‘Sticks
and Stones’ written and illustrated by Rebecca Timmis
“Please, Dad? It’s only ninety-nine cents.”
Dad
sighed. “What’s it called again?”
“Pseudo.
Seriously. That’s not even a whole dollar.”
“Who
names these apps …” Dad complained. “I dunno, Tash. Do you really need another
reason to be glued to your phone?”
“Most
of my class already has it. I’ll be the only one without it.”
Dad
rolled his eyes. “Can’t you just talk to your friends at school?”
“Like
in the olden days? Come on, Dad, it’s 2050! Besides, I know you texted all your
friends when you were my age.”
“Oh, all right. What do I do?”
“You have to approve the purchase with your fingerprint.”
I pulled back the hair from my neck and turned. Dad’s warm finger pressed down
just behind my ear, onto my communications implant. He and every other dinosaur
his age still called them phones, but we called them comms. Apps, calls,
messaging, video – it was all accessed via your comms implant. I slipped my
viewer – a thin, flexible screen linked to the comms – from my pocket to
complete the install.
“Another messaging app is it?” inquired Dad.
“Sort of. You join communities and post stuff.”
“Ah. Like Facebook?”
“Ugh, no, Dad.
Facebook is from the Stone Age. Pseudo is way
better.”
As
Dad left, I settled down onto the couch. In minutes I’d created an account and ticked
all the T’s and C’s garbage (seriously, sixty years since the invention of the
internet and still nobody reads those things!).
Next
was the good stuff – searching for communities to join. Pseudo used your comms
meta-data to restrict you to relevant groups, so you could only join communities
you had a legit reason to join: my options were the grade sixers of Hollydale
State School, my soccer team, and some family groups.
I
only cared about one group: the grade sixers.
ACCESS GRANTED. WELCOME, NATASHA!
“Yes!
I’m in.”
The
app prompted me for a username. I chewed my lip. It had to be something good –
something obscure. That was the point, right? I typed in ‘guess who?’ The next
available username was ‘guess_who_42’. I tapped ACCEPT.
Pseudo
wasn’t like other social media. No profile image. No real names. Your identity was
one hundred percent private.
Once
in, I started scrolling.
It
was even better than I expected.
Secrets
spilled, gossip shared, crushes announced. I even had two admirers!
woah_there_cowboy: Natasha Sweeney is srsly cute.
soccer_fiend: Tash Sweeney is 10/10. She’s sooooooo
nice!
I
wondered who woah_there_cowboy and soccer_fiend were: maybe
it was Olivia or Sienna messing with me. But then, maybe it wasn’t. That was
the point of Pseudo – no one knew who you were, so you could be totally honest.
No bullying. No judgement.
It
was so cool.
Until
it wasn’t.
My usual group and I were
hanging out under the senior playground. Pseudo had been live for a few weeks.
“Who
do you think straight_shooter is?” Olivia wondered aloud.
“Isn’t
the point not to know?” I asked.
Olivia
rolled her eyes. “Yeah, obviously. But still. I like him. He tells it like it
is.”
“How
do you know it’s a him?” I challenged.
Olivia’s
eyes narrowed. “Is it you?”
“Ha!
No way. Only old people troll.”
“straight_shooter
doesn’t troll.”
“He
is kind of mean,” said Sienna. I gave her a quick thank-you look. Olivia could
be so full-on sometimes.
“He’s
not mean, he’s honest,” said Olivia. “Like that stuff he posted about Alice
Myer’s teeth. They are disgusting.
She should get braces.”
“Maybe,”
I conceded. “I’m sure she already knows that, though. Maybe her parents can’t
afford it.”
Olivia ignored me, scrolling through her viewer. “Oh, he’s
posted again. ‘Jack Hendley, please get some zit cream. You look like a measles
victim.’ L-O-L much? He’s so funny!”
“Trolling is not
funny,” I argued.
“Calm down, Tash. It’s not trolling if it’s true. I think he’s being helpful. If there was
something wrong with you, wouldn’t you
want to know?”
I let it drop. Sometimes Olivia was just impossible.
After dinner that night I
lazed on the couch, scrolling through Pseudo. I thought about switching off for
the night and watching TV with Dad, but it was like my finger was on
auto-pilot. I just kept scrolling.
pepper_steak_yum: Cats have the best noses. When I
die I’m coming back as a cat. Or a nose.
definitely_not_james: OMG can my
parents please stop posting pics of me on Facebook already. I would actually
like a girlfriend one day. One look at my retro Scooby Doo PJ’s and everyone’s gonna
RUN.
I gave that one a thumbs up. definitely_not_james made a
good point.
straight_shooter: @ Alan Yorker.
Dude, you have some serious BO issues. Please get some deodorant before we all
die! Under-armageddon is coming. Protect your noses! #under-armaggedon
I sighed. Not this trolling rubbish again. I got to the
bottom of the feed and refreshed.
Several new posts appeared, all with the ‘under-Armageddon’
hashtag.
mad_game_skillz: @ Alan Yorker. Big
W have a sale on Rexona. Please think of the children. #under-armaggedon
eye_of_the_tiger: Jump off a bridge,
Alan, and take some soap with you. #under-armaggedon
They kept coming. Some people called out the trolls, but
a lot didn’t. #under-Armageddon was just too catchy.
Poor Alan. He was nice. I don’t think I ever noticed if
he smelled bad.
I
switched off my comms and went to bed.
We were under the
playground again. Olivia had her viewer out, watching a music video.
Everything
was fine until Alan Yorker walked past on his way to the oval, a soccer ball
wedged under his arm.
“Hey,
Yorker!” Olivia suddenly bellowed from behind me. “YOU REEK! Under-Armageddon is
coming!”
Alan turned and looked at us – at me.
His
ears turned pink. Then his cheeks, his forehead, till everything above his
shirt was bright red. Hanging his head he ambled off towards the oval.
I rounded on Olivia. “Why did you do that? It was so mean!”
“He’s gross,” Olivia shrugged. “Someone had to say something.” She went back to her music
video. I looked around the group. No one seemed to want to jump in, so I
dropped it.
For now.
That afternoon I
practiced left footers for hours. The soccer ball pounded against the back
fence again and again.
Why was Olivia so awful? It’s not like she was perfect.
Maybe it was time someone gave her a taste of her own
medicine.
I went inside and picked up my viewer. Never post angry,
Dad always said. Well, too bad. Olivia had crossed a line.
guess_who_42: OLIVIA BECKETT IS
NASTY, SHALLOW AND CRUEL. OH AND SHE CAN NEVER GO TO SLEEP-OVERS BECAUSE SHE
STILL WETS THE BED SOMETIMES. #FREETHEPEE
Then I put my comms on silent and watched TV with Dad.
I woke up the next
morning to Mum standing over me, screaming.
“What’s wrong?” I cried.
“Nate, Nate! It’s happened to Tash!” She gaped at me,
tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Tash, what did you do?”
I got out of bed and stumbled to the mirror.
“What the …”
It looked like someone had scribbled all over my face
with a blue pen. I looked closer. Not scribbles … words.
On my forehead: NASTY.
On my right cheek: SHALLOW.
On my left cheek: CRUEL.
I scrubbed at my face with my palms, but the words were
under my skin, like veins. A thin blue line connected the three words, trailing
behind my ear to my comms implant.
“It’s all over the news,” Mum wailed. “It’s affected millions
of people all over the world. Everyone who’s been using that app – what’s it
called – Pseudo.”
“I can’t go to school like this,” I croaked.
“Too bad,” said Dad. I hadn’t even noticed him standing
in the doorway. “If what they’re saying on TV is true, you’re only imprinted
with words you actually said.”
My hands shook as I picked up my viewer and scrolled
through Pseudo, searching for my post about Olivia. NASTY. SHALLOW. CRUEL.
I stared at the mirror; the same words thrown back at me
in reverse.
“But … that’s not fair.” I started to cry. “I was
sticking up for someone!” I quickly told them about Alan Yorker and #under-Armageddon.
“Throwing more mud doesn’t clean the pigsty, Tash,” said
Dad softly.
They really did make me
go to school. I stepped onto the street, pulling my hoodie down as low as I
could.
I wasn’t alone.
Kids, teenagers, adults – people hurried to work, to
school. Heads down, eyes averted. But you could still see the words.
LOSER.
LIAR.
CHEAT.
NASTY, SHALLOW, CRUEL.
When I got to school, half the class was away. Only one
student in our class was unmarked, sitting by himself up the back.
Alan Yorker.
I went and stood beside him. He looked up, his eyes
skimming over my face. Then he gave me a small smile.
I sat next to him. He smelled like Rexona.
