by Nōnen Títi
I’m on the edge of my seat, aware of Dad, who has collected our coats from the hall cupboard, getting impatient for our outing, but also fascinated since it is suddenly becoming clear to me why I’ve been a loner all my life. Nikos accepts his coat without making an effort to get up or stop his explanation.
“In schools, competition between students is encouraged by the system with trophies, grades, performances, report cards, badges and everything else that compares one student to the group with the expectation that it will force everyone to produce similar results. It’s what they call ‘excellence’ but the standards that define ‘excellent’ are standards of conformity, not individuality. The social roles people are expected to play are aimed at conformity too. Yours is that of an ignorant student – you can interact with your year group, your gender group and your house group, depending on the situation. Teachers play a similar role, that of knowledgeable adult, who can interact on a friendly but not too friendly basis with their colleagues, but not with the students. All these interactions are limited to what is acceptable within the assigned groups, while the topics permitted between different groups is just as limited, but differently.
“These limitations aren’t always written; they’re indirect and moral laws. The rules about what you’re supposed to wear, for instance. Older grades wear different colours. Boys and girls often aren’t allowed to wear identical clothing; if girls are allowed trousers, they have to be a different colour. Every school has its own uniform so that even outside of school hours you can be identified as belonging to a certain group and interacting with the others is frowned on.
“The result is that every deviation, every difference, is used to make people feel guilty or ashamed so that they’ll conform, which in turn makes people look for an escape, so many resort to drugs and violence, which in turn is blamed on belonging to ‘the wrong’ groups. Yet the system doesn’t realise that it’s doing this and thus it wastes its money and energy on policies, counsellors and neurological research meant to deal with the addictions, the segregation and the subsequent bullying that they themselves have created.
“This is how civilization deals with the instincts it can’t deny. The idea that we’ve overcome nature because we’re so moral or intelligent is as big-headed as it was to think that white people were more civilized than blacks or that the sun was the centre of the universe and Earth the centre of the Solar System-”
“That’s right,” Dad interrupts Nikos, “but Jerome isn’t one of your students, so could you stop lecturing and get us out of here so we can go and enjoy that civilization before the day’s over?”
We call Rowan and then Grandpa Will before going into the city. Dad and Nikos treat me as if I’m an adult. First we go to a theatre and we sit in a café until late and nobody asks for my age when we order drinks. We even spend the night in a small hotel. On Sunday we get back in time to drop me off at Mr Shriver’s house like last week. I have a new poem with me, the one I started after Mariette accused me of being judgemental. I’m trying very hard to deal with that in this poem, which I named Selectivist.
Without explaining what caused the fight, I tell these people, who I know I can trust not to criticize me, how Mariette’s words shocked me. “I couldn’t believe I was being like that. I denied it. I was furious with her, but the idea didn’t let me go. Deep down I know she was right, but I can’t bring myself to admit that to her. I don’t want to be like that.”
When Mr Shriver, who we call Palmer here, drives me home in the sloshing rain later, he recalls me saying that. “You’re not the only one dealing with this issue, Jerome. When the student protest started last term, I was very judgmental. Bram – Mr Fokker – alerted me to that. He told me to ignore the age differences and you know what, Jerome? I should have known that. I treat the young people here as equals. I even talked about it in class, but I didn’t apply it there.”
“Because of the uniforms. They’re a barrier, like a cultural divide.”
“Maybe. Is your father better now?”
“Seems to be. At least with Nikos there I don’t have to worry any more.”
“You can still come and talk to me if you need to,” he says.
“I know.”
I get home just in time for dinner. Mariette doesn’t turn up until after we’ve finished and she heads straight for her room without acknowledging Aunt Karen.
I follow her upstairs. “How did the meeting go in this rain?” I ask.
“The bastard sent the police after us on suspicion of drinking and destruction, so they forced us to take one of those tests and then told us to go home or else. We weren’t doing anything. We weren’t even near the buildings. I’m going to kill him, Jerome. He’s so dead!”
“Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
I might as well have said it to the walls.
“Did you know PM assaulted two girls in uniform in his previous school and one of them was injured?” she says to some of the year eight girls who tend to gossip a lot. By recess the whole school is buzzing with the news.
“He’ll kick you out.”
“Yeah, and guess what will happen then? Besides, he’ll be too busy refuting accusations and worries from parents for the rest of the year.”
Mariette isn’t the only one to be upset. Today the stickers saying “SDF member” are worn openly and aggressively. Bleached shirts are being worn again and the permanent markers go around to graffiti both the shirts and the walls of the buildings. “We’re only doing what they already accused us of anyhow,” Charlotte says.
Two students who openly say they don’t want to support the cause are being threatened; one is punched.
When I say that I’m worried about that, Mick turns on me. “Are you with us or against us?”
“I’m just saying, be careful.”
Mr Shriver begins his class with a similar concern. “I don’t know who set off this nasty rumour, but I’m pretty sure it came from someone in this group,” he says and adds that Mr Moralis has gone home ill.
“Isn’t not standing up to something that’s being said the same as admitting to a wrong?” Mariette asks.
“This isn’t acceptable and it’s very dangerous, Mariette.” Mr Shriver is red-faced and I feel both guilty and sorry for him.
“You’re damn right it’s dangerous; it’s called freedom of speech.”
“Insults are not freedom of speech, Mariette. Insults are an invitation to hostilities and only expressed for that reason. You’re deliberately lying and if they find out where the rumour began you’ll be in serious trouble.”
“I only have it from hearsay. It isn’t on the net or anything, you know. I’m not stupid; just word of mouth. How will they prove that? And by the way, he lied about us drinking and he got us insulted by those two monkeys who of course don’t hesitate to beat kids up under the protection of their uniforms.”
“They did? I didn’t see that,” Lindsey says.
“What do you think?” Mariette asks her.
“Stop this right now! Nobody was beaten up!” Mr Shriver is almost shouting.
“How would you know? You weren’t there.”
“Stop it, Mariette,” I tell my cousin.
Kathleen also tries, but Mick and Charlotte counter us. Within the two hours of English, Charlotte has all of her girls repeating that people were beaten up and arrested without proof. I stay behind. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop her,” I tell Mr Shriver.
“It’s okay, Jerome. I understand that you’re stuck in the middle. You don’t need to feel obliged to take my side and you can still come on Sundays. The two are separate. But you also don’t have to stick with your cousin just because she’s family.”
“I know.”
I reluctantly leave him to join my classmates. Here we have to stick to the roles society assigned us. It isn’t real, but it’s accepted.
Pat has made a cartoon showing the police beating up students with PM standing by smiling. She and Charlotte make
a heap of copies and hand them out to anybody who wants one, and during lunch they appear all over the buildings.
An assembly is called during period five in which Mr Shriver tries to downplay the rumours, but as Mariette said, it’s hardly believable without PM there to stand up to them.
“Why isn’t he here then?” Mick shouts.
Mr Shriver advises Mariette to go home for the rest of the day. “I know it was you and I suggest you use this time to clean up your computer,” he says.
Mariette glares at me and it’s only later I realize that she thinks I told him about that wanted poster, but I never did. I thought she already erased that.
She turns dinnertime into a tirade of hatred for the system to which neither my aunt nor uncle have a reply.
“You’ve had your revenge, will you please calm down?” I ask her when we’re upstairs.
“You don’t know how insulting it was to be accused without proof.”
“But you hadn’t taken anything so the tests came out clean and they had to let you go.”
“It was the test that was the accusation, don’t you see that? It’s the most humiliating thing ever.”
“Yeah, I understand that, but being this angry will only hurt others, Mariette.”
“Good. That’s what they get for sending soldiers after us. It’s the existence of soldiers that causes wars, didn’t you know that?”
There’s no talking to her.
On Tuesday Fred isn’t there. “He’s leaving school. I had an SMS this morning,” Kathleen says. “PM reported that he dressed in girls’ clothes to his father. Sean says PM uses the year sevens as spies. They’re supposed to report the names of all the people involved in every prank to him. One of the girls was assigned to watch me but she told Sean instead of PM.”
That news only fuels the anger. In careers Mick and Mariette start a discussion that the teacher can’t possibly control. She’s visibly scared of this aggression and ends up sitting in the corner pretending she’s allowing it. New posters are spread around, this time showing PM in a school dress surrounded by a group of year sevens with spy glasses.
I try calling Fred at recess but get no answer, so I send him an e-mail during InfoTech hoping that his non-technical father won’t know how to stop those. At lunchtime I’m told that several teachers have gone home after being unable to keep order and two year seven spies ended up in sickbay for being bullied. I’d like to speak out against it, but I don’t. Josh does open his mouth and gets into a scuffle.
“This is ridiculous, Mariette. This is going to end in war,” Kathleen warns. “You might be using words but Mick and Charlotte use physical means. Stop it right now. You were the leader, don’t let Mick take over.”
“You’re a bunch of puppets to the system. Don’t you see they want to set us up against each other? We started this decently; they’re the ones threatening us with the police. They wanted to teach us civics – well, they’re making a damn good job of it.”
Kathleen responds by saying their friendship is over and turns her back.
I decide to do what Mr Fokker does: be independent. “I think PM is wrong, but I also don’t think Mariette and Mick are right using their anger to cause a riot,” I tell Kathleen.
I don’t see the point of going in on Wednesday but I have this strange notion that I need to be there to at least try to keep Mariette out of trouble.
We have English first, but Mr Shriver arrives late, just when most of the class is about to leave. He looks flustered. “Get back to your seats. I have to be principal as well as teach class at the moment, so you can be patient.”
“The five minutes are up; we’re only following the rules,” Charlotte says.
“There was never a five minute rule in the first place and the only rule that counts is that you obey the staff.”
“Is that how Mr Morality got his schoolgirls to do what he wanted?” Mariette asks.
All of a sudden Mr Shriver shoves aside the empty desk between them and comes to a halt right in front of her. I think my heart stops for a moment, but he controls himself.
Mariette barely flinches. “Well, do it. Indulge; see what publicity the school gets then,” she taunts.
Then Kathleen jumps on her. “Have you totally lost all your brain cells?” she yells as the chair slips and they both fall to the floor.
Mr Shriver breathes out and leaves the room, his face still red. I feel like going after him, but I don’t.
“You should have let him do it. That would reach the national papers,” Mick says to Kathleen.
“You’re mad,” I reply without thinking.
“Oh yeah, and who are you? You hide behind your cousin but she and I are taking all the risks.”
“I just don’t think it’s right.”
“And I don’t think it’s right that you call yourself SDF. You weren’t even with us on Sunday,” Mick says and pulls the sticker off my shirt.
“Yes Jerome, where were you?” Charlotte asks. “Will you back us up when we report Mr Shriver for abuse or are you on his side by any chance? Maybe it isn’t just PM who lusts after students, or do you take after your father?”
Suddenly I can feel them all looking at me. I can’t see Mariette, only Kathleen’s hair, but I can hear them both giggling so I pick up my bag and walk out – a little faster than I would have liked. Only once I’m in the yard do I let myself breathe again. I don’t want to go back to being the outcast, but I can’t be part of this lie. I’ll take Mr Shriver’s side if they accuse him. I have no choice. I’d have liked to go find him, but I leave the grounds and take the bus home. I tell Aunt Karen I was feeling sick, which is true by now, and take the phone to my room. “Grandpa Will?”
“Jerome, what is wrong?”
“I can’t do this anymore. You’ve got to help her. She’ll kill me for telling, but I can’t stop her.”
MARIETTE
“What’s going on here?” Mr Fokker, asks coming into the room.
Mr Shriver must have gone straight to him. They’re friends, even outside of school I think.
“Your vice-principal lost his nerve and hit her,” Mick answers.
“No, he didn’t,” Kathleen says.
“He almost did,” Mick insists.
“I’m dismissing all year tens for the remainder of the week. By Monday I want everything that happened from last term onwards on paper in your own words, first person singular and no copying. Anybody who can’t produce at least six A4 pages in size twelve font can go home for the rest of the year.”
He stands in the doorway while we all pack our bags. “Mariette, wait.”
I do what he says and I know what he wants.
“Did Mr Shriver hit you, yes or no?”
“No.”
“Did he threaten to?”
“…No.”
“Would he have liked to?”
“I guess.”
“Did he have reason to like that?”
“Yes, but-”
“That’s all I need to know. In addition you can write me a report on that book I gave you last week.”
“But I’ve only just read the introduction.”
“Then I suggest you go home and get to work.”
I catch up with the others at the school gate. By now there’s a holiday sort of mood among them. This sudden five-day break dissolves the anger. Even Kathleen isn’t mad at me anymore; that vanished the moment we ended up on the floor together. We hang around the milk bar for a bit and then drift off home. Mum is alone. “Are you sick too?” she asks.
“No, we’ve been given the week off.”
“What? I don’t believe you. You’ve been suspended again.”
“No Mum, if I had they’d have called you first just so they could gloat over your grovelling while thinking they’d never make such terrible parents themselves.”
Mum walks into the kitchen and slams the door. I go upstairs. I decide not to tell Jerome; I don’t feel like another lecture. Besides, I should�
��ve stood up for him.
Mum tells Dad at dinner with the usual warnings about this being the end of it.
“Mariette, this needs to stop. If you won’t listen to us, I will call the farm,” Dad says.
“Excuse me, but weren’t you on our side the last time I looked?”
“Last time there were no rumours about the police arresting students because of riots and destruction.”
“Where the-? Where did you hear that?”
He produces a letter from school. “I found it in the mailbox on my way out this morning. I wonder how many of those I’ve missed.”
“Whatever it says in that letter is a lie.”
“Have you read it?”
“I don’t need to; I know who wrote it.”
So Dad gives it to Jerome to read and when he’s done he puts it down between us. I pick it up. It’s an official notification to inform the parents that the rumours rest on the imaginative recounts of some students and the board finds no cause to worry about anything in the school principal’s past. His record is clean and a police check has been carried out. It’s actually signed by the school council, not PM.
“Where does it mention rioting and destruction?” I ask Dad.
“Nowhere. That I heard through the gossip channels in the local shops.”
“So they sent the police after his butt. Serves him right.”
“They didn’t,” Jerome says.
“Why not?”
“There’s no way they could have done all that and sent the letter if the rumour started on Monday.”
“Good point.” Gee, they must think parents are stupid. No harm in taking some precautions then. If they can write make-believe letters then so can I. The first one is from my trusted attorney, who expresses his concern about the rumour in name of his clients but offers his services in case Mr Moralis is blameless and needs representation. Suppose he responds? The second letter goes to the school council and stresses the need for proof that this police check has indeed been done this week. The last letter is meant for the parents to make them aware that the school is just saying the check has been done and that even the education board may not have been informed. After that I do what Mr Shriver told me to and delete everything to do with the attorney from my computer.