In the Real World

by Nōnen Títi

  We march on towards the admin building until two uniformed guard dogs come out the doors. I hesitate for a moment and that makes the group come to a halt. The two from the gate come up behind us. Pat looks at me for what to do; they all do. How did I get in this position? Where’s Charlotte? Where should we go?

  The dogs hardly look older than the year twelves and don’t seem any more sure about what to do than I am. “Are you going to keep us from getting to our classes?” I ask one of them, but before he can answer I’m pulled back by my arm.

  “I’ll handle this. Everybody, go to your class right now and you’re coming with me,” Mr Fokker says. Jerome stands next to him. He went for help to someone he knew could give it.

  “It isn’t Friday,” I tell him, for lack of a better response.

  “From now on every day will be Friday for you. From now on you’ll spend all classes and breaks in my room. And the rest of you had better go before these gentlemen get other ideas.”

  I nod at Pat to do what he says.

  “I told you I will handle it!” Mr Fokker suddenly barks at one of the dogs and tightens the grip around my arm.

  The dog heels. Aware I could blow this, I let him take me away while the group quietly drifts apart.

  “Curious that you detest uniforms and now you’ve given even the police a clear indication of who is with you,” Mr Fokker says.

  “Maybe they should close the school. I don’t think we’ll get out of this mess anymore,” I reply.

  His room fills with year nines, most dressed in black. Mr Fokker tells one of them to find another seat and drags the table and chair to the same corner he had me in last week. “All yours for the rest of the year, if you manage to last that long.” He throws the now-familiar noteblock and a pen onto the table.

  I have little choice but to sit down. He gives me a copy of the declaration we had in civics. “Copy it, word for word.” He’s testing me again, pushing his authority and he has nothing to lose.

  In all honesty I’m really glad he turned up. I had nothing to say and no idea what to do next. He waits until I take the pen and start writing before turning to the class to start another lecture about some individuals being born with the vision to lead but they steer away from modern politics because it can’t get over the short-term hurdles, which is why science and technology are progressive while public institutions stay stagnant until the masses can be moved. As always, Mr Fokker doesn’t allow any interruptions, yet he has everyone’s attention, including mine. So far I’ve copied three lines. Not that I’m in a hurry. I assume I’ll have all day.

  That assumption turns out to be wrong. Just after recess a year seven boy knocks on the door and tells Mr Fokker that I’m supposed to go to the office. He doesn’t know what for. Mr Fokker looks at me and for just a moment I have a rapport with him like I have with Jerome; few words needed. “Come back here,” he tells me.

  What was it Kathleen’s dad said? One line; don’t answer questions, don’t get involved. But they’ll have the police there and they won’t keep their hands to themselves… Not true; this is a school, they’re not allowed. But what if they want fingerprints?

  The secretary confirms that it’s PM Dick’s office I’m supposed to go to, so I enter without knocking first. Don’t think of any answers. Anything they say will be meant to get me to admit to fraud or to get somebody else in trouble. They’ve ousted Fred, Mick and Kathleen, so yesterday’s riot will be used to get rid of me. Yeah right.

  To my surprise I find only one stiff and PM in the office, both sitting at opposite sides of the desk in front of which stands one empty chair.

  “Sit down, Mariette.”

  No way, don’t slime up to me. “What do you want?”

  “We’d like you to tell us what happened here on Wednesday,” the stiff answers in PM’s place.

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s not really important.”

  “Well, I don’t talk to unimportant people.”

  The man manages a smile and then explains that he’s a member of the education board and here to help solve the problems. “I’m only trying to find out what exactly took place between you and that teacher and what set off that rampage of destruction yesterday.”

  “That teacher has a name, you know?”

  “Did you have a fight with him?”

  “With a nameless teacher? No.”

  “Isn’t it true that Mr Fokker hit you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Mariette, please, all we want is to make sure no transgression of rights has taken place in this school; not those of students or teachers,” PM says.

  “Student rights? Funny you mention that.”

  “You have to understand that we’re not accusing anyone at this point, but we will be asking these questions of every student who was involved,” the stiff says.

  “You’re not accusing, just having people arrested?” Damn! I shouldn’t respond to them.

  “I wasn’t referring to yesterday but to last Wednesday.”

  “Why don’t you ask that teacher?”

  “I will, but if I’m to find out the true cause of the problem, I need both sides of the argument.”

  “Mr Fokker and I don’t have an argument. My fight is with him.” I flick a finger towards PM.

  “What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” he whines.

  “We’re not getting anywhere. You’re free to go,” the man says with a sigh.

  “Oh really, free? Maybe you should keep your dogs on a leash then.”

  I slam the door behind me for good measure and return to Mr Fokker. He waits until lunch starts. “What happened?”

  I describe the conversation, trying to recall the exact words.

  “I don’t appreciate that you keep lying about what went on between us,” Mr Fokker says.

  “Sorry, but he was trying to get me to say something to kick you out.”

  “I already told you that I’ve resigned and will appear in that council meeting to tell them what happened.”

  “Where is that and when?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Yes it is; I’m going to be there.”

  “Listen Mariette, if you really want to help you’ll stay out of it, and the same goes for dealing with Kathleen.”

  “Do you believe saying she’d like to blow up the school and actually doing it are the same thing?”

  “No, but the counsellor has said it fits her personality profile.”

  “What the fuck does she know?”

  He leans on my table and bends so close that it sends my heart racing. “Are you trying to make me angry? Because this time you might just succeed. No matter how unfair, your slate isn’t clean either, Mariette, and I hereby order you to stop all actions, all lies and all word games. It’s Mr Shriver who’s been bearing the brunt of it. He has been questioned about having Jerome at his house, he has been told off for being too lenient with you, he has had to deal with what many of the parents are saying about me and he had to be acting principal and English teacher. Apart from that, he’s been busy all day yesterday trying to appease the education board on behalf of Kathleen and Sean. He is doing everything in his power to solve this in a civilized manner, but it’s being made impossible for him.”

  He takes the folder he’s just pulled out of his bag and slaps it onto the table in front of me. “And you can be eternally grateful that he has access to both the council’s mail and that of Mr Moralis and that he isn’t as stupid as you like to believe teachers are. Open it.”

  Inside are all the letters from the made-up attorney. Relief and guilt hit me equally hard. They knew all the time and kept it from PM; the police don’t know. I never realized I’d been that afraid. What must he think of me?

  “Look at me,” Mr Fokker says.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Look at me.”

  I look up.

  “Why did you do it?” he demand
s.

  “I was afraid he’d-”

  “I wasn’t talking about the letters. You wrote those because you were conceited enough to think you could control the situation from both sides. Why did you look at me just now?”

  Below the pit of my stomach the tingling wave swells that makes it impossible to think.

  “Answer me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why are you answering me?”

  “You just told me to.” He’s confusing me now.

  “Why do you do what I say?”

  I no longer have any idea.

  “Think back to that lecture this morning. What is it you want from me? Is it democracy you’re looking for, or do you want autocracy? Be honest. Why do you obey me?”

  “Because I respect you.”

  “Is that all?” he asks, and I’m not sure if he’s serious or sarcastic.

  “You see, Mariette, you’ve built yourself a dike – and I am referring, of course, to the sea barrier – to protect your meadow from the water. It’s made of many honourable words and phrases, but it still stands in the middle of a piece of dry land and it’s supported with pride. You talk about a war mentality? Listen to this: It’s you who’s sitting in front of a big map full of toy soldiers. You are playing with people and people are getting hurt.”

  Suddenly I don’t want to hear any more. I put my head in my arms so I don’t have to look at him, knowing he thinks that I’m conceited and what have you. Mum would agree, maybe Jerome and of course PM, who must have made all that up… No, he isn’t that bright… Damn, I’m doing it again! I’ve ruined it forever now. He’ll never want me back here. Why did I write those stupid letters? Why did I even tell him what I said in that office? …Because he’s right. Because I was proud of it - arrogant. I’m just a stupid kid to him, shallow enough to go with the vulgar meaning of what a dike is; shallow enough to misinterpret his words, despite my write-aways… or maybe because of them. Why did I use all those words and then on top of that tell him I respect him. How stupid did that sound? He isn’t stupid, nor is Mr Shriver. Is that why I listen to them, or because they dare to take charge? Does autocracy win, then?

  A more embarrassing realization hits me and it comes from that same place. I do seek his anger; how stupid is that? But I do and I love it, because he isn’t afraid.

  “Would you like to write?” he asks quietly.

  Do I? I do.

  He puts the noteblock down in place of the folder, which goes back into his bag. I’m more grateful than ever for the placement of my table once his next class comes in. I have only the walls to see me.

  In defence of Little Lamb,

  The small lake in the meadow that only existed when it rained wasn’t the sea. Little Lamb knew that, but at times it became so large she’d imagined it really was. At times the dazzling sun shining into it had made it look like a mirror. In her reflection Little Lamb had fancied that her wool was really sparkling white. Now she stood by the rubble that had been the dike she’d built to impress Old Woolly. It had been tall enough to see over the fence into the nearby farm. She’d invited all the other lambs to come and have a look just to prove to them that they were sheep just like those on the other side, not dogs. But the dike had collapsed and now many lambs were hurt and Old Woolly was going to leave Demi-farm and never want to see her again.

  “You stupid little lamb, you should have frolicked with the others. It wasn’t your place to teach them. Now I’m going to lose my friend,” Amun Baa scolded her.

  “Couldn’t you let him stay?”

  “No, it’s too late. The dogs won’t allow it.”

  “Where will Old Woolly go?”

  “There are three other farms. Up in the mountains is Tim-farm, where the rams are in full power. Even the dogs obey them. But those mountain sheep are tough and purebred. They won’t let domesticated sheep infiltrate. Near the sea lies Fear-farm. We call it that because the farmer there, Tyro, beats both sheep and dogs while neither produces anything useful. So the only real choice is Ollie-farm near the village, where the milk and cheese come from. Old Woolly can do what he was meant to, teach little lambs who will heed his advice, and lead his own herd. Once upon a time the rams were able to lead their herds here too. It changed us into a different breed when our ewes turned from milk sheep into wool producers. If we all make wool, we’re all equal to the farm.”

  “Why did we change?”

  “Because we left it up to the herd to decide who should be leader, but they confused leadership with being fat and big, so the rams grew very thick coats to deceive the farmer and everything fell apart, until Tyro takes over. He’ll slaughter most of us before the herd goes back to being milk and cheese producers.”

  “Why can’t we go back to being milk sheep without Tyro slaughtering most of us?”

  “Because, Little Lamb, all of us have grown up thinking that we are the same as the sheepdogs – that we can be courageous like them, free like them, clever like them and get rewarded with bowls of food and cuddles like them. Because we teach our lambs to despise being sheep and glorify the dogs. The only way to have peace is to teach our lambs that we are not dogs and that we don’t need their teeth to be courageous or their obedience to be intelligent or their leashes to be free; that we are herd animals, but that even a herd needs a hierarchy.”

  The bell goes to announce a change of class. The year eights make place for a group of year twelves. I have nothing left to write. It all sounds like a lame excuse anyway, so I listen in to the lecture until the last bell comes with an announcement urging everybody to leave peacefully and to come back in uniform tomorrow. Mr Fokker doesn’t acknowledge the bell and carries on with his speech and not one of the year twelves protests. He dismisses them after ten more minutes. “Wait Mariette, I told the class to go; you’re not part of that.”

  He’s testing me to see if I’ll call his bluff, but I won’t because… I just won’t. He takes the noteblock from my table and starts reading it. Twice he raises his eyebrows. It doesn’t help me feel better. I don’t even want to remember what I actually wrote. He must think I’m totally stupid. He’s taking much longer than he could possibly need for the few lines I did write. Then he sits down on top of my table, leaning against the wall, closer than I’m comfortable with, and makes me look up at him. “I see you’ve read the book?”

  “I tried, but it’s difficult.”

  “It is that. So you value a leader to guide the herd but you object to the one we have. Tell me why.”

  “Because of what you said before. He’s doing a job, the job of a leader, but he isn’t one inside.”

  “Most people respect authority for what it is.”

  “But that’s like admiring a title, the same as honouring a dictator just because he calls himself president.”

  “So respect comes with honour, not authority?”

  “I guess…for me.”

  “And when do you consider somebody worthy of your respect?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that! I don’t mean to sound pretentious. It’s just something I feel. I don’t even think about it.”

  “Regardless, it might be wise to follow some basic rules of decency, don’t you think? You don’t have to respect somebody to be polite to them, and the same goes for talking about people.”

  “I know that.”

  “And you don’t want to tell me that you don’t think about the words that do come out of your mouth?”

  “No.”

  “So you’re deliberately saying them to get a response?”

  I already admitted that to him before.

  “Yes or no?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “So once again, what do you want from me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do, but you might not be ready to be honest yet, even to yourself. Once you are you can come and tell me.”

  Before I have the chance to worry about how to respond to that, Mr Shriver and Jerome walk in
.

  “Until then, Mariette, I’m sure Old Woolly isn’t as upset with her as Little Lamb seems to think, though he objects to his title; he’d have preferred just ‘Woolly’. Nor do I believe ‘Little Lamb’ to be a suitable name, meek as she may be at this moment.”

  I am so turning red.

  “How did it go?” he asks Mr Shriver, who shakes his head slowly to answer.

  This turns my embarrassment into a sudden feeling of dread. “Should I go?”

  “Not until I’m done talking to you,” Mr Shriver answers.

  Jerome stands at the centre of the room, a bit lost. He might already know what this is about. He doesn’t look at me.

  “The first thing I want to know from you is whether you’re willing to be reasonable,” Mr Shriver begins.

  His request is as sincere as it’s unexpected. Whatever is coming isn’t good. “I’ll try.”

  “You know how you likened this problem about uniforms at school to the stand-off between religious or racial groups, that people can’t see through the outside?” he asks.

  I said that? I wrote it, maybe… probably in an essay.

  “We share the work some students do for us,” Mr Shriver explains.

  Okay, I have no problem with that, as long as he doesn’t share with PM.

  “In a situation like that every wrong move made by one person gets blamed on the entire group, every blame is taken personally, hyped-up emotions blow it out of proportion and retaliation follows. Slowly the attacks get more and more vicious – on both sides – and people lose the ability to think reasonably. They no longer see their opponents as individual people; they see them as a monstrous being and they take everything as a threat or an attack.”

  I understand what he’s saying and nod while he swaps places with Mr Fokker, who then urges Jerome to sit down.

  “It follows that they start defending themselves by taking steps that would normally never be considered. People’s privacy and freedom are compromised because of fear – the right or wrong of that isn’t the issue right now. The issue is the state of mass hysteria. Can you understand that?”