Special

by Georgia Blain

  I turn back to face Chimo but then look away as I realise how close I am to tears.

  ‘You need to trust us,’ he says, his voice earnest, hushed in my ear.

  I keep on walking.

  As I lay my scraps across the floor, my tiny window open to the smothering heat, I yearn to go downstairs to where he is probably still sitting under the west awning, talking to Sala and Jiminy. Or perhaps they have strung up their hammocks for the night, preferring the relative cool of outside to our hot little rooms, the three of them sleeping side by side. Some nights I hear Sala singing, her voice as striking as when she speaks: low, hypnotic and soothing. I have imagined joining them, leaning forward when the power dies and the darkness descends and telling them my story, asking them to help me.

  But I can’t.

  Trust no one, she said. But why have they left me waiting for so long?

  Sitting on the floor, I look up at the ceiling and breathe in deeply. I am strong, I tell myself.

  I had planned on creating another image of Halston. The scraps I collected were going to make up Miss Margaret’s sitting room, with the plum-red carpet and the silvery-blue curtains drawn close. There were chairs for all of us – a long couch to be shared and deep armchairs – and a low round wooden table joining us together. Now I have my frame and a sheet of plastic to form the base of the box, I’m ready to begin.

  I lay everything out in front of me. But, instead of Halston, I start to create the first home I knew – my father, my mother and my brother in those two small rooms at PureAqua.

  It’s strange how our designs were always referred to as a ‘gift’, as though the best bits of ourselves were a blessing from the heavens. Most people who design their children are not receiving gifts. They are purchasing commodities – carefully selected, nurtured and very expensive commodities. In the case of Lotto children, nothing is bought. But there is no such thing as a free gift.

  As the parent of a Lotto child, your choices are carefully guided by BioPerfect. You are given a selection of options to choose from. This is followed by long discussions about what these options mean and the ‘extras’ that are thrown in with each one – extras designed to push you in a certain direction. Your child could be given the bonus of beautiful skin or a particular eye colour. If you were fortunate enough to be able to make a purchase on top of your win, well, you could select even more extras – strong lungs, shapely legs, a full head of hair in old age – maybe even selecting from outside your own genetic material if you wished.

  My parents always told me that I was a product of their genes alone. ‘You are the A++ of each of us,’ my father used to say proudly, roughing up my hair, a wild tangle like my mother’s. ‘We didn’t want any of those premiums from strangers.’

  And it is our central gifts that really matter, not the extras. These gifts are a ticket out of the life we would otherwise have led – to work for BioPerfect and its many subsidiaries, or perhaps a highly paid position with another Parent. With that comes a place to live, good food, clean air and a chance for the entire family and following generations to prosper.

  Choose wisely. Pick something BioPerfect wants you to pick. It’s bound to work out better in the long run.

  Wealthy parents who purchase designs can choose whatever they like. Poring over catalogues that promise all kinds of delights, they seemingly have a much wider range of options. Naturally, they will choose intelligence, beauty and health, but if they are especially wealthy, why not have a bit of fun as well? Why not choose something that you could boast about to your friends – something new, something whimsical?

  Gita, who was two years above me at Halston, was not only tall, elegant and brilliant, she was supposed to have an extraordinary capacity to communicate with animals. She spent all her extension lessons and leisure time in the stables and farmyards, looking after the cows, sheep, goats, pigs and hens bred by BioPerfect as decoration for pastoral homes. Lark and I used to joke that Gita looked a little like a horse herself, with her deep brown eyes and shaggy chestnut fringe. Giddy-up Gita, we called her, and at first we wondered why her parents had chosen this particular talent.

  ‘They’re probably filthy rich,’ Rani said one day. ‘She’s never going to have to work, so it’s not like they needed to make sure she has the kind of abilities that corporations want, although of course she does have them too.’

  And the animals did seem to love her, as did the other girls, who clustered around her, eager to hear her talk about how to interpret a dog’s behaviour or a horse’s stance.

  LiLi apparently had psychic powers, and we used to giggle about her too.

  ‘Her parents were probably drunk when they selected,’ I said. ‘And BioPerfect was only too happy to take their money.’ We enjoyed making fun of the wealthy girls, wanting to convince ourselves that they were in no way superior to us.

  I remember LiLi once told Lark that her ill health would be her downfall. She came up to her at teatime and took her gently by the arm. ‘I see a cloud of frailty around you,’ she said, ‘a physical challenge that will be too demanding.’

  ‘It’s vague,’ I scoffed, not wanting to see Lark upset. ‘She could say the same about anyone.’

  I’m sure BioPerfect would have drawn the line at certain selections, despite constantly developing their design menus as their genetic manipulation capabilities grew. They also protected themselves. Everyone came with a purchase caveat: all care taken but no responsibility accepted. Genetic design is only part of the picture – even BioPerfect would admit that, although they would always stress that it was the foundation of their work. The rest was like scaffolding holding everything up, important and possibly destructive if not carefully managed. And if the child didn’t turn out as they’d hoped, it was always some aspect of the scaffolding that was blamed.

  Ivy continued to fail during our senior years, or, as Halston liked to phrase it, ‘have difficulties meeting her full potential’. Her ‘gifts’ were meant to be in the numeric world and yet she still had problems completing even the most basic equations. Ivy didn’t talk to any of us about this but we all knew.

  Miss Margaret asked Lark to help Ivy. She was not only more mathematically inclined than me and Wren, she was the kindest.

  ‘She just doesn’t seem to grasp it,’ Lark would say to me when she returned from a long session in the study rooms. ‘She pretends she does but I know she doesn’t.’

  In class, Ivy would sit by the windows, staring out at the sky, her mobie untouched in front of her. Our tutors would wander the room, stopping to talk to us as they looked over the exercises we had completed. When they approached Ivy, I would glance across, curious, perhaps hoping for some drama, as they struggled to respond to her apparent lack of ability.

  Miss Tara was a new maths tutor. She was younger than the others, straight out of college and less patient.

  ‘What is holding your attention to such an extent that you haven’t even begun the problem?’ she asked Ivy in her first class with us.

  Ivy wouldn’t meet her gaze. ‘It’s boring,’ she whispered, her eyes fixed on the smooth surface of the table we all shared.

  ‘Is it too simple for you?’ Miss Tara was standing back, her arms folded across her chest.

  Ivy didn’t respond.

  ‘Shall I give you something more complex?’

  Ivy shook her head.

  Lark shifted closer to Ivy. ‘We were working together,’ she told Miss Tara. ‘Ivy was just waiting for me to complete my section before we began this part.’ Her face coloured a little.

  As soon as Miss Tara turned her back, Lark pushed her mobie closer to Ivy, nudging her on the arm. She often gave her work to copy. She helped me and Wren as well, just as I would help them in other subjects. We were the Lotto Girls and any failure on our part stung with a particular shame.

  But on that day Ivy didn’t take the hint. She turned to Lark angrily, jabbing her back in the arm, the force strong enough to send Lark’s mobie flying
off the table.

  Miss Tara didn’t say a word. She just looked at our table and then down at the ground, where the mobie lay.

  There was a moment where I thought Ivy would apologise and pick it up, where I saw the fear and distress on her face, but it was quickly replaced by the anger of humiliation. She pushed back her chair and stood up, her face red.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck!’ she shouted.

  The silence around us was like glass.

  ‘You can take your maths and your music and your science, your Discussion Hour – all of it –’ she kicked the mobie across the floor – ‘and you can fuck off.’

  The sound of her footsteps down the corridor was loud. In the distance a door slammed.

  It was Lark who eventually spoke. ‘Shall I go after her?’ she asked.

  Miss Tara shook her head. She was messaging – probably Miss Margaret. When she was done, she looked at us all. ‘We need to return to our work now.’ There was a slight tremor in her voice. ‘Ivy will be looked after,’ she assured us. ‘Our focus needs to return.’

  We did as we were told, too stunned to speak, our eyes back on our mobies, our behaviour exemplary.

  Ivy wasn’t at lunch.

  Word had already travelled. Wren, Lark and I sat together at our usual table – Miss Margaret’s table, though she wasn’t there either. We knew that everyone in the room was watching us.

  Wren was determined to ignore them, to pretend she didn’t care. She had recently become boy-mad and was talking loudly about the upcoming dance with the neighbouring school.

  ‘We can’t compete with their clothes,’ she said, referring to all the other girls, ‘so I think we should make a statement and dress down.’

  Lark shrugged. She didn’t care as much about how we compared to the others.

  Alice, who was in the year above, took Miss Margaret’s seat and passed around the platters of salad and ChickCheese triangles.

  ‘Miss Margaret said you’ve been working with the new singing tutor,’ she said to Lark, pouring her a glass of VitaPure. ‘She’s done extraordinary work with so many singers. BioPerfect spent years trying to entice her over.’ Alice took a mouthful of salad. ‘You’re lucky.’

  Lark leant forward, her voice soft but insistent as she directed her question straight at Alice. ‘Where are they?’ she asked.

  ‘Apparently, I’m going to be accompanying you at the next eisteddfod,’ Alice continued, her words cutting straight through Lark’s. ‘They’re shifting our timetables around so that we can practise together. It’s your first, isn’t it?’

  Lark nodded.

  ‘They can be nerve-wracking when you’re not used to them,’ Alice reassured her.

  ‘Is she all right?’ I asked.

  Alice looked at me blankly.

  ‘Ivy?’ I added, although she knew whom I meant.

  Alice helped herself to another triangle, examining it before she cut off one of the corners and began to chew on it. Around us was the usual lunch talk, the clattering of plates, the occasional laughter, singing from someone at the far end of the room, a brief burst of music that died soon after it began.

  ‘Sometimes talent can be a burden,’ Alice said. ‘Halston once had one of the most brilliant mathematicians ever designed.’ She put her fork down. ‘I remember her even though she was finishing the year I arrived. She had won every prize by then and her work was already respected on an intercompany level.’

  We waited for her to continue.

  ‘I never knew her, of course, but I heard she was one of the most difficult students in her early years. She refused to cooperate with any of the tutors. She was rude, had no friends, never did any work. I believe Miss Margaret used to refer to her as “the ultimate challenge”.’ Alice smiled brightly. ‘It’s best to focus on our successes rather than our failings.’

  I found it hard to picture Ivy ever being respected by anyone, let alone earning any form of intercompany regard, but I stayed silent. We all did.

  Alice turned back to Lark. ‘Have you selected the piece you are planning to sing?’

  Lark shook her head.

  Smiling at her, Alice said she would be happy to help.

  Later, in the gardens, Lark, Wren and I talked, our voices hushed.

  ‘Do you think she’s been sent back?’ Wren was chewing the edge of her fingernail, tearing off a long, thin strip. ‘I mean, how bad do you have to be before they give up on you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  Lark was more diplomatic. ‘They’re not going to just give up. It would be admitting they’ve failed, that their design didn’t work.’

  She wanted to look for Ivy and see if she was all right.

  We were sitting in the sunshine, the warmth of the day gentle on our skin. It had rained the previous evening and there was a glint in the air, a freshness that could only mean the beginning of the change in the seasons. The last of the summer crops had been harvested, and the soil lay fallow, crumbling like chocolate.

  I wanted to forget Ivy and enjoy the afternoon, but Lark insisted on trying to find her.

  I knew Wren felt the same as I did, although she was better at hiding it. ‘She’s probably just in our room,’ she suggested.

  Lark led the way; Wren and I a few paces behind her.

  ‘Do you think she’s right?’ Wren glanced in my direction and then turned her eyes back to the ground.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lark. About them not giving up on us?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I mean, I don’t do that well, either. Better than her, obviously, but not as well as I should. You two are fine – everyone knows that. But Ivy and I … We’re not quite how we’re meant to be.’

  I looked across at her. I knew she wasn’t one of the better students, but I’d never have classed her with Ivy. She’d always seemed competent to me. I’d had no idea she was so worried.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I assured her.

  ‘Really?’

  I took her hand in mine and squeezed. ‘Of course.’

  Trouble of this kind was so unheard of at Halston that we really didn’t have any idea where Ivy would be. There were no discipline or punishment systems simply because there was no need.

  Ivy’s room was empty, her bed unmade and her clothes strewn across the floor. At the end of the corridor, Miss Margaret’s door was closed. It was nearly always open, and the unspoken rule was that we didn’t disturb her when it was shut. But Lark knocked now, gently. There was no answer.

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I said. ‘They’ve probably just gone out for a while.’

  I knew my words sounded foolish. No one just ‘went out’ at Halston. You stayed at the school unless there was an organised excursion or perhaps to listen to music or to participate in games. Aside from that, the understanding was clear: everything you could need and want was at Halston.

  ‘Maybe she’s been sent home.’ Wren scratched at a small sore on her wrist. ‘I mean, it’s becoming more and more evident that she doesn’t belong. No one could say otherwise without lying. We all know that.’

  ‘We don’t,’ Lark said.

  ‘Wren’s right,’ I said. ‘We can’t kid ourselves.’

  That afternoon we were all in separate classes. Lark was in the music rooms, Wren was in the gym and I was in the media labs. I’d been making broadcasts about a praying mantis I’d found in the vegetable patch. I’d filmed it for an afternoon, fascinated at how it could turn its triangular head one hundred and eighty degrees, its many eyes able to scan its environment in all directions. When it snared a moth, its speed was too fast to see. I slowed the footage, breaking down the action, wanting to capture the reflexes again and again, the beautiful slice and cut as it seized, pinned and devoured. I played with explosions of colour to match each movement and then stripped it right back, wanting only the hard alien beauty, green on green.

  Miss Lani came and sat with me.

  ‘Miss Margaret would like you to go to her
room at the end of class.’ Her voice was soft, unable to be heard by the three other girls who took extended media.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Miss Margaret would just like to have a talk.’

  Wren and Lark were already there when I arrived, both of them sitting in armchairs. Miss Margaret was pouring cups of SilkSip for us. She seemed as calm as always, but as she reached for a third cup, her arm brushed the pot and she pulled back sharply, her intake of breath harsh, her words stinging.

  ‘The cup is right in front of you, Wren. Your assistance would have been appreciated.’ She sat back and apologised. ‘It has been a long day.’

  Wren passed the plate of SugarSpun, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Ivy,’ Miss Margaret said. ‘I know you all witnessed this morning’s ruckus.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Poor girl. I’m afraid the Halston Board have insisted that Ivy be sent for testing.’

  None of us uttered a word. In the corner of the room, Miss Margaret’s mobie chimed. She asked Lark if she could switch it to silent.

  ‘They are concerned that a mistake might have been made.’ She took a sip from her cup, carefully placing it back down in front of her.

  ‘Are mistakes ever made?’ I asked, not wanting to believe such a thing were possible.

  Miss Margaret didn’t reply. ‘Some of you may already know that I was one of the first Lotto Girls,’ she continued. She sounded tired, and although she didn’t look at me directly, I was careful not to run the risk of meeting her gaze. ‘Because we were the first, we had to work particularly hard to prove ourselves. Today, Halston prides itself on its acceptance of all girls, no matter where they come from, but back then there was a stigma. We were always thought of as something less.’

  I glanced up at this. There were two bright spots on her cheeks and her hands were clasped tightly in her lap.

  ‘I am telling you this because it is much better than it once was. When I came here, we were educated separately, we ate separately, we played separately and we were tested rigorously and often. I know you are still kept together, but that is largely because you arrived at the same time and the idea was to make you feel more comfortable. You have the opportunity to be far more integrated than we were.’