Face (3 page)

             
I enter: Mrs Williams, Literature, select the module on Of Mice and Men. It flashes a green light to confirm the assignment download onto my phone. I skim the title, something about relationships. Is it just me, or do I get lumbered with all the sad ones since Dad left? I hear my name spoken hesitantly. So soft that I look over my real shoulder, survey my bedroom, there’s no sign of anyone.

             
“True?” More forceful now.

             
“Who’s that?”

             
“It’s Cliff. From History of Molecular Science.”

             
“The new boy, what an entrance! You practically sat on the teacher’s lap with the molecular model all over your face. How was it, as an experience?”

             
“I forgot the teacher’s name. I need to download the assignment.”

He sounds embarrassed;
now I need to see it on his face.

“Something wrong with your webcam?”

             
“Nothing’s wrong.”

             
“So where’s your avatar?” I hold out my hand in the library, wave it around. “Come out come out, wherever you are...”

Cliff
must have logged on to Virtual School to be able to see and speak to me, but his avatar still doesn’t materialise.

             
“You need to see my face.” He says

             
“Duh, yeah? It would stop me looking like an idiot here, chatting away to myself...”

             
“And if I refuse?”

             
“There are easier ways to make friends, new boy.”

             
“Easy is boring. What if I’m up for a challenge? Now, how do I get to those AGs?”

             
“Only your avatar can access them by queuing up. So bad luck, time to get your avatar out and get in line. ”

Still no sign o
f Cliff, and I am rapidly losing patience with his game.

“
Don’t you get it
? Important
social areas
like this one keep you from becoming that crazy loner who just sits at home, hiding behind his avatar. First you would start forgetting to wash. A few more months and you would flip out and start
biting other avatars
, or something. Virtual School would be a
total blood bath
of loonies
without the civilising influence of the lovely AGs.
So for the sake of everybody here today, get your webcam on and start acting normal
.”

O
ther students’ avatars are starting to look across at me, the girl lecturing into thin air, so I duck my head and continue at a whisper.

             
“You still there?”

             
“Still here. Still remembering to wash.”

             
“How d’ you get Mrs Singh to let you use an avatar of Dollar in class anyway?”

             
“Mrs Singh! How could I forget? That voice, it sure didn’t sing. ‘Bye.”

             
“Hey wait! Where’s Dollar?”

             
“Dollar’s resting.”

             
“So where’s Cliff?”

             
“What are you really asking?” Cliff’s voice turns sarcastic: “To show my face, so that you can judge if I’m rockin’ the right rebel-Maverick look?”

M
y hands fly to my face; I can’t believe I have produced a Maverick smile of any sort, at any point, during this encounter. That’s it. I refuse to continue with this stupid half-conversation.

Long seconds of silence
follow, during which it becomes apparent that Cliff has logged off and I curse myself (internally this time) for letting slip the name of Mrs Singh. I turn a slow circle because it still feels like I’m being watched, but I discover it’s only by the gentle eyes of a ‘Merlot’ girl in the next queue along.              

“You finished or what?
”

I glance
up into the face of a boy, jerky impatient. For a moment he had the same tight voice. I turn my Maverick face to the virtual carpet and step away from the AGs.

That’s when Story’s avatar
looms in close-up, to startle me. She can smile all straight whites, and her eyes are palm tree green with sparkling layers of blue. Colours that combine to create FantasySwimmingPool, part of the Merlot SexyFace range. The FantasySwimmingPool eyes are doing concern. Those water-based designs can seem teary when they aren’t, and I’m pinned there, sort of soaking it all up.

             
“True. Show me that Maverick smile.”

A couple of boys from our year glance over, I turn my face away as they head down between the aisles of
Classic Literature. I cup my hands either side of my mouth and demonstrate the Smile Blocker first, close my eyes and think of Dollar to coax a real one.

             
“It’s insane!”

If eyes are windows to the brain, hers are 360 degree transparency, an observation tower in reverse. 

              “You can be honest.” I say. (Although I am not sure if I mean it.)

             
“Seven said you looked totally...different.”

             
“I feel totally different.”

             
“So...what’s the plan?”

              “Unknown.” I shrug.

S
tory tilts her face back and raises her eyebrows- she doesn’t believe me. There’s always a reason for a face.

             
“My dad would go mad if I did a Maverick Update like that,” Story falters- she knows all about Dad leaving- “...sowhatdidyourMumsay?”

Strangely
, the gushing suits her.

             
“She hasn’t seen it yet. She’ll freak. Guaranteed.”

I grin at her and Story’s eyes settle on my dimple. She draws her eyes back, ta
king in the planes of my face and returning to the bit where symmetry is absent, the dent in my left cheek.

             
“It’s amazing how it dominates your whole face. The Smile Blocker is...no don’t! It makes me nervous. Save it for your enemies.”

             
“Did Seven tell you I looked like a Natural?”

             
“...Not really.” Story removes her gaze too late. “She did say something like... you don’t look like you anymore.”

             
“She’s only sulking because I don’t look like
her
anymore. Why has everything got to be about her?”             

             
“It’s just... you guys have always been into the same look. Like, forever.”

Story’s avatar reaches for mine, the shoulder squeeze sweeter when you watch it happen to yourself onscreen. Sometimes I feel it, my real skin prickles.

She logs off and
those give-away eyes say something more as they go, something I don’t need, and suddenly I’m sick to death of my new face. I sink my fingernails into both sides of it, and drag the flesh downwards, like some kind of horror film. Onscreen my Maverick mouth is pulled out of all recognition and honestly, the skin stretch feels fantastic. My nails are digging in. Something else is required here: I stick out my tongue and blow a long, loud raspberry at myself, which my avatar performs back at me.

             
“There are easier way to make friends, True.”

T
hat was Cliff’s voice, teetering on the edge of laughter. Like I needed advice from the invisible freak! My fingernails come out of my face fast to log off from St Luke’s Virtual Secondary School. A watcher’s paradise.

Chapter Four

Here is a list of people who hate my face:

1. Best friend Seven.
   (Called me a
   Natural
   !!)
   
2. Mrs Singh (Told me not to show my face in class again.)
   
3. Cliff (Staring. Uncontrolled laughter. Sarcasm. Unwanted advice.)
   
4. ‘Avatar Dance’
   partner in library queue/ silly shiny-haired kid (“ugh.” I’m sure of it.)
   
5. Story (Tragic eyes.)
   
6. Mum (Can confidently be added to the list in anticipation of her seeing me later. Oh, the suspense.)
   
7. Me (Attacking and insulting myself
   .)
   

I lift my face out of the depths of the pillow. I have been lying this way for a while, cooling my cheeks against the fabric. Eventually I am brave enough to look back at the screen of my phone. First I check that I’m properly logged off from school. Then I go into ‘My Face History.’ This is like my personal photo album, with a template of every one of my faces. It starts with ‘My First Enhancement’ and the familiar innocence of early childhood, eyes newly rounded to perfection. There are thirty-seven faces I have purchased, thirty-seven versions of the perfect me. The last one is a Merlot SexyFace that looks a lot like Seven. This was my reflection when I woke up this morning.

My Face History is more than
just a record; it’s also protection, it’s back-up Me. It’s where I go to Reverse my Update. Because everybody makes mistakes; sometimes an Update feels too different, or doesn’t fit. The Reversal command sits across the bottom of my screen, a block of red to catch the eye of anyone suffering a post-Update panic. It’s as easy as that. If I select the red button, my phone will simply instruct me (in its usual reassuring Dollar-voice) to fetch an Ultiface Reversal mask, and key in the code of my former Merlot SexyFace. Connection made, personalized template accessed. Put on the mask and it’s over in minutes. I’m sure Cliff would prefer a nice, polite Merlot SexyFace just like Seven’s. That thought is enough to make me shut My Face History and toss the phone aside.

What have I done
to myself? The whole idea of Maverick had felt so daring at lunchtime when I was holding the Update box in my hands at last. I even turned down my Profile Preview because I wanted a surprise- and I got it. I got what I wanted, didn’t I? I have been psyching myself up to go Maverick for more than a year. It began at Day’s 15
th
birthday party last March- that was the first time I laid eyes on Maverick in the flesh. That was the start of my Maverick obsession.

......................................................................................................................................................

              I can remember so clearly trying, and failing, to leave the house for Day’s party, because Seven had done her eyes to match her pearl-coloured dress. Ultiface PartyEyes: ‘eyes that catch all the light in the room.’ So the dress was giving it out in a pearlescent sheen, and the eyes were reflecting it back at me, and being in the vicinity of her was like being trapped in the headlights. Upshot of that- my advice- was that she’d accidently done a seven or an eight (either way it was a personal record) and it had to go. The Update Reversal crisis made us late, when we’d promised Day to be early.

             
Seven’s family car drops us off at Day’s house in heavy rain. Stupid car just sits there until Seven runs back to it getting soaked, and re-selects Home, and re-selects Day’s address so that we can get collected later. (Seven’s mum always alters our collection times; we’d gone for 4am. It keeps her on her toes.)

We enter the house to find the party on the move indo
ors from the garden: wet chairs and a long table of food with Day’s Mum at the far end, barrelling into the house. We watch the MeatFeel products pass by: sausage roll, sandwiches, mini burgers. Day’s Mum loves us- we exchange straight whites before she disappears, because of course, she isn’t really invited. It’s too late for the birthday lanterns, fifteen of them in purple and gold, extinguished by the rain. Dali staggers past with a vat of fruit punch and Seven and I both direct our straight whites at him, a recognition of his performance. The grey light coming through the glass back wall softens the shimmer from the pearl dress to pretty, but Seven doesn’t take risks. You can’t match a face to the weather.

We are both
getting curious stares; it’s time to offload this gift.

             
“Sorry I’m late,” I tell Day, “Seven couldn’t find a face for your party. Happy birthday- it’s from both of us.”

I hoist the
custom-made triple layered wedding cake into his arms, and Day does a mock-stagger backwards. It’s all curly white icing, and it takes a moment for the joke to circulate the room. A figurine of Day as a groom in top hat and tails tops the cake, his bride a curvy version of his mobile phone, coyly veiled, they clutch at each other- for they are never to be parted. I watch Day’s face. He laughs- just the once, his single tone blue eyes flit away from the cake. Colour rises in his cheeks. Watch me take a joke.