And he only knows because he once caught me with my pin of safety, as I secretly call it, in our first year at school. I begged him not to tell anyone. I made him promise. Well, no one else at school has ever spoken to me about it so I guess he’s kept his word. That’s the only thing Troy has going for him: he always keeps his word. But he’s the cause of this fresh set of scars on my forearm.
I may be adept at direct confrontation, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I get flustered, start sweating and my heart races like an Olympic sprinter.
All these years of living on a knife edge with my mum, I guess. When I was younger and more fearless, I tried standing up to her. After one particularly vicious argument, she hit me so hard … well, I ended up swallowing a tooth. She was all tears and apologies afterwards, but the damage was done.
My motto now – at least at home?
Anything for a quiet life.
When Mum comes at me in one of her moods, I know enough to keep my mouth shut. I look down and try not to catch her eye. Nine times out of ten, looking her in the eye makes things worse. So I always back down, beta to her alpha wolf. But every daydream is filled with getting up, getting out, getting away.
At least here at school I can be closer to my true self. Not closest but closer. Less hiding, less lying. More vocal. But arguments still make me sweat. Particularly arguments with Troy.
And I don’t need to wonder why.
seven. Troy
* * *
What the actual hell?
Furious, I watch Libby stride away from me. How dare she? I don’t appreciate the way she automatically assumes I’m the one defacing her stupid posters. Dina, Meshella and Zane are also running for head student. Not just me and her. It could quite easily have been one of those three or their friends. Why assume I have nothing better to do?
Typical of Liberty and her way of thinking. She can’t stand me, so I must be guilty. No proof required.
She’s an every-day-of-the-week-and-twice-on-Sunday member of the church of the vicious minds. You’d think, after all these years, she’d know stabbing people in the back isn’t my style. I don’t need to resort to writing facile remarks over her posters. The head-student debate will be in assembly in front of the whole upper school next Wednesday, with the vote taking place later the same morning. Two teachers are then responsible for collecting and counting the votes, and the winner of the election is announced in a special assembly that same afternoon at the end of the school day. I can’t wait for next Wednesday. Truth to tell, I’m surprised by how much I’m looking forward to it. During our debate, I intend to take Libby down so hard and fast that she’ll never get up again.
I know just how to do it too.
And it won’t be behind her back.
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Revealed: in the run-up to the election, Tobias Durbridge speaks out against confirmed residential status
Tobey Durbridge, Shadow Home Secretary for the opposition Democratic Alliance party and Prime Ministerial candidate, has spoken out against confirmed residential status, the government ruling that requires all those of Fenno-Skandian heritage who were not born in Britain to apply for confirmed residential status.
‘It is outrageous that Fenno-Skandians who came to this country as babies or young children and who might now be in their seventies and eighties are being told to apply to stay in their own country,’ said Tobey Durbridge at today’s opposition news briefing. ‘A number of my constituents have recently asked me if the current government is deliberately doubling down on deporting as many Noughts as possible in the hope of skewing the voting in the forthcoming general election.’
eight. Libby
* * *
I’m sitting at the back of the library, staring out of the grimy windows across the staff car park. The grey clouds drip their insipid colour into the very air. Everything about today is grey. School is over, but I’m in no hurry to get home. It’s been a bitch of a day. Sly smiles and snide asides about my defaced campaign posters have followed me round the school. And Meshella Musenga has made a point of ‘accidentally’ bumping into me whenever we’re within a couple of metres of each other. What is her problem? Is it what I said a couple of days ago about her only looking out for her own? How was that wrong? Isn’t it only natural? It’s not like saying that made me a paid-up member of Nought Forever. It’s just that Mum says Crosses look after their own first, last and always, and that we Noughts need to do the same.
Mum says …
Mum says a lot of things, too much of which bypasses her brain before it comes out of her mouth. So I should’ve known better. Why didn’t I think harder before I said anything?
My damned eyes are beginning to leak.
‘Goodness me, Libby. You’re here again?’
I dash a hand across my cheeks before dredging up a smile for Mrs Robe, the school librarian and one of only two Nought members of staff in the school – apart from the dinner ladies and the cleaners. ‘I can’t keep away, Mrs Robe.’
Mrs Robe casts a speculative look in my direction. Did she see me tearful? God, I hope not. After smoothing down her light brown hair, cut into a neat bob, Mrs Robe glances at her watch. ‘The library is closing in five minutes, OK? It’s just you, me and the cleaners left in the building at this point.’
I close my books and pull them into my bag. When I look up, the librarian is watching me.
‘Everything all right, Libby?’
‘Yes, miss. Of course.’ I force a smile.
‘I haven’t seen your mum at the last few parents’ evenings.’
Warmth floods my face. ‘She’s been busy.’
‘Oh. OK.’ Mrs Robe nods but doesn’t look convinced.
Silence sits like a voyeur with popcorn, watching both of us.
‘Libby, are you sure you’re OK?’ says Mrs Robe.
‘I’m fine.’ Please stop asking.
‘If there’s anything worrying you, I’m here,’ she says. ‘You can talk to me. You know that, right?’
A flush of unwelcome red climbs up my neck to perch on my cheeks. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Mrs Robe. Honest. I was just doing my homework and lost track of the time, that’s all.’
I stand up. This conversation is over.
‘Goodnight, miss.’
‘’Night, Liberty.’
Heading out of the door, I don’t need eyes in the back of my head to know that Mrs Robe is still watching me. I let my guard down. Mistake. I need to be more careful. But I’ll say one thing about my mistakes – I tend to only make them once.
nine. Troy
* * *
The late September afternoon is too warm. The sky is grey but it’s still cloyingly humid. My jacket is tied around my waist and my shirt is sticking to me like one huge plaster. It’s been a bitch of a day. Ayo and I are walking home after football practice, which has left me sweaty, tired and strangely irritable. It’s the long walk home from school that’s really got to me. I stupidly forgot that my car is out for repairs after I backed over a sneaky bollard that was lower than the boot so wasn’t immediately visible.