In the Real World

by Nōnen Títi

  “Yes.”

  “Can you also see that some people might start attacking before they’re hit, to defend themselves against anticipated attacks, maybe a bit like seeing evidence of a conspiracy to blow up the school in a few misplaced jokes and a collection of everyday items?”

  I can now.

  “So how would a situation like that be reversed?” he asks.

  I was already wondering if we’d ever get out of this mess. “I’m not sure.”

  “Would it help if people started meeting the others on a personal basis, so the ‘them’ and ‘us’ is removed – so they can learn that maybe they aren’t so different after all; that clothing, whether burka or school uniform, is just that?”

  I know what he means. That’s what he did with Jerome and both of them have been blamed for it. “Is that what I’m doing, hitting in advance?” I ask.

  “And seeing everything the school does as an attack against you personally. Can you remember what the very first quarrel between you and Mr Moralis was about, Mariette? What was the incident that set off this war?”

  I’m not sure anymore. He insulted me with that contract. “It was about being allowed an opinion at the end of term two?”

  “What if I told you it was at the start of term two, when you decided to hate men in general and, in a response to me, attacked him because it was convenient? Or did he personally do anything to you except exist before you were suspended?”

  I remember the assembly, my words to Mr Shriver, Charlotte’s response, Lindsey’s debate and the jokes that followed. I try to find anything that might have happened before that, but I know I won’t.

  “You’ve made him into a monster in your mind, Mariette, because you needed a reason to hate him. I am not saying you were the only one responding like this, but it goes two ways. It isn’t just that you were forced to wear the clothes and we pointed at you; you used it as well and for the same reason. You also walked in as one big group and felt powerful because of it, didn’t you?”

  I can’t come up with acceptable excuses anymore and I’m utterly sick of lectures.

  “It is no longer really important who started it, Mariette; what’s important is who will stop it. One side will have to back down first before peace talks can begin. I’m pleading with you to show me the maturity to take this step. You’ve proven, more than once, to have the insight to understand the need for that.”

  With that he’s already won his case and I think he knows it. Besides, I owe him big time. “I’ve already been ordered to do that.”

  “Good, now I hope you’ll heed that order for everybody’s sake. There are certain things that might not be reversible and you will have to accept them no matter how unjust they are. Tomorrow at the assembly there will be yet another announcement about the state of affairs. I’ll tell you now what they’ll be so you can prepare and control yourself, and I want your promise that you’ll stop harassing Jerome for having come for help this morning.”

  “I wasn’t. Honest. I’m not blaming you, Jerome. I knew you’d go for help – you even told me you would… I’m even glad you did.”

  “In that case your soldiers are acting without your permission, Mariette,” Mr Shriver says.

  “I’ll tell them to stop, I promise.”

  “Good. Now, concerning Kathleen and Sean. The bottle had only water in it, no traces of petrol; the rag was a handkerchief and so there was no evidence. This means we might have a chance with their student profiles, for which I’ll go in tomorrow and try to explain that it was fear that had them accused, but the chance is small. I don’t want a riot at the assembly no matter what the outcome.”

  “I’m not sure they’ll listen to me.”

  “You make them listen.”

  “Neither will the board listen to an English teacher when the school counsellor says otherwise, right?” Jerome asks.

  “Which doesn’t give either of you the right to go attacking her, remember that. Now I suggest you go home and calm down.”

  “I can give you a ride,” Mr Fokker says.

  We accept his offer since the bus has long since left. I have no idea what to say in the car, so I stay quiet. Jerome looks out the window and Mr Fokker doesn’t talk either except when asking for directions. He drops us off at the curb.

  “Thank you. Not just for the ride.”

  He nods only.

  Before I have a chance to turn around, Mum comes almost falling out of the front door with Miranda right behind her. “What happened?”

  “Nothing, Mum.”

  “They said a group of masked students raided the school this morning and you were arrested and then you weren’t home – I was just about to ring the police.”

  “They would have called you,” I tell her.

  She looks at me as if this is the first time that occurred to her. Only then does she seem to notice Mr Fokker, who has meanwhile stopped the engine and stepped out. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I keep hearing all those rumours. Would you like some coffee?”

  Now I’ll never hear the end of it.

  While Mum boils the kettle he sits at the kitchen table and briefly describes what’s been going on in the last few days. Miranda sits by, ears on stilts. I can see Mum getting more and more agitated until she knocks over the filter with the dry coffee in it. “I’m calling the farm. I can’t do this anymore.”

  Jerome jumps up to help her out.

  “Maybe you should let me talk with your mother alone,” Mr Fokker says.

  Sure, send me away like a little kid.

  Jerome responds first. “Come on Miranda, you too,” he says. “So what happened for real?” my sister asks when we’re in the living room.

  “None of your business.”

  Jerome doesn’t agree and tells her, softening the details, but he does mention Kathleen and Sean.

  “So did they make them sit in a cell?”

  “No, they probably beat them into admitting they’re terrorists.”

  “Really?”

  “Shut up, Mariette. No, not really,” Jerome answers.

  I go to the bathroom to avoid more problems. It makes me angry just thinking of what they would have done. Then I go to my room and spit out onto paper what’s threatening to come out the wrong way otherwise. I don’t know what people did before paper and pen were invented. When I go down for dinner, Mr Fokker is gone and Dad’s already been told. “Maybe you should stay home tomorrow,” he says.

  “I can’t. I’ve been ordered to keep my troops in check.”

  Mum bites her lip, trying to not respond. I see her do it and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself: “Actually Mum, mine is a guerrilla army. We’re about to take over the local schools.”

  “Couldn’t you just leave, Mariette, go back to your room?” Jerome asks.

  “What?”

  “Go back upstairs. We don’t want you here right now.”

  A thousand lines cross my mind, like the one reminding him that he’s the one who doesn’t belong in this family, but I say none of them.

  He just sits there, apparently calm, but I know he isn’t, while Mum, Dad and Miranda all stare at us. They’ll be on his side anyway.

  “Maybe I could just let my soldiers do what they want to you after all,” I say before doing what he suggested.

  Once again – I’ve lost count of how many times – Jerome and I get ready for school the next morning without speaking. This time I’m in proper school uniform, my concession to Mr Shriver’s plea. Dad drives us in. I go straight to Mr Fokker’s room. “So did Mum tell you what a horrible person I am?”

  “I still didn’t get the copy of the declaration,” he replies.

  I have to wonder why him saying something like that doesn’t anger me – quite the contrary – but anything Mum says, like PM, gets on my nerves. I know I’m a bitch. I just don’t understand why. Am I calm enough to get through the day without problems? I hope so.

  JEROME

  Mr Shriver doesn’t leav
e until recess, so I spend the first two periods in his room to avoid PE and Charlotte. For English the whole class joins a group of year elevens in Mr Fokker’s room for a movie. Then we have history in the same room.

  “I’m getting tired of having to fear for my safety all the time,” Charlotte says to no one in particular.

  ’Do you now? Then why don’t you leave?” Mr Fokker asks her.

  “Where would I go? I don’t have a secret liaison with a teacher like the Puissants do.”

  “In that case you can go to the principal’s office.”

  Charlotte doesn’t actually get up and go but she makes a few more of those remarks. Mr Fokker tells her she can rest assured that he won’t be here much longer and then she can feel safe again.

  “As long as you don’t think that I’m going to sit here and listen to that historical nonsense until Wednesday,” she answers.

  Things are different since yesterday, ever since the whole school stood by and saw Mariette being removed by Mr Fokker without protest, ever since Charlotte stood up at recess and suggested that maybe Mariette had an agreement with the enemy. How was it that she got away on Wednesday? How was it that Mr Fokker was there just in time to stop her being arrested? When Pat objected to the accusation, she was told that now was the time to decide which side she was on.

  “I thought we were all on the same side,” Pat replied.

  “No. There are students, there are teachers, and there are traitors.”

  Pat backed off then and I can’t blame her for that. I didn’t even try to go near them. Before the bell for third period sent everybody back inside, Charlotte had secured her position. Her father had been in this school forever. He was on the council. Nobody would kick him out. He would back Charlotte up. They couldn’t lose.

  I dread lunchtime. “Do you think Mr Shriver will be back yet?”

  “Why, are you worried about going out there on your own?” Mr Fokker asks.

  I can hardly deny that.

  “Mariette will go with you.”

  We sit down together on the wall behind the gym. “Is Charlotte giving you a hard time?” my cousin asks.

  “She’s angry because she was booked for destruction on Wednesday and got into a lot of trouble at home. Her father brought her to school yesterday, which is why she wasn’t with you.”

  “How is that your fault?”

  “It isn’t, but people always need to blame someone when they’re angry at someone else. You know the example of the man who gets told off by his boss and goes home to shout at his wife, who then smacks her child, who kicks the dog.”

  Mariette takes some time to think that over. “But you don’t do that, Jerome. Why is it that some people are so easily insulted and others just accept being stepped on and get on with it?”

  “I guess it depends on the circumstances. You don’t hear about people in poor countries taking their own life because the future isn’t as rosy as it seemed. They’re more easily satisfied, maybe.” To myself I admit that I don’t fall in that category any more than Mariette does.

  It’s lonely without Fred and Kathleen here. “I wrote you something, Mariette. I, uh…” I dig my latest poem out of my bag. “Mr Shriver said to let you read it. Will you?”

  “Sure. I’m beginning to get used to being put in my place.” She takes the paper while I read quietly along from beside her.

  Ruler of words, wielded

  when challenging the limit.

  I will be your shadow

  so you can be the sun.

  Mover of hands, gesticulating

  when driving the wall.

  I will be the calm

  when you cause the commotion.

  Persona incognita,

  kindred, mask of the anima;

  writer, director staging a play.

  Why do you lead our path?

  Why do I follow,

  when longing in silence

  it was the other way?

  Why do I fear your passion;

  much as I admire it?

  I feel so close

  and yet beyond control.

  I cannot match his power;

  the object of your challenge.

  But he can’t be there

  when night falls on us all.

  Let it be me

  who holds your tired spirit.

  Make it my bed

  you dream your private dream.

  When you submit at night

  to secret wishes,

  can you trust me

  as guide of your life’s rein?

  She stays silent long after I think she’s finished. I’m afraid to breathe. “Shit Jerome, I have no idea what to do with this,” she finally says. “It’s only a draft.”

  “But you showed Mr Shriver?”

  “Not all of it. Just the first bit.”

  She looks back at the paper, checking, and then gasps. “Am I really that transparent, Jerome?”

  “No.”

  “Is that what I do it for? Everybody says it, but I didn’t know. Is that what you think?”

  I shake my head. She does the same a moment later and then looks at me. “I’m sorry – sorry for making you feel this. I never thought. I thought of you as my brother.”

  “That’s good enough for me, Mariette.”

  I’m not sure if she believes me, nor am I sure it’s true.

  Despite her comments Charlotte doesn’t skip civics after lunch.

  “Now, about one of the issues that consumed this class in term three, the right to wear individual clothing; has your opinion changed or are you still hoping the local MP will come with an answer?” Mr Fokker begins the class.

  The general consensus is that the politician accepting our petition was being friendly for the sake of the local news and that he’s never made any effort in passing it on.

  “So what will you do? Will you try again or will you keep wearing your uniform?”

  The answers are shocking.

  “It’s useless; it won’t get solved before we finish year twelve.”

  “Next year we get white shirts, so we’ll be different anyway.”

  “I’d rather concentrate on studying.”

  “Next year we don’t have civics anymore, so it wouldn’t count,” Lindsey says.

  “Are you really that stupid or are you faking your age?” Mariette asks her.

  “What about you wearing a uniform all of a sudden; is that what your teacher likes?” Lindsey replies, blatantly ignoring Mr Fokker. “That’s the stupidest thing ever.”

  “Yes, Mariette, why would you be siding with the abuser unless you like that kind of thing? Must be a nepotistic occupation, teacher sucking.”

  “Fine, Charlotte, why don’t you go back to parading in your underwear for the pleasure of PM Dick and tell me what that is?”

  “Enough, Mariette,” Mr Fokker says.

  “Excuse me, but didn’t you hear what they said? Weren’t you there when they insulted you?”

  “Maybe I choose not to respond and I don’t need you to do so on my behalf. You made a promise yesterday.”

  “Yes, listen to your daddy or he may hit you,” Charlotte continues.

  “Because it’s all your fault nobody can feel safe anymore, because you ruin everybody’s chance to get their exams,” Lindsey adds.

  “Darling, you wouldn’t get past an entrance exam for prep,” Mariette can’t help but reply.

  “Well, you’re gonna get kicked out same as Mr Fokker, and then you won’t get a job like us.”

  “A job like you? Showing your butt to everybody in the street in the hope they offer you money and you call that feeling safe?”

  Mr Fokker slaps the newspaper he’s been rolling up since this last exchange started down on his desk with a bang that makes us all jump. “I said enough. Your place is in that corner and if you can’t sit in it, you can stand up,” he says to Mariette. Then he warns the rest of the class to be calm during the assembly. “If any of you feel you can�
��t manage to stay quiet, you have my permission to go home now.”

  “Who wants your permission?” Charlotte asks and gets up to leave. Her followers go with her. But they don’t do what Mr Fokker suggested and I hoped for; they’re in the gym when the assembly starts. Mr Shriver isn’t.

  PM calls for silence and gets it. “Boys and girls,” he starts in his denigrating manner and follows it with a speech about peer pressure and anarchy and how that cannot be tolerated. The school has a policy against vandalism which the expelled students were aware of. “It was unfortunate that these ‘jokes’ were overheard by the police rather than the school staff, as they would have been more lenient, but as it is, the case is no longer in my hands.”

  He adds that Mr Shriver has not yet returned and therefore we’re forced to wait until Monday before knowing what the board has ruled, but he stresses that he will abide by it. “However, for the rest of you we have, after some discussion, decided to give even those who strayed from the right path one more chance to redeem themselves. After today, any person who causes trouble, protests or is otherwise active in a manner detrimental to the learning process will be removed without further discussion and I now have the written approval from the education board to do so.”

  Then Mariette does something I’ve never seen her do before: She raises her hand for attention.

  “That goes for you too. I said no more protests,” PM snaps at her.

  “What about that plea for reconsideration?” she shouts back.

  “There will be no joint teacher-student petition going anywhere and that is the last word I will say about it,” PM says and then, before Mariette can open her mouth again, he sends everybody home early without even playing the anthem.

  I find Mariette talking to Mr Fokker. “It wasn’t likely to work anyway,” he tells her. “You started your revolution with ideas that were new to most of them, one at the time, using a popular vote. Now you want to convince everybody of the opposite in one speech. They won’t be able to follow that kind of change so fast. Your best chance is to make them see your point one step at the time, like you did before. Write your own petition and bring it in on Monday. Get those that you know want peace to sign first, but not the popular kids who enjoy the challenge. In this case, you ask them last.”