Chapter 1

“Wait!”
The hustle and bustle of books being shoved into well-worn rucksacks, shouted excuses at exasperated teachers and the cheerful chatter of liberated students reached its peak at four in the afternoon, when the bell out its punctually shrill ring.
“Hey, wait up!” I shouted in vain over the rising clamour of voices and laughter. I pushed past a group of second years wearing more make-up than clothes, throwing them an apologetic smile which was answered with a dozen death stares. “Hey!” I gasped, a note of irritation in my voice at the girl who was looking up at me innocently - as though she hadn’t agreed to wait for me while I asked Mr Matthews about the last question of the algebra homework. I looked at her pointedly as we stopped at our lockers. And with a look of such convincing realisation, that would have fooled anyone except me, she gushed, “Oh, so sorry Tab…completely slipped my mind…” then she gabbled something unintelligible about her latest object of adoration, Justin something. I didn’t bother to pay attention as she described with excruciating detail how he’d smiled at her as he walked past her standing waiting for me, and how she couldn’t help but walk alongside him. Elsa always had to have a boy (or a girl, on one occasion) whom she was hopeless in love with. She’d wait outside their classes, memorise their timetables, even push and shove to just be behind them in the lunch queue. Some may call this stalking, but Elsa always referred to it as an ‘in-depth study’ of her future spouse. These infatuations never lasted, so I felt no obligation to listen as she re-enacted Justin collecting his work then looking ‘flirtatiously’ at her as he returned to his seat.
I knew for a fact that this particular Justin had been seen sneaking behind the eco-classroom with Maisie Kingsford during lunch, but I wasn’t about to break through Elsa’s incessant monologue any time soon and the tears that would be sure to follow weren’t worth my trouble.
“…well Eliza said he did anyway, but how would she know?” she droned as we walked through the gates onto the bustling street that joined onto Northridge. “What do you think, Tab?”
“Hmm?” I turned to Elsa in surprise. Usually she was satisfied with my standard-issue “yeah” or “absolutely”, but it was obvious from the look on her face Elsa was not going to accept anything short of five syllables as an answer this time.
“Well, do you think Justin has a tattoo of a skull on his chest or not?” I breathed out in relief as the moment passed and I fobbed her off with a rumour I had heard that actually it was a treasure chest on his inner thigh.
It was something of a breath of fresh air as I reached the end of my road, where Elsa and I went our separate ways every afternoon. I turned the handle of our faded red front door as quietly as I could – there was always a chance Dad was sleeping. He slept a lot nowadays, because of his bad leg. Mum said he was just tired, but I knew there was something wrong with it. He used to just have a battered old walking stick, but now he used full-on crutches and even then only when he got out of bed.
I needn’t have worried though, because as I slipped inside into the hall I could hear the tinny sound of the television and knew it must be Dad, because he was the only one allowed to use the TV in the study. I hung up my coat on the hat stand George had made in DT and climbed the stairs to my bedroom, carefully avoiding the sixth step up, as we were all convinced the next time anyone trod on it their foot would punch a hole right through the staircase into the downstairs bathroom.
“Tabatha?” My mum’s voice called up from the kitchen. I could smell some kind of casserole cooking in the oven. I dumped my bag on my bed and ran down to help, as George wouldn’t and Dad couldn’t. “Good day, darling?” Mum asked as I began laying the small wooden table where we ate every meal. But something wasn’t right – I glanced up from the cutlery draw. Her voice seemed taught and as I looked closer I could see the tell-tale red blotch underneath her nose that always appeared whenever she had been crying. I chose not to say anything. Mother hated it when I pointed out any weakness, either physical or financial, within the family. Even if I had, the false jolliness afterwards would set us all on edge and that wasn’t worth it, especially with Dad being ill and all.
“S’up, nerd?” smirked George, striding into the kitchen and unnecessarily jolting my arm, causing boiling hot casserole to slop onto my wrist. I gasped in pain, and ran over to the tap to run my hand under the cold water. Typically, the cold tap was only letting out a few drips at a time, so I had to settle with the lukewarm hot water. Mum, unfortunately, had been too preoccupied with slicing the carrots to notice the incident. I scowled at George, who gave me an inquiring grin before smirking at my now raw-red wrist.
“George, go and fetch your father will you?” Mum asked George, who pulled himself out of his chair with a groan and went next door into the study to extract Dad from the TV. It was a good five minutes until Dad limped into the room and lowered himself carefully into his place at the table. Mum looked at him sternly, and he muttered something about presidential debates and a new chancellor. Fortunately for us, she said nothing more and we sat down to eat.
“You two should really pay more attention to this kind of thing,” Dad remarked through a mouthful of casserole, waving his fork at us.
“What, Dad?” I asked in an attempt to draw him into conversation. George rolled his eyes at me in a patronising way, like he did every time I seemed more interested than perhaps necessary.
“The debates! The debates…” he mumbled whilst sawing through a particularly tough piece of lamb. “These debates will lead to the next leader of the country could change everything, and you young people seem to have no interest whatsoever.
“Change everything?” I frowned, but George had picked up on another part of his sentence and cut in with; “We’re not that young, Dad,” he said reproachfully, “I’m turning seventeen next month, I’ll be able to drive!”
“Yes, yes, so you are...” muttered Dad, seemingly losing his train of thought.
“The debates?” I prompted. It wasn’t often I wasn’t up to date with currents affairs, and this mention of debates I hadn’t heard about in the news alarmed me. What if a teacher mentioned them in class, and I had no idea what they were talking about?
“Yes…it’s all been kept rather quiet, not much publicity. It’s quite a last minute thing…Lyle wasn’t an original candidate, you see, but he made an application a couple of weeks ago and it turns out he’s a rather gifted speaker…can turn a hall of cattle farmers into a mob of raging nationalists with a few words, is what I’ve heard. Hugely exaggerated I imagine…not possible…simply unheard of…” My father’s explanation faded out as he forced an enormous forkful of stew into his mouth and chewed frantically on the stringy meat. Mother always said he ate as though he never knew where the next meal was coming from.
“So you reckon Brady will be re-elected again this year?” I asked curiously. I hadn’t heard a thing about this Lyle, and it intrigued me.
“I imagine so…” shrugged Dad, wiping his mouth with a piece of kitchen paper. “But Lyle is saying all the right things, I’ll give him that. He’s accusing Brady and the Roses of leading us into the depression two years ago, and there’s not much anyone can say to defend them.” He shrugged again and asked George for the salt, before turning to me. “Why the sudden interest in politics, anyway?” he asked suspiciously. I felt my cheeks turning red. I wasn’t ready to tell my parents my plans, not yet.
“Just curious,” I smiled innocently.
George raised an eyebrow at me from across the table, and with a spiteful smile said loudly, “Tabatha fancies herself applying –,” but before he could finish the sentence I kicked out from under the table, aiming for his shin opposite me. But it wasn’t George’s howl of pain that echoed out around the kitchen. I had kicked Dad’s bad leg by mistake.
I jumped up, guilt turning me brick red. “I’m so sorry!” I yelped clutching my father’s arm as though that would take his pain away. He looked up at me, wincing as he did.
“It’s alri-,”
“What on earth was that for?” snapped Mother, leaping up and fussing over my father, brushing away my white hand and pushing me away from him, cutting Dad off in mid-sentence.
“I didn’t mean –,” I began to explain that I hadn’t meant to kick Dad, that actually it had been George who was my target, before I realised this would mean telling Mum and Dad what George had been trying to say. “It was an accident,” I finished weakly, hoping this way everything would be forgotten.
“Accident my hat!” scorned Mum. “I could feel it going -,” then she stopped suddenly in the middle of her scolding, and slumped lifelessly in her chair, all the anger leaving her at once. “Just go and do your homework,” she sighed heavily, heaving herself back up to fetch Dad a pack of cold peas for his leg. As I left I saw a smug smile flash across George’s face, before he turned it into a smile of sympathy for Dad. I breathed out in irritation, and trudged upstairs ready to immerse myself in historical dates and algebraic equations.
However, before I opened my textbooks, I reached under my mattress and pulled out the single piece of paper that could change everything for me. It was creased and torn from the many times it had been shoved hurriedly under my pillow, and smudged with pencil marks and dirty finger prints, but the text was still legible. It was a scholarship application form to Stonewall, a private school on the other side of town, because why would anyone with any cash in their pockets choose to live in the Northridge District, where knife crime was commonplace and not being mugged after eight was a miracle? I needed to get out of here, I was meant for more than this. And this piece of paper was my one way ticket to success.

Chapter 2

Although the leg incident was not mentioned at breakfast the next morning, Dad didn’t come downstairs until George and I were walking out the door. I felt a wrench of guilt, watching him hobble over to Mum and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m going to tell them, you know,” George broke the silence as we made our usual trek up Rosier Hill towards Northridge Gate, where our school was.
I chose not to reply. I read a book once that said if you ignored a baboon after making eye contact, there was a chance it would mistake you for a plant and not attack you. I was hoping the same principal would apply to my brother. “Ignore me if you like,” he shrugged, wearing a self-satisfied grin, “I know you’re terrified I will, and don’t think I wouldn’t.” I again said nothing, but silently kicked myself multiple times for not having a lock put on my door as soon as I had something to hide. George had a nasty habit of bursting into my room whenever I was studying the application form to Stonewall, and one glance at it had been enough for him to know what it was. “Ooh,” he’d sniggered gleefully. “Someone’s a bit big for their boots! Dad’s going to be -,” but he never finished that sentence because then I kicked him somewhere boys really don’t like to be kicked. The threat of violence had worked for a few weeks, but now George was regaining his confidence he was getting harder and harder to negotiate with. George’s threat wasn’t the only threat hanging over me though – the application deadline was drawing closer and closer and I needed to decide what to do. Applying would require me to attend interviews and exams, and I had no idea how I would be able to sneak off all the way to Stonewall for those, especially during a school day.
“Piss off,” I muttered irritably.
“Ooh, Little Sis getting hormonal!” mocked George in a painfully irritating voice.
“I said -,” then something caught my eye – a group of five or six girls and boys in my brothers year, the year above me, sloped onto to the road in front of us. This in itself wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary, but these weren’t a group of fourth years you wanted to mix with at Northridge, not if you wanted to complete your education without a spell in rehab.
It wasn’t just their substance problems people steered clear of – the way they dressed wasn’t exactly embraced with both arms at school. They all wore jeans that were so torn and battered; they could be mistaken for scrap material. One girl had blonde hair so long I bet she could sit on it, and the ends were dyed fluorescent pink, which was an act of rebellion in itself, as non-natural coloured hair dyes were forbidden at Northridge. This was one of the only rules on appearance the school had – except the one the other girl in the group was so flippantly defying. She had the most incredible tattoos running all the way from the base of her skull - which were visible, thanks to her boyish hair-cut, down to the top of her spine – which was also visible, thanks to her low cut top.
“Let’s cross the street,” George muttered, firmly steering my shoulders towards the other side of the road. I struggled a little, on principal, but didn’t put up too much resistance as I would have probably done the same thing even if George hadn’t manhandled me.
But as we reached the other side of the road, the girl with the tattoos looked across the street, right at me and George. I felt a momentary flush of embarrassment to have been caught so blatantly avoiding them, and when she turned and whispered something in the ear of one of the boys, still gazing at me curiously, I could feel my cheeks glowing red. The boy followed the tattoo-girl’s gaze and laughed when he laid eyes on me. I ducked my head behind George’s shoulder, hoping that I was too far away for them to recognise me.
Current Affairs was third period on a Wednesday, and I was determined to impress Mr Sullivan with my knowledge of the debates that Dad had told me about the night before. As soon as the bell went at the end of Maths, I rushed off to the library to use the school computers, leaving a puzzled Elsa to pack up my stuff for me.
I went through video clip after useless video clip, until I reached something interesting at last. Dad had said this Lyle could turn around a roomful of people with a few words, and finally here was actual footage. I plugged in my headphones and made it full screen to get the full effect.
Lyle, it turned out, was a rather small, unremarkable man with unfashionable slicked back hair and large, watery looking eyes. But there was nothing unremarkable about the way he spoke. When he spoke, the room – filled with about a thousand buzzing reporters and supporters - fell silent. You could almost sense the baited breath of everybody in the room. He spoke of equality, liberty, a strong country once more build on wealth and the teamwork of every man, woman and child. He spoke of employment, benefits, healthcare and – and as this I had to push my headphones into my ears to catch every word over the cheers and shouts of his audience – equal opportunities, and equal education for all. He spoke of –
“I wouldn’t be watching that, if I were you,” an unfamiliar voice came from behind my left shoulder. I frowned, feeling as though I’d just been woken up from a very deep sleep. I swivelled round in my chair, to face none other than the tattooed girl George and I had so pointedly gone out of our way to avoid this morning. I almost jumped out of my chair in surprise and embarrassment. I felt as though I had been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to, and this short-haired girl was going to make me feel uncomfortable about it.
“I…er…” I stuttered, confused. Usually I couldn’t shut up, now one odd girl had rendered me speechless with one odd, piercing gaze.
“Well? Do you agree with him?” she asked in a strange, sing-song voice. When I didn’t reply at once, she raised an eyebrow. “No opinions at all, Speechless? I thought you were the captain of the debating society, Speechless?”
“Well, he certainly has some interesting points…” I mumbled looking at my fingernails in great detail, my feathers were ruffled. My gaze searched her face, looking for a spot to talk to - anywhere but those quizzically piercing eyes. I settled on her nose stud, “Erm…yes. I agreed in particular with his ideas on a strong economy…employment for all…” I drifted off at the end of my sentence at the expression on her face. It wasn’t exactly obvious, but I could see a look of disappointment in her blue eyes, as though I’d failed a test I knew nothing about.
“Hey, Wes…looks like we got another little Facist on our hands,” she called without her eyes leaving my face, a hint of bitterness in her voice. I opened my mouth to contradict her at one, when I realised that actually I had no idea whether I was a Facist or not. I would need to research that one later.
A burly fourth year boy with dark, slightly foreign features joined us from the ‘Authors beginning with G’ section. He stood next to the girl and eyed me up and down with a non-committal shake of the head.
“Your brother’s George Marchant, right?” I nodded hesitantly. “Guy’s a dick. Come on Nat.” He beckoned to the tattooed girl to join him back in the ‘Authors beginning with G’ section. She gave me one last look, shrugged, and joined Wes in poring over a thick, leather-bound book by someone named Gresford.
I was very quiet during the Current Affairs lesson, despite my extra research efforts. As I had predicted, we discussed the debates would be running every evening this week between Lyle and Brady, now only two real competitors to Presidency. Elsa was, as usual, not at all interested in this lesson’s topic, and therefore assumed I wasn’t either and spent ninety-per cent of the hour praising every nook and cranny of Justin’s anatomy, and the other ten-per cent blushing and giggling every time his head tilted in our direction.
With Elsa’s running commentary in one ear, and Mr Sullivan’s analysis of the forthcoming election in the other, the lesson passed in a blur of meaningless noises and sounds, and it was a wonder I managed to copy down our homework for Friday, let alone take notes.
“Five hundred words on Lyle’s policies and the benefits of the Liberation Roses’ rise to power - to be on my desk before next lesson!” he called after us as we stampeded for the door; lunch queues were the worst immediately after the lesson.

“This essay is horrible!” moaned Elsa in my right ear. I switched the phone onto speaker and put her down onto my desk. I was beginning to get a headache.
“I’m starting it now,” I said helpfully, arranging the pillow on my chair so I was comfortable, “We could do it together over the phone, if you like.”
“Oh, yes please,” said Elsa in relief. I smiled and rolled my eyes, not that she could see. The only times Elsa ever called me at home were when her latest crush had broken her heart, or when she needed help with homework, and since she wasn’t in floods of tears, I assumed the latter.
“Well for my introduction I’m going to write a bit about the debates,” I started, “Then maybe go into Lyles first policy about working equ -,” I could hear a noise that sounded suspiciously like the theme tune for Desperate Housewives coming down the phone line. As soon as I stopped talking the noise was quickly stifled. “Are you even listening?” I asked the phone sitting on my desk.
“Yes, yes of course I am…” reassured Elsa, “But sometimes you can go on a bit, so could you just tell me the basic points to include in the essay?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, no offense or anything -“
“Sorry Elsa, Mum’s calling. Got to go!” and I hung up on her in indignation. Of course, Mum wasn’t calling, I needed an excuse to go…but I couldn’t believe her sometimes. She could do her own stupid essay if she was going to be like that.
I got up from my desk and went over to my creaky old dressing table. It had been my grandmother’s a few years ago. I looked up into the mirror and contemplated my hair. So long, so blonde; so the opposite to Nat, the girl with the star-tattoos. I thought about what else Nat had that I didn’t. She wore heavy, smoky make-up around her eyes, I remembered, and a pale lipstick. I pulled open the top drawer, where I kept all my cosmetics. Most containers were untouched, and the ones that were touched were hardly done so.
I fetched my small pot of black eye-powder and a ridiculously tiny brush, and carefully smudged a little on to the top of my eye-lid. Backwards and forwards, above the lashes, very carefully. Next a little eye liner, backwards and forwards, gently does it.
“Hey, Nerd! Mum says that – hey, what have you done to your face?” George, as good timing as always, burst into my room, making me jump and smudge eyeliner all over my forehead in a long, black line.
“Just go away,” I snapped defensively, attempting to push him out of the door before he put two and two together and realised I was putting on make-up.
A slow, stupid grin spread across his face. “You’re putting on make-up, aren’t you? You’re being a tart! Wait till Dad hears…” he bounced off downstairs as though Christmas had come early. I groaned inwardly to myself and trudged to the bathroom to wash off all evidence of my failed attempt at a make-over before Dad saw. Then I returned to my desk, slumped into my chair, and began writing about Lyle’s twenty-five points.
At this rate I’d be able to speak about him in my sleep.

Impressum

Texte: carpe.lucem
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 25.10.2012

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