Jinxed

by Amy McCulloch

  ‘Wait – your dad was Albert Chu?’

  I nod. ‘Yeah.’

  Tobias’s jaw drops. ‘Damn. I didn’t know.’

  ‘No one does. Heck, I barely knew.’

  ‘But what . . .’

  ‘What happened to him? I have no clue. My mom says he had a nervous breakdown and left us when I was five. It’s something I try not to think about.’ The car comes to a halt, and I breathe a sigh of relief that we’ve arrived and I won’t have to talk about Dad any more. The door opens automatically. Jinx darts out while I’m still fumbling with my seatbelt. ‘Wait – hey! Jinx!’

  Jinx, what are you doing? I shout in my head.

  ‘Lacey? What’s going on?’ I hear Tobias say, but my vision is tunnelled towards following where Jinx is going.

  ‘I’ll catch you up inside – just gotta do one thing!’ I call out behind me, running off after Jinx.

  I curse the stupid baku all the way down the street – convinced that he’s even faster now that he has that collar on. I don’t know this part of the city so well – but as I catch sight of his tail darting down an alleyway between two high rise buildings, my heart drops. I know that there are parts of the city where you’re not supposed to wander around alone.

  ‘Jinx, where are you going?’ I shout out.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he shoots away, disappearing even further down the alley.

  ‘What the hell!’ I run after him, my feet slipping inside my shoes. I take the corner too sharply, my shoulder bashing up against the brick wall. The alleyway is stuffed with garbage bags, the walls covered in graffiti, but I just about catch sight of Jinx’s metal tail disappearing around yet another corner.

  ‘Stop right now!’ I yell at him, even though I know he’s not going to listen.

  I follow him deeper into the city, into the labyrinth of high rise buildings. He finally seems to leave the tight alleyways, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I see him sitting, staring at a small patch of green space – an inner city park. I catch up with him, scooping him up into my arms.

  Then I see what he was running towards. The park is filled with cats. Real ones. Crawling all over the benches, rolling around in the fallen leaves, scrapping over food. I’ve heard of these places, where some of the city’s former pets have been turned loose – and now they congregate here, together. Jinx is transfixed. ‘Come on, Jinx, let’s go,’ I say, keeping my voice gentle. As I slowly turn around to walk back, his head swivels, following the cats.

  >>But what do they do all day? he asks.

  ‘I suppose they just get to be real cats.’

  >>Just real cats.

  ‘That’s right.’

  >>And what do real cats do?

  I shrug, attempting to trace back my steps through the narrow alleys. ‘They eat. Hunt. Explore. Play. Sleep. Lots of sleep.’

  >>It’s quicker if you turn left here, he says. I follow his instructions, and they bring me back out to the main road.

  >>Sleep, huh? What . . . all day?

  I chuckle. ‘Sometimes. Depends if they’ve had a big meal or not.’

  >>Sounds . . .

  I wait for him to finish, but he doesn’t say any more. I hug him close.

  >>We’re here, he says.

  Sure enough, I look up and we’re outside the BakuBeats hall. ‘Is everything okay? Are you going to run away again?’

  >>I just had to see. But . . . no. I won’t run away again.

  ‘Okay then.’ I gingerly set him down on the floor. Then I grin. ‘Let’s go move to some beats.’

  ‘YOU MADE IT!’ SAYS ASHLEY, AS I WALK up the stairs and into the giant converted warehouse that houses Moncha Corp’s BakuBeats. Heavy bass thumps in my ears, and it takes my eyes some time to adjust to the brightly coloured flashing lights.

  Yet I can’t wipe the grin off my face. The reception area is on a mezzanine level high above the main BakuBeats floor. I gaze down at the myriad of soundproof bubbles, most of them filled with other teenage groups like ours. I spot some of my old classmates from St Agnes singing their hearts out in one of the pods. Even though I can’t hear what they’re saying, they look like they’re having a blast, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, swaying in time to some music.

  ‘Good call on us not walking in together,’ says Tobias quietly to me – even though that wasn’t why I’d bolted from the car. ‘Would have looked a bit weird to our teammates.’

  ‘Oh right, no problem,’ I say.

  He’s rolled his shirt sleeves up now too, showing off his tightly muscled forearms. He has a constellation of marks on his right arm, slightly darker than his naturally dark skin tone, almost like a tattoo. It takes a lot of self-control for me to not want to lean in to look closer.

  ‘Tobias Washington.’ He gives his name to the attendant with the retriever baku.

  The baku lights up and the attendant’s eyes seem to light up with it. ‘My baku tells me that you’re all students at Profectus?’ We all nod. ‘Well, because of that I can give you some extra perks and upgrade you to the premium bubble. It’s the full package: unlimited song choices, whatever food you want, and you get to be in our best bubble: the suspended one.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Ashley squeaks. ‘It’s always been fully booked when I’ve been here before,’ she says to me.

  ‘I’ve never been here,’ I reply.

  ‘You’re going to love it.’

  The suspended bubble hangs in mid-air in the centre of the space – and from the promotional videos I’ve watched, it’s normally reserved for visiting celebrities . . . or, apparently, Profectus students. I look down through the clear plastic see-through floor of the bubble and see my old St Agnes classmates pointing at us and wondering who is being led up into there.

  It’s even better than we could have imagined. The bubble is divided into a ‘stage’ area, filled with instruments, and an ‘audience’ section, with oversized beanbag chairs and low-lying tables (which soon fill up with the pizza, nachos and drinks that we order). Ashley picks up an electric guitar and syncs it to Jupiter, and immediately the transparent plastic of the bubble transforms into a screen depicting a roaring crowd, as if she’s a proper rock star performing a concert.

  It’s hilarious to watch Ashley, Kai, River and Tobias take it in turns to rock out on the big stage. River takes on a nineties rap song and nails every lyric. Since the others have been here before, they’re quick to draw up a playlist of their favourite tunes.

  ‘Come on, Lacey,’ Tobias drops down on to a beanbag chair next to me. ‘Aren’t you going to pick a song?’

  I grin. ‘I’m happy just watching you guys! You’re all awesome.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s not how it works.’ He stands up and extends his hand out to me. Tentatively, I take it, and he pulls me up to my feet. He grabs a microphone from the ground and thrusts it into my hands. ‘Your turn now!’

  ‘But . . . I don’t know what song . . .’

  I don’t get a moment to decide. Because just at that moment, the beat shifts, picking up into a song I know all too well. It’s the theme tune to Outerlands, performed by my favourite boy band. I look over at Jinx, who has synced to the BakuBeats screen, and all of a sudden the bubble’s screen shifts so it’s almost as if we’re inside the television programme, on board the alien ship that travels to different worlds.

  It’s like I’m playing a rock concert in space. And I could sing these lyrics in my sleep. I can’t help myself. I get swept away, and it’s not long before I’m dancing and singing alongside my teammates, having the time of my life.

  We spend the next couple of hours belting our hearts out to our favourite songs, discovering each other’s hidden talents along the way. It turns out River has a surprisingly sharp memory for lots of different rap lyrics, and Kai’s voice can reach high octaves like that of an angel. I have no musical talent whatsoever, but with Jinx at my side I bash away at the drums with lots of enthusiasm and he translates my horrible syncopated playing into
something that actually sounds halfway decent. The bakus light up in time with the music, and we dance until sweat drips from our foreheads and our pulses are racing and we’re closer as a team than ever before.

  After the musical interlude is over, we all collapse down on to the plush velvety cushions and order more pizza up to the bubble. I don’t think I’ve thought about Profectus or my career once since being here. I always knew Profectus would help me achieve my goals but I had no idea it could be so FUN. It’s . . . refreshing. It’s like a dream state.

  Jinx vibrates on my lap, a familiar hum of an incoming text.

  I look down at his back, reading the message as it appears.

  ZORA: TELL ME EVERYTHING. I am so jealous right now. >:(

  LACEY: OMG IT’S AMAZING. I don’t want to be a companioneer any more, I want to be a rock star.

  ZORA: Haha yeah right!

  LACEY: OK, you got me! But it is awesome.

  ZORA: Glad you’re having an ace time. Text me back when you’re home.

  All too soon, it’s time for us to leave the Beats pod. When we get back out into the lobby, Tobias clears his throat gently. ‘Okay, guys – this has been so much fun but Monday it’s back to the hard work and the training sessions.’

  Ashley rolls her eyes. ‘This basically was as intense as a training session.’

  ‘True. But now that we know what we’re up against . . . surely you want to be extra prepared?’

  Ashley shivers – the memory of Jupiter’s defeat still fresh in her mind. ‘Okay, you’re right.’

  ‘Good. Normal place then?’

  The others nod.

  ‘Normal place?’ I ask.

  ‘We meet at an old hockey rink near my house I’ve commandeered as a makeshift arena.’

  Jinx’s tail swishes. There’s another vibration from him, and I wonder if Zora has messaged. ‘I’ll send you the coordinates – but it’s just behind my house.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  Then, in a move that almost stops my heart completely, he grabs my hand. ‘Today was really fun. I’m glad I got to share this with you. You seem to really get it.’

  My palm doesn’t stop tingling for the rest of the weekend.

  AT HOME ON SUNDAY, AFTER THE exhilaration of BakuBeats, I see things through different eyes. Mom is at the stove cooking. I notice that it’s the exact same meal as last weekend – a big pot roast that we can eat the leftovers of throughout the week. Her old cookbooks are abandoned on the shelf above her, grease-and flour-stained. They used to fuel Mom’s explosions of flavours, but now they lie dormant. She could have so much more. A huge kitchen. The money to buy whatever ingredients or appliances she needs. I could give that to her.

  I’d planned on popping down to the locker to pick up some supplies, but the elevators are down for maintenance. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that the lifts are broken again? It’s so annoying!’

  Mom shrugs. ‘They have to fix them sometime. At least it’s on a Sunday and not during the week when I need to get to work. Petal informs me they should be finished very soon.’

  I lift my eyes to watch Mom, pottering around the kitchen, throwing salt into the pan with a chunk of beef. She stirs the pot with one hand, the other tracing the recipe with her fingers. I have memories of them trying out different recipes, her hands flour-covered or spice-dusted, the apartment scented with their success (or sometimes with the caramel-dark burn of their disasters). I try to cast my mind back to the last time I’d seen her cook something that wasn’t on Petal’s list of recommended eats.

  Perfectly nutritious, calorie-controlled and generally tasty – celebrity-chef endorsed, to boot. There is nothing wrong with the recipes Petal provides. As I have to consistently remind myself, being fed at all is a privilege, having decent food to warm my belly and a roof over my head, and a baku by my side to keep me connected and never lonely. There are so many people in the world who aren’t that lucky.

  And I have a guaranteed job at Moncha HQ once I graduate from Profectus. But my problem – and it gnaws at me that I even consider this a problem – is that I’m so arrogant as to think I deserve it. I don’t want a boring baku marketing role like my mom. I want a career that sets my soul on fire, that fans the flames of passion that smoulder deep in my belly – that I guard with my hardness and intellect. I want a place to unleash that which burns inside me.

  And I know exactly where that is.

  In the companioneering department of Moncha Corp.

  I take a deep breath. ‘Mom, can I ask you something about Dad?’ I don’t want to upset her, but I have to know more.

  Mom’s face drops.

  ‘I didn’t tell you but . . . one of my teammates recognized Dad’s name. They knew about him. And I don’t know anything at all. Can you tell me what really happened?’

  She sighs, and I cringe at the look of pain on her face. She never looks angry. Only sad, and I hate reminding her of that time. ‘That’s your father’s story to tell. I wish I had the answers for you, Lacey. I don’t know where he is, or I would tell you how to find him. But if you’re asking me what I think . . .’

  I feel a sharp pang in my chest, a wound I’d long closed over ripping open. Every fibre of my being wishes I had known my dad. He would have been interested in what I was learning at Profectus. He would’ve known and understood what it meant to me. The ring on my finger proves that.

  ‘Why did he leave Moncha Corp?’

  I nod.

  She sighs. ‘I think he burned out. All I know is that one day he packed up and left – his dream job, us . . . That’s why I worry about you and this school. I don’t want you to face that same pressure.’

  I pause. ‘There really was nothing else? Did he work with Eric Smith?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ says Mom, sharply. There’s a tiny flicker of doubt on Mom’s face, but she smooths it out again. ‘I don’t know the story. Your dad didn’t even give me a chance to ask. But I don’t think badly of him – he gave me you! You remind me too much of him for that. But whatever you end up doing, I know we’ll be okay.’

  I grimace, despite myself, but immediately regret it as a stricken look appears on my mom’s face. I know I need to drop the subject.

  ‘Do you mind if I go and see Zora?’

  Mom smiles, glad for the change of subject. ‘Not at all. But be back for dinner at seven. It feels like an age since we’ve had dinner together.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Zora greets me at the door of her apartment and we hole up in her room. When we’re firmly ensconced with the door shut, we both start to talk at once.

  I start: ‘I wish you’d been able to come to BakuBeats, you would have loved it.’

  She starts: ‘You never texted me back last night . . .’

  We face off then – me with a big smile on my face, that drops – and her with a frown, that softens. Standing looking at her now, Linus swaying his thin, curly tail over her shoulder, her pint-sized body tense, I realize how much I’ve neglected her. We’ve only been at separate schools for a couple of months and it feels like a lifetime.

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ I stammer out.

  ‘Forget it,’ she says. She places her hand on mine, and the familiar scent of coconut butter hits my nostrils. It’s a tug of familiarity that brings me back down to earth.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about St Agnes?’

  Zora shrugs. ‘Oh, it’s boring. Same old, same old.’ But still, she launches into tales of the drama in the cafeteria. Yet even as I listen to stories of the people that I used to know, I can sense my interest waning. I even side-eye Jinx, worry that he’s going to give something away, but he sits docile at my feet. There’s nothing like the Baku Battles back in my old school. No way for students to progress their skills outside the classroom. Heck, there’s no way a student at St Agnes would want to stay for a second longer than they had to at that school.

  I compare that to Profectus. To all the extra hours I’ve already put in wi
th Team Tobias. How the teams work well into the night, devoting their spare time to the cause. And even the students who aren’t on teams, they’re working hard too. There’s a sense of pride in industry, in achievement, and a genuine interest in what we’re learning about that I had never sensed before. A community of learning. I’d always heard this was what university was like. But I was getting to experience it now.

  I nod, smiling at the right intervals and exclaiming in appropriate places. But it’s now clearer to me than ever. Profectus is the way for me to live the kind of life that I want, to give Mom the freedom to pursue her passions free from worry and stress.

  And even though sitting in Zora’s bedroom is comfortable . . . normal, even, I’m itching for the weekend to be over.

  Because all I know is . . . I can’t wait to get back to school.

  AFTER DINNER, I HELP MOM WITH THE washing up, then head to my room. Jinx is curled up on my bed, right on top of the laundry-fresh clothes that I haven’t put away. He lifts his head as I walk in, his eyes blinking lazily, as if he’s just woken up from a dream. ‘Everything okay, Jinx?’ I ask. I try to gently coax him off the laundry, but he won’t come, so I push him a little more forcefully. He gives me an unappreciative tail flick, but crawls further on to the bedclothes – at least just far enough for me to grab the laundry and start putting it away. ‘Thanks,’ I say, sarcasm dripping over my voice. But I still love him.

  >>What would you do to find out more about your dad? Jinx asks.

  ‘Anything,’ I say, honestly. But Jinx knows better than anyone that I’ve exhausted all the avenues I can think of. He’s seen my search history. There’s nothing out there about him. He’s been erased from the digital world.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  >>No reason.

  He moves so that his head rests against my neck. These are some of my favourite moments with Jinx. I rest my hand on his fur and he purrs softly, lulling me into a half-sleep.

  >>You’ve had some messages through.