by Saci Lloyd
I know for a fact he hasn’t always been bottled up like this. I saw an old photo of when he was working in a summer camp in Africa. You can hardly tell it’s him, he looks so . . . happy.
We all had to complete this Energy Spot Check with GPJ this afternoon.
At the end, she talked to us about helping others in this time of crisis. She wants us to come up with a Care Energy presentation. It really affected me—I’m going to find a needy person and look after them.
Who, though?
Tues., Feb. 17
I watched the news tonight. A group of world leaders have come to London for the run-up to Kyoto 3. They bused them thru town in a hydro coach. You could see them looking at us on the streets like we were rats in a lab. The rationers. They know they’re next and they want to see how miserable we really are. And the weird thing is it makes us all act really casual, like nothing’s happening—that we’ve never seen a mango or flown abroad or driven a car or had a warm house before. I think it’s the only way to keep your head up, to act like it’s completely normal. Especially in front of the others.
They’ve got this new section at the end of the news. Now a really stupid positive woman journalist drops in on people up and down the country to see how they’re getting on with their lives.
Tonight she went to see this random couple from Bradford who run dog kennels. They are getting their dogs to sled them around the moors. The report opened with a long shot of the couple “mushing” 4 Alsatians up a hill on a shaky sled covered with groceries. And then, just when they’d got to the top, the sled hit a bump and all the stuff flew off onto the snow, and there were boxes of tampons and Kellogg’s Corn Flakes everywhere. The man dragged himself off the sled, got down on his knees, and started picking everything up. The camera zoomed in on his tearstained, frostbitten face.
“Fantastic, you can do it!” cried the reporter from her climate-controlled Jeep.
Is this supposed to make us feel better?
Went to my room and felt dead deep.
Fog drifts at three A.M. and
my mind, like a takeaway, stays open. My window is opacity
on to streets where streetlights used to flicker and burn.
Dark now.
In my hand the batteries die; acid burns the flesh and
the pain falls, laughing, to the ground.
The cars are dead, their souls are stolen
by the trains that smash thru the silent breath.
Ra ka da ra.
The city breathes. It gasps. It dies and
in my room I hear its fading beat.
Fog settles and chills my bones like an abuser completing
the cycle of abuse.
Another one for Claire’s coat pockets.
Wed., Feb. 18
I smacked my alarm across the room and dived under the covers for an extra hour. Rhymes are so draining. It was after 11 by the time I got my shit together, and when I stepped out thru the front door I saw a weird thing—Brains Fitzsimmons and a couple of IT/engineering geeks from school hanging around the Leaders’ stairwell. Why? Do they want to get their heads kicked in?
On my way up the road, I passed old Arthur, our next-door neighbor on the left side. He was struggling along with some shopping and looking dead creaky. And then it hit me—he’s perfect for my needy person for the Care Energy presentation! I’ll go and see him tomorrow.
Thurs., Feb. 19
Massive storm today. I couldn’t face going in to school on my bike so I sat in my bedroom, forced to listen to Kim fight with Paul. I heard him say, “But it’ll bankrupt us, Kimmy.” And her screaming, “I hate you! It’s over!”
I threw on my jacket and knocked on Arthur’s door. There was no answer from the front, but I could smell frying bacon thru the mailbox, so I went around the back, climbed over the fence, and peered into his kitchen window. Thru the cigarette smoke haze I could just about see Arthur, reading the paper. After about 50 million knocks at the door, he lifted his eyes from the sports pages, saw me, and stepped over to the door.
“Ye-es?” he boomed. I told him about the new Care Energy presentation and me needing a Needy Person.
“Splendid, but no thank you.” He started to shut the door.
“But, it’s me, Laura, from next door.”
He waved his ciggy at me. “Oh, in that case, splendid, marvelous! Come in!”
Arthur Stoat-Wilson is the smartest and happiest man I’ve ever met. He says this is the richest he’s been since 15 September 1952, when his house was taken off him after his brother drank the estate away. He’s a carbon creditor now, which means that he gives off less CO2 than he’s allowed and can trade the rest. He is totally happy with sitting in front of his 1-bar electric heater in 3 overcoats, he says they make him look big for robbers. He is spending his extra points on horse gambling and beer. I took a sip of it, it tastes like rust.
I asked him if he had anything he needed doing and he chuckled, unfolded the sports pages, and asked me to pick a winner for the 3:45 at Aintree. I’m going back again next week—he’s just putting on a happy face for me. I know for a fact that stories like this come up in the local newspaper all the time, and it’ll turn out that the food packets on his shelves are empty, and that really he’s only got one can of tuna left and a jar of sleeping pills he’s built up since 1973 for The Final Moment.
Fri., Feb. 20
I went into my Design Tech class a few minutes early today, and my heart went all fluttery cos it was just Ravi in there.
“Hey.” (I’m so cool.)
He looked up. “Hey.”
“Are you all sorted out next door?”
“Uh?”
“You know—getting to know the place? If you need anything . . .”
“Oh, right.”
Suddenly the door swung open—and in walked Thanzila Amar, the prettiest, hottest, sexiest girl in school. She fixed Ravi with her bambina eyes.
“Are you Ravi Datta?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, good, cuz I got a proposition for you.” She smiled, resting her beautiful arse on Dave Beard’s desk. “Hey, Laur.” She flicked a glance at me. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”
I smiled right back, but it was wasted on Thanzila; her eyes were only for Ravi. What happened to her boyfriend, Samad?
“I hear you can fix stuff?”
He nodded.
“Like my vid phone?”
He nodded again.
“Really?” breathed Thanzila, leaning toward him. “Cuz if you could fix it I’d be sooooo grateful.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the cell phone. “Waddya think? The vid keeps pixelating . . . and y’know, I can’t just upgrade it anymore.”
He took it and turned it over in his hands. “Yeah, probably the graphix card. Leave it with me.”
“Truly? That is sooo cool. What can I give you back?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She slipped off the desk, centimeters away from him. “Thank you so much. . . . By the way”—she touched his hand with her manicured nails—“you’ve got totally gorgeous hands. Has anyone ever told you that?” She slung her bag over her shoulder and smiled into his face before walking out of the room.
Ravi turned back to me with an effort. “So, uh, yeah. Thanks for the offer, but I’m all cool at home.”
I nodded and smiled so much my teeth hurt.
I don’t care anyway, if he doesn’t like me for who I am then he can get lost.
Woke up in the middle of the night and stared at my ugly hands by candlelight.
Sat., Feb. 21
The Carbon Department engineers came to our street and hooked up all our Smart Meters to the national grid today. When it came to our turn, I made the man a cup of tea and asked him how it worked.
“S’easy, darlin’.” He tapped the meter screen. “You got yer two hundred carbon ration points for the month, yeah?”
I nodded.
“Well, this little meter is so you can
check on yer progress. Makes sure you ain’t overspendin’. Want to give it a spin?”
“What, now?”
“Yeah, I’m all done.” He pointed to a slot at the top. “What it is, yer just swipe your carbon card thru this section, ’ere . . .”
I took out my card and swiped it across the slot. The machine lit up and chattered and grockled to itself for a few seconds before spitting out a paper printout. I reached for it with shaky hands.
“There yer go,” said the electrician, smiling. “No bother.”
“What happens if you go over?”
“Well, that’s the thing. Basically, the meter takes over and manages your energy use—it’ll even start shuttin’ things off in the ’ouse if you’re really bad.”
Super-tense dinner with Mum and Dad. Dad finally finished eating, put his knife and fork down, and then turned oh so casually in his chair toward the meter.
“Ah, of course, our new toy, shall we give it a go?” He glanced at Mum’s carbon card on the sideboard. “Is this yours here, darling? D’you mind?”
Mum turned dead pale. “Mind? Why would I mind?”
And then everything went into slo-mo as Dad picked up her card, stepped across to the meter, and swiped the card thru the slot. There was a moment’s silence, then the machine whirred, the earth turned—and a slip of white printout slid into Dad’s waiting fingers. He stared at the paper in silence for a few moments, frowning.
“This can’t be right. You can’t have gone over by fifty points!”
Mum clip-clopped across the room and snatched it off him.
“Oh, it’s all some mistake. Look, press the Further Details button on the meter . . .”
Dad bent over the machine, pressed a yellow button, and a few seconds later it spat out a longer piece of printout.
Mum reached for it, but Nicky boy was there first. As he read it, his face went all blotchy. He switched to his super-dangerous quiet voice. “The gym? Hours and hours at the pigging gym?”
Mum threw her hands up in the air. “So what, Nick? I need space to get away from you and your goddamn misery!”
“Did it ever occur to you to get off your arse and actually run somewhere? Look how much they’ve charged you for the Super50 rate. Twenty chillers and a hundred euros!”
“Oh, blow the system! When did you get so much goddamn faith in the goddamn system, Nick? Where’ve you gone?” (Mum was born in New York—and even though her family moved to Washington when she was 10 and she’s lived in London for 20 years, when she argues her New Yoik comes back strong.) “I work so hard. I need this!”
He just looked at her really cold. “You don’t need it. You just want it.”
I went into my room and rubbed Mum’s Shiseido Hand Revitalizer cream into my ugly hands, like an old spinster. Rationing is turning out to be like a spotlight, searching out all our escape plans and little secrets. What’s my parents’ little secret? They are terrified they don’t like each other anymore.
Kim’s gone away for the weekend. Says she’s staying over with mates in North London. I can feel a huuuge fight building. It’s always been like this—Kim, Kim, Kim and her problems. Everyone running around after her.
Sun., Feb. 22
6 P.M. Dad has just spent the last 10 minutes in my room, perched on the edge of the bed and repeating himself/sighing a lot. He kept saying stuff like “We all need time to adjust” and “We’ll get through this, as a family” and “Is there anything you need?”
Got a new bike out of him. Score!
10 P.M. Mum has just spent ages sitting cross-legged on my bed and sighing/justifying herself/sighing a lot. She kept saying things like “The world is only complicated if you make it so” and “We need to value the needs of all the family members” and “You are becoming a woman now, with your own needs.”
On the way out, she stooped and picked up my old CSS shirt off the floor and murmured, “I’m sorry. I’ll watch my points in future.”
This is the killer about Mum. Just when I want to plunge a knife into her guts, she goes and picks up my shirt and makes my heart go all soft.
Anyway, got a new bass case out of her. Score!
Mon., Feb. 23
It has rained and stormed for almost a week now; I nearly got my bass blown away on the way to band practice. The weird thing about weather now is that it’s gone so big. So like today you’re thinking is this just a normal winter storm . . . or is this going to destroy us? Everyone’s dead tense, in case the blackouts come back.
Anyway, I got up the nerve to tell everyone about liking Ravi. They listened for about 30 seconds and then they all screamed and started playing until Adi’s E-string broke and twanged across the room. He was playing that guitar pretty vicious.
“Mmm,” said Stacey, doubtful, “he’s a bit gorgeous . . .”
“Yeah, and that’s the problem—he’s too good-looking for me,” I wailed.
“Huh. Too gorgeous, if you ask me. There’s something a bit too perfect about him,” Claire muttered.
“No-o . . .” Stace frowned, “not perfect—more a loner type . . . a bit . . .”
“Weird!” cried Stace and Claire together.
“Well, thanks for the support, guys. So far he’s a creepy nerd, and no one said no he isn’t when I said he was too good-looking for me.”
Everyone burst out laughing.
After practice I stayed at Adi’s and played old skool Monopoly with his family. They’re so normal, it’s fantastic. When I was leaving Adi went: “D’you really like him, Laur?”
I nodded.
He sighed. “Then we need a plan. You’re hopeless with boys.”
P.S. I smacked everyone at Monopoly—10 hotels, all the way down the Strand, Piccadilly, and Mayfair. Invincible!
Tues., Feb. 24
There’s heavy snow across Europe again. A bunch of us went to the media suite at college to watch Sky. It’s so surreal seeing white people crying and huddling in shelters in places where you used to go on holiday.
“Er, what happened to global warming?” muttered Adi.
“No, man, it’s gonna get colder and colder. The Gulf Stream’s shutting down, we’ve already dropped a degree in the last ten years,” said Nathan Giles.
“So? What’s a degree gonna do?”
“You know the diff between us and the last ice age? Five lousy little degrees, man. That’s all that’s standing between us and the mammoth, my friend.”
“Which mammoth?”
Nathan sucked his teeth. “The woolly one. Fool.”
It’s like some ice-giant’s taken Europe in its frozen grip. Traffic paralyzed everywhere—20,000 people stuck in their cars overnight around Budapest in −33°C; 35,000 trapped on a highway near Heidelberg in Germany; 18,000 snowed in in Vienna. Practically every airport’s closed in central Europe.
On the way home I saw Arthur Stoat-Wilson on the street and walked with him to Ladbrokes and then on to pick up a 6-pack of ale. He’s not acting very needy, but I ain’t giving up. When we got back to his house, I pretended I needed to use the bathroom upstairs and sneaked into his bedroom to check for sleeping pills. Couldn’t see any, but there was a real dead stuffed leopard leaning against the wall. I went downstairs and asked Arthur if he’d shot that beautiful creature. Arthur’s really deaf if you ask me, cos whatever I say to him, he just laughs and says: “Yes! Marvelous, isn’t it?” which clearly isn’t the right answer to everything.
Wed., Feb. 25
The Smart Meter cut off Kim’s hot water in the shower, blasted her with ice-cold H2O, like she was a football hooligan. Heh, heh.
I’ve been given a new Crit Thinking essay today.
Imagine (a) your family OR (b) a fictitious family is from a different era. Reconstruct a mealtime conversation, with particular reference to social norms and idiomatic use of language.
Mick Thomas asked Lisa Bell why she was setting such a pointless essay. Lisa Bell then made us stay after lesson for 20 minutes while she sat cros
s-legged on her desk and led a discussion on group values, owned rules, and the rights & responsibilities of the student body. Lisa Bell sure knows how to crush a rebel.
Fri., Feb. 27
We’re definitely in CO trouble at home. The Smart Meter switched the toaster off at breakfast. Dad looked up and frowned. “Has the power gone off again?”
I nodded.
“Hmm, there must be some mistake! We can’t be overspending that badly. I’ll get in touch with the Carbon Department today.”
It’s finally stopped raining, though—I went out with Claire at lunch and we gazed into the sky for the sun. For a second I thought I saw a bright smudge within the grey, but it turned out to be coming from the canteen security light. I was dead disappointed and had a real flash of insight into how ancient tribes/modern Scandinavian people go bonkers and kill one another in the wintertime.
Spring.
March
Sun., March 1
The Smart Meter cut off the oven in the middle of macaroni cheese and we had to sieve out the hard pasta chunks and suck up the cheesy sauce on its own. Dad drummed his fingers on the table.
“I don’t understand this, Julia—I’ve been trying all week to get through to the Carbon Department, but I keep getting put on hold. You’ve no idea how much Greensleeves I’ve been subjected to.”
Mum shrugged. “That’s what happens when the system takes over, Nick.”
Mon., March 2
A recorded delivery letter came at 8:30 this morning.
Kim Brown. Unbelievable. She even tried to get a job out there, working in a club. She don’t give a shit about the rest of us. I just escaped, went to Adi’s.
“What, she went to Ibiza, twice?” Adi clicked his tongue. “You gotta hand it to her, she’s got some style, your sister. But I don’t understand how nobody knew . . .”