Resistance Will Not Be Tolerated - carpe.lucem (best non fiction books to read TXT) 📗

Although the leg incident was not mentioned at breakfast the next morning, Dad didn’t come downstairs until George and I were walking out the door. I felt a wrench of guilt, watching him hobble over to Mum and giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m going to tell them, you know,” George broke the silence as we made our usual trek up Rosier Hill towards Northridge Gate, where our school was.
I chose not to reply. I read a book once that said if you ignored a baboon after making eye contact, there was a chance it would mistake you for a plant and not attack you. I was hoping the same principal would apply to my brother. “Ignore me if you like,” he shrugged, wearing a self-satisfied grin, “I know you’re terrified I will, and don’t think I wouldn’t.” I again said nothing, but silently kicked myself multiple times for not having a lock put on my door as soon as I had something to hide. George had a nasty habit of bursting into my room whenever I was studying the application form to Stonewall, and one glance at it had been enough for him to know what it was. “Ooh,” he’d sniggered gleefully. “Someone’s a bit big for their boots! Dad’s going to be -,” but he never finished that sentence because then I kicked him somewhere boys really don’t like to be kicked. The threat of violence had worked for a few weeks, but now George was regaining his confidence he was getting harder and harder to negotiate with. George’s threat wasn’t the only threat hanging over me though – the application deadline was drawing closer and closer and I needed to decide what to do. Applying would require me to attend interviews and exams, and I had no idea how I would be able to sneak off all the way to Stonewall for those, especially during a school day.
“Piss off,” I muttered irritably.
“Ooh, Little Sis getting hormonal!” mocked George in a painfully irritating voice.
“I said -,” then something caught my eye – a group of five or six girls and boys in my brothers year, the year above me, sloped onto to the road in front of us. This in itself wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary, but these weren’t a group of fourth years you wanted to mix with at Northridge, not if you wanted to complete your education without a spell in rehab.
It wasn’t just their substance problems people steered clear of – the way they dressed wasn’t exactly embraced with both arms at school. They all wore jeans that were so torn and battered; they could be mistaken for scrap material. One girl had blonde hair so long I bet she could sit on it, and the ends were dyed fluorescent pink, which was an act of rebellion in itself, as non-natural coloured hair dyes were forbidden at Northridge. This was one of the only rules on appearance the school had – except the one the other girl in the group was so flippantly defying. She had the most incredible tattoos running all the way from the base of her skull - which were visible, thanks to her boyish hair-cut, down to the top of her spine – which was also visible, thanks to her low cut top.
“Let’s cross the street,” George muttered, firmly steering my shoulders towards the other side of the road. I struggled a little, on principal, but didn’t put up too much resistance as I would have probably done the same thing even if George hadn’t manhandled me.
But as we reached the other side of the road, the girl with the tattoos looked across the street, right at me and George. I felt a momentary flush of embarrassment to have been caught so blatantly avoiding them, and when she turned and whispered something in the ear of one of the boys, still gazing at me curiously, I could feel my cheeks glowing red. The boy followed the tattoo-girl’s gaze and laughed when he laid eyes on me. I ducked my head behind George’s shoulder, hoping that I was too far away for them to recognise me.
Current Affairs was third period on a Wednesday, and I was determined to impress Mr Sullivan with my knowledge of the debates that Dad had told me about the night before. As soon as the bell went at the end of Maths, I rushed off to the library to use the school computers, leaving a puzzled Elsa to pack up my stuff for me.
I went through video clip after useless video clip, until I reached something interesting at last. Dad had said this Lyle could turn around a roomful of people with a few words, and finally here was actual footage. I plugged in my headphones and made it full screen to get the full effect.
Lyle, it turned out, was a rather small, unremarkable man with unfashionable slicked back hair and large, watery looking eyes. But there was nothing unremarkable about the way he spoke. When he spoke, the room – filled with about a thousand buzzing reporters and supporters - fell silent. You could almost sense the baited breath of everybody in the room. He spoke of equality, liberty, a strong country once more build on wealth and the teamwork of every man, woman and child. He spoke of employment, benefits, healthcare and – and as this I had to push my headphones into my ears to catch every word over the cheers and shouts of his audience – equal opportunities, and equal education for all. He spoke of –
“I wouldn’t be watching that, if I were you,” an unfamiliar voice came from behind my left shoulder. I frowned, feeling as though I’d just been woken up from a very deep sleep. I swivelled round in my chair, to face none other than the tattooed girl George and I had so pointedly gone out of our way to avoid this morning. I almost jumped out of my chair in surprise and embarrassment. I felt as though I had been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to, and this short-haired girl was going to make me feel uncomfortable about it.
“I…er…” I stuttered, confused. Usually I couldn’t shut up, now one odd girl had rendered me speechless with one odd, piercing gaze.
“Well? Do you agree with him?” she asked in a strange, sing-song voice. When I didn’t reply at once, she raised an eyebrow. “No opinions at all, Speechless? I thought you were the captain of the debating society, Speechless?”
“Well, he certainly has some interesting points…” I mumbled looking at my fingernails in great detail, my feathers were ruffled. My gaze searched her face, looking for a spot to talk to - anywhere but those quizzically piercing eyes. I settled on her nose stud, “Erm…yes. I agreed in particular with his ideas on a strong economy…employment for all…” I drifted off at the end of my sentence at the expression on her face. It wasn’t exactly obvious, but I could see a look of disappointment in her blue eyes, as though I’d failed a test I knew nothing about.
“Hey, Wes…looks like we got another little Facist on our hands,” she called without her eyes leaving my face, a hint of bitterness in her voice. I opened my mouth to contradict her at one, when I realised that actually I had no idea whether I was a Facist or not. I would need to research that one later.
A burly fourth year boy with dark, slightly foreign features joined us from the ‘Authors beginning with G’ section. He stood next to the girl and eyed me up and down with a non-committal shake of the head.
“Your brother’s George Marchant, right?” I nodded hesitantly. “Guy’s a dick. Come on Nat.” He beckoned to the tattooed girl to join him back in the ‘Authors beginning with G’ section. She gave me one last look, shrugged, and joined Wes in poring over a thick, leather-bound book by someone named Gresford.
I was very quiet during the Current Affairs lesson, despite my extra research efforts. As I had predicted, we discussed the debates would be running every evening this week between Lyle and Brady, now only two real competitors to Presidency. Elsa was, as usual, not at all interested in this lesson’s topic, and therefore assumed I wasn’t either and spent ninety-per cent of the hour praising every nook and cranny of Justin’s anatomy, and the other ten-per cent blushing and giggling every time his head tilted in our direction.
With Elsa’s running commentary in one ear, and Mr Sullivan’s analysis of the forthcoming election in the other, the lesson passed in a blur of meaningless noises and sounds, and it was a wonder I managed to copy down our homework for Friday, let alone take notes.
“Five hundred words on Lyle’s policies and the benefits of the Liberation Roses’ rise to power - to be on my desk before next lesson!” he called after us as we stampeded for the door; lunch queues were the worst immediately after the lesson.

“This essay is horrible!” moaned Elsa in my right ear. I switched the phone onto speaker and put her down onto my desk. I was beginning to get a headache.
“I’m starting it now,” I said helpfully, arranging the pillow on my chair so I was comfortable, “We could do it together over the phone, if you like.”
“Oh, yes please,” said Elsa in relief. I smiled and rolled my eyes, not that she could see. The only times Elsa ever called me at home were when her latest crush had broken her heart, or when she needed help with homework, and since she wasn’t in floods of tears, I assumed the latter.
“Well for my introduction I’m going to write a bit about the debates,” I started, “Then maybe go into Lyles first policy about working equ -,” I could hear a noise that sounded suspiciously like the theme tune for Desperate Housewives coming down the phone line. As soon as I stopped talking the noise was quickly stifled. “Are you even listening?” I asked the phone sitting on my desk.
“Yes, yes of course I am…” reassured Elsa, “But sometimes you can go on a bit, so could you just tell me the basic points to include in the essay?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, no offense or anything -“
“Sorry Elsa, Mum’s calling. Got to go!” and I hung up on her in indignation. Of course, Mum wasn’t calling, I needed an excuse to go…but I couldn’t believe her sometimes. She could do her own stupid essay if she was going to be like that.
I got up from my desk and went over to my creaky old dressing table. It had been my grandmother’s a few years ago. I looked up into the mirror and contemplated my hair. So long, so blonde; so the opposite to Nat, the girl with the star-tattoos. I thought about what else Nat had that I didn’t. She wore heavy, smoky make-up around her eyes, I remembered, and a pale lipstick. I pulled open the top drawer, where I kept all my cosmetics. Most containers were untouched, and the ones that were touched were hardly done so.
I fetched my small pot of black eye-powder and a ridiculously tiny brush, and carefully smudged a little on to the top of my eye-lid. Backwards and forwards, above the lashes, very carefully. Next a little eye liner, backwards and forwards, gently does it.
“Hey, Nerd! Mum says that – hey, what have you done to your face?” George, as good timing as always, burst into my room,