Face (22 page)

Cliff swivels
his head from left to right, mechanically, like the Profile Preview that presents itself before you Accept an Update. I don’t care about rating a film trailer face when the lights are about to go out; but I don’t want it to come out sounding dismissive of his whole triumphant performance here today, and I can’t even get my own face set right to begin speaking. As it turns out, he hasn’t quite finished:

             
                            “...Thanks for looking at me today. It’s been a pleasant change.”

I stand there like an idiot
, until it goes pitch dark.

Chapter Twent
y-Seven

Seven is expecting me after school. But I’m stuck here instead, outside Cliff’s house.

“I enjoyed your new PsychoCliff avatar
.” I deliver my pre-prepared line.

“But you pref
erred the old one.” Cliff says

             
“I prefer pre-PsychoCliff for sure.”

             
“I meant Dollar. He’s not tempted you to go Natural then?”

             
“Maybe one day.”

             
“Liar.”

             
“Yeah. Psychopath isn’t my thing. I’m not that crazed level of fan, I have my limits.”

His eyes graze with a studied lack of interest.

              “...Anyway. I just came by to return this.” I hold out the newborn teddy bear scarf, Cliff’s gift to Daimon, all businesslike. “It’s cute, but I don’t want my brother to feel like he needs to hide.”

“Won’t that be
his choice to make?”

“It’s your choice. Daimon
is just a baby.”

             
“Fair enough.”

Cliff makes no move to collect the scarf.
He starts to fidget, and I recognise this, I wait for him to wind himself up to what he really wants to say.

“W
hen my scarf was torn off you couldn’t look away from my face fast enough.”

             
“Hey, it wasn’t like that-”

             
“I thought we were friends or something.”

             
“I was trying-”

             
“If that’s the reaction I get from my friends, what should I expect from all the rest? Trust me, Daimon will need the scarf as soon as he’s old enough to understand.”

             
“Wait, slow down. It would have made me into some kind of pervert, wouldn’t it? Gawping at what you go to so much trouble to hide?”

             
“Mm.”

             
“A holiday from all the stares, isn’t that what you called it?”

Today’s scarf sits taught and high, almost interfering with his lower lashes. It does not look comfortable.

“Can I come in?” I say.

He shifts his weight to the other foot.

              “You want to show me your face? Go on then. Whip it off right now.”

Cliff makes some funny noises, rising excuses. I’m triumphant.

              “That’s fine, because actually, you’re not hiding as much as you think you are. For example: right now, you’ve totally and utterly forgiven me and you’re desperate to invite me in, but you can’t quite bring yourself to say it.”

Cliff
turns his back on me and starts to climb the stairs. But I saw it in his eyes, the challenge, and it’s as good as an invitation. I shut the door behind me, shut myself in, and watch. See how far up he goes without me.

             
“Give that boy an Oscar!” I call after him.

Cliff pauses. It’s a fake strop now, I know it. The real strop
is out of juice. Those quiet eyes can’t touch me, not from all the way up there. Bad luck Cliff.

             
“Are your parents in?”

             
“Out.”

             
“How’s your dad’s nose?”

             
“Bigger than yours.”

             
“He’s all fixed up?” 

             
“His nose broke, his jaw dislocated, he was in a lot of pain, True.”

“Yikes!
He was holding it together so well...”

I have spent a disproportionate amount of
time thinking about Cliff’s face.

“Yeah, he does that. It was a nightmare at the hospital. Every time his face gets pummelled for taking his scarf off in public and shouting about it, he insists he wants his same old ugly mug back, exactly as it was. He insists they study pictures of how it was before, from every angle, because sometimes the nanobots fix things up a little too much for his liking. It always takes four times as long as it should. Dad gets to sit there in pain, arguing. Only this time I had to do it because his jaw wasn’t working. The Doctor was this little twitchy guy, with all these masked people hanging about...
it’s worse for us, to be in a crowd.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s gone back to the scene of the crime, Ultiface headquarters- his regular spot out front. Mum’s been filming him all morning for the site. They’re doing a thing about it. Come on up, then.”

Impati
ence now. He leads the way to his room, first on the left, and as I’ve come to expect, he studies my reaction as if storing it up for later.

             
“Spacious. Lucky you.”

             
“You haven’t seen the size of my front teeth. I told you, Bugs Bunny.”

             
“Liar. All of that-” I point to the wall of storage units of assorted sizes, “- it’s for your scarf collection. Plus, I’ve been introduced to the wood-effect wardrobe before.”

His lowered brows indicate confusion.

“Your first ever call to me, leaving me to talk to that wardrobe?”

His belly shudders twice, a not-so hidden laugh.

“That’s right, you shouted at my furniture.”

“We didn’t really click.”

Cliff topples a pile of clean laundry, sweeping a space to sit at the end of the bed. The only chair, the desk chair must be for me. I take a swipe at his hat as I stroll past, knocking it forward.

             
“Hands off!”

A bit of an over-reaction if you ask me.
I re-position it for him, give it a final downwards tug.

“Hat respect.”

Over his shoulder I spy that grey scarf, freshly washed and folded into squares. The scarf that had seemed so threatening in the park, at twilight; I couldn’t see how it flattered his eyes. Cliff folds forward, his forearms on his thighs and hangs his head and I look at the knot, peeking out from under the rim of his hat. Maybe that thing really is on too tight today because I can tell he wants to Talk but there’s a sound delay.  He raises his grey eyes, but they don’t give previews.

“How does my face look to you?” 

              “Um, totally not there?”

“How do you imagine my face to be, underneath?”
             

“How do you mean?”

An escapist’s response, buys me a second
or two.

             
“You must have thought about it.”

I should have pre-prepared an answer. I should have gawped when I got the chance, because now I’m stuck. I position my face in front of Cliff’s at perfect eye level- think Rex Rayne the Detective, searching for clues.

              “So, we have: one pair of grey eyes. Shame your eyes don’t come attached to the rest, like those old joke disguises that go: glasses- bulbous nose- moustache...”

             
“I’m being serious. Close your eyes. What do you see?”

I close them- obviously nothing comes, except for the thought that his room isn’t so big after all, because now our knees are bumping. My
bedroom shrank once.

             
“I’m sure you look fine. A huge non-stop smile of course, because I’m here to entertain you.”

             
“Guess me.”

             
“How can I?” My voice rises up in despair. “You’re an Original!”

             
“Try.”

             
“Do I get points for a correct feature?” I open my eyes. “Are there prizes?”

             
“If you like.”

I drag a palm down my face, my little finger tucks into the dimple. His walls are aqua and remind me of Story’s give-it-all-away eyes.

              “I want you to be honest.” Cliff adds.

He’s got a hold of my knees now, a separate distraction. It’s just Cliff. I stare at the familiar blank surface of the sca
rf and take in each tiny crease- there’s nothing else.

“I keep seeing Dollar’s lips- your first avatar.”

He is not going to let me get away with this.

“Okay, back to Cliff. He’s easy to talk to, but that’s a thing you do with
your voice. You’re always making challenging statements...and I know you say stuff to wind me up. Don’t deny it.” 

Cliff blinks back at me; we both know I’ve got more on him.

“Yes. I’m thinking a calm face,” I continue, “because you’re always sizing people up- that’s a guess based on your eyes. You can never actually sit still, so maybe I am missing a load of action under there...” I tilt my head at the scarf’s surface, “like when your eyes flit about in a temper? Usually they’re so controlled, like everything is going to some great Master Plan.”

Cliff is taking me apart piece by piece, and I’m not sure if this is going well. 

“But...I can always tell when you’re smiling.” I add quickly.

I raise a finger and thumb to the scarf, to where his smile should sit and widen them, guessing the width and presenting it in the air between us. He laughs- it could be a yes, or a no.

“Okay. How about this for a confession: the day Daimon was born, I looked at a photo of your mum on the C.O.F site. I was curious. She didn’t seem like you, the way she stood and everything.”

“How do I stand?”

“Sort of hunched over. I mean- just because you’re tall.”

“I don’t look much like Mum.”

There’s one parent left. Does that mean he has to resemble Forest?

“I was convinced you didn’t look like your dad...”

This seems to amuse him.

“...because, just because of the way he talks.
..”

“Dad’s a different species.”

There’s an urgent rapping at the door and the softness of amusement leaves his eyes. Cliff straightens. We watch the door open slowly, like some kind of horror film and I get this crazy urge to giggle. Penny Mortimer’s face hooks around it, all craning neck. Right on cue; she looks exactly like her photo.

             
“Sorry to interrupt...” she says

Her reaction intensifies the embarrassment all round. I mean, it’s not like we’re locked in some passionate embrace
. I twist around to present my best not-good-enough-for-your-Original-son smile, and feel it stick. Penny opts to hover, just her face.

             
“The reporter’s here. Dad wants you standing next to him in the photo.”

             
“Nah, not now.”

             
“Are you sure you can’t be persuaded? It would mean a lot to him.”

             
“I told him no already. That’s why he sent you up.”

Penny’s eyes dart between us. Cliff is not giving what she wants, but she’s not about to leave.

              “I won’t take my scarf off for the photographers.” Cliff adds, more to me. “Trust me Mum, it won’t help. It never does.”

You could practically twan
g Cliff’s voice like a guitar. I sense that this is a stunted version of a conversation, a longer one that’s run through many times before.

             
“How did it go?” I interrupt brightly, “the whole protest against the Family Resemblance Package thing?”

How did that come out sounding so
trivial?

             
“We lasted just over an hour before they moved us on.” Penny says. “The same crowd...no arrests... no trouble-makers on the scene today.”

She’s after recognition, I can tell from her voice climb because Cliff’s voice does that too. Her oval face adds nothing. Her gaze remains on Cliff. This is turning into a stare-out, but perhaps that’s how they resolve things in this family.