Chapter Two

Cam squeezed through rows of yellow plastic tables and benches in the school canteen, bumping into his peers to reach the back of the line in front of the steaming silver canisters. The thick and bland smell of boiled vegetable water hung in the air. There was always something synthetic about it, and it reminded him of the scent of a new stress ball. The first whiff always bothered him, but hunger always won, and he would wolf down whatever was in front of him without complaint.

The tray handed out by the students on duty that week was neatly proportioned: a portion of greens and carrots floating in a watery stew, a side of moist potatoes and cabbage, and a portion of white rice. This was one of Cam’s preferred meals, as its wetness allowed him to shovel it down his throat.

The morning had gone the way every school morning went, only longer. At 6.30 a.m. sharp, the same cold, grey hall, the same orderly rows, the same lifeless, sunken eyes. The same framed picture of the school’s founder, Jackson Tusk, smiling warmly down at them. The same yellow banner over the stage, screaming the school motto: ‘Listen and be Heard, Follow and You Shall Lead’. Below it, a navy plaque with smaller words recited the school’s mission statement: ADEQUACY EQUALS MEDIOCRITY.

The only new thing on the stage had been the principal. Principal Cole, a head taller than the rest of the staff, his blue shirt tucked out of his trousers to appear casual, promising change in a British accent Cam suspected was fake. Cam had decided in advance to believe none of it. It saved time. He had spun his pen through the introductions of teachers he already feared, through the schedule they already lived (classes from half past 7, remedials and chores and CCAs until 9 p.m., lights out by 10.30), through a new ‘demerit points system’ that sounded like the old punishments with arithmetic attached. Somewhere in the middle, Mr Nasim had pulled a Year One boy out of the rows by his collar for an untucked shirt and stood him at the side of the hall for the rest of the assembly. The briefing on uniform standards came after, but nobody needed it by then.

One part of the assembly always reached Cam: the ranking brief. Rankings decided who attended supplementary lessons, and how the teachers treated you. Cam was ranked 122 out of 211 in his level. Every time he was asked what his rank was, he would answer ‘can’t remember, somewhere around a hundred,’ before hurrying to change the subject. When he was with Miles, teachers and peers would address only Miles, completely ignoring him. Miles, after all, had moved up to rank forty-six last year.

Miles and Thed, Cam’s other best friend, joined him at a bench at the back of the canteen, the same spot they had chosen every day for a year. People often said that the three of them looked like brothers, but Cam never saw it. Miles had thick and curly hair and a sharper jaw, while Thed was much stockier, despite running almost daily as a student Cadet. The three of them had stuck as a group since they were in the same class in primary school, always sitting or standing together at any rare opportunity they had to choose.

Cam took off his squarish black spectacles before he ate since they were always slipping off when he looked down.

“In life,” Miles announced, holding up a limp carrot on his fork, “you always have to choose between the carrot and the steak.”

“Where’s the steak option,” said Thed, not looking up from his tray.

“Would you rather marry a completely average girl, or a super pretty and perfect girl, who also happens to have a pet rock?” asked Miles.

“The regular one,” Thed replied immediately.

“What about you, Cam?” asked Thed.

“I bet the pet rock is a plus for him,” grinned Miles. “He can relate to it.”

“What are the specifics? Is it a magic rock?” asked Cam. “Does it grant wishes?”

“No, she just brings it everywhere with her in her handbag. Sometimes she takes it out and pets it or sings it a lullaby. Sometimes she puts it on the table while you two are eating together,” Miles explained, mid-chew.

Cam thought for a moment. “You’re right. I like the rock girl,” he replied.

The three of them giggled as they gulped down their meal. Only a few menus were in rotation, and their mouths and stomachs were long accustomed to all of them. Breakfast was always the best, since there was toast and they could choose how much butter and jam to put on. The Milo and Horlicks served were always diluted, but it was good enough to dunk their bread in.

Cam never joined in his friends’ rants about the monotony of the menu. Food was just fuel to get through the day. He set down his spoon after cleaning off the last grain of rice and looked over at Miles’s plate. As always, there was a morsel left.

“Could we join you? There’s no more space anywhere else.”

Two boys stood before them. Their neatly ironed uniforms were two sizes too big, tucked tightly into their trousers, and they wore thin, blue-rimmed spectacles. They had the look of new boys. It was a kind of nervousness that Cam found different from tension or stress. Their nervousness came from not knowing what to expect, and stress seemed more like a heaviness that came with knowing.

“Sure,” Miles replied, scooting over. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Shiva. This is Xia Jun. This is our first day,” replied one of the boys.

Miles introduced them, and the boys went back to chomping down their rice.

As usual, Thed was the first to try to break the silence. “So, what school were you guys in before here?”

The pair explained that they had been at the same school before, where a project proposal for a tracking device for the elderly had won them a national award and a Science and Maths scholarship.

Cam was mildly impressed. There were plenty of prodigies and overachievers amongst the school’s population. According to the teachers, they were all cherry-picked to be there. Cam found it strange whenever they said that, since he had never been a stand-out student at any time in his life, or excelled in any subject.

“You guys are going to hate it so much here,” said Miles, shaking his head. Thed and Cam laughed.

“It’s not that bad,” Thed offered, still grinning.

Both Shiva and Xia Jun looked confused. The student Councillors must have spent all morning drilling into their skulls how this was the greatest place on earth.

“To survive here, you need to follow some real rules. Not that nonsense the principal talked about,” said Miles. “First of all. You need to find a clique for yourself. Like a family. People who understand you. People you can count on. That’s the best way to stay sane here. Some people take it very seriously. There’s a whole gang of seniors who call themselves the Brotherhood. Red rubber bands, right here.” He tapped his wrist. “Don’t stare at them.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working out for you,” muttered Cam.

“And next,” Miles continued, “you must avoid certain teachers at all costs. If they catch you breaking school rules, they will give you hell. Even for simple things, like wearing your socks under your ankles.”

He set down his spoon, squared his shoulders, and became somebody else. “Ten rounds,” he barked at the newbies, pointing at the sun through the window. “Not for punishment. For gratitude.”

Thed snorted into his Milo.

“That’s Mr Nasim,” Miles said, himself again. “If he makes you run, thank him. He counts the thank-yous.”

“Ms D is worse,” Thed added. “She doesn’t punish us physically, but she will make you go crazy.” He put down his fork, drew himself up very straight, and froze mid-bite, eyes fixed on the wall, one hand hovering above his tray. He held it. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Shiva looked at Xia Jun.

“Move and it’s five more minutes,” Thed said out of the corner of his mouth, still not moving. “She once made me stand like this for twenty minutes because I made three careless mistakes on an Advanced Maths test.”

Xia Jun gasped.

“What about her?” Shiva asked, nodding carefully towards a grey-haired teacher crossing the far end of the canteen.

“That’s Ms Margaret,” said Miles, and went back to his rice.

The newbies waited. Neither Miles nor Thed offered an impersonation. That was the lesson, Cam supposed. Nobody did Margaret.

“I don’t think we’re going to be breaking any rules in the first place,” said Shiva.

“You will. Everything is against school rules,” said Miles. “That’s another tip. Don’t even bother trying to follow all the rules. You must be smart. Breaking rules can help you stand out in a good way. See, I tuck out my shirt just slightly…” he stood up to point at his shirt. “With a fold here. That way, I look cooler than everyone else.”

“You were punished eleven times for that last year,” Thed remarked.

“Why are you keeping track?” Miles smirked. “The teachers are just biased against me. They hate me, so they’ll try and punish me whenever they can. That’s another tip. The teachers pick favourites. And a ton of your peers will become bootlickers to be their favourites. You know Kang? Year Three, Council? They’re making him Head this year, everyone knows. Watch him when a teacher walks past. Even his voice changes. Like a dog that heard the fridge open. Whatever you do, DO NOT become a bootlicker. Your roommates, classmates, group mates, and tablemates should be your family. Never side with the teachers over them.”

Cam nodded, and the newbies frowned. He did not have a face for the name yet.

“Also,” said Thed, lowering his voice, “you can’t swear here. If you get caught, you stand on stage during morning assembly with your tongue out, like a little kid. So we have our own words. Maggot, mongrel, witch, roach. Those are all fine, friendly even. ‘Snake’ and ‘rat’ are serious. That’s calling someone a traitor. Don’t use those unless you mean it.”

“And the worst ones are jobs,” said Miles. “Tree pruner. Stamp licker. Pest controller. The teachers keep telling us that’s where we’ll end up if we do badly. So that’s the worst thing you can call anyone.”

“Buckle up is also rude,” said Thed.

“Why?” asked Shiva.

“Nobody knows,” said Miles. “It just is.”

A blazer-clad Councillor drifted past their bench with a tray, unhurried, eyes forward. The table went quiet. Miles studied his rice. Thed straightened his collar without seeming to. Only when the navy blazer had settled three tables away did Miles look up again.

“Anyway,” he said, quieter now.

“The teachers don’t believe in privacy here,” said Thed. “And they’re hiding so much from us.”

“Don’t go into all your conspiracies with them; they just got here,” laughed Miles.

“Just think about it. How come we are only allowed to eat food from this kitchen?” asked Thed. “They must be putting something into it. To make us more obedient.”

Miles shook his head, and the newbies stared at their plates.

“This place is bad, but think of it this way: when you are finished, you will have accomplished something,” Cam cut in. “And you will have great stories to tell. And great friends.”

He was about to go on when the school bell blared.

“We have to go for the school tour now,” Shiva groaned, scooping up his half-finished food.

“All right, try and have fun!” grinned Miles.

Principal Cole ate his first Flolone lunch alone in his new office, one floor above the canteen, listening to the students’ noise come up through the vents like weather. The morning’s assembly had gone as well as could be expected, which was to say that six hundred children had stared at him without expression for forty minutes. He was a careful-looking man, grey only at the temples, and he had spent most of the assembly hoping his sweat was not visible on his shirt.

His father had warned him to expect odd behaviour from them because of their birth circumstances. They would be blank and emotionless, he had said. Cole had tried to muster empathy for them from the podium, but instead he had ended up feeling sorry for himself. He had never asked for this job, and now he was stuck here for at least a year. The sea of dark grey uniforms, with the red of the school’s horseshoe-shaped logo popping through on their breast pockets, had made him feel alone.

Still, some of the blazer-clad Student Council members standing to the sides of the hall had smiled at his speech, which was comforting. He wanted the students to like him. He was aware this was not the correct thing for a principal to want, and he wanted it anyway.

He looked over his notes for tomorrow. The teachers had made the slides, so their approval would mean little.