Slated Read online

  ‘Anti Government Terrorists: Fodders.’ Her lip curls when she says the words, as if they taste bad.

  ‘Come along now,’ Mrs Ali says, so I follow her back to the Unit. As my feet automatically step along the path, I can’t stop the images that appear in my mind: a bus stuck in London traffic, explosions, flames. Screaming; bloody hands banging against windows; a final explosion. Then, silence.

  A stone memorial, thorny roses, and all those names.

  Mrs Ali leaves me in a chair outside an office. ‘Wait until she calls you,’ she says, and disappears down a hall.

  The door says ‘Dr Winston, Educational Psychologist’. Soon it opens; another student comes out.

  A woman’s voice calls from inside. ‘Next!’

  Does she mean me? There is no one else about.

  ‘Next!’ the voice says again, louder, and I get out of my seat, peek uncertainly through the door.

  ‘Hello, is that Kyla Davis? Don’t be shy, come in.’

  She smiles: or does she? Her face has bright red lipstick painted on in a turned up crescent. She has so much makeup caked on that if she smiled properly, her face might crack.

  ‘You’ve got your school ID done, I see: good. See that, by the door: you put your card along it when you come in. It says who you are.’

  I turn back: there is a card sized slot set in a small boxlike machine attached to the wall by the door.

  I look uncertainly at my ID, take it in one hand and look back at her.

  ‘You don’t have to take it out of the holder, just hold it, face down, on the slot.’ I do so and it beeps.

  ‘Good girl, now have a seat. You do that in and out of every class at our school; also at the Unit from now on. So we always know where everyone is.’ She beams that lipstick smile.

  I perch on the edge of a seat in front of her desk.

  ‘Now listen up, and I’ll just explain the rest of your day.’ And she tells me that I’ll be doing tests all afternoon, to see where I am at. Whether I can go to mainstream classes, or have classes in the Unit to begin with, or some mixture of both. And I’ll get a timetable with assigned classes tomorrow morning.

  ‘Any questions?’ she says but she is already folding her computer shut.

  ‘Well yes, one.’

  ‘Oh?’ She pauses, surprised.

  ‘Can I take art? I can draw really well. My nurse said that I should be able to, and…’

  My words trail off. Her eyes are looking impatiently at the clock. She is not interested.

  ‘Tell you what: how about I put a note on your file.’ She smiles brightly again, and taps at the screen. ‘There: “Kyla expresses an interest in art.” All right? Now scoot off to lunch downstairs, there’s a good girl.’

  I stand, and head for the door.

  ‘Wait.’

  I pause in the doorway.

  ‘You have to scan out, of course! Or the computer will think you are still here.’

  Oh. I hold the card in the slot; it beeps.

  Downstairs I find the room I had lunch in yesterday, and this time notice the card scanner by the door. I scan in; it beeps.

  As promised, the afternoon is filled with hours of tests. All on a computer, multiple choice. Mrs Ali stays, and watches as I endlessly press A, B, C or D. The questions are mostly easy, and cover many subjects: maths, English, basic history, geography, biology.

  When I’m finally done my eyes are tired and shoulders stiff, but I think I did all right. They’ll tell me tomorrow, Mrs Ali says, and then sees me out the door as the final school bell rings.

  I get on the bus with Ben, having persuaded Amy to go with Jazz alone. That I’ll be all right.

  Drifting down the aisle after him, now that my mind is free from all those tests, it is back to the memorial, and the AGT killing a whole bus load of students. A bus like this.

  I catch the movement too late.

  My foot catches on the other that flicks out in front and I trip, and sprawl forwards. I try to reach my hands out to stop myself, but my back-pack is yanked from behind, pulling my arms backwards. My face smashes on the back of a seat and I sprawl on the ground.

  Laughter rings out.

  I get to my knees and touch my lip: my fingers come away red.

  I pull myself up, spin round.

  It’s her: the girl who blocked the empty seat yesterday, so I couldn’t sit next to her.

  ‘Enjoy your trip?’ She smiles.

  My muscles tense, and I step towards her. The smile falls off her face. Her eyes widen.

  ‘Kyla? Kyla!’ Ben takes my arm, yanks me around. Pushes me in front of him towards the back of the bus.

  The bus driver gets out of his seat, and starts down the aisle.

  ‘Everything all right?’ he says.

  No one answers. He doesn’t see me behind Ben. He goes back to his seat, and soon the bus pulls away from school.

  Ben slips a warm arm around my shoulder, guides me into a seat.

  ‘You have to watch your step, Kyla,’ he says, but his face is unreadable. His eyes show concern, not outrage, yet he must know she tripped me. That this was no accident.

  He finds a tissue in his pocket and holds it out. I press it against my lip, then pull it away to look at it. Bright red, though not much of it.

  I’ve had worse.

  Have I?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  * * *

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘You don’t look all right.’ Mum dabs at my lip with antiseptic. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I tripped over, on the bus. And banged my face on a seat.’

  I don’t mention the foot that tripped me, or the laughter that followed when I hauled myself up. Or how I’d turned and was ready to smash that girl in the face. And she knew it, too: a look of uncertain fear crossed her eyes before Ben pulled me away.

  ‘Where was Amy when this was happening?’

  And I don’t know what to say. I know Jazz being her boyfriend is a secret; is Amy being in his car also a secret? And Mum isn’t even meant to be home yet; she left work early. She must have some sort of dragon radar.

  ‘She couldn’t catch me,’ I say, finally. Which is true enough, since she wasn’t there.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘At a friend’s house, I think,’ I say, trying to be vague.

  ‘She didn’t come home with you after you hurt yourself?’

  ‘Uh…’

  Her mouth sets in a thin line.

  ‘Go up and change.’

  I stay in my room, holding ice to my lip.

  I was going to hit that girl on the bus; I know I was. There was no conscious thought or plan, it was in my muscles tensing up, my hand curling into a fist. My body reacting.

  I’m not supposed to be able to do that. My Levo should stop me. Any trace of violence, and it is supposed to knock me out.

  But nothing. Somehow I stayed near enough to 5 through the whole thing.

  Ben and the others just sat smiling together as usual, even though they all knew one of them had been deliberately hurt. And it’s not like they don’t care. Ben came and helped me, didn’t he? More like in their happy little Slated brains it is not enough to create a ripple.

  I’m nothing like them.

  I don’t understand.

  The front door opens below; I hear voices.

  Heated voices.

  Minutes tick past, then there are footsteps on the stairs. The door opens: Amy.

  ‘Are you all right?’ She crosses the room, tilts my chin up to look at my lip. ‘That’s got to hurt.’

  I shrug. ‘A little.’

  ‘Good.’

  She picks up her book by the spare bed, her robe on the back of the door. All her bits and pieces that have spilled into my room the last week of her staying with me so I won’t be alone at night. She crosses the hall and goes into her room, shutting the door behind her with a definite slam.

  Like he knows by some feline empathy trick that he is needed, Sebast
ian peeks into the room, meows and jumps up next to me. Rubs his head against my arm until I pet him. A tear rolls down my cheek and hits my lip. It stings, and I lick it off.

  Green trees blue sky white clouds green trees blue sky white clouds…

  ‘Dinner!’ Mum yells up the stairs.

  I ease sleeping Sebastian from my knees on to the bed, and go down to the kitchen.

  ‘I made soup for you; easier to eat with that lip.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I sit.

  Mum puts my bowl and two plates of pasta on to the table, then goes to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Dinner, Amy,’ she yells, then walks back into the kitchen. ‘Well, if Miss can’t be bothered to join us, she can go hungry.’ She plonks herself down at the table.

  I look at my soup.

  ‘Well, try it. I made it just for you.’

  I pick up the spoon.

  ‘Are you all right, Kyla?’ She grabs my wrist just as my Levo vibrates: 4.3. She sighs. ‘You didn’t just trip on the bus, did you.’

  A mind-reading dragon.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  I don’t say anything; just stir the soup.

  ‘It’s Amy, isn’t it. What did she say?’

  I let go of the spoon, slump in my chair. ‘She’s angry with me, and I don’t understand.’

  ‘Teenage girls, what a nightmare! Boys are so much easier. Wait here.’

  She stomps up the stairs; moments later returns with Amy, and yanks her into the kitchen.

  ‘Sit!’

  Amy sits.

  ‘Listen up, Miss. Kyla didn’t tell me anything, all right? About your silly little boyfriend, or driving in his insane car, or anything. I put it together all by myself. Now: you two sort yourselves out. I’m going to eat by the TV.’ And she picks up her plate and stomps off into the other room, shutting the door with her foot.

  Amy looks at me guiltily. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you must have told her.’

  ‘She’s like a mind-reader,’ I say.

  ‘Somehow she tricked me into confessing. And you can’t keep secrets; your face is an open book no matter how you try. I should know that. I’m sorry.’

  She starts on her dinner, doesn’t say much else. But I can see it in her eyes: she won’t tell me any more secrets.

  I can’t be trusted.

  And that night, she stays in her own room, leaving me to sleep alone.

  The driver lays on the horn. Why, I don’t know. They aren’t going anywhere: it is gridlock. The road has become a car park, right in front of heavy brick buildings with a sign hanging in front: ‘London Lorder offices’. Trapped like rats in a nest.

  I scream at the driver. ‘Do something! Open the doors! Let them out!’

  But he doesn’t know what is about to happen. He can’t hear me.

  First there is a whistling noise, a flash of light, a concussive BANG that rips through my skull and makes my ears ring. And then the screaming starts.

  Choking smoke; bloody hands beating at windows that don’t open; more screaming. Another whistle; a flash; an explosion. There is a gaping hole in the side of the bus, but most are silent, now.

  I cough in the smoke, choke on acrid burning fuel, metal and worse. Stuff my hands in my ears, but the screaming just goes on and on.

  Then, it stops.

  And I’m not there any more. I’m somewhere – someone – else. Terror and smoke and blood, all gone. Not a memory of a past event, not nothing…just gone. A dream. No more.

  No less.

  I’m laughing and playing hide and seek with other children in my green place. High trees above long grasses, bright dots of purple and yellow wildflowers. I scrunch down behind some bushes, and I see: my hands, my feet. They are small. I am small. My heart thuds a pleasant thump-thump, thump-thump, from the game. Will they find me?

  When my eyes open I can’t see anything. I open them wide and then wider, stand and feel my way along the wall to the window, pull the curtains aside and look out. There is no moon tonight.

  It worked. Going to my Happy Place in the midst of a nightmare: it actually worked. No screaming the house down, no blackouts. A nearly acceptable 4.8 on my Levo.

  But it changed in my sleep. The trees, grass, and clouds were still there. But I wasn’t alone, this time; I was playing hide and seek with children. I was younger, much younger, in that place.

  The horror of the first dream is fading, the details starting to disperse like smoke drifting in the sky. Yet it still feels so real; like I was there, watching, that day, when all those students died.

  Madness.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  My stomach is churning when I get on the bus the next morning. But Amy has my back.

  And there she is, in her usual seat: the Slater Hater who tripped me yesterday. Sitting upright and staring out the window. I watch her carefully as we go past. She won’t catch me unawares, again.

  Amy follows my eyes. ‘That the one?’ she whispers, but I don’t say anything.

  When I sit next to Ben at the back of the bus, his eyes widen. ‘Poor you,’ he says, and touches my face with fingertips, a feather light touch around my lip. It bruised up over night and looks worse today than yesterday. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Only if I smile,’ I say.

  He slips my cold hand in his warm one. ‘No smiling today, then,’ he says, sternly, and wipes his off.

  His face, serious for once, looks different. The sameness – the happy expression all Slateds wear – is gone. His eyes still smile, though. I’m struck again by a feeling, one that says I know him and have always known him; that close to him, I am safe. My stomach lurches. Not in a bad way.

  Mrs Ali is waiting for me at the Unit. She takes one look at me, and frowns. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘I fell on the bus.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Listen to me, Kyla: if anyone is hassling you, tell me. It will be dealt with. What really happened?’

  I look into her eyes, and see only concern. But just when I think I might tell her everything, some voice inside says bad idea.

  ‘I tripped, and fell.’

  She frowns. ‘Well. If you remember anything else about it, tell me. Anyhow, we’ve got your test results. A clever girl, you are: it is straight into mainstream classes from today. Year 11, so you’re just a little older than the other students. Not that anyone will know if you don’t tell them: most of them will be taller than you, anyhow.’

  She hands me a timetable. ‘Come on: tutor group for citizenship, first. Yours is in English block.’

  I open the timetable and scan it, quickly at first; then again, taking more care. Tutor group, English, maths, history, biology, study hall, general science, agriculture, and Unit three times a week, whatever that means. It’s not there.

  ‘But what about art?’

  ‘What’s that, Kyla?’

  ‘Art. It isn’t on my timetable.’

  ‘No. You don’t get to take an option like the other students. We have to fit extra classes in at the Unit. There’s no room.’

  I stare back at her. This can’t be happening. It is the only thing I actually want to take; part of the reason I wanted to come to school. We even had art classes at the hospital.

  ‘But…’

  ‘No buts; there’s no time. You’ll be late for tutor. If you have a problem with it, talk to Dr Winston,’ she says, and she sweeps out of the Unit. I follow along, numb. This can’t be right. Even Nurse Penny said I could take art, as long as they thought I was good enough, didn’t she? And that doctor had no interest in me or what I wanted, that was obvious enough. There’d be no point talking to her.

  Mrs Ali drags me along paths and through buildings, dodging students rushing in all directions. At the class she reminds me to swipe my card, then introduces me to Mr Goodman, who is not only my form tutor but al
so my English teacher. Other students begin to arrive, to take their seats. And she leaves, saying she’ll be back to take me to my first class before tutor ends.

  I stand uncertainly by the desk at the front, not sure what to do.

  Mr Goodman smiles. ‘Wait here with me for a moment, Kyla,’ he says.

  Other students come in, swipe their cards and sit down, one after another; the final bell goes. One last girl comes in and crosses from the door.

  ‘Late again, Phoebe?’

  ‘Sorry, Sir,’ she says, but she doesn’t look sorry. She sits, at the last double desk, the only empty chair left in the room right next to her: the girl who tripped me on the bus.

  She looks at my swollen lip and smiles, and I look back at her, not smiling. Whispers start around the room. Do they know?

  ‘Quiet now, 11C,’ he says. ‘This is Kyla; she is joining our tutor group. I want you to all make her feel welcome.’

  I stand next to him and look across a room full of eyes; some merely curious, some hostile, some uncertain. But all staring. At me, and at the Levo on my wrist.

  ‘Have a seat there next to Phoebe,’ he says.

  I walk, eyes digging in and dragging my steps, making it hard to move. I pull the chair away from Phoebe as much as I can and still be at the desk, and sit. He turns to write on the whiteboard. Everyone watches Phoebe.

  My Levo vibrates. I glance down: 4.4. Phoebe smirks; it vibrates harder. 4.2.

  She raises her hand. ‘Sir? I think our new student is about to blow up.’

  Everyone titters, and stares. So many eyes; eyes everywhere.

  3.9…

  I close mine. Green trees blue sky white clouds green trees blue sky white clouds…

  I hear heavy steps, and feel a hand on my shoulder. ‘All right, Kyla?’ Mr Goodman says.

  Green trees blue sky white clouds green trees blue sky white clouds…

  I open my eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good girl. Now copy down your citizenship pledge from the board, please.’

  I open my notebook.

  Last lesson of the morning brings a pleasant surprise: Ben. He is in my biology class.

  He waves when I swipe my card at the door, whispers to a few other boys who grumble and shift across, leaving an empty seat next to him.