Free Cassie by Barry Jonsberg Page A

as he got up. He rubbed his right leg, took a step back and tilted his head to one side.
    â€˜Suits you, actually,’ he said. ‘All eastern and mysterious. Now, as you know, Cass, this sensor emits a laser beam that’s reflected by the dot on your forehead. The device picks up the reflected beam and operates the cursor on the screen. There! See? As you move your head, the cursor moves. Excellent. Ready to rock and roll. How about we start with a boring exercise to knock off the rust flakes? What do you say?’
    Cassie
    He is starting to read me. Sometimes he stumbles over my words, moves his finger under my expressions. But he is getting better.
    My skills are as rusty as his knees. But we will find oil together.
    Holly
    My name is Holly Holley and I am terrified.
    I’ve been coming to Westland for years and it’s never been a scary experience, except for the time I accidentally noted the price tags in one of the more exclusive stores. But now I see security guards everywhere we go and I break out in a cold sweat. I keep expecting one to challenge me. I am wearing my school uniform and it feels like there’s a flashing neon sign over my head – a purple arrow and ‘WAGGER’ in bright, bold caps.
    Demi and the others don’t seem to care. In fact, they make heaps of noise, almost like they want to be noticed. I slink along behind, practising invisibility. Every time a woman comes out of a shop, I flinch. Even though I know Mum is doling out lentils in a store ten kilometres away, I can’t get rid of the image of her looming up in front of me, her expression morphing from surprise to disappointment.
    But she doesn’t show and after half an hour I start to relax. A little.
    Then we hit the new clothes store and I forget about everything else. A couple of people at school have raved about it, but I am not prepared for how amazing it is. For one thing, it’s the size of an international airport and every available space is crammed with racks and racks of skirts, dresses, tops, belts and accessories. I stand in the doorway for a while, doing a very reasonable impersonation, yet again, of a rabbit caught in headlights. My mouth drops open but I’m fairly certain I don’t drool.
    Demi and the others stroll casually along aisles. Occasionally they feel the fabric of a skirt or lift a top from the rack and hold it up against themselves or each other, testing it against their complexions. I force my mouth closed and follow. There is a way of doing this, I realise. Look bored, hold up a pair of jeans or a dress and scowl endearingly before putting it back. I practise the routine on a stunning dark blue top with a ruffled neckline. I hold it up against my torso and look in a mirror. I try to get the corner of my mouth to turn down in a charming fashion, but it just looks like I am constipated.
    â€˜What do you think, Hol?’ Demi’s reflection appears next to mine in the mirror.
    What I want to say is, ‘I’m on the verge of wetting my pants,’ but I decide that won’t strike the right note. And I don’t know what to think. I mean, I love the top. But I don’t know if I should love it. It would be so easy to make an idiot of myself.
    â€˜It’s okay, I suppose,’ I say, putting my head to one side and making a slightly better attempt at cute mouth-drooping.
    â€˜The style is . . . interesting,’ says Demi.
    The faces of Georgia and Kari hover over my left shoulder. Their mouths droop perfectly.
    â€˜Depends on what goes with it,’ says Georgia. ‘But it’s definitely your colour.’
    â€˜It could work well,’ says Kari. ‘With light pants. What do you think, Demi? White jeans?’
    â€˜Cream,’ says Demi. ‘And not jeans. Light-weight cotton. Come on. It’s time to get this girl a wardrobe.’
    I try not to smile. That won’t strike the right note either. But inside I am