

  ‘I need you to help me bring in the armchairs,’ Mum says. ‘Then you can go through your stuff and pick what to keep. You have your desk drawers and the space under your bed – everything has to fit there. We’ll need to ditch the rest.’

  ‘Where’s everything else? What did you do with the visi?’

  ‘I sold it.’ I stare at her, aghast. ‘We need the cash, Piper. That reminds me. Do you have any change left over from fixing your bike? I need it to put towards your school fees.’

  I bring up my wristlet and transfer the sixty dollars back to her. Now there’s nothing in my account.

  Mum touches my arm. ‘I know this is tough. But look what I found when I was cleaning out all the junk – it was Grandma’s.’

  She points to a crate she’s tucked under my bed. I pull it out and there are cans of spray-paint, an old yellowing receipt book that’s mostly empty, a couple of notepads, some sewing paper, a roll of old-fashioned stickytape, and even some paperclips. Who knew we had a paper goldmine out here? Wow.

  I shake one of the cans, which emits a satisfying rattle. Pulling off the lid, I spray a bit onto my fingers – it works!

  Mum grabs me. ‘Piper, not in here – that stuff stinks!’

  So it does. But I don’t care. I’ll make stencils! They’ll look grungy and incredible sprayed onto those plastered pages in my journal.

  I cast my eye around for my journal, but Mum’s onto me. ‘You can play with that after you’ve dealt with your stuff.’

  ‘Can’t we eat first?’

  ‘After.’

  Organicore didn’t deliver the other half of our order yesterday, so it’s just as well Mum forced us to ration the last batch. But I’m still not used to the reduced amount of food during the daytimes.

  I do what Mum says. It makes me feel sick, condensing my life into a handful of boxes and three drawers. I distract myself by picturing Marley, the guy from the bike shop, here in my space. (Ha, as if!) Suddenly I don’t mind ditching the more embarrassing relics of my childhood quite so much.

  In the end I keep most of my art stuff and get rid of almost everything sentimental I’ve ever owned, save for the photos, which I tack to the wall by my bed. I’m so lightheaded from hunger by this stage that this feels surreal, like a movie of someone else’s life.

  The guesthouse is crammed tight now. Mum’s still hammering nails into the wall, so I sit on my bed and pick listlessly through Grandma’s papers. Wind blows through a gap between the window and its frame and I shiver.

  Some of Mum’s stuff has got mixed up with Grandma’s papers – scientific notes and the like from Organicore. One catches my eye because it’s from Karen Kildare. I still find it amazing that Mum has a personal relationship with our prime minister.

  From: Karen Kildare

  To: Irene McBride

  Date: 10 June

  Irene,

  I need to respond to today’s rally. I know we’re spinning it that the problem is pollution, not recon, but can you give me any scientific evidence to back this up? Or do the protestors have a valid point? I am genuinely concerned that they might …

  You know that if it was up to me, I’d never have approved the recon rollout in the first place, not before the longer-term testing was complete. Irene, if you’re not certain that recon is safe, demand that the board orders a recall and pauses the program until you work it out. If anyone can convince them of this, it will be you.

  Karen

  I blink and read it again. What does she mean, if it was up to me? Karen Kildare chose to roll out recon as part of her welfare program. She’s Prime Minister of Australia! Why doesn’t she tell the board to pause the program?

  Something large and soft hits me on the side of my face – Mum’s jumper. She’s always throwing things a
t me to get my attention. I scowl. ‘What?’

  ‘You can start heating dinner.’

  I put Mum’s jumper on over my own, but I’m still cold. ‘Not until you tell me about this,’ I say, waving the email in the air.

  As soon as Mum sees what I have, she lunges across the room and snatches it from me. ‘Piper! You did not see this.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Piper. NO. Dinner.’

  I glare at her, but do as she says. The recon cupboard fills the little space between my desk and the door to the toilet. Organicore didn’t deliver my usual choices last Tuesday, and now there’s a bunch of stuff left that I’m not too sure about, such as Steak Tartare. I select it dubiously and pick Spaghetti Bolognaise for Mum.

  Weirdly, my meal doesn’t need heating, but Mum’s does. Mum is furiously avoiding eye contact, so I heave the loudest sigh manageable, pull out a thick plastic sheet, and start cutting a stencil of a starburst while I wait. Then I take it outside, set it against a random page in my journal, and spray black paint over everything. The moment of reveal is amazing: everything’s black until I peel off the stencil and the shape comes into view, retro and regal with crisp lines and soft overspray here and there where tiny speckles of paint have snuck in when they weren’t supposed to. I could so get addicted to this.

  It’s so weird to sit in our blue velvet chairs around our tiny marble table in the dingy, freezing guesthouse. I open my recon box to discover a strange lump of mashed raw meat inside – not steak at all.

  ‘Huh?’ I ask, holding it out to Mum.

  ‘It’s a French delicacy. Oort kwazeen.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Mum repeats it about five times, but I still don’t get it, so finally she types it into her wristlet. Haute cuisine. Apparently it means cooking of a very high standard. But they seem to have missed the cooking step here.

  I remind myself there’s no actual meat in this dish, just BioSpore, though why anyone would choose to imitate uncooked flesh is beyond me. I shovel some into my mouth anyway … and it’s weirdly good.

  ‘But Mum,’ I say with my mouth still full. ‘Why on earth can’t Karen Kildare just tell the board what to do?!’

  Mum clamps her mouth shut and shakes her head.

  I stare at her, hard.

  ‘This is none of your business.’

  ‘It is my business. I’m an Australia citizen. If you don’t tell me, I’m going to ask my teacher.’

  That sorts it. ‘Piper, you have to absolutely zip it. This is confidena stuff.’

  Confidential stuff.

  She glares at me, and I nod earnestly.

  ‘Karen can’t tell the board what to do, because the board hires her.’

  ‘What do you mean? She’s the prime minister, so she’s hired by the people of Australia.’

  Mum chews slowly for a while. She gets up and goes to her bed, pulls off the doona and spreads it over her lap. It’s huge, and she offers me the other end. I pull it over my knees.

  At first I think she isn’t going to answer me, but eventually she says, ‘Five years ago, the board was thinking about how to get recon accepted into every household in Australia. They had a new investor with plenty of money, and the elecans were coming up. So, they decided to hire someone to front a politicer party that would run for government. If that party got elected, then the government would primate recon, provide it for welfare, and so on. It was the perfect way to get recon out there. They picked Karen Kildare, who was the Face of Australia at the time – remember that? She was good at public speaking, a young pretty model, everyone liked her. You were only eleven, I suppose.’

  It takes me a moment to digest this. It’s not easy decoding the odd weird word when the words keep flowing.

  ‘So, you’re telling me that while we voted for Karen Kildare, the real prime minister is the board of Organicore?’

  ‘Well, effectively, yes. But this is strictly insider information. You can’t tell a soul. Not even Taylor.’

  ‘But why did Karen Kildare agree to all of this?’

  ‘Because she saw her chance to do so many good things, Piper. Like shutting down all that terrible crime on the internet, reducing homelessness, creating equal access for all to the school creekum …’

  ‘Well, so long as those things happened, who cares if they were recommended by the board or by Karen Kildare herself … I guess?’ I say uncertainly.

  Mum starts to say something, then abruptly closes her mouth. ‘Yes, true. But make sure you zip it.’

  ‘Mum, you’ve said that a hundred times! My mouth is zipped. But what about the testing?’

  ‘Karen Kildare was elected before we’d completed long-term testing on recon, and the board didn’t want to wait, so they had her set up the welfare program right away. All the results were great at that point, and the benefits were just so huge. But now, as you know, some of the slightly longer-term results are coming back as … less than optimal.’

  Mum massages her temples.

  ‘Maybe the board really should recall recon,’ she goes on. ‘I didn’t think so. The health risks we’ve solved far outweigh these potential new ones – and I was sure that I could work things out. But now they’ve fired me, there’s no one in there fixing the problems.’ She smiles bitterly.

  ‘Just come clean, Mum! Go to News Melbourne and tell them the truth!’

  ‘And sabotage any prospect I have of getting my job back, and sorting this all out? Organicore will come knocking, you just wait, Piper. There’s no one else who can fix this.’

  ‘I thought you said they were going under?’

  ‘Well … I don’t know for sure. They might make it through till they work out another mode of transport.’

  I scoff down my last mouthful of steak tartare. I could eat another whole meal. ‘Should we stop eating recon, if it’s not safe?’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘It’s the only thing we have to eat at the moment, unless we’re prepared to queue at Allstars at six in the morning and take food from people there who don’t have recon subscriptions. Besides, we’ve been eating it this long … We’ll keep an eye out for side-effects, of course. I suspect it could be a tolerance thing – some do well, others don’t. I think we’ll be fine, Piper. This isn’t a permanent situation – things are going to get better.’

  After dinner I pull off my hearing aids and lie on my bed with my journal, my head spinning in the sudden silence, cold air whispering at my cheek. I think of Marley. Of Karen Kildare, Organicore. The guesthouse as home. It’s all too much.

  I dump the contents of my brain onto a page in my diary – a grid, a symbol for each thing bothering me, wresting order from the chaos – working fast, messy, smearing layers of paint upon paint, until slowly everything settles. Finally, I’m calm enough to sleep.

  We’re supposed to be putting the finishing touches on our food- poisoning assignment. I’ve done my part, and Taylor needs to write the conclusion, but she’s not at school.

  Where is she?

  Should I write it for her – get it out of the way?

  It suddenly strikes me that the assignment is part of the government’s curriculum. Organicore’s curriculum. It seems rather self-serving. Is wild food really as bad as we’ve been taught that it is …? It never occurred to me to question this before now.

  It’s not even lunchtime and already my headache is settling in. I wish I could take out my hearing aids. I wish I could eat! I’m sick of being naggingly hungry all the time – it messes with my head, makes it hard to concentrate. I already ate my half-a-recon on the way to school, which was dumb but I hate missing breakfast. I don’t even care that it becomes weirdly rubbery thanks to having to heat it a second time. Our Organicore delivery is due today and they’d better deliver a full cupboard this time!

  I’m not going to write Taylor’s part of the assignment. She can do it herself. I type ‘How to grow wild food’ into Cesspool but it just churns out a list of feeds about pathogens. I’ve decided
I’m definitely going to the food-growing workshop this weekend.

  I bring up the job application questionnaire I started yesterday. I stare at the visi, feeling as dull as the screen, which is on low-power mode. I find making friends a breeze. I’m to indicate how strongly I agree or disagree with this statement. What does this have to do with approving Cesspool content? My finger hovers over strongly disagree, but then I think of when I met Marley and tap neutral instead.

  When I next glance up, everyone in class is staring at me. Like, everyone. What the hell? I focus on the girl next to me, Brianna, and a rally-like chant I’ve been blocking out takes shape on her lips: ‘Pi-per, Pi-per, Pi-per …’

  They’re all chanting it. Heat suffuses my face and my skull pulses. Where’s Taylor when I need her?

  ‘What?’

  They laugh. At me, not with me.

  Brianna says something and gestures towards the teacher. Lisa, too, is staring at me. Her lips move, but the only word I catch is presentation.

  Couldn’t someone have tapped my shoulder to let me know it was my turn? Am I really so revolting that no one save Taylor can bear to touch me? Even the teacher?

  I can’t do this. I simply cannot do school without Taylor. Where is she?

  Tears threaten, but I blink and stand up, tall as I can. ‘Sure, I don’t mind going first.’

  Nonchalant and casual, I walk to the front and aim my wristlet at the large visi on the wall to bring up the first image from my talk. We wrote these a month ago; my mind races as I try to remember what I’d planned to say. The tall spires of Organicore fill the screen.

  I swallow, hard. ‘Okay, so my hero is Adhya Vasi, Australia’s biggest success story. She was only a uni student when she had the vision for Organicore.’

  Will they all think it’s ridiculous I’m presenting about Organicore, knowing that Mum doesn’t work there anymore?

  ‘She started Organicore, and then sold it for billions of dollars once it became a worldwide phenomenon. She was furious that almost two decades into the twenty-first century, women were still assigned most of the domestic load – so she decided that if men wouldn’t do their share, nobody should, and made it her mission to do away with shopping, cooking and washing up! She was an environmental visionary, too – it was her who first came up with the idea of companies collecting and reusing their own rubbish. The result was recon. And that’s how Adhya Vasi came to be known as the Future Girl – for her forward-thinking ideas.’