by C. J. Harper
Some of the Specials mutter in disapproval. King Hell, what would it be like if they were allowed knives on the fight floor?
Rex leans towards Urva, who is tight-lipped and scowling. ‘You get weapons, little girl, then you get a lose.’
He lifts up Ali’s arm and the crowd cheers.
Ali walks towards the seats.
‘No talker!’ shouts Urva.
Ali blinks, then turns back to the furious girl. She pushes a fist into her palm then points downwards with two fingers in a quick gesture. Some of the younger Specials burst out laughing.
‘What does that mean?’ I ask Ilex.
Ilex smiles. ‘It means loser.’
I can tell by the expression of rage on Urva’s face that she already knows that.
We don’t stay to watch the rest of the fights. Ilex thinks Ali should rest, so we head back to the dormitories.
‘Where did Urva get that shrap from anyway?’ I ask out loud. ‘She didn’t have it at the start of the fight, did she?’
Ali taps her chest.
‘It was yours?’
She nods.
‘You wore a nice sharp bit of shrap dangling around your neck where Urva could grab it and use it on your face?’
She looks up at me. I realise from the look she gives me that it was no accident that she was wearing a dangerous piece of shrap. She wanted Urva to find it. Wow.
‘Weren’t you afraid she’d hurt you?’ I say.
She gives me the kind of smile that teachers do when you’ve asked a question that shows you’ve completely misunderstood. She hugs Ilex good night and goes into her dormitory.
‘I don’t think you need to worry about Ali so much,’ I say to Ilex.
Ilex crumples his forehead.
‘I mean, don’t think bad things will happen to Ali. She might not be able to punch or to talk, but she really knows how to fight.’
A few days later I’m lying on my bed looking at Kay sitting crosslegged on hers. I’m worn out. Today a group of Specials have really been winding me up. Once a Red starts making stupid comments then everyone joins in. I’m an easy target because I’m different. They call me ‘brainer’ and ‘no-ranker’ and then the pushing and shoving starts. I would never have thought that imbecilic remarks from morons would upset me, but it’s really starting to get to me. I’m at the bottom of the pile here and I don’t like it.
When I first arrived I thought that the only advantage of being a Red was extra food. I can see now that it means a lot more to the Specials. If you’re a Red it affects everything. People listen to you and respect you. When you walk down the corridors people move out of the way. At Fight Nights you can choose any seat you want and, once you’re sat down, everyone vies for your attention. The older Reds have the opposite sex fighting for their favour. Even the enforcers treat the Reds better. I’m starting to understand why Kay wants to climb the Red ladder, but I’m not prepared to suck up to them. It seems that I’m the only one who thinks like that though. The other Specials don’t resent the Reds at all. In fact, the Reds are treated like celebrities. In their spare time Specials gossip about the Reds’ relationships and the power structure. People are already betting on who Rex will choose to replace Dom when she turns seventeen in a couple of months and goes to the factory.
The six o’clock Saturday buzzer sounded a little while ago and everyone else cleared out of the dormitory. I’m grateful to have a bit of time away from people. The buzzer signals the start of something they call the Making Hour. I think it’s a bit like the Creativity group at the Learning Community. It’s not compulsory and I’m not really into making things out of raffia so I’ve never been, but I’m glad it’s so popular because it means that Kay and I are the only Specials left in the dormitory. We’re in the dark; the light from the landing sends a shaft into the room, but it only reaches the first bed in a long line. I can hear the hum of a generator below me.
Kay is shadowy except for her pale, shining hair. I wonder what it would be like to stroke it. Probably soft and silky. Kay turns to look at me and blood rushes to my face. I don’t know why I’m having thoughts like this about Kay. But increasingly I find myself thinking about her. I imagine her resting a small cool hand on my cheek. Looking up at me with her dark blue eyes, then sliding her hand down my neck and over my chest and . . .
‘Blake?’
Whoa. I roll quickly on to my front and press my burning cheek against the pillow. ‘Hmm?’ I say as casually as I can manage.
‘What’s your think?’
‘I . . .’ A vision of Kay wrapped in a white towel flashes into my mind. Oh no. I am not thinking about that. ‘I was thinking about . . . our learning sessions.’ Nothing sexy about Enforcer Tong.
‘What about them?’ She draws her knees up to her chest.
I bite my thumb. ‘Well, ah, it’s not exactly a varied curriculum is it?’
‘You’re talking big words again,’ she tuts.
‘I’m just saying I think we should be learning more.’
‘Why are you all times talking about learning? I told you they don’t want us to do brainer-learning they want us to be quiet-learn.’
‘Well I wasn’t suggesting that we study Boolean algebra.’
Kay scowls. ‘Boo yourself.’
‘All we ever do is assembly of parts and electronics. Maybe we could speak to someone about broadening the subject range,’ I say.
Kay rolls her eyes.
‘I mean maybe we could ask them to teach us some other things.’
‘You’re funny.’ Kay shakes her head at me. ‘It’s . . .’ She pauses and looks to the ceiling, ‘It’s . . . nice, like a little kid who thinks all people are good when you say, “we could ask them”. Little-kid-nice, but stupid. You’ll say we could ask them for burgers and chips in the feeding pods.’
‘How do you know about burgers and chips?’ I ask.
‘On the Info I saw a factory where Academy kids go. In the salon they had a burger thing. The good workers get burgers.’
Given what I’ve seen of the Info that is broadcast in here I wonder if this is true or just another special news-reel created for Academies.
‘I’d like a burger,’ Kay says.
‘If you’ve never had a burger how do you know you’d like one?’
‘I know it. It looks good eating. Have you had a burger?’
We used to have burgers every Wednesday at the Learning Community.
‘Yes, I’ve eaten a burger,’ I say.
Kay’s eyes light up. ‘Was it good?’
I think about my table in the cafeteria at the Willows; the sun coming in the window, the sound of cutlery chinking on real china plates, and so much food. Anything you wanted: curry, pie, pasta, sandwiches, fruit, pizza, salad. Stacks of it, for you to just help yourself. Now I’ve seen Academy slop I realise why people think kids at the Learning Community are so privileged. At the time we were all so busy talking about our latest projects that often I hardly noticed what I was eating. I remember Mel Ross, a girl in my Science group, was worried about putting on weight, so she’d leave most of her food. I think of her plate with a juicy burger and golden chips. Specials would kill to have food like that and we all just took it for granted.
‘Was it good eating?’ Kay asks me again.
‘It was good. It was really good.’
Kay sighs and flops back on her bed with her hands behind her head. She’s rolled her sleeves right up and I find myself looking at the pale skin on the inside of her upper arms.
‘I tell you what, Kay. One day I am going to take you for a burger,’ I say suddenly.
She laughs. ‘That’s a can’t-won’t. I’m going to stop hearing you; you put bad thinks . . . I mean, bad thoughts in my head. But you make me laugh.’
I puff out my breath. I know that the Leadership wants us to equip ourselves to fulfil our potential, but what does that really mean? Would it matter if Kay learned Algebra? And why shouldn’t she have a burger?
&n
bsp; ‘It just doesn’t seem fair that they only teach you things that are useful for the electronics factory. Why can’t you have some choice in your job?’
‘What work do the Learning Community brainers do?’
‘They’re employed in the Leadership.’
‘All the brainers are working for the Leadership?’
‘Well, yes, but you could do lots of different things. Be an adviser, run a department, be a local leader, head an industry—’
‘I don’t know those things. Is it all for the Leadership?’
‘Yes.’
‘So no choice-ing for the brainers too.’
I feel a rush of annoyance. ‘It’s not the same thing. And anyway I’m trying to ask you about the Academy curriculum; do you ever do any text-based work?’
Kay stiffens. ‘You keep doing it! You make me feel like nozzle crust. I don’t know your big words.’
I screw up my face. ‘Sorry. Sometimes I just open my mouth and . . . I just wanted to know, do you ever do any reading or writing?’ I say.
Kay lifts her hands then slaps them down on her blanket. ‘King Hell, Blake! You don’t get it. They don’t want reader-writer-brainers, they want factory workers. You can’t have little-kid-nice thoughts all the time. Reading is trouble. Readers get . . .’ She raises her hands again and moves them as if she’s shaking me. ‘They get . . .’ She curls her fists. ‘Urrr! I don’t know your big words!’ She slams a fist backwards into the headboard. ‘That’s what readers get!’ Then she throws herself on to her front and yanks her blanket over her head. ‘Take me for a burger! Stupid!’ she says.
And that’s when I first realise: she can’t read.
None of them can.
‘I could teach you to read,’ I say.
The lump under the blanket doesn’t reply.
‘No need to thank me. I don’t mind giving up my time to help you,’ I say.
‘I don’t need a help from you,’ she says from under the covers.
‘I didn’t need any help from you in that fight.’
Kay flings off her covers. ‘You did need a help. He was killing you.’
‘Speaking of near-death experiences, what about that night in the kitchen? You let me help you then.’
Kay sticks out her chin. ‘You can give me helps when it’s a danger thing—’
‘That’s very gracious of you.’
‘But reading is trouble. I don’t want trouble.’
‘Why is it trouble?’
‘You know the things they do to Specials who do the things that the Academy don’t want them to do.’
I do know. I’ve seen Lanc’s face. I’ve smelled the singed hair of Specials when they receive electric shocks and I’ve heard the screams coming from the LER room. And what about being sent to the Wilderness? Would they really do that to someone just because they tried to learn how to read? I’m starting to think that they would. It makes me wonder about all the other people who get sent to the Wilderness. Do they deserve it?
‘What is it?’ Kay asks.
‘I’m trying to understand why they wouldn’t like it. Why it is that they don’t teach you to read?’ I say.
‘We don’t need to read to be a factory worker.’
‘Everybody needs to learn to read.’
Kay pulls a face.
‘Okay, what you’re saying is that being a factory worker is the only job where you don’t have to be able to read. So, if they don’t let you learn to read then you can’t become anything else other than a factory worker,’ I say.
‘What’s “else”?’
‘I mean you can only be a factory worker. If you can’t read then you can’t choose what you want to be.’
‘We talked this before. I’m a Special. I don’t get a choose. It’s not a thing if I can read or if I can’t read.’
‘I guess that’s what they want you to think, but I don’t understand it. I mean if it doesn’t matter, why would they try so hard to make sure you don’t learn?’
She shrugs.
I think about all that stuff to do with potential again. I don’t see how anyone here gets to fulfil their potential, because the people running Academies have put a limit on what Specials can achieve. It’s stupid.
‘I think it’s because they’re afraid,’ I say. ‘You know – scared. If Specials learn to read you can learn more things, find stuff out, read about other people – different ways of living. Realise that you should not be treated the way that you are. Maybe they don’t want you to learn to read because it would give you power.’
‘You can get power from reading?’
‘Yes. Yes, you really can.’
She pauses to consider this.
‘Can you teach me all quiet and no telling?’ she says finally.
‘Yes, I can teach you in secret.’
She nods quickly.
I’m not really sure how to start, but then I think of Wilson’s poetry book. I’ve never taught anyone to read, but I imagine the alphabet is the best place to start.
I go and get the book from my hiding place and bring it back to Kay. I open the book to the first page and point to the letter A.
‘That’s one,’ Kay says.
‘Yes, it’s the first letter of the alphabet.’
‘No, that goes with number one.’
She can see I don’t understand.
‘And this . . .’ she finds a B and points to it. ‘This is the two.’
‘Second letter, yes. How do you know that? Do you know the third?’
She points to a C.
‘Where—?’
‘On the door code thing.’
Of course. All of the doors have keypads with both letters and numbers on. A is on the same key as 1.
Kay carries on pointing out letters in order and I tell her their names and sounds. She goes right through the alphabet.
‘How did you do that?’ I say.
‘I just think-back the things, the letters, and how they go.’ She draws a line from left to right in the air.
‘You remembered what order they came in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Just from looking at the door-code keypads? Even though you didn’t know the letter names?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though they must have looked like random symbols to you, some of them with only minor differences to differentiate them and even though there are twenty-six of them and you were mostly only close enough to see them in the night, when it’s dark?’
She laughs. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying.’ She smiles at me and my stomach flips over. ‘What is it you think?’ she says.
‘I’m thinking you won’t need too many lessons before you can read.’
I’m right. Kay is very quick and she’s soon sounding out words. When Ilex hears about the lessons he wants to learn too. So he and Ali join us for every session. We have to find quiet corners to hide in so that no one finds out. Ilex is plodding and methodical, but he’s getting there. It’s difficult with Ali as she still doesn’t talk. I have to ask her a lot of yes/no questions to gauge whether she has understood. I feel sure that she could speak. I try to get her just to make some noises to start with, but it doesn’t work. She gets frustrated and tearful.
‘It’s okay, Ali,’ Ilex says. ‘The thing you want to say is, “Ilex is the goodest”.’
‘You mean “best”,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Ali wants to say, “Ilex is the best brother.” You don’t need saying it. I know it.’
This makes Ali laugh and smack her fist against her hand and then point two fingers downwards. It’s the ‘loser’ sign that she did to Urva. It gives me an idea.
‘Hey Ali, do you know any more signs?’
Ali’s eyes flick sideways to Ilex. She shakes her head.
‘I do. Shall I teach you some?’
When I was a baby my mother used to sign to me to encourage me to communicate before I could talk. It worked. She’s always going on about how I coul
d ask for ‘more food’ in sign language before the other kids my age had said their first word. We kept it up even after I learned to talk; we’ve used it less and less as I’ve got older, but I still remember a lot and when I don’t know the correct sign to show Ali I just make one up. At first Ali is shy, but soon she’s joining in with our conversations.
‘You know what would really help us?’ I ask one night when we’re having a lesson crammed in a toilet cubicle just to be on the safe side.
More books? signs Ali.
‘Burgers and chips?’ Kay says.
I look at her. She gets this look like a naughty elf when she’s taking the mickey. I pretend to scowl.
‘What?’ Ilex says.
‘What?’ I say absently, still looking at Kay.
‘What would help?’ Ilex says.
‘Oh. A pen. Or a pencil.’
What’s that? signs Ali.
Turns out that none of them have ever seen, or even heard of, a pen or a pencil. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, they wouldn’t be much use here. It’s so strange what the Academies don’t have; things I’d taken for granted just don’t exist to Specials. At the Learning Community, pens were left lying around on desks. At home we had a fat clay pot stuffed with them. Sometimes my mother would stick one in her hair, to hold up her messy bun.
I do my best to describe what a pen looks like to the others, ‘We should all keep our eyes open for one. Then you could practise writing as well as reading.’
Ali nods.
‘Yes,’ Ilex says.
Kay looks at me solemnly.
I feel proud of my little class.
After Ilex drops Ali off at her dormitory he comes to sit on my bed. Kay is off chatting to Red girls who have just come back from one of their Red meetings.
‘Ali likes reading,’ Ilex says.
‘Yep, and she’s doing really well . . .’ I pause. It’s sweet the way Ilex cares for Ali – in the Learning Community no one took much notice of their siblings. But there’s something that has been bothering me about Ali. She’s a lot younger than Ilex; when he started at the Academy, at five, she wouldn’t have even been born. And it’s not like the Academy kids are ever let home for visits. ‘Ilex? How do you know that Ali is your sister?’