If we weren’t standing in front of hundreds of witnesses, I’d show her exactly what I think of her swipe at my mum. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll make her pay for that.
twenty-seven. Libby
* * *
Total bastard!
twenty-eight. Troy
* * *
Toxic bitch!
twenty-nine. Libby
* * *
Well, that went to hell in a handcart real fast. Only the second question and Troy’s retort had me rattled. Maisie, Raffy and I spent a couple of lunchtimes in one of the music rooms, practising my responses in the debate. They asked me all kinds of awkward questions to make sure I wouldn’t get flustered or angry and I’d sailed through all that. But the moment Troy opened his mouth—
Damn it!
I didn’t mean to reveal stuff about his mum like that. Truly I didn’t. During our first year at the school, when Troy and I had actually been friends, he’d confided in me about his mum. He knew my greatest secret. I knew his. But one jibe during the debate from Troy and all that stuff about his mum came flooding out of my mouth. Why hadn’t he retaliated and told everyone about my arms? In his shoes, I would’ve – an admission that made me feel like an even bigger bitch. I hadn’t set out to do it. I’d just wanted to wipe that smug-git look off his face. But it was more than that.
Be honest, Liberty. You wanted to hurt him like he hurt you when he dropped you as his friend. Plus you wanted to win this so you could impress your dad.
The end result was I messed up – big time. The gasp that went round the hall when I said what I did … And Mrs Paxton looked at me with such disapproval and, worse still, disappointment. Even Maisie, who’s always had my back, shook her head at me from her chair in the assembly hall. I’ve let everyone down, most of all myself. I’m better than that, but now no one in school thinks so. I can’t understand it. I didn’t appreciate just how deep my hurt ran until I heard myself slagging off Troy’s family.
For the rest of the debate, I tried to stick to the issues, but the damage was done. Afterwards, I retreated to the girls’ toilets to be by myself for a while. On my way to the first empty cubicle, I caught sight of myself in the mirror, only to look away. Fast. I couldn’t bear to see myself, to see what I’d become. Sitting on the toilet seat, I tried to figure out just when I’d turned into the woman I despised most in the world.
During our first year at school together, Troy and I had been so close. He got me. I got him. I’d even begun to … well, never mind. Back then, Eden started calling us ‘the twins’, which made us both laugh, Troy being a Cross and me being a Nought. But that stuff was superficial – then. Troy promised me we’d be friends forever. I believed it – no reason to doubt him. But then he met my mum and found out she was a 12/NF supporter. A 12-words/Nought Forever paid-up member. I’d invited Troy round to my house for tea and Mum had been fine with that – until she’d seen that Troy was a Cross.
Just thinking about that evening still makes me cringe. Mum was polite to Troy, but only just. And, when we were alone in the kitchen together, she told me fiercely, ‘We don’t invite bastard daggers into this house, d’you hear? Don’t ever bring him here again. What? D’you think I spout the twelve-words slogan at you just to hear myself?’
Behind Mum, Troy’s silhouette was visible through the frosted glass of the ajar kitchen door. He’d heard every word. My face burned with embarrassment. Troy was my best friend in the whole world. To hear my mum say that … It was a slap in the face aimed at Troy that I felt down to the depths of my soul. I had to force myself to go back to the living room, my face still burning red. Troy was sitting on the sofa, playing my PlayBox game like he had stayed in the room the entire time. But he looked at me and I looked at him and we both knew. The look he gave me … I’ll never forget that look as long as I live.
That was the first time I thought about the 12-words mantra Mum was talking about. Really thought about it. The Nought supremacist ideology summed up in just twelve words.
We must secure and preserve the rights and future of all Noughts.
So outwardly harmless. So inwardly monstrous. The motto of white supremacist Nought Forever supporters, including my mum and her friends. Nought Forever was supposed to be the more acceptable modern face of the extremist group – the Liberation Militia. From what I’d seen and heard, the NF’s views were just as extreme, just as filled with vitriol against Crosses, and in fact anyone who wasn’t a Nought. After that disastrous evening at my house, the friendship between Troy and me had kicked the bucket. It’s like he thought that because my mum was a bigot I had to be one too. That hurt.
Well, if he didn’t want to be around me, I didn’t want to be around him. Mum was right about Crosses. They only cared about themselves and couldn’t be trusted. That’s what I told myself. Except hadn’t my actions throughout the campaign and in the debate proved that I was different but no better than my mum?
I’m still blushing at what I said. I’ve blown this stupid head-student election out of all proportion, telling myself it was what I needed to make my life better. If I won, Dad would be more likely to want to get to know me. But what’s the point of winning if I can’t even look at myself in the mirror? It just isn’t worth it. So I’m going to remake myself from the head down. I’m going to bow out of this election. Concede defeat. If Troy wants to be head boy, then all power to him. I have other things to concentrate on, like meeting my dad. I want to build a relationship with him.
That’s why, come lunchtime, I’m standing outside Mr Pike’s office, trying to pluck up the courage to knock on his slightly open door. He’s the Head of Languages and speaks Kiswahili, Xhosa, Latin, Russian and Greek fluently. He’s the teacher in charge of the head-student poll – one of the two teacher scrutineers – and he’s probably right in the middle of counting the votes. I’m not going to be popular with him if I bow out now, but that can’t be helped. There are raised voices coming from inside the room, getting ever louder.
‘We should be thankful for what Liberty did,’ says Mr Pike.
I’m being talked about. I lean in closer to eavesdrop.
‘Now that it’s common knowledge, there’s no way the son of a Nought terrorist sympathizer can be our head boy. No way,’ Mr Pike continues.
My eyes widen with shock.
‘Come on, Leeto, even if that’s true, it was a long time ago.’ That sounds like Mrs Baxter, my biology teacher.
‘Of course it’s true. After what Libby said, I checked on the Internet.’
‘Oh well then! My apologies for doubting your sources,’ says Mrs Baxter, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘The point is,’ Mr Pike goes on, ‘if it comes out that our head boy’s mother is Persephone Hadley, whose first child is the daughter of a hanged Nought terrorist, how soon before every right-minded parent takes their child out of this school? You’d be able to shoot a cannon down our school corridors and not hit a student. And the national press? Jesus! They’d have a field day.’
Every right-minded parent—?
‘Every right-minded parent?’ says Mrs Baxter, echoing my thought. ‘What the hell does that mean? There hasn’t been a hanging in this country for over three decades. These are different times. For Shaka’s sake, Persephone Hadley’s daughter, Callie Rose, is a renowned lawyer. If any Cross is going to judge a student on the past actions of their parents, then good riddance if they walk. That’s not how things work any more.’
‘Don’t delude yourself. That’s exactly how things work,’ Mr Pike argues.
‘It shouldn’t be about your family or your past—’ Mrs Baxter says.
‘And in some far-off utopia that’s probably the case. Meanwhile, back here in the real world, it makes one hell of a difference.’
‘Not if we ignore all that poisonous stuff. We can at least try to rise above it—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Get real, Monifa,’ Mr Pike scoffs. ‘Politics gets nastier and more vicious
with each passing year. It’s not a parade of ideals or ethics any more. It’s about celebrity, false promises and image. And, if we allow Troy Ealing to become head boy, the image of this school will take a severe beating.’
Mrs Baxter sighs. ‘Well, as it’s the students who vote, not us teachers, there’s not an awful lot we can do about it.’
‘The students may be the only ones to vote, but it’s the two of us who count those votes …’
A long pause.
‘Are you really proposing that we … that we cheat?’ asks Mrs Baxter, appalled.
‘We’re saving the school,’ Mr Pike insists.
‘Mrs Paxton—’
‘Mrs Paxton is retiring next year,’ Mr Pike interrupts. ‘Let’s make sure the school is still up and running after she’s gone.’
‘Is this really what we’re going to resort to? Cheating?’
‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ says Mr Pike. ‘For Shaka’s sake, that’s some choice – the son of a Nought terrorist sympathizer or a Nought.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘Wind your neck in. All I mean is, it’s not exactly upholding the proud traditions of this school, is it? To have a Nought as head girl. I think Dina Myan should receive the most votes, don’t you?’
‘She pulled out of the election.’
‘I suggest we put her back in,’ says Mr Pike. ‘If we declare that she received the most votes, who’s going to contradict us – as long as we back each other up?’
‘Now you listen to me, Leeto Pike—’
‘No, you listen, Monifa. We have to act for the good of the school. That means Dina has to win—’
I don’t wait around to hear any more. I have to find Troy. Fast.
After five minutes of fruitlessly searching the food hall, I spot Troy’s friend Ayo. Marching over to him, I ask, ‘Where’s Troy?’
Ayo looks me up and down, eyebrows raised at my brusque tone. I don’t have time for this.
‘Please, Ayo, it’s important. Where’s Troy?’
‘He popped out the back of school to get some fish and chips from Stratees.’ Ayo frowns. ‘Why?’
‘That’s my business.’ As I turn to head out of the food hall, my phone rings. I wouldn’t bother answering it but it’s Mum. She hardly ever phones me so, in spite of myself, I take the call.
‘You’re welcome!’ Ayo calls after me.
‘Hello?’
‘Libby, I need you to do something for me.’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘There’s a journalist who wants to do a story on me and my career, but he asked to interview you too. His story has to be filed this afternoon if it’s going to make this month’s edition of the magazine. He’s waiting at the school’s back gate to interview you. Could you do this for me, please? It’ll only take a couple of minutes.’
Are you kidding? ‘No way. Mum, I’m at school.’
‘Yes, I know. I told him that. He was happy to go to you so I gave him the school’s address. He really needs to see you now or the story won’t happen, and I need the money and the publicity. Please just do this for me and I’ll never ask you to do anything like this again.’
An interview with a journalist who’ll probably want to know all kinds of family details? Stuff I’d rather keep private? No thanks. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but he’ll have to write his article without me.’
‘Libby, please. Do this and I’ll help you get in touch with your dad. In fact, I’ll personally take you to see him. Deal?’
I sigh inwardly, calling myself all kinds of a fool, but Mum is holding out a carrot too tantalizing to ignore. ‘Two minutes, Mum. That’s all. I mean it.’
‘Honestly, that’s all he’ll need. He’s at the gate now. Thanks, Libby,’ she says, and she hangs up.
I shake my head. How stupid am I? I should just tell Mum and this journalist where to go, but I’m heading that way anyway. Lips pursed, I promise myself that this journalist is going to get the equivalent of name, rank and serial number – and not much else. Then Troy and I are going to have a conversation, no matter how painful.
thirty. Troy
* * *
We aren’t supposed to leave the school grounds at lunchtime, but I really need to get away from the looks and whispered comments that have followed me since the debate. Libby is just lucky I didn’t come across her on my way out of school. She and I have unfinished business. I decided some haddock and chips from Stratees, the fish-and-chip shop at the bottom of the road, would improve my mood. Anything was better than the cold five-bean pasta mess that was the only thing left in the food hall by the time I got there. That five-bean pasta looked like it’d be great for filling potholes and not much else.
I still can’t believe Libby used my private family business to further her campaign. What am I talking about? Of course I believe it. Knowing her, I should’ve expected it. Total bitch!
I head for the school side gate over by the tennis courts. The weather is distinctly chilly with grey-white clouds lining and redefining the sky. Five minutes to the end of the residential, tree-lined road, two minutes in the fish-and-chip shop, five minutes back to school and none of the teachers will be any the wiser. What I’m doing is against school rules, but at this moment in time I don’t particularly care. Ayo offered to come with me, but I’m not in the mood for company.
I enter the shop, buy my meal, head back to school. Callie’s warning plays in my head as I walk. On the opposite side of the road, a Cross woman walks her dog. She doesn’t even glance in my direction as we pass each other. I sigh. I can’t let my sister make me paranoid. Callie is definitely overreacting to a few stupid threats. And, besides, threatening me serves no purpose. Anyone who knows my sister is well aware of that. If anything, threats will make Callie dig her heels in that much harder.
I’d intended to save my food until I got back to school, but the smell is too enticing. Walking back, I open up the food box and retrieve a couple of chips to shove into my mouth. Crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside, just the right amount of salt and vinegar bursting over my tongue. My eyes close momentarily as I slowly chew. Delicious. So worth waiting for – and better than the school muck. Definitely the best thing that has happened to me today. I break off a piece of fish and stuff that in my mouth. I’m not a great lover of fish unless it’s swimming in vinegar and comes with big, chunky chips – and this is perfect. Having skipped breakfast, I seriously doubt if my meal will make it as far as the school gate.
‘Troy, wait up!’
I look round, surprised not so much by hearing my name but by who is calling it. Libby. She trots up to me, her heels click-clacking on the pavement.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling you?’ Libby huffs with attitude.
Seriously? After the stunt she pulled, she’s acting like she and I are friends or something. This girl has got some nerve. I move to walk past her. She sidesteps in front of me. I swivel to walk past her again. She repeats her previous move. This is getting old real fast.
‘Libby. Move.’
‘You and I need to talk.’
‘You don’t have a damn thing to say that I want to hear.’ I stuff another chip into my mouth, never taking my eyes off her.
Libby eyes my box of haddock and chips. ‘D’you mind if I have some? I missed lunch.’
My mouth falls open, my half-chewed chips on full display. Libby wrinkles her nose at the sight. My lips snap shut. Since when did Libby eat anything or ask for anything from me? I’d’ve thought she’d rather bin-dive than take food from me, or any Cross for that matter. What’s she up to? Suspicious, I hold out my fish-and-chips box towards her. If she’s going to knock the box out of my hand or spit in it, then I swear to God it’ll be on. Libby glances up at me, then helps herself to a handful of chips. I mean, a whole handful.
‘Thanks, I’m starving,’ she says with a forced smile.
My eyes narrow. Bitch, please!
What’s she up to?
If Libby
imagines I’m buying this sudden camaraderie act, then she has another think coming. Does she really believe I’m that stupid? She’s not getting any more of my lunch either. I pop another couple of chips into my mouth and start back towards school. Libby falls into step next to me.
‘Libby, what’re you doing here?’
‘I was supposed to meet someone at the school gate but they didn’t turn up.’
‘Maybe they’re there now. Don’t let me keep you,’ I suggest.
Libby’s mouth tightens slightly, but she carries on walking next to me. ‘Actually, you’re the one I want to talk to. It’s about the election.’
A dusty grey van pulls up ahead of us, its hazard lights blinking. There’s no other traffic on the road, which is only ever busy during the school run. I frown at Libby, who pops a chip in her mouth. A chip – singular. Even the way she eats is grating.
‘How did you know where I was?’
‘Ayo told me, but I had to wait to sneak out because Mr Lamont was telling someone off by the tennis courts.’
We walk in silence.
‘You still haven’t told me what you want, Libby.’ I stuff another couple of chips in my mouth. ‘Have you come to stick the knife in harder or just twist it some more?’
‘Neither,’ Libby replies, stepping in front of me again to make sure I have her full attention. ‘Troy, we’re being set up by the teachers. We’re both being played, and I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to fight back.’
thirty-one. Libby
* * *
Troy arches an eyebrow in that way of his. ‘What’re you on about?’
‘Troy, this head-student election is being rigged and I need you to help me prove it,’ I explain.
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