Burke impressed me the first day he walked into class and said, “I know most of you couldn’t give a toss about biology, but if you don’t give me any grief, I’ll do my best to make it interesting for you.”
Burke’s the best of our teachers, maybe the only really good one that we have. I don’t know what he’s doing in this dump. He should be at a good school like the one Vinyl moved to. He’s wasted here, stuck with mugs like Meths and Kray and… yeah, I can admit it… me.
Dad doesn’t share my high opinion of Mr. Burke and has tried a few times to have him drummed out, or at least confined to teaching kids of his own race. Which is odd, because the lightly colored Burke is of a mixed background. I would have thought that meant he could claim membership to either side, but Dad doesn’t see it that way. He moans about Burke all the time and I nod like the obedient little puppy that I am and simper, “Yes, Dad. No, Dad. Three bags full, Dad.” It sickens me but what can I do? If I told him Burke’s a cool teacher, he’d hammer me. Easier to say nothing and keep my head down.
Burke is trying hard to make the dissection of a worm seem like an earth-shattering event but it’s hard to keep us interested in crap like this. After a while Trev puts up a hand. “Sir?”
“Go on,” Burke sighs, looking up from the worm with an expression that seems to suggest he finds this particular lesson as boring as the rest of us.
“Can we dissect a zombie next, sir?”
Laughter.
“If you bring me one, I’ll certainly help you cut it up,” Burke says drily, then pushes the worm aside. I grin at Trev and give him a cheesy thumbs-up. It’s great when we sidetrack Burke. He doesn’t let it happen often–he insists on covering the course inside out–but every now and then he’ll relent.
“Who believes that zombies are real?” Burke asks.
A few hands go up, but not many. It’s not that we don’t believe, just that we don’t want to be seen to be enthusiastic in class.
“Come on,” Burke snaps. “A real show of hands or it’s back to the worm.”
We groan, then hands start creeping up. Soon most of them are in the air.
Burke does a slow count, then says softly, “Why?”
We gape at him.
“Why?” he says again. “Because they’re on TV? Because you’ve seen photos and video clips?”
“Yeah,” someone says.
“But they can do anything with digital equipment these days, can’t they?” he smirks.
“Don’t you believe, sir?” I ask. I was one of the few to keep their hand down.
“Actually, I do,” he says. “But let’s explore alternatives.” He turns to the whiteboard, grabs a pen and writes Media hoax? Publicity for a film or TV show? then looks over his shoulder at us. “Any other ideas?”
“It’s a conspiracy,” Stagger Lee snorts.
“The government?” Burke asks.
“Yeah.”
“The Irish? Ours? America’s?”
Stagger Lee shrugs. “The whole bloody lot.”
“What for?” Burke asks. “Why go to all that trouble?”
Silence for a moment, then Linzer–one of the smartest in our year–puts up her hand and says, “Experiment gone wrong.”
“Good,” Burke beams and adds it to the whiteboard. “What sort of experiment?”
“Chemical weapons,” Linzer says. “Maybe they were testing something and it accidentally got into the water or air. Or they released it on purpose.”
“Which is more likely?” Burke asks, nodding at Elephant.
“Dunno,” Elephant says.
“B?”
“A test,” I say confidently.
“Why?” he presses.
“Pallaskenry’s in the middle of nowhere. They wouldn’t have any labs around there. It’s all bog land.”
“Excellent, B.”
I find myself grinning goofily. Nobody has a dig at me to bring me down to size either, like they would if this was any other class.
“More ideas,” Burke says, pointing to Suze.
“God, I don’t know.” She blushes, then coughs. “My dad thinks it’s terrorists.”
Burke blinks. “Come again?”
“He thinks the army went in looking for terrorists. Got carried away and killed civilians by mistake. Then cooked up this zombie story to give them an excuse to kill the witnesses.”
“Far-fetched,” Burke hums, “but let’s run with it.” He adds the theory to the board and asks for more suggestions.
Someone thinks the zombies are robots gone wild. Another says maybe it’s aliens, that the rabid crazies were taken over by bodiless beings from another planet. Kray comes up with a twist on the experiment angle, only he figures people are being controlled by satellite signals.
“They’re gonna use it on the Arabs,” he says. “No more sending our troops in to sort out their messes. Drive the buggers mad and leave them to it. They’ll wipe themselves out, and good riddance to them.”
The Muslim kids don’t like that. Angry mutterings. Burke shushes them.
“That’s not one of the more far-fetched ideas,” he says. “Certain politicians would do just about anything to cling to power and disable our enemies. Kray was insulting–grow up and stop acting like a thug–but he might have a point.”
“I don’t think it’s terrifying,” I snort, evil-eyeing the Muslims. “In fact I hope Kray’s right, that we are going after them. They’d do it to us if they could.”
“We’ll have that argument another day,” Burke barks, stopping a war before it can erupt. “Let’s stick to zombies. Any other proposals?”
There are a few more, then Burke stands back to study what he’s written. “It’s a horrible world, isn’t it?” he mutters and I’m not sure he knows that he’s spoken out loud.
He turns to us. “I’m not saying I believe any of these exotic, unfounded theories. But these are questions we should be asking. Life’s complicated. Answers rarely come wrapped up nice and simple. There are plenty of people out there ready to tell us what we should and shouldn’t believe. We always need to be skeptical, to look for the sting in the tale.”
Burke looks around slowly and it seems like he’s staring at each and every one of us in turn. “Trust no one. Always question what you’re told. Don’t believe the lies that people feed you, even if they’re your teachers or parents. At the end of the day you have to work out for yourself what’s right or wrong.”
He glances back at the board and sighs. “But bear in mind. There are lots of black-hearted, mean-spirited bastards in the world.” There are some gasps when he swears but most of us take no notice. “It’s important that we hold them to account. But always remember that you might be the most black-hearted and mean-spirited of the lot, so hold yourself the most accountable of all.”
As we try to make sense of that, Burke chuckles, shakes his head and wipes the board clean. “Enough preaching,” he says brightly, then adds, to a chorus of groans, “Back to the worm…”
NINE
The last class ends and we churn out, shouting, laughing, cursing. Normally I can’t escape the building quick enough, but today I head deeper into it. There’s a five-a-side soccer tournament in the gym. I’m not playing, and I’m not really bothered about watching, but it’ll be more fun than hanging out on the streets.
Kray, Elephant, Trev, Linzer and I wind our way through the labyrinth of corridors. Our school’s massive. It holds over a thousand students, and it used to be even bigger. It wasn’t always the cesspit it is now. Once upon a time they sank money into this place, kept adding on new rooms. It’s not very wide but it’s deep. Takes several minutes, with all the twists and turns, to get from one end to the other.
No outdoor spaces apart from a few small courtyards. The gym’s a huge room at the rear of the building, solid walls all around, a few narrow skylight windows high overhead, lots of artificial light. The phys-ed staff keep it in good shape. You can play soccer, basketball, hockey, badminton. They
have foosball and pool tables stacked at the sides—they bring them out at lunch for those who are so easily amused.
We hit the gym and spread out. There’s already a crowd and the first game has kicked off. The teams are from the year above ours, so we give them loads of abuse, trying to distract them. One player shoots us the finger and we cheer.
“Bloody idiots,” I laugh. “Running round like maniacs.”
“It’s the beautiful game,” Elephant argues. He loves soccer but hasn’t played in ages, still recovering from breaking his foot a few months back.
“Beautiful waste of time,” I tease him, but he’s too engrossed in the game to pay me much attention.
I get bored quickly and look around for something else to do. There’s a small group to our left, cheering on the players, a mix of kids from different years. I don’t know most of them, but one catches my eye—Tyler Bayor.
My dad had a bust-up with Tyler’s old man a while back. Tyler’s dad had accused me of stealing from his son. It was true–I took money from him a few times, like I took the bar of chocolate from the girl today, because Tyler’s soft and the cash was there for the taking–but I denied it until I was blue in the face.
My dad was furious that a black guy had dared point the finger at me. Marched round to their home, dragged Tyler’s dad outside, fought with him in the street. Others separated them before it got nasty. We retreated with our heads held high, and Tyler’s dad didn’t push the charges any further.
I stopped stealing from Tyler, even though my dad told me he didn’t care what I did to that walking fart of a kid. I didn’t stop because I’d been challenged. I stopped because I knew my dad thought that I was targeting Tyler because of his race. I wasn’t. I picked on Tyler because he was weak and I could get away with it. But I felt uneasy, seeing myself through my dad’s eyes, like I was the same as him.
I never told any of the others about what happened, which is why Vinyl didn’t realize it was personal when I was having a go at Tyler in the park. I’m not sure why I kept it secret. I guess I was ashamed, not of stealing, but of my dad turning it into a racial thing.
Even though I don’t steal from Tyler anymore, I don’t like him. The sight of him reminds me of that night, my dad squaring up to Tyler’s old man, me feeling proud and mortified at the same time, all of it brought on by Tyler not keeping his mouth shut and putting up with the theft as any good victim should.
“Hey, Tyler,” I shout. “Why didn’t you come play with us the other night?”
Tyler looks at me and forces a laugh. Turns back to the game, hoping I’ll let it drop. But I’m not in the dropping mood.
“Oi! Don’t ignore me.”
“I’m not ignoring you, B,” he sighs.
“You bloody are.”
The kids around him back away and focus on the game. None of them wants to get sucked into this.
Tyler gulps and faces me. “I was looking for a mate. He wasn’t there. So I left.”
“But you didn’t even stop to say hello,” I remind him.
“That was rude,” Kray chuckles, giving me a dig in the ribs, egging me on.
“I know your kind aren’t the most civilized in the world,” I continue, taking a few steps towards the small, nervous kid, “but I thought you’d have the good manners to–”
“What do you mean, your kind?” someone snaps.
I halt and blink. A tall black girl has stepped forward. She’s glaring at me. She’s from the year above mine, Nancy something-or-other.
“You got a problem?” I snarl.
“Yeah,” she says, stepping in front of Tyler, who can’t believe his luck. “You just said that blacks are uncivilized.”
“Not me,” I grin.
“Yes you did,” she huffs. “I heard what you said. Your kind.”
“Maybe I was talking about his family,” I chuckle. “Or the fans of the team he supports.”
“No,” Nancy says. “I know exactly what you meant.”
I shrug and fake a yawn. Nancy’s got me dead to rights, but I can’t admit that in front of the others. It’s not in my nature to back down. You can never show weakness. You have to fight every fight that comes your way. Otherwise you end up being picked on, like Tyler.
“Let’s say you’re right,” I drawl. “So what?”
“I won’t stand for racism,” Nancy says. “Apologize or I’ll report you.”
“Me?” I gasp. “Racist? You’re nuts. Isn’t she, Kray?”
Kray chuckles weakly but says nothing. He doesn’t want the hassle.
“Tell her I’m not a racist, Tyler. Tell her you and me are good friends and were just having a laugh.”
“Leave him alone,” Nancy says. “Pick on me if you want to pick on someone.”
I grin tightly. “All right.” I move closer and get in her face, even though I have to go right up on my toes. “I was talking about blacks,” I murmur. I know it’s madness, that I won’t be able to justify this if she grasses me up. But I’ve only two choices here—apologize or push through with the hard-nosed, racist routine. And I wasn’t brought up to apologize. Certainly not to the likes of her.
Nancy pushes me away. “You’re scum,” she sneers.
“At least I’m white scum,” I toss back at her, slipping into hateful character with alarming ease.
“You’ll be suspended scum once I tell a teacher what you said.”
“Is that how you deal with people who wind you up?” I jeer. “You run to the teachers?”
“Yeah.”
I shrug. “Go on then. It’s my word against yours. But while you’re complaining about me, I’ll complain too. You pushed me. That’s physical assault and everyone saw it.”
“Rubbish,” she snorts.
“You raised your hands and pushed me. That’s a direct attack.” I step up close to Nancy and smile. “If you’re gonna get done just for pushing me, you might as well go the whole hog. Go on, knock my block off, you know you want to. You lot love to fight, don’t you? It’s what you were born for. Well, that and basketball.”
Nancy’s fingers bunch into fists. She’s trembling. She wants to hit me but she’ll lose the moral high ground if she does. If she strikes the first blow, she won’t be able to turn me in. It doesn’t matter if you’re provoked—school policy is that you should never react.
“Go on,” I whisper, then sink lower than I ever thought I would, and make a few soft, gorilla-like grunting noises.
Nancy shrieks and slaps me. I laugh.
“Is that the hardest you can hit?” I mock her.
She slaps me again, a flurry of feeble blows. I don’t even bother to raise my hands to protect myself. “Help me!” I yell theatrically. “She’s gone mad. I think she has rabies. Don’t let her bite. I’m afraid she’ll–”
One of Nancy’s rings catches my cheek and tears into it. I hiss and slap her away. A thin trickle of blood flows from the cut. The sight of it goads Nancy on. She throws herself at me and grapples for my eyes with her nails, kicking my shins, screaming shrilly. I put a hand on her face to push her away. She bites my fingers.
I grit my teeth and tear my hand free. Nancy goes for my eyes again. Losing my temper, I step back and let fly, a real punch. My fist hits the side of her face and she goes down. She lands hard and cries out. I start after her to finish her off, but Elephant and Kray get in my way.
“Easy, B,” Kray says. “She’s not as tough as you.”
“I don’t care,” I shout. “She bit me. I’m gonna–”
“B Smith!” someone roars.
I look up and groan. It’s Stuttering Stan, one of the PE teachers. He doesn’t really stutter but he trips over his tongue sometimes.
“You’re in for it now,” Nancy cackles, smiling through her tears of pain and anger.
“You hit me first,” I snarl.
“Tell it to Stuttering Stan,” she crows.
I spit at her as if I were a child, then turn and stand to attention, staring directly
at Stuttering Stan as he strides towards me, acting as if I’ve done nothing wrong. I know I should feel ashamed of myself, and to a degree I do. But to my surprise and dismay, I also feel smug, because I know Dad would be proud if he could see me now, bringing an interfering black girl down a peg or two.
TEN
Stuttering Stan takes me to the principal’s office. Very neat, everything in its place. A shining computer in one corner. Diplomas on the walls. A small plaque on her desk, MRS. LYNNE REED, PRINCIPAL, just in case anyone is in any doubt.
Nancy’s already outside, waiting her turn. I’m sitting across from Mrs. Reed, gaze glued to the floor, waiting for her to start in on me. She transferred here the year that I started, and I was one of the first students she had to discipline, just a couple of days into her new job. I’ve had to explain myself to her a lot of times since then, though in my defense it’s been a while since I was last hauled before her.
Mrs. Reed flicks through a file, slowly. I’m guessing it’s about me. I try not to fidget. My face is red and I keep my hands tucked under my legs, in case she spots them trembling. I shouldn’t be worried. I’m in trouble, sure, but Dad won’t give me any grief, not when he hears what it was about. Still, I’m in the wrong and Mrs. Reed isn’t the sort of person who makes you feel at ease in a situation like this. She looks like something from an ancient movie, black cape, silver hair, thin-rimmed glasses.
“I don’t like it when my students fight,” she finally says, putting the file aside.
“Nancy started it,” I say evenly, careful not to sound like I’m whining.
“I’ll let Miss Price state her case once I’m through with you,” Mrs. Reed says. “I suspect her story will differ significantly from yours. Please tell me what happened, and try to be honest if you can.”
I was going to spin it, but that last line stings me. It’s like she’s challenging me. So I decide to hit her with the facts. If I’m going down, I might as well go down with my dignity intact, not whimpering and making up stories.