Free Expiration Day by William Campbell Powell

repeat—a rite of passage.
    Not much changes at home, except we finally got a 3-D vid. Another cast-off, of course, but I don’t mind too much.
    John …
    I’m sure you’re wondering, Mister Zog. It’s pretty good having John as a friend. Better than a lot of the boyfriends that the girls talk about at school. I mean, they don’t seem to do anything. They only talk about gadgets and sport. Not that any of them play sport—it’s just talk. John’s different. He talks about making music and the stars. And John’s teaching himself guitar and he really knows about computers. Maybe it’s because his parents aren’t well off, but he builds them. Or rebuilds them. And he can program them, too. You can see the light in his eyes when he talks about it.
    But I can’t see him. Of course I can see him over the TeraNet, but it’s not the same. And if you’re only twelve, you’re stuck. I can’t drive or anything. I’ve looked it up, how to get to his house, but it’s a bus, then a train, then the Tube, with changes. And then walking through Wood Green, which isn’t like walking through Wycombe. Wood Green is Yellow Zone, so I know Mum and Dad aren’t going to let me do a journey like that on my own. And definitely not to see some boy. So I’ve not even asked. Though I do very much want to see him, I just don’t yet know how. Not so I can kiss him again—though as a one-off peck in a ’70s disco it was okay—or hold his hand or any of that stuff. Just to … be with him. Talking face-to-face. That’s all.
    But maybe that will change this year. Because finally the year has turned, and today I am thirteen.
    A teenager.
    Just five years left.
    Tuesday, September 12, 2051
    Siân wanted to go into Town—London—on her own, but her parents wouldn’t let her. Too dangerous, they said, you’re only thirteen. Siân argued, they argued back, and in the end a compromise was reached. She could go with a friend. Me. There may have been a bit of an argument about that, too, but maybe they’d softened a bit toward me since the drama at the Tower of London.
    It was a bit of an adventure, going into London, but we’d both been into Wycombe alone a few times and Siân had been as far as Henley. Siân’s mum grudgingly agreed that we could look after ourselves a bit. “But you must stay in the Green Zone and be back by eight,” she insisted. Shops. A meal—or at least a burger—and then home.
    Then I had the same argument with my parents.
    â€œBack by half past seven!”
    My jaw dropped. How old do you think I am? I’m thirteen. Thirteen . In the end, I did get them to agree to eight o’clock, and it was Mum who caved in first. I’m not sure why.
    The date was set for the following weekend, so Siân and I got planning.…
    Saturday, September 16, 2051
    Saturday came, and we got the bus to the station. Then the train and the Tube. And we wound up in Oxford Street. Mum and Dad had given me some extra spending money, on top of my weekly allowance—I’d finally convinced Mum and Dad to stop calling it pocket money.
    I knew I was going to like Oxford Street. It had the largest media store I’d ever seen, and I’d made up my mind I’d spend my allowance there. Every last penny. I knew it would be more expensive than downloading from the TeraNet, but there’s something about buying your music on a real datachip.
    I started toward the door, but Siân caught my elbow.
    â€œThere,” she said. “That’s where we’re going.”
    She was pointing at a shop with a bright pink front, glittery and gaudy. In the shop window stood three or four figures, stock still. The shop name gave it away: “Sais Quoi.” A fashion boutique.
    I tried to look interested.
    I think the assistants sensed that Siân had money, and was in a mood to