I Am Not a Number. Lisa Heathfield

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      Normally at least a few people are still talking, but now it’s more silent than I’ve ever heard it in here.

      ‘Well, right this moment we have soldiers outside our school.’ Mr Hart coughs and rubs his hand over the stubble on his chin. ‘And the country in general seems to be in the grip of a maniacal political party who want to take us back to the Stone Age.’

      ‘With John Andrews as the caveman,’ Conor says.

      ‘As he’s their leader,’ Mr Hart says, ‘it would appear so.’

      ‘Surely, sir,’ Ashwar says. ‘He’s just trying to make a better place for all of us to live.’

      ‘All of us?’ Mr Hart says. ‘Or just the people like him?’

      ‘By like him,’ Ashwar says, ‘do you mean people who believe in the family unit? Who believe in a safe country?’

      ‘It depends what your definition of better is, Ashwar,’ Mr Hart answers. ‘I’m not sure that dictating how we think and what we do is necessarily better. Take, for example, their proposed law about single-sex schools throughout the country. You do realise that would mean this school will no longer exist as it is? You’d all be split off, divided.’

      ‘It’s been proved that they work,’ Ashwar says. ‘Grades are consistently higher when boys and girls are separated.’

      ‘But it’s about choice,’ Mr Hart says.

      ‘We’ve had choice for tons of years and look where that’s got us,’ Ashwar says.

      ‘Do you actually work for the Trads, or something?’ Conor asks and a few laughs scatter about.

      ‘I’m just saying that perhaps it’s better to finally be told what to do. To have someone in charge who has the guts to put their beliefs into place.’

      ‘Are you mad?’ Conor asks her. Even though we all know she’s not. Ashwar is a straight 9 student and probably heading for Oxford.

      ‘I think she’s got a point,’ James says.

      ‘You would agree with her,’ Sara says. ‘You just want to know the colour of her knickers.’

      Laughter cuts into the atmosphere again and James’s face goes so red I think he might explode.

      ‘I think what you have to consider,’ Mr Hart says, waving a book in the air to quieten us, ‘is why John Andrews and his party are really introducing these new rules. Could it be less about what’s good for society and more about control?’

      ‘Curfew for anyone under eighteen definitely seems like control to me,’ Conor says.

      ‘Or could it be that they just really care about what happens to us?’ Ashwar says.

      ‘The Core Party care,’ Conor tells her. ‘They stand for Champion Of Rights for Everyone, if you remember.

      ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ Ashwar glares at him. ‘But they didn’t get voted in, did they? People voted for the Traditionals. They’d had enough of our country sliding towards oblivion.’

      ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Conor says. He manages not to shout it, which is pretty impressive for him. For years he was angelic Conor, terrified of spiders and wasps, but since his mum got ill anger sometimes turns him inside out.

      ‘My mum voted for them,’ Sara says. ‘But she didn’t expect them to start telling us what we can and can’t wear. Even half her wardrobe isn’t suitable by their standards.’

      ‘Well, I’m not complaining about the length of her skirts,’ Leo says, smirking at her.

      ‘Shut up.’ I reckon if Sara had a book in her hand she’d lob it at him.

      ‘Maybe John Andrews is right,’ Ashwar says. ‘That without the trigger of provocative clothing, rape crime will go down.’

      Conor slams his fist on to the desk. ‘You seriously believe it’s a girl’s fault if she’s attacked? Because of the way she dresses?’

      ‘I seriously believe that it’s a complex topic,’ Ashwar says calmly. ‘No other government has tried to face it and we’re left with a country that’s rotting from the inside out.’

      ‘Sir,’ Conor shouts. ‘You’ve got to stop her spouting this bullshit.’

      Mr Hart waves his book from the front again, but this time he looks like he has fury in his veins. ‘I think –’ he says, his voice raised enough to get everyone quiet, ‘– that if we voted again now, some of your parents who ticked a box for the Traditionals might change their mind.’

      ‘It’s a bit late though, isn’t it,’ Conor mumbles.

      ‘Yes,’ Mr Hart says. ‘Yes, it is.’

      The only class I have with Luke is art. Sara says I only took it so I could be with him and I think she might be right. I’m rubbish at drawing, but Luke is like the next Picasso or something.

      ‘You okay?’ he asks, sitting on the stool next to me. He puts his hand underneath my hair and I can feel his palm against my skin. When he kisses me I wonder if the Trads will stop this too. If they say short skirts lead to promiscuity and teenage pregnancies, what will they think of outright kissing?

      ‘Everything’s just a bit weird,’ I say.

      ‘There was nearly a fight in maths,’ Luke says.

      ‘So much for the Trads bringing peace and harmony.’

      Miss Mason bangs her giant paintbrush on her desk. It’s her way of getting our attention and somehow it’s always worked.

      ‘There’s a change of plan for our lesson today,’ she says. She’s wearing her long hippy dress as usual so she’ll be fine with any new rules the Trads impose. ‘The whole of Year Eleven are having an assembly in the hall.’

      ‘Now?’ someone asks.

      ‘Yes.’ Miss Mason goes to the door and opens it. ‘In silence though. Other year groups are still working.’

      ‘Miss, I really want to finish my still life,’ Kaylee moans.

      ‘I’ll open the room at lunch for anyone who wants to make up the time.’

      ‘No thanks,’ Conor laughs, walking across the top of the tables to get past everyone.

      ‘Off there,’ Miss Mason tells him and he jumps down, using Kaylee’s head to support him.

      ‘Wanker,’ she says, swiping at him.

      ‘Language,’ Miss Mason says.

      ‘The Trads will knock your head off if they hear you say that, Kaylee,’ Conor says.

      ‘I said silence,’ Miss Mason shouts.

      ‘What’s СКАЧАТЬ