Lifespan of Starlight (9 page)

I
START HANGING OUT
with Mason more after that, riding over to his garage after he
finishes
school.
I’m glad to discover there’s a side entrance, which means I don’t have to knock on
the front door. Boc’s often there before I arrive, but he never stays long. It’s
as if the room is too small for him. There’s nothing for him to climb.

You’d think it would be weird, hanging out with guys my own age after being stuck
on the outside my whole life. But it’s not. Mason’s so obsessed that he just picks
up from where we left off the time before; talking through his latest list of theories
or a new idea he’s going to try.

I still keep an eye on him online, just in case. One day I find a document on his
hard drive with dates and notes that make no sense at first. It lists a bunch of
numbers and phrases: 4/7/84,
26 deg, 5.5 hr sleep, 930 cal, no carb, 30 min cardio,
5.30pm, 87%.

Under the date when I first went around, he’d added a single word:
Scout
.

He’s recording all the conditions that he meditates in, I realise. Exercise, diet,
sleep and weather, even his changes in body temperature throughout the day: Mason’s
been recording his whole life, tweaking his diet, sleep and exercise in case it helps
him slow his sense of time. Whenever he reaches a deeper meditation, the different
aspects from that day get highlighted and repeated in the next session, until he
makes it even closer and refines each one all over again.

I start reading more about meditation as well, and practising at home, allowing myself
to sink into the quiet spaces in my mind. I still don’t know what I’m doing, but
I do know that the answer is out there, somewhere. It’s floating just out of our
reach, waiting for someone to give it a name.

I’m not expecting to disappear, exactly, but meditating takes me closer to some of
the things that Mason’s been saying. Here and there while I’m meditating, my thoughts
begin to slow, and I feel as if I’m coming to understand what he meant when he said
he was outside time.

Once, I even reach a place where I’m suddenly awake and blinking, confused and staring
around as if I’d forgotten for a split second who I was. That freaked me way out.
Not because I thought I was doing it wrong, but because maybe I’d done something
right.

Sometimes I meditate with Mason. It felt weird to me at first, but he didn’t seem
to notice, and soon I found that it’s
different from when I’m alone. It brings a
deeper focus when we both slow at the same time: the air seems to still, the sounds
from outside shrink further away. The focal point of the room becomes sharper somehow.

About three weeks after my first trip to Mason’s house, I’m in his garage, grabbing
my backpack ready to ride home. It’s 5.45pm and already the air is still with cold
creeping in from outside.

Mason’s on the floor, his legs still crossed after a session that seemed to take
both half a day and no time at all. ‘Nervous about the interview tomorrow?’ he asks
simply.

I stop with my zip, frowning as I turn. I haven’t even mentioned the test to him,
let alone the interview. My mouth has already shaped the words
how did …
before I
realise.

‘You’ve been watching me?’ Even now, he’s watching me on the grid?

‘I keep expecting you to disappear.’ If he noticed the protest in my voice, he doesn’t
show it.

I hook the backpack over my shoulders, ready to get going, but Mason shuffles around
so that he’s facing me. ‘Why haven’t you?’

‘I told you, I can’t do it in front –’

‘No, but, on your own. Why have you stopped jumping altogether?’

I’m not sure if he’s worried I’m going to disappear, or suspicious about why I haven’t.
I let one arm drop. The mood in the room seems to have shifted. ‘You want me to?’

One eyebrow lifts slightly. ‘I just want to know why you
haven’t.’ He’s perfectly
still, his face like an elven statue, waiting for an answer.

I sink to sit on the edge of the couch, the backpack drops to the floor. In my mind
I track my life back the way Mason thinks it was.

She’s fainter now but I can still feel her here, with me. The woman I’ll never know.

‘Well … I ah … just want to live my life now. I want to get into a good school.’
Mason keeps watching, so I keep searching.
This will make sense,
I tell myself. I
just have to find a way through. ‘It’s not easy … being on the move all the time.’
And then I find it. ‘When I first jumped, I left some people behind. Friends and
family. When I came back they were older.’

I finish and my shoulders relax because what I just said has to be true. I’ve been
searching for other people with gaps on the grid, and so far found none.

Mason takes a breath and I expect him to speak, but he pushes his lips together.
He takes another go before the words come out: ‘Have you ever travelled backwards?’

I’ve wondered this too, because a gap is only proof that the person disappeared.
It could mean that they return at an earlier time, in theory. But once you see that
the woman always came back to the same location, it’s clear that she only ever jumped
forwards, otherwise her line would double back on itself.

I shake my head. ‘No.’

‘Have you tried?’

Less of a shake this time, because how would I know?

Mason’s quiet as he considers. ‘It might be possible,’ he says softly before looking
over again. ‘Would you go backwards if you could?’

‘I don’t know.’ I think for a bit. ‘It doesn’t make sense to me, going backwards.
Like, if you travel back and kill your younger self. Except now you’re dead, so there’s
no future self to come back and kill you.’ Mason’s smiling by now, nodding, so I
join in. ‘So now you survive, but that means you’re alive to come back and kill yourself
…’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He’s still smiling, but he glances away, almost sad.

‘My brain hurts.’ I grab the backpack and breathe in as I stand. ‘Right now, all
I can think about is getting into a decent school.’

Mason stands with me while I walk to the door. ‘Listen,’ he calls out. ‘The way things
work these days? It’s all about how much you contribute to the state.’ I must seem
a bit unsure because he keeps going. ‘So make sure your plans for the future sound
useful, okay?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

We arrive five minutes early for the interview and have to wait for ages, our backs
slowly sagging with each click of the clock.

We’re still there when the next interviewee after me arrives with her dad, and our
backs snap straight again. She’s one of those bouncy people with a ponytail that
flicks when she moves. I return her grin nervously and try not to look at her A2
art folio. Architecture, perhaps? Disaster co-ordination?

When it’s finally my turn, I’m already on the other side of nervous. We enter the
meeting room to find two empty chairs at a round table with about seven or eight
people in business suits sitting around the circle. They all have labels in front
of them: important community members, school staff and the principal opposite me.
I think it’s meant to feel inclusive and equal. I just feel sick.

Everyone stands when we come in and I resist the urge to curtsey. It’s all so formal.
The year nine co-ordinator introduces herself as Ms Leoni and asks us to take a seat.

No-one speaks while we all shuffle into position. I make a point not to let myself
focus anywhere near Mum because I know she’ll be smiling so hard that I might throw
up.

‘Coutlyn Roche.’ Ms Leoni taps at her keyboard and all faces lean towards their compads.
‘Now. Your test scores were good across the board. Very good, in fact. You’re starting
with the exact broad base that we’re looking for. And your references are solid,
too.’ She pauses to peer at her screen. ‘I’ve had some trouble chasing one of your
teachers for a phone reference … Miss Smythe?’ She looks over at us. ‘Is that it?
With a y?’

Mum and I turn to each other: ‘Isn’t it with an i?’

‘I think it’s a y but no e.’ My heart’s beating so hard that I’m sure the guy from
Orion Energy sitting next to me is about to ask what the noise is.

We mutter about the spelling some more and then I shake my head. ‘Actually, you know
what? I just remembered. She got married last year and changed her name.’

‘Oh! That explains it.’ Ms Leoni smiles. ‘What’s her married name?’

Her married name, it turns out, is even harder to spell than her maiden name and
we only have to disagree twice about the spelling before Ms Leoni tells us not to
worry, she’ll sort it out. I don’t let her know that the only teacher in the city
with that name is on an extended holiday.

The whole room relaxes after that. Especially me. A woman from the Disaster Co-ordination
Centre keeps nodding at everything I say, so I find myself speaking to her and just
glancing around the table here and there.

They ask about my goals after leaving year twelve, and the guy from the CSIRO grunts
something like
yaar
when I list the universities that offer Bioengineering.

I’m even able to take a full lungful of air by the time they ask about my hopes for
after uni. I have heaps of ideas about ways that food technology might help us feed
more people and I’m only at the start when a man at the edge of my sightline shakes
his head.

‘Feed more people and you’ll also have to house them. Not to mention the extra energy
and water.’ He’s skinny with age, red flaky skin. This guy is old.

My eyes flick to the name label in front of him: Minister for Resources and Rationing.
I take a breath. ‘True, but … we can find ways to deal with that, too.’

‘We already have tighter rationing because of the problems with the Murray Darling.
How would we cope with another
disaster like ’79?’ He’s talking about the fire that
went through the city’s water treatment plant. ‘Why feed illegals when we already
struggle with the citizens we have?’

My lungs have gone empty. I glance at Mum, and immediately turn away. She was gripping
her seat so hard that I could see the network of veins in her neck. I try the woman
from the Disaster Co-ordination Centre but she offers only a pained smile before
glancing down and I’m left staring back at the Minister for Resources and Rationing.
Just him and me.

‘Try to help everyone, Coutlyn Roche, and you might end up helping no-one.’ His voice
seems stronger than it should be and I find myself imagining a younger man behind
the dry skin and wrinkles.

‘But that’s no reason to stop trying?’ I can’t help the little lift at the end: don’t
you agree?

The Minister slowly clasps his hands together and rests them on the table. His eyes
stay on me the whole time.

My lips are dry. I’ve been breathing through my mouth. I shuffle awkwardly in my
chair, searching for an answer.

Why feed illegals?
I want to say.
Because we’re human beings, that’s why. We’re meant
to look out for each other
.

And because I’m one of them, of course.

The silence has lasted way too long, but I have no idea what to say next.

‘The reason to stop trying, Coutlyn,’ says the Minister finally, ‘is that now more
than ever we need to use our resources wisely. And that especially includes our human
resources.’ He pauses,
and I feel the whole panel watching me. ‘You and your peers
here today are our future, you realise that, don’t you?’

I’m not sure if he expects an answer, but I sit taller in the chair and nod as agreeably
as I can.

‘Some would say that you owe it to your country to work where the need is greatest.
Judging from your IP, Coutlyn Roche, I’d say you were best suited to medicine. Or
disaster co-ordination, perhaps.’

‘Okay.’ Still nodding. ‘Yes, that would be okay.’ It’s weird how he keeps using my
full name.

‘If you spend your time trying to help people that can’t be saved, others are placed
at risk.’

‘I guess. Yes, that makes sense. I could work in medicine.’ I’m saying the words
but they feel empty.

‘Well,’ Ms Leoni breathes in and glances around the table. ‘Any more questions from
the panel?’

Everyone shakes their heads. My eyes stay locked on the Minster for Resources and
Rationing as he clicks something on his compad. He lifts his head to examine me again,
and crosses his arms.

By now Mum’s standing, so I do too, bowing my head and thanking everyone. Then we’re
out the door into the dusty school grounds and it’s all over.

It’s over.

Swirls of wind and dirt outside make it difficult to talk, so it’s not until we’re
heading along the train concourse that Mum speaks. ‘I can’t believe –’

‘It’ll be all right.’ No way I’m going to hear her say it out loud.
You messed up.

‘Yes.’ But her head tilts down. ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

Neither of us says anything for ages. If she started yelling about the interview,
then at least I could yell about it too. But how would that help? Screaming about
it isn’t going to change anything.

In silence, we let the crowd pull us along. I never imagined that I might mess up
the interview. I’ve been prepping for the test for years, but the interview never
worried me. I can’t even work out what annoys me more, the fact that I stumbled so
badly over my answer or the way I backed down.

As we step through security, I slip a hand into my pocket and grip the lump in the
corner, pressing it hard, angrily, into my palm. The sensors go
tuk
as I pass, but
somehow the sound has changed.

I used to think that if I could make it into a good school, I’d become a normal citizen.
Fit in. But I see now that’s not how it’s going to work, even if by some freak fluke
I still make it in. No matter how many times I swipe that chip, it’s always going
to belong to someone else. I’m always going to be illegal.

We’re almost on the platform when I turn towards Mum. ‘Can I go over to Mason’s?’
Right now, I can’t stand the idea of spending the afternoon with her. It would be
a constant reminder of the interview.