Politics is life? Is she for real? I school my features and say, ‘Yes, Mrs Baxter.’
Behind me, Meshella snickers. I frown as I contemplate Mrs Baxter, the other Nought staff member. As a Nought, maybe politics means more to her than the average Cross teacher. Maybe it means more to her than it does to most Crosses. Is that what she’s trying to tell me? That, as a Nought, politics matters more to me?
‘Mrs Baxter, why has this school never had a Nought head girl or boy?’ I ask.
Mrs Baxter’s neck and cheeks bloom red. A sudden tension fills the room, so tangible I feel I could reach out and touch it. All eyes are now on our teacher.
‘Just because something hasn’t happened in the past doesn’t mean it can’t happen now or in the future,’ says Mrs Baxter, picking her way through the words like she’s in a minefield. ‘There are more Noughts attending Heathcroft High than ever before—’
Behind me Meshella mutters something to Dina seated next to her.
‘And for Noughts in general, throughout the country, there are more opportunities open to them than ever before,’ Mrs Baxter continues. ‘Look at our general election. Tobias Durbridge, a Nought, is now Prime Minister of this great country.’
More mumblings from behind me about the new prime minister. Now I take them personally. I turn my head to frost Meshella, waiting for her to make another comment. I long for her to say something so I can punch her lights out.
‘Face forward, Libby. Our best hope is that the politics of the past, the rhetoric of division and exclusion, stays where it belongs – in the past,’ says Mrs Baxter.
‘Are you saying that all Cross politicians were bigots?’ asks Meshella.
‘I’m not saying that at all,’ Mrs Baxter replies, frowning. ‘That is the very definition of a straw-man argument, Meshella. I say one thing, you tell me I’m saying another so you can shoot down that straw man. Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m sick of people putting words in my mouth.’
We sit in stunned silence. Mrs Baxter’s voice doesn’t normally rise above mousy diffidence.
‘Has having a Nought prime minister gone to your head, Mrs Baxter?’ sneers Meshella.
Mrs Baxter draws herself up, her shoulders back, two sharp points of red on her cheeks. ‘Meshella, that piece of rudeness will cost you five demerits. Go and report to the head. NOW!’
With a huff, Meshella stands up, grabs her rucksack off the floor and heads out of the door, slamming it behind her. Mrs Baxter glares after her. She turns to the rest of us, blood in her eye.
‘If anyone else has anything rude and inappropriate to say, go for it. I’d be more than happy to send you to the head as well.’
No one says a word. I turn in my chair to face forward. Seems I’ve had Mrs Baxter wrong all this time. I’m beginning to realize that I’ve done that a lot – got people wrong. It feels like I’ve spent so much time, too much time, seeking answers to the wrong questions. I raise my hand.
‘Yes, Libby?’
‘Why d’you think Tobey Durbridge and his party won the election, Mrs Baxter?’
She looks around the room. ‘Because he got the most votes.’
Some titters. Mrs Baxter smiles, adding, ‘Because I think people are ready for something new, someone different. A change. Sometimes change is scary, but that’s the only way we grow and move forward. Remember, class, if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got.’
Mrs Baxter’s words shoot straight through me like arrows.
You’ll always get what you’ve always got …
That described Mum and me exactly. Round and round in our danse macabre. And it would stay that way until one of us broke free – or died. Whichever came first.
twenty-two. Troy
* * *
‘Mum, what was Callie’s dad like?’
‘Pardon?’ Mum starts in surprise. ‘Where has that come from all of a sudden?’
‘I’ve been wondering,’ I say. ‘Callum McGregor, what was he like?’
I’m stirring the cheese sauce for our dinner of macaroni cheese and lamb chops. I continue to stir, even though I can feel Mum’s eyes drilling into my nape. Outside, the sky is almost sepia, a brown-grey haze filling the air. Rain pelts against the kitchen windows, rapping to be let in.
‘Callum was … well, he was a warrior. He was fiercely loyal and he fought for what he believed,’ says Mum carefully. ‘I didn’t always agree with his methods, but I understood his need to stand up and be counted. Your dad was the same. When a street rat named Jordy Carson tried to extort money from him, Nathan told him to get lost.’
‘What happened to Dad?’ I ask.
‘He got beaten up,’ says Mum. ‘But he never backed down. I was so proud of him for that. Even Dan Jeavons tried extorting protection money from your dad and, although he threatened him, he got the same answer. Scumbag! Why the questions?’
‘Hang on. Dan Jeavons threatened Dad? I didn’t know that.’
‘Is there any reason why you should?’ asks Mum.
‘Did Dan ever threaten you?’
Mum shrugs.
That’s not an answer.
‘Mum?’
Mum’s gaze slides away from mine.
‘He did, didn’t he?’ Every muscle in my body tenses.
‘Troy, calm down. The man is dead now. He can’t harm anyone any more,’ Mum soothes.
I force myself to take a deep breath, to calm down. If Jeavons was in front of me now …
‘Is that what Sonny is too? A warrior?’ I ask when I can trust myself to speak again.
‘Troy, what’s going on? Talk to me,’ says Mum. ‘I’m trying to figure out what’s going on in that head of yours, but I’m failing.’
I shake my head. I hate lying to Mum. I hate lying full stop. I’m no good at it. ‘Mum, you worry too much.’
‘I’m worrying about nothing then?’
‘Yep, as always. I’m guess I’m just trying to find out if you’re serious about Sonny. Does he make you happy?’
A moment’s silence. ‘Yes, he does. In fact, I’ve got some news. Sonny has asked me to marry him.’
The wooden spoon in my hand clatters to the floor. Moments pass and there’s no sound in the world but my heart thumping a stricken tattoo in my chest. Eventually my world stops spinning.
‘Did you say yes?’
‘I said I needed to talk to you first,’ says Mum. ‘This affects both of us.’
‘I see.’
‘So what d’you think?’ she asks.
The look on her face … So hopeful. So expectant. As far as Mum is concerned, another word for happiness is Sonny. And, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Sonny loves her. I bend to pick up the spoon. It falls out of my sweaty hand. I grip it tighter then toss it into the sink. Grabbing some kitchen towel, I wipe up the sauce on the floor, before heading over to the sink. I don’t look at Mum.
‘Troy?’ she prompts.
‘Do you love him?’ I scrub at the wooden spoon with the scourer.
‘We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I didn’t,’ says Mum.