Page 2 of Jinxed
I cringe. I thought she had forgotten. To my surprise, even I’d managed to forget about it for an hour. Fixing thingsdoes that for me. My mind focuses in on the problem – in this case a loose wire and a dodgy PCB connection – and the rest of the world falls away.
Even the fact that any minute now I’m going to receive the biggest news of my fifteen-year-old life.
‘Yup.’ All moisture evaporates from inside my mouth, and I try in vain to return the smile. I sense hesitation from Mom, her fingers drumming a patternup and down my spine, so I stand up abruptly from my chair. ‘Better put this stuff away,’ I say, gesturing to the tangle of silver wire and machinery.
Mom gives me one final kiss on the top of my head. ‘Whatever happens, you’re still the best companioneer inthishousehold.’ She heads over to the sink, Petal fluttering up to the leash behind her ear, where she plugs in to charge. Mom bobs herhead in time to some invisible music, and I assume Petal has started streaming her favourite podcast.
I wipe the end of the soldering iron with a sponge and pack it away, closing the case with a decisive click. Some people ask for bikes or giftcards or books for their birthday. I asked for a soldering iron. I had researched a store on the outskirts of town that sold refurbished electrical toolsand casually added it to Petal’s GPS database – and Mom had taken me there on my fourteenth birthday. Hey, Monica Chan – who invented the bakus and lent her name to Moncha Corp, now the largest tech firm in North America – had one when she was a teenager. I’d read that somewhere. If it’s good enough for her, it is for me too.
As Zora, my bff, would say,that doesn’t make you special – it just makes you weird.
She’s right.
I carry my kit and microscope back to my room. Mom normally hates it when I solder in the condo – the metallic smell seems to sink into everything, from the pillows on the sofa to the rice in the cooker – but when it’s her own baku that needs repairing she makes an exception.
That’s too often for my liking. The level 1 insect bakus are renowned for being a bit...buggy. If I had my choice, I know exactly what baku I would get. I’d go straight for one of the originals. One of the level 3 spaniel models, with cute floppy ears and a tail that works as a selfie stick. If I close my eyes, I picture hanging out with my baku in my room, teaching it to play games, helping me with my homework and cuddling up with it at night.But you only get a spaniel baku*if* you get into Profectus, my brain reminds me.
My dream school – Profectus Academy of Science and Technology – founded by Monica herself, and fully owned and operated as a division of Moncha Corp. I need the grant they offer incoming students who can’t afford the minimum level 3 baku. Otherwise, the only one I can afford is a puny level 1. Even though I’ve been eligible to get my first bakufor a week (since I finished junior year for the summer), I’ve put off going to the Moncha Store until I found out about my admissions status.
I take a deep breath.
I’ve done everything I can to make it happen. I have near-perfect grades, checked off all the extra-curriculars, participated in science fairs and early bird band and volunteered for an environmental charity to pad out my resume.
Zora once told me I was a lock for a place because no one worked as hard for it as I did. If only it was that easy. It’s not like I’m Carter Smith, the son of Eric Smith – Monica’s business partner and co-founder of Moncha. Carter is also in our grade at St Agnes, and even though I beat him in all our classes, and in two science fairs, I know he’ll get in without a fight.
Whereas my dad...
I twist the ring on my finger, the only object I have left of him.
...is just a liability.I don’t let myself think about it any more. Besides, Mom and I, we owe Monchaeverything.They gave us a place to live when Dad disappeared, gave Mom a job and provided childcare for me while she worked. Without Moncha, I wouldn’t have met Zora.
No matter what, I want to work for the company – I’d sweepMoncha floors if I had to, a practical dung beetle baku at my side. But if I truly let myself dream... I know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I don’t want to work for Moncha. I want to be Monica Chan. I want to be a companioneer, one of the people working on the bakus. I want to design new animals, innovate for existing ones, implement even more amazing features. Every day wouldbe a challenge.
But the first step to get there is acceptance into Profectus. Although in theory, Moncha could hire companioneers from anywhere, for the past decade (since Profectus has been open), every companioneer hire has been a graduate of the Academy.
You’ll know soon enough,I remind myself. I gently place everything down on my desk.But maybe I should just check...
I bounce on tothe bed and tap my phone screen to wake it up. No email from Profectus. But I have missed a Flash from Zora. ‘BYE BYE!!!!’ is scrawled in her fingertip-writing as a boomerang clip plays back and forth of her hurling her phone from the deck of the Toronto Island ferry.
I swipe the screen so I can see the next Flash: a still of the splash her phone makes in the lake, with the caption #PHONEMURDER.
I snort a laugh and collapse back on to the nest of pillows. #PHONEMURDER is the latest craze – the wanton, totally unnecessary (but often hilarious and creative) destruction of your old, government-granted smartphone, filmed by a newly acquired baku and shared online. Things got out of hand when a Flashite committed #PHONEMURDER by dropping his device from the edge walk of the CN Tower and almostcausedactualmurder-by-phone. Still the video got over ten million hits, so he’d probably consider it a win. Thanks to his status as an incoming Profectus student, he was released from police custody with only a caution.
Within the space of a few seconds, I film a video of myself drawing a fake tear dripping down my cheek, select the puppy-ear filter, type ‘RIP ZORA’S PHONE’ as a caption andsend my reply. This is the distraction I need.
If Zora is destroying her phone that means she must have chosen her baku already. My next message to her is a giant question mark. Okay, I send her about fifteen of them.
‘I chose... a dormouse!’ Zora’s next selfie shows her hugging the cutest baku I’ve ever seen, a tiny ball of soft matte-grey metal fur, pointed nose and oversized eyes. It’scurled up in a ball next to her cheek, its long tail extended to take the picture, her dark brown skin glowing gold from the sunlight reflected off the lake. She looks so happy; I can’t help but smile with her. A dormouse is a level 2 baku – higher than I could afford, but not good enough for Profectus – but going there was never one of Zora’s goals. She’s going to continue at St Agnes for senioryear, then apply for programming internships after she graduates.
‘His name is Linus and I can already tell we’re going to be best friends for life. Well, not better friends than you and me but you’ll know what I mean as soon as you get your own. Tell me as soon as you hear anything!!!’ reads her next message.
‘Of course,’ I shoot back. I stare at the photo of her and Linus together a littlelonger, my throat feeling tight.
Then it comes in. The alert. I can only read a tiny portion of the subject line and it gives nothing away.LACEY CHU: PROFECTUS APPLICATION STATUS
My heart hammers inside my chest. The slim rectangular device feels so old-school in my suddenly clammy palm but then... this is it. The very last time I use it. Before I choose a baku of my very own. Level 1 orlevel 3.
A single tap opens my email app where, in bold letters, is the message I’d been waiting for.
