a brightly lit studio. They’re having a tough time containing their clear hatred for the other. The presenter sits between them relishing it all.
‘We are winning the war on AIDS,’ the woman on the right says through clenched teeth. ‘Through a combination of treatment to reverse the virus and education to stop infection in the first place, our programmes have clearly been a success.’
‘Programmes you inherited from my government,’ snaps the woman on the left. ‘And if they’re such a success, why are you closing them?’
‘Because they’re not needed any more. Only 212 new cases of HIV have been reported in the past twelve months. That’s down 86% from last year.’
‘But it’s not only HIV clinics you’re shutting down. It’s pregnancy planning clinics.’
‘Pregnancy planning? You mean abortion clinics. At least have the honesty to call them what they are,’ says the woman who couldn’t be more on the right if she tried.
‘All right then,’ the other woman says, straightening her skirt. ‘Abortion clinics. Fifteen were shut last year alone. Would you care to explain?’
The anchor’s head moves right to left, like he’s watching a tennis match. He’s loving this.
‘Because they’re not needed. You’re not listening, Jessica.’ She uses her name like an insult. ‘Our safe-sex programmes are working. And after the election we will ensure they keep working.’
‘Not for under-age—’
‘Dull.’ I wave a finger and move the channel on from the political ping-ponging. It’s an action film I must have seen at least five times, although have no idea what it’s actually about.
‘Duller.’
Another wave and it’s the news.
‘…the latest reports state that racial crime is at an all-time low—’ the newsreader has time to say before I give up and silence the TV by clenching my fist. I pull a pillow out from behind me and cover my face with it. I scream deep into the velvet covering.
Everything about today has been a failure. From my mock geography exam to the visit to Logan’s. I think about Ryan’s kiss and what it means and why it left me feeling so weird. Kiara would know. She would roll her eyes and tell me about her first kiss and how they’re always terrible. But I don’t want to burden her with all my petty crap. Not when she’s going through whatever it is she’s going through. Plus, I don’t want anyone to know. That’s what feels weirdest of all. I’ve dreamt about Ryan, about him smiling at me, kissing me, holding me, for years. And now it’s actually happened, I want to pretend it was only a dream again. I close my eyes tight, trying to block out the image of Ryan lunging for me, his tongue already protruding from of his mouth. It’s replaced with the image of Ethan’s school photo. That was a failure too, trying to find him. But at least, I have his surname.
I sit up and throw the pillow to the floor and concentrate on the screen again. I flick it to net mode and fire up a search bar. The keyboard is buried under a pile of books as we hardly use it any more and they slide to the floor as I pull the keyboard out.
ETHAN FISHER
I hit enter.
There are over a thousand results. Videos. Network feeds. Old Facebook profiles. But as I skip through them, none are him. I didn’t even know someone could exist without leaving a trail.
To make sure I’m not going mad, I key my own name into the search.
I fill the first page. After that, all the results are about Zizi, my name only popping up because of some line in an interview she’d given:
‘Zizi Quinn, single mother to daughter, Petri, and businesswoman extraordinaire...’
‘Zizi Quinn, Creative Director of WhiteInc, shares her slimming secrets that got her back into shape after giving birth to baby girl, Petri.’
I hit back, and back, wiping away the search for my name, returning it to my hunt for Ethan.
‘Where are you, Ethan Fisher?’
‘We are winning the war on AIDS,’ the woman on the right says through clenched teeth. ‘Through a combination of treatment to reverse the virus and education to stop infection in the first place, our programmes have clearly been a success.’
‘Programmes you inherited from my government,’ snaps the woman on the left. ‘And if they’re such a success, why are you closing them?’
‘Because they’re not needed any more. Only 212 new cases of HIV have been reported in the past twelve months. That’s down 86% from last year.’
‘But it’s not only HIV clinics you’re shutting down. It’s pregnancy planning clinics.’
‘Pregnancy planning? You mean abortion clinics. At least have the honesty to call them what they are,’ says the woman who couldn’t be more on the right if she tried.
‘All right then,’ the other woman says, straightening her skirt. ‘Abortion clinics. Fifteen were shut last year alone. Would you care to explain?’
The anchor’s head moves right to left, like he’s watching a tennis match. He’s loving this.
‘Because they’re not needed. You’re not listening, Jessica.’ She uses her name like an insult. ‘Our safe-sex programmes are working. And after the election we will ensure they keep working.’
‘Not for under-age—’
‘Dull.’ I wave a finger and move the channel on from the political ping-ponging. It’s an action film I must have seen at least five times, although have no idea what it’s actually about.
‘Duller.’
Another wave and it’s the news.
‘…the latest reports state that racial crime is at an all-time low—’ the newsreader has time to say before I give up and silence the TV by clenching my fist. I pull a pillow out from behind me and cover my face with it. I scream deep into the velvet covering.
Everything about today has been a failure. From my mock geography exam to the visit to Logan’s. I think about Ryan’s kiss and what it means and why it left me feeling so weird. Kiara would know. She would roll her eyes and tell me about her first kiss and how they’re always terrible. But I don’t want to burden her with all my petty crap. Not when she’s going through whatever it is she’s going through. Plus, I don’t want anyone to know. That’s what feels weirdest of all. I’ve dreamt about Ryan, about him smiling at me, kissing me, holding me, for years. And now it’s actually happened, I want to pretend it was only a dream again. I close my eyes tight, trying to block out the image of Ryan lunging for me, his tongue already protruding from of his mouth. It’s replaced with the image of Ethan’s school photo. That was a failure too, trying to find him. But at least, I have his surname.
I sit up and throw the pillow to the floor and concentrate on the screen again. I flick it to net mode and fire up a search bar. The keyboard is buried under a pile of books as we hardly use it any more and they slide to the floor as I pull the keyboard out.
ETHAN FISHER
I hit enter.
There are over a thousand results. Videos. Network feeds. Old Facebook profiles. But as I skip through them, none are him. I didn’t even know someone could exist without leaving a trail.
To make sure I’m not going mad, I key my own name into the search.
I fill the first page. After that, all the results are about Zizi, my name only popping up because of some line in an interview she’d given:
‘Zizi Quinn, single mother to daughter, Petri, and businesswoman extraordinaire...’
‘Zizi Quinn, Creative Director of WhiteInc, shares her slimming secrets that got her back into shape after giving birth to baby girl, Petri.’
I hit back, and back, wiping away the search for my name, returning it to my hunt for Ethan.
‘Where are you, Ethan Fisher?’
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