Slated

Chapter Two

'Processing' doesn't involve much. I am scanned, photographed, finger printed and weighed.

It turns out 'Release' is the tricky bit. The nurse explains on the way that I need to say hello to my mum and dad, that they and I will sign some papers to say we are all now one big happy family, and then we will leave together to live happily ever after. Of course I spot the problem, straight away: what if they take one look at me, and refuse to sign? What then?

'Stand up straight! And smile,' she hisses, then pushes me through a door.

I paste a wide smile on my face, convinced it won't transform me from scared and miserable to angelic and happy; more like, demented.

I stand in the doorway, and there they are. I almost expect to see them posed like they are in the photograph, wearing the same things, like dolls. But each of them is in different clothes, different positions, and the details fight for notice: too much at once, all threatening to overwhelm and send me into the red, even with the Happy Juice still lingering in my veins. I hear the teacher's bored voice, over and over again with the same words, as if she were standing there next to me: one thing at a time, Kyla.

I focus on their eyes and leave the rest for later. Dad's are grey, unreadable, contained; Mum's soft flecked light brown, impatient eyes that remind me of Dr Lysander, like they miss nothing. And my sister is there, too: wide dark almost black eyes stare curiously back at mine, set in glowing skin like chocolate velvet. When the photo was sent weeks ago, I'd asked why Amy was so different to my parents and me, and was told sharply that race is irrelevant and no longer worthy of notice or comment under the glorious Central Coalition. But how can you not see?

The three of them sit in chairs at a desk, opposite another man. All eyes are on me but no one says anything. My smile feels more and more like an unnatural thing, like an animal that died and is now stuck on my face in a death grimace.

Then Dad jumps out of his chair. 'Kyla, we're so pleased to welcome you to our family.' And he smiles and takes my hand, kisses my cheek, his rough with whiskers. His smile is warm, and real.

Then Mum and Amy are there, too, all three of them towering inches taller than my five foot nothing. Amy slips an arm through mine, and strokes my hair. 'Such a beautiful colour, like corn silk. So soft!'

And Mum smiles then too, but hers is more like mine.

The man at the desk clears his throat, and shuffles some papers. 'Signatures, please?'

And Mum and Dad sign where he points, then Dad gives me the pen.

'Sign here, Kyla,' the man says, and points to a blank line at the end of a long document, 'Kyla Davis' typed underneath.

'What is it?' I say, the words out before I can think before you speak like Dr Lysander is always telling me.

The man at the desk raises his eyebrows, as surprise then irritation crosses his face. 'Standard release from mandated treatment to external sentencing. Sign.'

'Can I read it, first?' I say, some stubborn streak making me go on even as another part whispers bad idea.

His eyes narrow, and he sighs. 'Yes. You can. Everyone, prepare to wait while Miss Davis exercises her legal rights.'

I flick through but it is a dozen pages of long, close typed print that swims before my eyes, and my heart starts thumping too fast again.

Dad puts a hand on my shoulder, and I turn. 'It's all right, Kyla. Go on,' he says, his face calm, reassuring; his words and Mum's the ones I must listen to from now on. And I begin to remember a nurse patiently explaining this all to me last week: that is part of what is in this contract.