Welcome to Perfectville

Chapter 1 - Friday Morning in Perfectville

In the year 2020 the world was brought to a standstill by a pandemic, and for a few blissful months the air pollution subsided while dolphins swam through the blue canals in Venice.

A group of visionaries recognised the potential of bubble communities and founded Perfectville, an ultimate self-contained dream town. Its goals? One: to keep the virus out. Two: to save the world – not only from the virus, but also from the climate change and, ultimately, from itself. Three: to create paradise on earth.

Only the best need to apply.

30 years later….

TISHA

There’s a naked woman walking down our street, between the twin rows of pastel townhouses. Each townhouse is the exact shape of a shoebox, any individuality blotted out of the buildings by the colour of the paint.

I blink. Look again. Still there, a pair of round breasts, larger than mine. The collar of my blouse feels itchy, the whole garment suddenly two sizes too small. Out. I want to get out.

Naked is unexpected. And wrong. Naked defies the founding principles of Perfectville. As an upstanding resident, I should report it. Unlike the Land Outside, Perfectville has no drugs, no alcohol, and most certainly no nude people.

What we do have, is a government that regulates too much and communicated too frequently. My point is proved when the Comms Console lights up.

“Good morning, Tisha,” a voice says. Although I know it’s an AI, I can’t help feeling comforted and cared about. “Are you feeling fulfilled today?”

Fulfilled? Oh, the irony.

I shake clusters of breakfast muesli into three bowls and think about the woman, trying to place her. Her hair is nondescript, and the brief glimpse I caught of her face before she walked past my window told me nothing. Plus, I’ve just realised that people look different without their clothes: vulnerable yet free, unremarkable yet individualistic. It’s like we all store our identity in our clothes, and without them, we’re all the same. The naked woman could be a neighbour and I wouldn’t recognise her.

Why is she doing it? A wife trying to spice up her married life? A wife who’s had such a big fight with her husband that she left the house as she was? A provocateur protesting against the system?

I should report her.

And yet, a small part of me is hoping she’ll start a revolution. She’ll walk through the Perimeter straight out of Perfectville, paving the path for us towards the Land Outside. Delicious like a forbidden fairy-tale, it sounds too good to be true: a place in which houses are painted in bright colours and people aren’t bored. I bet they’re all allowed to walk naked in the street.

If I report her, could I earn passage out of Perfectville for me and the twins?

The police arrive before I can pour the milk into the bowls of muesli. My throat tightens in sympathy for the woman, and my need to run away burns so hot, I grit my teeth not to yell out.

On mornings like today, I hate Perfectville.

Three deep breaths. Another three. Better. The coffee beans, ground and tamped to a hard and round cake, call my attention with their insistent aroma. Through the wall to my left, I hear the neighbours call their dog to breakfast. Through the pantry wall to my right, where my mother-in-law lives, I hear nothing.

Before I walk over to the espresso machine, I lean out the window to glance at Milly’s townhouse next door. Millie, my MIL, the mother-in-law who’s like our own special guardian angel. Sometimes more guardian than angel, like right now, with the lace curtain in her kitchen twitching like a spider’s web. Was it her who spied out the naked woman and alerted the authorities?

“Mom.” My nine-year old daughter joins me in the kitchen and my heart swells. Every morning I remember how close I once came to losing her and her brother to the authorities. I hope the naked woman in the street doesn’t have children, doesn’t get declared an unfit mother, doesn’t have to give them up to the system. If I still had any religion left, I’d pray.

“Mom,” Astrid repeats.

So uncool for mothers to have emotions. I keep my voice level. “Morning, honey.”

“Will you come to school next Friday?”

“Sure.” I reach over and smooth her hair out of her face. “Like every morning.”

“Actually to school? You know? To the classroom?”

“To the classroom?” Opening my eyes as wide as possible, I raise both eyebrows at her in a larger-than-life, theatrical expression. Darn, I miss the stage.

Astrid mimics my eyebrows, adds her own over-the-top eyeroll. She’s gorgeous. Mine. All mine.

“Three parents are coming next Friday to tell us about their Projects. For Fulfilment Day.”

Fulfilment Day? Talk about the joys of being Perfectville’s only unmarried mother? No. No way. Not in a million years. No.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, honey.”

Her smile fades so completely, I fear it’s never coming back. It’s a beautiful, unselfconscious smile, a smile that comes from her very core and makes the world a better place. I’d do anything to see it again.

“But Mom. It’s about your whole life’s work. You’ve been chosen.”

Life’s work. Magical words when you’re nine, yet they send a chill down my twenty-seven-year-old back. Perfectville residents are the chosen people, the lucky ones who have the means and the opportunity to make a meaningful contribution to our society and sometimes even to the whole world.

“... Judy’s mom will tell us about the climate-change project she used to work on. Most of Perfectville’s roads are water-permeable thanks to her design.”

Judy’s mom is - most likely - fifteen years my senior. In Perfectville, most people don’t start a family until they’re in their thirties. They definitely don’t start one at seventeen and single.

A thought strikes me: why was I chosen? It’s not as though I have a Fulfilment Project to talk about. Could this be about something else? My parents’ way of reaching out to me? Somebody trying to get to them through me?

But a more urgent thought overrides that one, bringing with it the first squeeze of panic. “What project would I talk about?”

Astrid gapes at me in that what-planet-are-you-from way. “But. But, but, but,” she stutters before her mind catches up with her mouth and she blurts out, “You’re a creator of theatre experiences!”

“Used to be a creator of theatre experiences, honey.” Yeah. Back in my teens, I’d written and starred in a few school plays. I would have studied theatre creativity at university, only I got pregnant with the twins, ten years ago, almost to the day.

And now? Now, the winner of the I’m-More-Boring-Than-You Award is.... ta-da-dum-dum… Me.

My top priority: the children. Fulfilment Project: none. Contribution to society: zero. Favourite outfit: slacks and t-shirt. Favourite pastime…

I so need to get a life.

“Is that a yes, Mom?” She repeats the question in her characteristic rapid-fire way, blending words. “IsThatAYesMom? IsThatAYesMom?”

“Yes.”

Astrid’s world-mending smile is back. My daughter rushes towards me and wraps her arms around my waist in a hasty hug. She’s the feral twin, not one for physical contact, unlike her brother, Lindgren, who has just entered the kitchen, his hair damp from the shower.

Something about the way his fringe sticks to his forehead elicits a memory, squashed down into the innermost recesses of my heart. The pain in my chest threatens to cut off all oxygen. My twin brother was the same age as Lindgren when he died. Not that I’m superstitious or anything. Sill, my arms enfold Astrid even tighter.

Lindgren takes a step back. Astrid and I cuddling is not a common sight in our household.

“What’s up?”

Astrid explains, her mouth going a hundred words a minute, her eyes bright. Meanwhile, I’m making a mental to-do list.

One: get a life.

Two: find a project, any project, so that my child doesn’t hear me fib on Fulfilment Day. Fibs are a no-no at our house and that’s one rule I stick to. Mostly.

Three: Get the hell of out Perfectville.

My latest plan is to qualify as a nurse who can bandage a finger, perform CPR and immobilise an aggressive patient in four easy martial moves. It’s thrilling to learn how the human body works, how to help it heal, and – I must admit it – also how to break it. It’s even more thrilling to be studying something that may one day help me survive in the Land Outside.

My fingernails itch to claw at my face to pull off the mask of a Perfectville resident.

As though on cue, the Comms Channel lights up the kitchen wall, this time addressing the rest of the household and the rest of Perfectville.

“Top of the morning to you, Residents. This is Webcast Perfectville, bringing you the eight-o-clock news. The Perimeter is secure. Number of virus cases: zero. Number of new infections since the Founding Year: zero. It’s now time for your antiviral medication. Repeat, it… is… now… time… for… your… medication.”

The voice is soothing and hypnotic. I pop the pill onto my tongue, chase it down with a sip of water. At the table, the twins copy my movements, our daily ritual that’s mirrored in every household within Perfectville’s perimeter. The drug’s been called our antiviral medication for so long, most residents forget it actually does a bit more than that.

Today’s weather: sunny. Today’s mood: serene. Fulfilment levels: high. News flash: another election candidate has died in natural circumstances. Our Community Leaders will now address you to reassure you about any rumours -

I’m so not interested in what my parents have to say to the residents of Perfectville this morning. Or any morning, for that matter. I stopped listening to them the day they disowned me, almost destroying my life, and I’m not going to listen to them now. As there’s no way to silence the Comms Channel, I simply tune out just as my mother starts talking. Twenty years ago, her voice was full of love, promises and magic. Ten years ago, hearing her voice would reduce me to a sobbing, pregnant, hormonal mess. Today, she has as much effect on me as a magnet on wood.

Thus begins another happy day in Perfectville, population: 5,000. Perfectville is safe. Secure. Suffocating.

“Finish your cereal, guys,” I begin the morning monologue. “Bowls in the sink. Brush your teeth. Comb your hair. Look at the time! Shoes. Bags. Lunch.” You’d swear this is the first time they’re going through the routine.

“Can I take Sammy to school?”

Sammy is Astrid’s new toy from my mother-in-law, plush and psychedelic, with an annoyed face and hair longer than its body. Millie’s idea of gifts is so far removed from mine, it’s not funny, and her idea of bribing the kids in exchange for good behaviour… don’t get me started.

“No.”

Before Astrid can dart in a wounded but, Mom, I remind her about the school’s no-toys policy, all the while wondering whether I’d have said yes, policy be damned, if the doll had been called anything other than Sammy.

Sam. The twins’ dad. My ex. The one and only person who escaped, the blemish on Perfectville’s perfection, the question mark over whether it is the utopia it claims to be. Before Sam’s defection, the border control was only concerned with keeping people out – now it works both ways.

“Let’s go.” This from Lindgren. “It’s a quarter to.” He’s standing at the door with his backpack on, both straps, and a serious expression, his eyes those of a good boy. I just know he’s slipped his toy gun into one of the zipped pockets in his cargo pants. Or into the lunchbox. Or the library book bag. Or….

Astrid opens her mouth in mock horror. “Lindgren,” her voice is that of a wise teacher, “it’s not an in-crowd thing to carry your backpack on both straps. Look at me.” She turns and I see the left strap dangling fashionably off her shoulder. “Like this.”

“The backpack has two straps.” My son’s rationality knows no bounds. “If it was meant to be worn on one shoulder, they would have made only one strap.”

I open the door, avoiding looking at the spot where the naked woman was arrested. “Out, out, damned spots.”

They laugh. So much for my prospects of acting in Shakespearian tragedies.

In the street, the children transform into unruly puppies, reminding me yet again why I’ve resisted the twins’ appeals to get us a pet. Granted, a dog or a cat would be easier than a baby – much easier that a double baby, and I’ll be forever scarred by memories of the twins crying in disharmony at three o’clock in the morning from the day they were born till the day Millie took over. Still, the way I’ve been feeling for the last decade, even a mobile phone is too demanding at times with its constant need to be charged, or updated, or answered.

Suppressing a sigh, I begin a new monologue, this one not for the stage, either: “Lindgren, put down the stick. Lindgren, I saw you throw that pebble. Astrid, say goodbye to the lovely kitty now, we have to hurry. Lindgren, don’t climb the oak tree now, you can do it on the way back.”

Perfectville is safe, as in perfectly safe. Our perimeter protects us from the outside world. Our pills protect us from the virus, as well as from ourselves. That’s all the protection we need. Every original resident of Perfectville had been handpicked by the Founders, and all the children born here have been raised to be model residents. The only reason I walk the children to school is to ensure they get there on time. Left to their own devices, they’d stop for every ant and every rainbow-like dewdrop on the way.

Astrid breaks our formation. “I see Jessica, Mom.”

“Bye, honey.” But she’s already gone, the memory of her smile still warming my soul.

After I wave to Lindgren at the school gate, I steal a surreptitious look around. Other moms drop off their darlings, their morning dresses pastel and understated, the uniform of the perfect Perfectville wife. I’ve never been into uniforms. Or into conforming. Part of me wants to shed my clothes, the way the mysterious naked woman did earlier this morning.

Number four on my to-do list: determine whether slacks and t-shirt, my usual get-up, would be appropriate attire for a school visit on Fulfilment Day.

The engine of the milk truck hums as it meanders between the checkerboard lawns, its signature sound like a mating call. Housewives of Perfectville descent one by one down their front steps to collect the gossip paper and milk for their mid-morning tea.

“What a glorious morning,” they greet one another. “Blessings to you. And you. And you.” A bizarre ritual of those who feel fulfilled in their lives: first in their professional passions, then as wives and mothers.

It’s nine A.M. in Perfectville and life is supposed to be good. It was engineered to be good. Young people are encouraged to find their calling, preferably in the sciences, and if not, then in the arts. They spend the first three decades of their lives pursuing their bliss and they only start work on their thirtieth birthday. Marriage and babies happen mid-thirties. Unless you’re me.

Am I really the only one who considers such life a burden, like a sentence to eternal boredom? Am I the only one waiting for something to happen?

Something. Anything to break the monotony.

I wonder whether that’s how the naked woman in our street felt.

Number five on my to-do list: figure out a way to love living in Perfectville.