by K. L. Kettle
“Muh-muh-muh name is Jood Grru-gru-grunt,” Aye-Aye snorts.
My grip on my tray tightens as if I could snap it.
Then there’s a cough, barely covering the word “slut” underneath it.
Laughter ripples from the Roids to the boys on the tables nearby.
Vinnie shakes a grin away. He’s one to talk: there are plenty of rumours of what he gets up to in his appointments. He’s changed since you left V-dorm, all hair and knuckles now.
I turn. “I heard that the roids your appointment ladies give you made your nads shrink down so small that you talk as high as a top-floor madam.”
His fist hits my tray, sending it clattering to the ground; my stew spills on to the floor. There’s a wafting scent of gym deodorant and chalk from Vinnie’s pits as he casually lifts his arms, finishing a yawn.
I told Walker about them months ago – how I’d be fair game if I failed to kill the Chancellor, if I ended up back in the dorms.
So don’t fail, kid, Walker had said. Besides, a gentleman knows how to defend himself. When they hit, hit back, hit harder.
Until now, ignoring them was my plan. Because how stupid is it to pick a fight with Vinnie, the six-foot fist?
Hit harder? You laugh. Hit FIRST!
The nick on my cheek feels warm, burning through my skin. If I can take on Officer Aspiner, the Chancellor … a bunch of Roids are nothing.
The anger is easy to find when I want it; it tastes of metal in my throat. Everything gets loose in my head as it crunches, gritty in my muscles, climbs up my legs and wakes up my bones. It’s the thought of every time I’ve wanted to lash out that clenches my fists. The whispers in appointments, the accidental way the guests touch, and how many times I’ve looked in the mirror and felt small, it all pushes through my knuckles into his cheek with a jarring THWACK!
And damn it hurts!
My knuckles swell as Vinnie falls. In an intake of thick breath, the hall becomes a squall of smacks and cries. Everything slows down as I’m hit – uppercut by Toll. My teeth crack into each other, the taste of blood. By the time I get the chance to fight back, there are four bodies on me. Sharp, blade-like feet hit my ribs, hot sweat and hair and grunts and grabbing, thudding, heart-pounding, shirt-grabbing.
“Not before Swims, you idiots!” I hear Aye-Aye yell. He dodges out of the way, covering his face. Knuckles smack, louder than the barking crowd.
Stink roars as he runs in to my defence, landing on the mass. The rest of my friends in J-dorm too. Even Rodders piles in, after handing his glasses to a kid from T-dorm. They all plough forwards, blunt sporks held high.
“Don’t!” I grunt from inside the ball of bodies.
I may not be onstage this evening, but Rod is. I don’t want to share my bruises – they’re all mine.
Two boys from R-dorm, Rene and Ramah, catch hold of me. I blink the sweat out of my swollen eyes. They grip me tight as Vinnie launches a round kick into my stomach and I think I cough up a lung.
Shit.
When the Roids turn to move the fight to my brothers, nothing matters. I twist quickly, land my knee in Rene’s stomach. Pull my arms free. Adrenaline pounding, muscles shaking, I launch myself at Vinnie. His foot jams into my thighs and – crunch – the bones in my knees hit the stone floor, the nerves up my spine spasm and my teeth jam together over my tongue. It feels like dancing for the first time in ages. The blood I spit up is as thick as custard. There’s sweat and spit and dignity and grace all over the fogging floor.
A high-pitched whistle stabs through my head.
The second the Roids drop me, they’re running. I look upside down as they disperse into the crowd. I try to get up, get away, but my head weighs a solid ton. After the third attempt to roll over, I see Father Jai looming above me, sweating in his button-bursting brown uniform. His whistle swings round his neck as he shakes his head.
“Afternoon,” he sighs. “Making my life easy again, I see.”
By now, the other House Fathers have begun dragging their dorm boys from the dining hall.
Father Van, who is roughly the size of two Vinnies, tuts. “Training up fist-fodder as usual, Jaipur? Will you notify Mr Walker or shall I?”
“No need, Van.” Jai wobbles with deference. “Already done.”
“Enough demerits to cover the costs to V-dorm, right?” Father Van confirms.
Jai is all nods as I swallow a wad of blood. He grabs my tenderized shoulder, yanks me up. “Fighting is undignified,” he mutters in my ear. “Gentlemen don’t fight.”
“But they—” I croak, my lips sticky on the inside with blood I try to tongue away.
“They are their Fathers’ business. You are mine. And I’ve still got a business to run here. Let’s get you cleaned up before Mr Walker arrives.”
Jai spends five minutes slapping make-up on me, hoping to cover the bruises, before he gets to the threats. If I don’t start to ‘play the game’, he’ll put me on rations, saltwater showers, blah-blah, the usual. Normally I’d apologize. But not today, not after last night. On his desk, the hooch bottle is unstoppered again. He offers me a shot, for the aches, he says. I knock back the cloudy brown liquid. Bitter, the fermented taste of honey and orange peel shivers through me.
When I see Walker, I’m going to tell him I know he lied about what happened to you. I want him to see me strong.
Father Jai scrabbles in boxes for every anti-inflam, cold pack and painkiller he’s stored up – being House Father, he’s got a good stock for these kinds of incidents.
“Right, off you go to the Auction Hall,” he says when he thinks he’s done enough.
“Go? But what about the demerits? What about Walker?”
“You’re to get yourself over there now,” Jai explains, squinting to read a note left on his desk by a prentice halfway through my lecture. The kid had the little stitched ‘!’ on his shirt so I know he was from the House of Entertainment. Walker must be angry if he won’t even leave the rehearsal.
As I limp up the stairs to the backstage door of the Auction Hall, I can hear Walker shouting, counting beats.
You never did Talents before you were taken. It’s not Reserves: one in, one out, do a spin, say your piece. There’s a whole fogging dance routine. All the boys in the show have had weeks to practise but, as I move through backstage to the wings, I can tell Walker’s frustrated. Rod’s looking stressed, nursing bruises under his clothes. Aye-Aye, the only Roid in Swims, seems to have escaped the fight unharmed but then he was doing most of the kicking. He’s swearing under his breath that the old man has lost it.
None of them are turning to acknowledge the Lice standing at the back of the theatre, by the doors.
Of the twenty-four lucky boys whose measurements have made them eligible, only one will win an auction discount. Ten per cent of their final bid gets covered by the House of Entertainment – as if that’s the reason for the talent show and it isn’t just an excuse to gawk and leer. It’s a nice incentive for the ladies and a huge honour for the boy who wins, I guess.
With the lights up, exposing every crack and crevice, every worn velvet seat cushion and peeling corner of carpet, the hall really does seem 500 years old. Walker leaps up on to the empty stage, mid-speech, raging about how he’s been training them for weeks and none of them seem to have been listening. It’s not just about knowing the steps – it’s about owning the space, demanding attention. It’s about moving those gangling teenage limbs with actual intent.
He tugs his waistcoat straight and grabs his jacket, sliding it over his shoulders like a second skin – the one that turns him into a showman. I’ve seen him dance, a showy step here, an instructive move there, but I’ve never seen him perform. Walker’s first dance at the ball with the Chancellor has been the highlight of the season every year since I was a kid. People talked about it for months. But the last few years the gossip changed. He’s looking tired, say the women in appointments. She can do better.
Classical music kicks in over the s
peakers. It’s all snares and drums. I catch myself tapping my foot and curl up my toes tight to stop myself as the prentice boys in the booth flip off the main lights. My brothers stop grumbling and fall silent as Walker shows them how it’s done. Small movements to start, like he’s shrugging off the urge to perform, they get bigger as he moves round the stage, his feet fast as he leans, taps, switches, rolls.
He sees me in the wings – I know he does. Walker always knows where his audience is. There’s a cheer from one of the boys in the stalls as the beat kicks in. Every part of his performance rehearsed but it seems as though he’s making it up on the spot. He’s playing. The boys watch, transfixed, wishing they could be him.
When it’s done, Walker isn’t out of breath at all. There’s nothing tired about him. He seems alive. My brothers applaud, throwing their slippers on the stage to show their appreciation.
“When I get back, anyone who has not got the routine down gets a fine so large their forefather’s molars will squeak with shame.” Groans erupt. “And you’ll be out of the show too. This is important,” he says.
He leaves them to practise and meets me in the wings, grabbing a towel as he walks past. “With me, kid.”
As I follow him, two of the Lice aren’t far behind.
Walker’s dressing room is three times the size of Jai’s office. The sparking filaments of yellow bulbs hum. He sits me on the stool by his dressing table.
He raises his perfect eyebrows to their full arch. “I take it your scrap with the Muscles wasn’t just to let off steam.”
I shuffle in my seat, move some of the bottles and brushes and blusher around on the counter as anger bubbles in my stomach.
“Sorry they went to town on you,” he says with a sigh. “I should’ve been there.”
I shrug.
“I told you—”
“Hit back. I remember,” I say, picking at the scab forming on my lip.
“No.” He pulls my hand away. “I told you I’d take care of you. I just needed time, a plan. Get round the police watching me.”
It’s been two days, I want to yell, but I don’t want to show him I care. I sniff, wincing as my nose burns with bruises. Don’t need his excuses. Walker puts his hand on my shoulder. I shrug it off, puff out my chest. “I can handle the Roids.”
He leans forwards, waits, desperate to ask what happened with the Chancellor. I’ll let him bring it up. Let him ask. He waited this long to show his face, I want him to be the one who goes first. It’s not like I get to be stubborn with the women.
“Clearly.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know what, go and wash that slap off. Jai has the beauty skills of a drunk toddler – I’ll do a proper job.” He hands me a cloth and some cream to clean my face. “So what happened? Nerves get to you?” He’s trying to play it down as if we don’t know how screwed we are because I failed.
I shake my head, trying to be cool as I tell him. “She knew.”
Walker sits up straight, his blue eyes widening. Lips pursed and breathing heavily, both long-fingered hands scrub at his face, trying to hide how afraid he is. And then he’s thinking, pulling at his lip, rubbing his moustache, scratching the slight stubble on his cheek. Maybe he doesn’t believe me. As he stands, paces, he shakes his head.
“She knew?” he keeps asking. “How could she? I was careful.”
“She knew.”
But he’s not listening. “Bloody Romali! I knew her stunt would—”
He’s talking like he knows her.
He kicks at a stool, swears some more. I’ve never seen him this angry before. But a second later he’s in control, laughing it off and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not very gentlemanly.” He picks up the stool. “And they call me a role model.” He laughs as if I don’t know he’s panicking underneath, that he’s thinking of all the things she’ll have done to him, that’s he’s wondering exactly when those Lice following him are going to strike.
“I’m glad you’re OK, kid,” he says. And I believe him, even if I know what’s underneath those words – that we’re not OK, either of us. That he’s wondering why I’m alive. “Don’t worry about the bruises. I’ll send a note to the infirmary, get you something to help. Hell, at least you still have all your teeth.” Walker’s normally so in control but the way he’s looking now I guess he’s wondering if he can trust me. What did I do to survive, he’s asking himself? There’s something like power in not telling him.
An announcement crackles over the speakers. One hour until the show.
He’s had too much work done up in the infirmary to frown but he’s trying. “You didn’t sleep with her? I told you—”
“Er, no.” I screw up my face in disgust.
“Good. You’re too young. I’m not a prude, just … you need to keep some dignity.” He’s a traditionalist, of course, thinks boys should wait until after they’re warded. The Chancellor’s paid for him to look good, so it’s easy to forget how old he is. Nearly fifty, I heard, but I never asked. You don’t ask a man his age. He rakes his hand through his hair, pulls the stool over to sit on.
“Are you going to make me keep guessing or tell me why you weren’t arrested?”
I drink, fill my mouth with water to keep my cool. The dog. The shot. The blood. The body. Maybe he won’t notice I’m shaking all over. “We talked – she liked me,” I say.
“Talked? Hell, she doesn’t talk. She plays with her food.”
“She let me go.”
“Guess you would think that’s what happened.”
“I persuaded her.” It’s the truth but he rolls his eyes like I’m lying.
“Maybe you’re right. She must like you.” He’s being sarcastic. “So you talked, huh? What, pray tell, did you converse about, kid?”
“Stuff.”
“I heard she upped her reserve.”
He won’t believe me. There’s a bottle on the surface: painkillers. I’d drink poison to get rid of the feeling my head is being stamped on. “Can I have this? Jai’s stash was out of date.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Walker snatches it away. “You need a clear head to get through tonight. Maybe if we both survive, maybe if she really does like you, then we’ll … I don’t know … have another chance with the Chancellor come auction. Thirteen days.” He says it like neither of us will live past tomorrow.
Should I tell him you’re alive, tell him about the deal?
“So can I go back to the dorms now?” If Romali and the Hysterics are going to try and get me out, maybe I can persuade them to get you out too.
“No, you’re joining the understudies.” There’s a glint in his eye. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
*
Rehearsal is exhausting. Everything, I mean everything, aches. From my inside out. My bruised body keeps giving up on me.
Two hours of, “Stand there, stop that, in time, hips-hips-hips, lips-lips-lips,” from Walker in the stalls. He took my measurements, said I was a bit underweight, but I’d pass. The four of us that nail the routine become official understudies for tonight’s show.
Every step makes the bruises harder to hide.
“SMILE!” Walker groans. “You’re meant to be enjoying it.” He turns his gaze to me, grinning as usual. It’s between a you-should-have-let-them-finish-the-job and an I’m-hungry-and-need-a-sandwich smile. Whatever’s going through that slick head of his, he’s picking on me the most.
“Try harder, gentlemen. What if this was the last-ever auction? You want to go down in history as the most flat-footed fools who ever danced?” And, “Move, damn it, move. Jude! You have to feel it while you can,” he shouts. He seems more frustrated than before, as if our lives are on the line if we screw up his show. It could be him just being a diva, but it feels like more.
There’s a part of me that’s enjoying being able to dance with actual permission. It’s all regulation moves and old music, my bruises are burning and I have to think hard to keep up, but it’s still dancing.
>
During break, the boys whisper in corners, about the fight, about special treatment. I limp to the refreshment station. I need water and to avoid my brothers as best I can. It’s not going to work.
“You don’t need the discount.” Rod shoves me in the arm. “Some of us worked all year for this.”
“I’m not in the show, brother. Don’t worry.”
“So Walker just put you in the understudies at random?”
I shrug, can’t really explain. “Maybe it’s a punishment for fighting,” I joke. As an understudy, I get to wait backstage in case one of my brothers collapses, or twists an ankle or throws up. Chances are I won’t even go onstage. I wonder if Romali is with the Hysterics now, looking for me in the dorms, disappointed, angry that I’m not there.
*
Two minutes to Swims.
Twenty-eight of us wait behind the curtain. The main group and the four understudies. This was a stupid idea. I didn’t know I’d have to wait around in shorts smaller than something I’d cough up with the flu. I’ve never even been in a swimming pool. Saints alive, they probably don’t even exist.
The air is thick and hot but my skin prickles all over with cold. I itch as my brothers huddle round me, their shoulders folded inward in protective wings. I tuck myself in again, downstairs, check for decency as the Senior Theatre Prentice, a tall man with terrible skin called Fry, counts us into position. There’s a prentice boy at his side; on his perfectly creased shirt is a smiling-face symbol stitched into the collar. I don’t know which house it’s for. The prentice looks at each boy as Fry calls out the names in each of the four groups of six, each in different-coloured shorts, and the boys answer. The blue, yellow and green shorts, then the seven of us in red. We’re all from different dorms: Mo, Orin, Keane, Raffi, Blake, Nate, Aye-Aye and… “Name?” asks Fry.
“Jude Grant, understudy.” As he ticks off my name and turns away, the prentice reaches up and hands me a piece of paper. Walker said he’d get the infirmary to send down more painkillers. But there’s nothing – just the note. A small piece of torn paper folded into the shape of a man.