Future Girl Read online

  ‘Everyone’s bikes are getting stolen now?’

  ‘Yes. So the police …’ something something.

  ‘They don’t care?’

  ‘They can’t. Busy.’

  I get it. I thank her.

  ‘I hope you find your bike,’ she says, clear and slow, before I turn and leave.

  It’s not until I’ve walked two blocks that I realise I was working so hard to understand her that I forgot to show appreciation for her kindness. And since she was still in the queue, she must have been there to report something more serious than a petty crime. God, I must have seemed so self-absorbed.

  An hour later, when I’m halfway home, I suddenly realise that I now have the perfect excuse to return to the bike shop and see Marley again. I wonder what those rusty old mismatched bikes cost? Will Mum be able to afford one when the new tenants pay their rent?

  I tell Mum there is absolutely no way I am going to school. My feet are killing me after yesterday. She agrees to report the theft to school for me, and I sardine myself onto a tram, watching warily for inspectors, and spill out near the bike shop.

  I check the noticeboard in the window, my stomach doing flipflops. The ad for the food-growing workshop has disappeared.

  Marley emerges from the gloom of the shop, his blue eyes glitzing as brightly as last time. ‘Piper! Howza washup?’

  He remembered my name! Well, I remembered his, didn’t I? But that’s hardly surprising since I’ve flicked past it in my journal every day since I met him. I pull my hearing aids out of my pockets and plug them in. I don’t want him to tell me they’re whistling.

  ‘Yall set ta platta garden now?’ His hands move swiftly.

  I shake my head. ‘I still don’t know how.’

  There’s chemistry here – I feel it. He’s leaning casually in the shop doorway, hair falling into his eyes, but there’s an intensity to his gaze that catches me right in the throat.

  ‘Angelo din inspa you?’

  Didn’t inspire you?

  I swallow. ‘He was fine. I think. I couldn’t hear a word.’

  ‘Oh.’ Marley frowns, concern in his eyes, and embarrassment flashes through me. I should’ve just told him it was good.

  ‘How do you normally get by?’ he asks. ‘I mean, yado sigh. How do you know wasgoan?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  But he’s only halfway through repeating it when I understand. You don’t sign. How do you know what’s going on?

  I let him finish speaking before I reply. ‘Cesspool helps a lot. All our classes are online now. Easy.’

  ‘There’s not much about foogron on Cesspool.’

  ‘I know. I tried looking it up already.’

  ‘Angelo tried tasup an infacen, but his application was rejected.’

  To set up an info-centre.

  Marley’s going slow and clear. How does he do this so seamlessly? His speech isn’t exaggerated, like when Alice talks – it’s casual, comfortable.

  ‘They said it was safe and they can’t be responsible forkaragee thisacoo lead to food poisoning.’

  ‘Did you say they said it wasn’t safe?’

  Marley nods.

  ‘Well, they have a point there,’ I say, but I’m thinking of Karen Kildare being handpicked by the Organicore board, and the fact that only approved news can be shown on Cesspool, effectively meaning Organicore gets to decide what is reported.

  Marley raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ve been eaten reefoo for all of mantee. We’ve evoll teat it. It’s better fus than that plaster stuffee box.’

  I blink. Reefoo must be real food. Evoll is probably evolved. So, going by the same word-group, I’m guessing mantee could be humanity. But plaster? Why’s he talking about plaster? This is not commonly spoken of. And the word’s on my brain because I’ve been using it lately. Must be something else. What? Plastic? Yes, probably. Okay, so … We’ve been eating real food for all of humanity. We’ve evolved to eat it. It’s better for us than that plastic stuff in a box. I presume he means recon.

  My desire to escape convoluted conversation battles with my desire to talk with a gorgeous guy who may, just may, be attracted to me. The gorgeous-guy factor wins.

  ‘There hasn’t been a single recorded case of food poisoning from recon, though,’ I counter.

  ‘No, but now we have kids having engy deficy sdrome, reenus, all that.’

  It seems Cesspool hasn’t done a good job of keeping this out of the news. But I remember the gentle, reassuring way the article I saw at school made out that it was just the worries of a bunch of obsessive parents.

  ‘How come you wan lernta grofoo if you’re a recon subscriber?’

  ‘Shortages. Organicore only delivers half these days. I’d rather have enough to eat.’

  ‘Fairnuff. Youshoo meet my mum. Really. She’s Ddeaf, ansha’s never eaten recon ina life. She coo teach you to grow foo.’

  ‘But your mum uses sign language, right? I can’t sign. Or does she speak too?’

  ‘She can spee but she won’t. But everone understas my mum. She’s a ver clear communicator. If you’re sta, I can interpre.’

  If you’re stuck, I can interpret.

  I stare at him. Why would he bother and why does he care? But I know the answer already: he feels that electric charge between us too. The thought of going to his house gives me a thrill. I like his energy. I want to be around that.

  But as soon as I say yes, he backpedals. ‘I ber actually ask her, check she’s happyta meet you.’

  I give him my Cesspool address and gesture towards the shop. ‘I’m wondering how much your bikes cost. The cheapest ones? Nothing fancy.’

  We go inside and Marley asks, ‘Wha bout your bike? Tha working okay?’

  ‘It was stolen.’

  Marley shakes his head and throws up his arms in sympathetic exasperation on my behalf. ‘I shoulda tolyou tha lock was strong enough.’

  ‘My lock wasn’t strong enough?’

  He nods. ‘You nee one lie this.’ He leads me to the counter and pulls out a hefty steel bolt in plastic packaging. The price label says $249.

  I sigh. ‘I can’t afford that.’

  ‘Wha can you affor?’

  ‘In truth … nothing. My mum lost her job and we’re living on the hair of a possum until she gets some money. I just thought maybe some of these would be cheap?’

  I gesture around the shop. There’s a bike with a leather bag with straps. I missed that bag the first time. I’ll go back to my drawing of Marley in the bike shop and add it in. I mentally grab some other details to draw, then turn back to Marley.

  ‘These are for sale.’ But he’s shaking his head and his tone tells me they aren’t for sale. ‘They’re for rent. I haven been ableta get new bikes in for weeks. Tha newens a sollout.’

  The new ones are sold out.

  ‘Why do people rent a bike?’

  ‘Fa moven big stuff. Moven house, tha kinda thing. Satimes I elp em move too.’ He hasn’t finished. He’s thinking, drumming his fingers. ‘Lea it wimmee. I have an ide. I’ll messy you.’ He gestures typing with one hand on his wristlet.

  I don’t want to go. I point to the words painted on the wall: Imagine if the GDP was replaced with a contentment index.

  ‘GDP, that’s the government measure of money, right? Is a contentment index a real thing?’

  ‘Not asfa asa know. Mafren Kilsy wrote that. She reckons success shoo be measured by how happy we er. Not by money.’

  ‘I like it.’

  I can’t think of anything else to say so I shake Marley’s hand and rush off. I shove my hearing aids back in my pocket and walk home, thinking of the contentment index. Does Karen Kildare measure success by money? The Organicore board certainly does, and perhaps that’s the same thing. Maybe they need a health index. Recon could score eight points for eradicating obesity, cancer and colds, and lose how many for the health problems that have come up in their place?

  I turn down a side street. The shop on the corner has a b
ig white wall. Glancing around me, I see no one’s looking. I pull a fat texta out of my bag and write in large block letters: ‘IMAGINE IF OUR PRIME MINISTER WAS INDEPENDENT.’

  Heart pounding, I shove the texta into my pocket and hurry away. I’ve never done that before. But I don’t feel guilty – I feel excited. Like I’ve finally found a voice. A tiny voice, but one that will be heard, at least, by anyone who walks past this wall.

  The tenants are moving into our house. I sit in a sliver of early-morning sun in the courtyard at the bottom of the drive, sketching rubber-stamp designs, trying not to notice. Alice lent me a set of little carving knives. But the tenants are distracting.

  At the top of the drive is a small boy of around five with white-blond shoulder-length hair and a stocky little body. He eyes me warily, ducking behind his father, who’s thin with matching wavy hair in brown and a beard. His posture’s slightly stooped, as if he lacks confidence. His manner with the boy is gentle; he hands him a few small things to carry into the house (my house!), while he himself struggles under a pile of boxes.

  A woman gets out of the car and efficiently stacks the remaining boxes at the top of the driveway, then leaves again in the car. This is their second load. The petrol they’re using must be outrageously expensive, and I wonder how far away they’re coming from.

  My wristlet buzzes. It’s Marley! My heart skips a beat. ‘My mum says yes – come over on Sunday.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ I fire back.

  Was that too enthusiastic?

  I’m going to have to wash again! On Sunday it’ll have been over a week since my sponge bath. But now we’re stuck in the freezing guesthouse for real, and the thought of removing all my clothes at once and adding cold water does not appeal.

  ‘Same,’ Marley messages back, and I feel a bit better. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Carving rubber stamps. You?’

  ‘House move by bike.’

  I picture a house loaded onto the back of one of Marley’s cargo bikes. The image is irresistible. I sketch it out quickly and snap a photo. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Ha! We’re just moving the contents.’

  Well, of course! But that wouldn’t make such a good drawing. I glance up at the tenants’ plastic boxes. Boring. If I took some artistic licence, though … maybe turn the boxes into cute packages tied with string? Old-fashioned suitcases? I sketch out my ideas. These would make adorable stamps. I transfer the drawings to the rubber and begin carving. It’s soft, and the rhythm of the work is meditative. My mind goes into freefall.

  My grandparents had suitcases like these. I miss being with them at their farm in Kinglake – all those long weekends with Mum, plus summer holidays while she worked. When Grandpa died of coronavirus and we barely had time to blink before Grandma succumbed too, Mum said at least they were together. I get that she was trying to reassure me, but I believe death is an endless black, dreamless sleep, no feelings involved. I know Mum had to sell the farm to pay off our house, but it still hurts. Our house that strangers are now moving into.

  My wristlet buzzes again. This time it’s Taylor calling, so I put my hearing aids in.

  ‘Sorry I’ve been a terrible friend,’ she blurts. ‘Did you get your bike back?’

  She’s in a brightly lit room with black-and-white chequered tiled walls behind her, sitting on a cool retro orange stool facing the visi. She’s wearing yet another new top, with a high pink lace collar, and her hair is styled into a complicated pile of plaits. She looks beautiful, but there are still shadows under her eyes.

  I shake my head. ‘It’s gone. Where are you? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine! I’m good.’ But she says it too fast to be convincing.

  ‘What’s happening, Tay? Is there something dodgy going on?’

  ‘No!’ Taylor laughs, but there’s no crinkle in her eyes.

  And just like that, the screen on my wristlet goes black – I’m out of power. Damn it. I can’t charge it when I don’t go to school. Will Mum notice if I plug it in briefly while she’s out?

  But scrap that, because here’s Mum home now, no doubt from yet another unsuccessful gas hunt. She stops at the top of the drive to talk to the man, then gestures for me to join them. I drag my feet. I can’t believe how distant Taylor’s become – since when doesn’t she tell me what’s going on in her life?

  ‘This is my daughter, Piper,’ Mum says, then to me, clearly: ‘ARCHIE. His partner, Erin, will be back any minute now.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say obediently. Though it’s not.

  ‘His son is Tayger,’ says Mum.

  ‘Tiger? That’s a cool name.’

  But Mum shakes her head. ‘T-A-G-G-E-R-T.’

  I nod, and check with Mum if I can escape. With her eyes, she lets me. But when she’s finished with Archie, she’s in the courtyard, back on my case. ‘Why are you not at school, Piper?’

  ‘Because I don’t have a bike or money for the tram.’

  ‘You have a pair of perfectly good legs.’

  ‘Mum! It’s two hours to walk there.’

  ‘Kids have been walking a long way to school for all of time. You can take the rest of today off, but tomorrow you’re going.’

  I scowl and hunch over my stamp.

  3 To: Taylor

  Okay stranger, if you can’t make it to school, let’s hang out this weekend instead? Come over Saturday?

  3 From: Marley

  Got busy yesterday. Wanted to ask if you’ll show me your rubber stamps.

  3 To: Marley

  3 From: Marley

  You’re a girl of many surprises. Meet me at the bike shop 3pm Sunday?

  This sounds kind of like a date. Umm, with his mum … But he’s messaged me two days in a row. Is he just being NICE??

  3 To: Taylor

  Or hell … just call me?

  3 From: QuestTool – Content Approval Administration Office

  Congratulations! You are invited to attend an interview at QuestTool Headquarters on 24 July at 2pm. Please tap below to accept, and fill in the following questionnaire ahead of your interview.

  I copy Mum’s technique for washing, standing on a towel by the sink and sticking my head under the tap to wash my hair while I’m still dressed, then stripping and using a soapy washcloth for the rest of me. The water chills me to the bone, but at least now I’m fresh and clean.

  I think longingly of our shower. If the new tenants can afford petrol, I bet they’ve turned the hot water back on. They shut the living room curtains that first evening and haven’t opened them since – I guess they don’t want a constant reminder that we’re living in ‘their’ backyard – but I’ve seen plenty of light peeking through the cracks.

  All we have is one power point with a little meter Mum plugged into it to track our usage, so we can calculate our share of the electricity bill. She watches the numbers like a hawk, and if I so much as plug in my wristlet for five minutes she has a fit. She’s even forbidden us from using the overhead light, and plugs a tiny reading lamp in once it’s pitch dark outside instead, so we can track that usage too.

  I get changed three times, then give up and just wear my warmest clothes – jeans and my thick jacket – because what’s the point of looking gorgeous if your teeth are chattering?

  By the time I’ve walked to the bike shop, my heart’s pounding and I’m sick with nerves. What if we don’t have anything to say to each other? What if I can’t understand a thing? What if …

  But I needn’t have worried, because as soon as I push in my hearing aids and step through the doorway, Marley grins and holds up a finger. He’s lying beneath a weird three-wheeled trike, a spanner in his hand. He finishes whatever he’s doing to it and sits up, wiping his hands on his jeans, then gestures to an ordinary two-wheeled bike nearby that’s been built from pieces of various other bikes of all different colours.

  ‘I made you a bike.’

  I panic. I don’t have any money! I didn’t clear a bike purchase with Mum. I was
just enquiring as to how much they were last time.

  ‘What does it cost?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no, don’t worry about that. You can boat. Keep it for as long as you need.’

  His eyes sparkle. He’s into me. He wouldn’t do this if his interest was just casual.

  ‘Did you say borrow it?’

  Marley nods. ‘I know it’s nothing special. But my plays a bit far to walk.’

  We ride along the Merri Creek bike path, me concentrating hard and trying to ignore the rumbling in my stomach, Marley cruising casually in front of me, hands behind his back. He’s so beautiful. I picture myself dinking with him on his bike. I’d sit behind him, wrap my hands around his waist and rest my head against his back.

  I haven’t been here in ages. The river is fast and dirty, with old recon boxes, plastic crates and clothing caught in the current. I remember trees here when I was little, but they’ve all been stolen – stumps are all that’s left, plus low spindly shrubs and lots of weeds and vines.

  Eventually we leave the path, and just as I lose track of where we are Marley parks his bike in front of a tall brick fence. The barbed wire strung along the top makes me uneasy. I hope he isn’t kidnapping me. Maybe I should have told Mum where I was going. She was out when I left, and I didn’t leave a note; I figured she wouldn’t be up for me going to the home of some male stranger I’ve just met, even if his mum is supposed to be here.

  ‘Why all the security?’ I ask.

  ‘Tree vandals.’ Marley unlocks a door set into the wall, and when I hang back, nervous, he hands me the key. ‘There. You can leave any time you want.’

  Our fingers touch and hot electricity jolts through me. I look away – his gaze is intense.

  We step inside and it’s like emerging into paradise: lush, green, wild and tall. There are trees with leaves and trees without, and one without is covered in round orange fruit. Vines twist around trunks and clamber up the wall. Plants are tied to tall wooden stakes (wood!) and there are patches of earth, only the soil is black and moist, not brown and dusty like in my street.

  Marley gestures for me to follow him; for a moment I think he’s going to take my hand, but he doesn’t. We enter a new area gridded with boxes of plants, which feels orderly and neat after the chaos of the entrance. It’s bordered by trees and bushes, and when we push past them we’re in yet another space: a large pond with seats around it and an arbour above. A plant curls its way up through the arbour, but perhaps it’s dead since it has no leaves.