In the Real World

by Nōnen Títi

  Mariette jumps up, picks up her plate and hurls it at her mother. Miranda screams. Mariette storms out.

  “She’s punishing you for taking me,” I manage to say once she’s gone.

  “Don’t let her make you feel unwelcome,” Uncle Gerard says.

  “I like having a brother. Sisters are mean,” Miranda adds.

  I appreciate their efforts but it doesn’t change anything. I’m the cause of their problems. I help them clean up the mess and sit around for a bit, trying to ignore the choking feeling in my chest. I feel so out of place here. I want to go home, whatever home is. I’d like to go back to Grandpa Will. When I finally go to bed, I silently cry myself to sleep.

  MARIETTE

  I’d meant to sleep in but wake up at nine when the garage door closes. I jump out of bed to find nobody’s home and search for a note but there isn’t one. I check Miranda’s room, but her trainers and athletics shorts are there, and the shopping bags are still in the kitchen. So where did they go? Some Sunday-drive family-outing kind of thing, without me. They have a son now; I’m not needed.

  In Jerome’s room nothing has changed except that his diary is missing. Should I read the others? Nah, old stuff. I want to know what he feels now, but he shows little of it, just a polite smile and super good manners – to show me up, probably. I go down and put on some soft music while making breakfast. With a bit of luck I’ll have the entire day to myself.

  It turns out I do, but I don’t enjoy it as much as I would other times. At dusk they’re still not back. I’m starting to think something might have happened. No, or the police would be at the door; no news is good news. Maybe they’re driving Jerome back to the farm. Nah, all his stuff is still here.

  I need something to pass the time. I’ve finished my book, written a story, talked to Kathleen for over an hour and even vacuumed my room. The only thing left is the stupid English homework: “Cut out two articles and two different advertisements and highlight all the convincing language that persuades people to believe the message. The articles need a written explanation.”

  I look through Mum’s magazines from the paper basket. Articles galore, but most about really boring subjects I have no intention of reading. Plenty of advertisements, though.

  Serious about losing weight? Try our medical approach and lose fifty kilo in the first month.

  Facing police charges? Expert lawyers will represent you. No worries.

  The art of healthy living on a busy schedule starts with multi-vitamin tablets.

  Newest designer fashion now for half the price.

  Why do we need to study this? Anyone with half a brain can see the lying words jumping off the pages. Next I’m confronted with a picture of a small child with a swollen belly and pleading eyes that stare at me from sockets without flesh. This plea for donations doesn’t need any words. But I can’t justify using it as an advertisement, since it tells no lies. The one overleaf does: Ninety-seven percent fat-free chocolate. Indulge without guilt.

  I carefully pull the page out. I don’t need my highlighter for this.

  For the articles I resort to the neighbourhood paper. I don’t even have to open it. On the front page there’s an update from the local authority on the safety of the water supply in the light of the terrorism threats. Are those journalists stupid or something? Can’t they see they’ve become their own terrorists, writing this crap?

  Thanks to last weekend I find the next pages full of articles about the wars: Remembering the Victory. The article is asking for contributions to the war museum because apparently it hasn’t got enough memorabilia of the post-1945 war conflicts, like the Vietnam War, the Korean War and ‘other peace-keeping efforts’.

  “Peace-keeping!” I almost choke on my drink. I run my scissors around the story and highlight the word in pink and yellow and circle the word ‘other’ for emphasis.

  That’s two articles, but as I turn a few more pages I find an even better one: Our principal’s face under the slogan ‘Promoting Values, Nurturing Excellence and Creating Leaders’ that adorns the school’s main entrance. The article, a promotional for prospective parents, talks about the cooperation between the different institutions that help instil positive values into the school community; values like honesty, self-discipline and reliability. It lists the choices given to students in preparation for making the right career decisions. It claims to teach leadership skills to ensure that students will climb to the highest ranks and that it supports every student in reaching personal excellence.

  The article sure makes it sound that any parent not sending their kid to Flatland High will be denying them the security of a good future. Since I’m one of those students, given all this support and all those choices, I enjoy using my highlighter and scribble the accompanying essay for all three articles, and put away English, satisfied, only half an hour later.

  Not that I have anything else to do. It’s dark outside; seven o’clock. I need to eat something. They’ll have dinner out somewhere. I make myself some soup and bread and stick on the TV.

  “We should respect the judicial system of other countries,” says the prime minister.

  I change channels.

  “Marburg virus claims hundreds of lives every day,” a reporter in Angola tells me.

  I change again.

  “Misguided bombs have levelled a school in Iraq.”

  Fuck; next channel.

  “University students have attacked a minister who wants to lift compulsory union membership. One person was arrested.”

  I kick the control with my foot; it flies off the table.

  “There is no evidence that the children are being abused. They attend school outside of the camp and get to go on excursions.”

  “But they sleep behind barbed wire, don’t they?” the interviewer asks the official.

  “We are providing the best medical care and food supplies to make life as comfortable as possible.”

  “But they sleep behind wire?”

  “No comment.”

  I pick up the control and start channel-flipping vigorously. There isn’t anything worth watching: two stock market updates, at least that many ‘real life TV’ programmes, the weather channel, two pop music channels, about five sports channels and one chat show about the need for film ratings to protect young people. The only ones not meant for idiots, like National Geographic and Discovery, have repeats of shows I’ve already seen.

  I just wish they’d come home. What if they’re planning to stay somewhere overnight? I’m starting to hear sounds near the back door. They’ve done this on purpose: I’m not stupid. Probably Dad’s idea. As long as they don’t think I’m going to act like a tour guide tomorrow.

  I turn on all the lights and play Pink Floyd really loud. It’s Dad’s CD, but I’ve kind of borrowed it for the last few years. The first disc is almost finished when I hear the garage door open. I switch the player off and retreat to my room. It’s ten o’clock.

  JEROME

  It’s still dark when my alarm goes off, but I’ve been awake for some time. Monday morning; I hate Mondays. I already did at home. I hate school; I hate new schools even more. I always end up alone and that’s if things go well. Why can’t I do what Dad did; give it all over, get medications to forget, step out of life for a while?

  I step out of bed because I don’t want to make trouble for my aunt and uncle. I quickly shower so I’m out of the girls’ way. When I go downstairs I find Aunt Karen already busy preparing lunch boxes. She’ll drive us in today and get me started, she says.

  “Is there any use going through all this trouble if my dad may be better in a few weeks?”

  “Grandpa Will wants it this way, Jerome.”

  I give up trying. Grandpa Will seems to have everything arranged. I can’t eat. Miranda comes in, dressed in shorts despite the low temperature. “I hate pants and I hate dresses even more,” she explains. Because she’s in year six she has the names of all her classmates on the back of her shirt. Mariette
comes down when it’s almost time to go.

  “Don’t you have some new school shirts?” her mum asks, looking at me. I can feel her gauge the size.

  Mariette walks back out of the kitchen without a word and returns minutes later with two shirts, bright green and looking brand-new. The one she’s wearing is worn so thin that the colours of the t-shirt underneath are visible. She throws the shirts onto the table in front of me, nearly hitting the jam.

  “What about you?” I ask the obvious.

  “I never wear them. You need grey pants.”

  Mariette’s are clearly black, but I have some grey ones so I go up to change and return looking like a prisoner of yet another institution. In the car all I can think about is how much I hate schools.

  After dropping off Miranda, Aunt Karen takes us to the high school. Mariette hardly waits for the car to stop before jumping out and disappearing into the crowd. Even though I see that grey wasn’t a trick, I still feel like a circus animal on parade as I walk to the office with my aunt. Right now, I only want to be dead.

  We’re invited into a room by the principal. Aunt Karen arranged this last Friday and does all the talking. The grey-haired man rattles off the standard clichés and then asks his secretary to summon Mariette so she can show me around. In that case I’m most likely to end up in the wrong neighbourhood.

  Mariette comes into the lobby with a boy and a girl who both look at me while the secretary explains the request, but the moment Aunt Karen says goodbye Mariette leaves with her girlfriend.

  “Hi, I’m Fred,” the boy says. “Mariette said you’d prefer a guy to show you?”

  I’m suspicious, expecting a trap of some sort, but Fred doesn’t seem to have a secret agenda. He’s friendly and takes me for a walk around the grounds. It turns out that I have all the same classes he does except for history. We start with mathematics. The teacher is happy with a quick hello and pays no extra attention to me, which suits me fine. It looks like this class isn’t made up of number geeks, so I’m not too far behind, and during the first two periods I relax a little. At recess Fred introduces me to a whole group of year ten guys.

  “Are you Mariette’s cousin?” one of them asks.

  “Second cousin, actually.”

  “But your last name’s Puissant too?”

  None of them jokes or says ‘piss-ant’ or something like that. I’m not sure how to respond. “Yes.”

  They make a few more comments but nothing nasty. “Double English next,” I’m told.

  This teacher does the exact opposite of the first one. He makes a big deal out of me being new here and I wish I could walk out. “I don’t know if Mariette told you about our assignment for this week,” Mr Shriver says and explains that everybody was meant to have brought cut-out advertisements.

  I can’t see Mariette, who sits behind Fred and me. I haven’t been told and I don’t have anything.

  “Never mind, you can look for some once you’re settled in. Mariette, could you give the first presentation?” he asks.

  Fred tells me that everybody is supposed to give a verbal explanation about their cut-outs. In that case, I don’t think I’ll find any.

  I think Mariette kicks my bag on purpose when she walks by. She holds up her magazine page for everyone to see and then turns it around to show the other side. She repeats it a few times, showing the starving child and the chocolate ad but says nothing.

  “Well, what is it?” the teacher asks.

  She turns the picture again, this time towards him.

  “Which are the convincing tactics used here?”

  “That hardly needs explaining,” Mariette answers.

  “Which do you think is more convincing?” Mr Shriver insists.

  “I only want to know who put those two ads back to back inside one magazine, because that person should be shot.”

  “Okay, you’ve made your point,” the teacher says and moves on.

  For nearly an hour and a half I listen to the names of students, trying to remember them, as they take turns. At the end of class the teacher collects essays about journalist articles. I don’t have that either. Then it’s lunchtime.

  I’m now relaxed enough to be able to eat a little of Aunt Karen’s lunch and join Fred on a trip to the milk bar across the street. Mariette and her friend are just leaving the shop with hot chips when we arrive. They offer their home lunches around before throwing it into the bin.

  “What are you staring at?” Mariette suddenly barks at me.

  “Nothing, I was just remembering your picture in English.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I swear she blushes, but she turns away. I’m sure I blush too when I feel others looking at me.

  “Hi, I’m Kathleen. Mariette told me all about you,” the red-haired girl says.

  I can just imagine what that was like.

  “Are you the cousin who did the role play?” Fred wants to know.

  Having no idea what he means, I briefly shake my head.

  “Are you always this quiet?” Kathleen asks.

  I’m starting to feel self-conscious again and am more than relieved when the girls leave us alone. I go back with Fred for a double period of InfoTech and he gives me the particulars of the year ten students using a printed copy of the class photo.

  “There are four groups: The Strutters, led by Charlotte over there. She’s okay if you talk with her, but she usually doesn’t bother noticing me. They hang out with The Peacocks, the guys with the looks and, so, the girls. The third group is The Identity Clique, because they have none. They wear their uniforms, get all the trophies, high grades and badges for good behaviour and they’re never rude or late, and then there’s us. There are a few danglers who belong nowhere. Anyhow since you’re Mariette’s cousin I guess you’ll end up with us.”

  At the end of the day Fred has to take a different bus, so I follow Kathleen and Mariette and sit alone behind them. The ride is short but I’m exhausted and I leave Mariette in the kitchen to go to my room. It’s dark when Aunt Karen knocks on my door. “Dinner’s ready,” she says.

  I go down to find all four waiting for me. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You must have been tired. How was your first day?” Uncle Gerard asks.

  “It was okay as much as school can be.”

  “I see you share as much as Mariette does,” he laughs.

  Miranda, in contrast, tells us all the details of her day, so that by the end of dinner her plate is still half full and she pushes it away.

  Rowan calls me again and tells me, like Miranda, all about his first day of school. “Lizette wants to know if you’re okay,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Because of Dad, of course.”

  “I’m fine. Tell her I’m fine.”

  I also talk to Grandpa Will that evening, but it’s him who calls me. “I figured it’s either going so well that you’ve forgotten about me already or it’s not going so good and you don’t know how to tell me,” he says.

  I don’t answer him but ask after Dad.

  “It will take a while, Jerome. This isn’t some physical disease in which you see improvement each day. You need to be patient. Write him a letter for now. He needs to know you still love him.”

  I agree to do that and search for paper and pen to write down the address. That night I write in my diary for the first time since Dad got ill.

  Tuesday is more or less a repeat of Monday. Mariette and I don’t exchange more than ten words at best. Fred is nice and I don’t feel like an outcast. My aunt and uncle ask less questions and I find a bit of routine for showering and eating.

  Wednesday starts with English. Mariette gets into an argument with Mr Shriver about one of her articles not being appropriate for analysis.

  “Why not? Isn’t a promotional the same thing as an advert?”

  “Yes, but all you’ve done is criticize the contents of the article.”

  “Because it’s full of lies about mutual respect between teach
ers and students. I don’t see that here. Why don’t you have to wear this stupid monkey suit to begin with?”

  “The object of this lesson is to learn to recognize convincing language, not to discuss the politics of the school system.”

  “That’s what I did, but because it concerns your home turf you don’t want to accept it, which proves my point, doesn’t it? There is no mutual respect.”

  “Where does all this anger suddenly come from?” Mr Shriver asks her.

  “From all men being a waste of space on this globe.”

  Mariette’s words are met with loud protest from the guys, a frown from the teacher and some jokes from the popular kids suggesting that she broke up with a boyfriend.

  “Since you brought in three articles, this one will not affect your grade,” Mr Shriver says, trying to reassure her, but it has the opposite effect.

  “No, I don’t want you to grade the others. I want this one acknowledged for what it is: the use of a shit-load of empty words to make the school sound better than it is.”

  “I agree with her. I read that article too,” Fred says.

  A few other voices speak out and suddenly Mariette gets the support from most of the class. Mr Shriver agrees to accept the essay, but from now on the subjects are to be neutral.

  The agreement lasts all of twenty minutes at which point Mr Shriver divides us all into teams for a debating contest later this term. He explains the rules of debate: Each team has three people and every two teams are assigned the same subject. One team debates for and the other against a statement or proposal. He puts me into a team with Fred and a girl called Pat to argue in favour of wearing uniforms.

  “You might as well give me an F right away. I can’t argue for that,” Fred says.

  Like Mariette’s, his is technically a uniform, but it’s worn, faded, paint-splattered and has buttons missing.

  “Same here. If you tell us what to think and make us prepare it, it’s not a debate anymore, it’s a rehearsal,” Pat says.

  They both turn to me. I avoid the teacher’s eyes and nod.

  “Debating is about convincing people. You need to follow the rules but you don’t have to stand behind the issue right now. This is a learning situation,” Mr Shriver says.