Face (2 page)

Across the classroo
m Day whispers to Story, his face animates to perfection but he’s got to be quick; Story and Seven display straight white teeth, matching sets swiftly concealed as Mrs Singh turns towards the disruption.

I scan the semi-circle of my fellow students’ avatars, a curve that is easy on the eye: shades of glowing skin, palettes of piercing eyes, profiles of
perfect symmetry, features that balance and flow. It’s the same neat crowd as always. No rival lunch hour Updates that I can make out. But my face feels so different, why is nobody even returning my gaze? A smile at the History of Molecular Machines is always going to be a fake, and my Blocker takes care of those.

Someone must have answered Mrs Singh’s question, because
her face disappears behind a generated model of a cell.

“
Listen up. In the scale of human history, it is only recently that we have acquired the power to manipulate matter at the molecular level. Pay attention, because this is where it all began: the big idea that turned out to be
nanosized.
Can you lot at the back all appreciate the outlines of this beauty?”

Zombie-
like murmurs from beyond, a distinct lack of deference to the form. Surely she must understand how many times we’ve been shown this thing?  The structure moves unwelcomingly into focus, and swells to dominate the room. No excuses now. Her avatar outline diminishes as she passes through the model, and moves aside with silent footsteps. Her vocals crank up to a pitch to shatter daydreams.

             
“Come on! I know you’ve Seen. It. All. Before. But, show a little respect.”

I quit
my facial stretching exercises behind cupped hands.

“Fake it, if you must!
What is it? Cliff, can you help us out since you seem to have the best vantage point?”

T
he poor kid has the model sprouting out of his head largely obscuring his avatar’s face in a navy mist; he obviously hasn’t figured out how to reposition his virtual desk space. There is a ripple of interest in the room, all heads turning as one to the faceless kid. I recognise Seven’s hooting laugh cutting through all the rest. Mrs Singh attempts a nurturing edge and but it doesn’t blend convincingly with her vocals. Kindness sort of hovers, waiting to be let in. It’s proper creepy. She would never opt for Nurture’n’LearnFace, but on special occasions she will soften the lines of her battle face, meaning: this can only be the new boy.

“It’s the first nanomachine
.” he replies.

“
Well spotted. Can you expand on that? Any names for me?”

Seconds pass
. Mrs Singh’s expectant gaze does its reliable fade-out into tragic sense of loss.

“It was designed by those Japanese guys...
.”

New Boy
knows what he’s doing; he understands you can’t offer too much, can’t draw negative attention on your first day. Mrs Singh breaks out into vigorous nodding. I wonder if that’s a recognised teaching technique- to coax the first words from a new kid, or a baby.

             
“Daimon and Miyamoto, yes indeed. And why is it so important? What did it prove? True?”

             
“That we could build stuff from the molecules up.” I say.

Mrs Singh casts her eyes around, d
oes she want a Hallelujah?

             
“This incredibly basic molecular-sized machine was the first step on the road to
the complete control of matter.
Who can name that Revolution, Seven?”

             
“The Nanotechnological Revolution.” Seven mutters.

From this distance, Seven’s nose looks ex
actly the same. I exhale slowly, wonder what that does to my mouth. My avatar won’t be smiling today, not until this face becomes my own.

“Come on kids, I’m not feeling the love! We’re talking cheap mass production of everything
! New fabrics in your clothes! New green materials in your homes and environments! The development of surgical nanobots to repair and maintain our bodies both inside and out...let us pause to consider your vastly increased life expectancy, for it gives us all plenty of time to  take a more detailed look at Daimon and Miyamoto’s inspirational molecular structure.”

Everybody gets a window
seat in this place, a still life. Nothing breathes out there, not even the trees. The sky is sickly saturated blue, practically dripping. Clouds are a distraction, their wispy frivolousness. I stopped searching for them on my first day. The light coats the leaves like nail varnish, high contrast curves repeating against the sky. Trees mock-scattered to the horizon; it’s important to see the horizon-
no boundaries
- get it? Only thing missing is a rainbow. If I were the designer of a Virtual School, I’d at least have a laugh with it: scenes from a high security jail; society weeping; faces turning away. The alternative? The Nobel Prize, a podium for Olympic gold. I’d have an actual crossroads up there. Add in a soundtrack: wah-wah-waaaah; or canned laughter.

I feel the flesh rising
on my cheeks; I’m about to display my
real
smile, the second side to my Update! My avatar’s face follows the precise movements of my real face at home so I can watch this happening onscreen, but I desperately need to keep the Blocker away, so I bring back that inner vision of the cheesy school rainbow and my face splits into a smile. As I reach full beam, a single dimple appears to the left side of my mouth. A dent on the surface of me. Nothing at all to the right side of my smile; just this blatant crater staring back at me. This is Maverick.

Suddenly Mrs Singh’s avatar is looming over mine. I slide my face back into neutral too slow, I can tell by the expression wedged across her face. I
go to panic-smile and feel it Block. The semi-circle of students’ avatars is turning towards me and I’m not ready for this. Not a whole crowd, not on my Maverick first day! A smile of embarrassment won’t come either; my face keeps catching over and over, tiny tugs down in the corners of my mouth.  My face is out of control.

             
“She’s done a Maverick Smile Blocker!” Thanks so much for that clarification, Seven.

Students are on their feet, Day announces he’s getting a closer look. Story is whispering to Beijing and won’t catch my help-me-out eyes. No straight whites, no smiles of any description come my way. Mrs Singh raises a hand.

              “Settle down everyone! Minds on molecules, please. That means you too, True.”

My real face is hot,
it’s lucky that avatars don’t blush too convincingly.  Mrs Singh cannot peel her eyes from my Maverick face and will not move away. Her hand seizes the edge of my desk, the knuckles turning slowly pink.

“That’s a face fo
r Reversal.” She says in a steely voice that cracks. “Don’t produce that expression in my classroom again. You’re a distraction.”

I
chew down hard on my bottom lip to make my mouth disappear. I am seriously considering breaking the rules and logging off early.

             
“Now who can help Cliff reset his personal space?” Mrs Singh continues brightly, “I fear my molecular structures are being upstaged.”

A
ll the sparkling Updated eyes swivel his way. Day leans over to explain and we all watch Cliff’s desk jolt back and Cliff himself emerge from the navy haze. The face of Cliff’s avatar makes me temporarily forget my own. I mean, how could I fail to recognise that famous profile? Right now I’d say he’s more familiar than my own Maverick reflection.

I
t entertains me to watch the way that boys make use of Dollar’s face. Every single one of his features can be yours as an Update, but an avatar like this is the whole package. Dollar Updates on school boys always fall short of the movie star himself, but occasionally there’s a glimpse of something; a Dollar expression will fit, either through intensive practise, or personality. The real question is this: how come the new boy gets to set his avatar to resemble a movie star? St Luke’s Virtual Secondary School rules clearly state: come as you are.

Cliff turns
in my general direction; I don’t want to be noticed, but I find I can’t look away. Let’s see how this boy does. Cliff’s focus is beyond me, to the window. He sees the horizon that’s for sure, the tragic lack of a rainbow. He drums his fingers on the desk and shifts in his seat, unable to be still. I wait for an expression from Cliff sat at home, some hint of the new boy behind the avatar. Frankly, the eyes are a disappointment. Dollar’s eyes are an invite, but on Cliff they say nothing at all. It’s actually a bit creepy. Suddenly his face softens lost in a private thought and...Cliff can actually do it! The famously sexy Dollar gaze! Congratulations, Cliff. Who would have thought it? I’ve managed two genuine Maverick smiles during The History of Molecular Manufacturing.

Cliff’s
avatar eyes settle on my face during my second Maverick smile. You can tell he’s new to the whole Virtual School thing- just because I’m an avatar, doesn’t give him the right to stare like that. I do the Smile Blocker hard. (It’s a favour really, he’s got to learn.) His upper body folds forward over the desk in a way that looks a lot like laughter.
Smile Blockers are meant to punish
. His shoulders are curved, but not shaking. So I’m kind of funny looking now, but not hilarious?
Cliff raises his eyes, the rest of his face follows and I glare right back at those famous, borrowed features.  His eyes are all wrong, the gut tug still hasn’t come. Eyes are there to get a reaction; they are the introduction to a face. These eyes are far too quiet. That’s when it clicks: Cliff isn’t making the most of his gorgeous avatar; he’s hiding behind it.

Chapter Three

One of the many benefits of Dad leaving is that nobody objects to raspberry pasta anymore. The pinkish juice streaks across my plate, Dad’s voice:
pink pasta is not an O’Reilly staple
, a lowering of the brows in mock disapproval, real disapproval heaped underneath. But it takes two minutes, so it is now. The kitchen is another empty space. I shove my plate aside and wonder how I get to the stage when I can eat a meal in peace without my brain playing Dad, feeding his missing words to me. When does the gap where they used to fit, start to close? We never even liked the same food, so why does he still get to have an opinion?

My avatar slips back into the corridors of school, heading for the Virtua
l Library, on silent feet. The doors open at the brush of my rainbow-nailed fingertips, and I bite down hard on my lower lip as the whole Library comes into view, but there’s no need; all the other kids are queuing for the Assignment Generators, and have their backs to me. I move fast to join the end of the queue furthest from the entrance. My Maverick face slides up close to the back of a boy’s head so that I’m practically reflecting back at myself in his stupid glossy hair.
Please don’t turn around.
The skin around my new mouth is unbearably tight, but I won’t rub it. That might draw attention to my mouth, and I’m not ready. The Assignment Generator flashes a green light and the glossy-haired boy has received his assignment title. His balanced profile briefly hooks me as he shouts across to his friend, his sharp cheekbones angled up towards Deep‘n’Meaningful eyes- currently failing to grasp the meaning of his essay title.

“Tyler! Tyler! What did you get?”

Tyler bellows back and the boy’s lip curls symmetrically in scorn. He turns and treads in my personal space, and we do the awkward ‘avatar dance’ as we both swipe at our Navigator pads from home. The dance gets more frantic, until he ends it by logging off. A relief, only I swear he makes a soft noise like “ugh” as his avatar disappears from the library. I didn’t feel what my face did to him, but I could hazard a guess.

I
t’s harder than you might imagine, to communicate without those little smiles, the ones that have nothing to do with happy. I have a brain-based conversation with a blank unsmiling me, and freak myself out in seconds. Psychopath is the word that springs to mind, or a totally joyless intellectual. Either way, it isn’t me. But I’ve been doing a lot of facial stretching in the privacy of my bedroom.             

             
This whole queuing for the Assignment Generators, the lovely AGs as they are known, is a school ritual to
encourage pupil conversation
: step up and face your fate for the rest of the evening. Will you get lucky tonight? I blame the geeks, the freaks that hide behind their avatars. The AGs are the only reason any of us set foot in here; the communal seating area is all interlinked empty circles. Likewise the rows and rows of virtual books; purely decorative. Because the Library is the last place you’d come to start a conversation.