Slated (32 page)

I wrap the pillow tight around my ears, but it is still there.

‘They gave you away, and you will never see them again…’

‘Heh, how’re things?’ Ben smiles his killer smile, and I want to answer him, tell him everything. That I actually
did
something, in talking to Phoebe’s mum. And even about the dream that woke me again and again last night. He is the only one I could even think about telling any of this, but what would he make of my dream? If my parents gave me away and didn’t want me then, why would they have reported me missing now?

‘Is everything all right?’ he asks.

I just shrug and swipe my card as we file into biology class. What can I say, surrounded by so many ears?

We take our usual seats on the back middle bench. And there, at the front of the room, is a surprise: no Miss Fern.

Instead there is a man, one I’ve never seen before. He is half sitting on the desk and facing the class, watching everyone as they take their seats. Whispering soon starts between some of the girls, and it is easy to see why: he is gorgeous. And it isn’t just the attractive bits – wavy streaked blond hair, the height of him, the way his clothes fit and hug his body – but how they are all put together. He draws the eye.

He scans across the room, casually, bench by bench. His eyes reach mine, and something happens. I can’t work it out. It is like something passes between us. Nothing stupid and mushy, but something else. Some recognition in his, some answer in mine…but it isn’t
me
. I feel all flustered, and heat rises in my cheeks as he holds my gaze, unsmiling, for too long to be reasonable. When he finally looks away it feels like I’ve been dropped from a height. My head spins; my stomach twists.

‘Good morning, class,’ he says. ‘Miss Fern won’t be in today, or for some time. She has had an unfortunate accident. I am Mr Hatten.’ He turns to write his name on the board.

Was there a pause in his words between ‘unfortunate’ and ‘accident’?
No accident.
Not Lorders, like Gianelli; not again. I bite my tongue to focus on
that
pain, instead. Have they taken her, and if so, why? I can’t think of a single reason. She was a good teacher, but in other ways under the radar. Anyway, there was no secret about it when they took Gianelli, so why would there be now?

Maybe there was some other reason to replace her. Maybe Hatten is one of
them.

I study him as he goes through the class from the front, getting everyone to introduce themselves while he makes a seating plan. He doesn’t look like a Lorder. For a start, they always wear a grey suit, or dress in black on operations. But it is more than that. Lorders, however alert and vigilant they may be for trouble, don’t acknowledge anyone under the age of twenty or so: we are beneath notice. Hatten is different: he is
here
, present, interested and aware of every person in the room. He is something else.

‘And you are?’

Ben smiles. ‘I’m Ben Nix. But is Miss Fern all right? What happened to her?’ he asks.

Heads swivel; ears perk up. It isn’t always the right thing to do, asking questions.

But Hatten smiles. ‘She will be fine. She was involved in a car accident, and is in hospital.’

‘Next?’ Hatten says. And his eyes are on me, again. Even across the room they are a strange colour. Blue, but a pale, barely there shade of blue. If not for a darker rim on the edge of the iris they would almost blend into the white.

‘My name is…Kyla,’ I say. What is wrong with me? I’d been on the edge of saying something else, a name that had winked into existence, and then vanished before I even knew what it was
.
He raises an amused eyebrow, like he felt the slip I nearly made.
Get a grip.
This time I manage to look away before he does. My hands I clasp tight together to stop them from trembling.

Hatten finishes his seating plan and begins the class. He borrows one of the student’s notebooks to see which modules we have studied; we just started a section on biological classification.

He shuts it.

‘We’re going to do something different today,’ he says. ‘A practical on the brain.’ He points at Ben and me. ‘You two, help me out. Get the brain models, and pass them around: one per pair.’ Ben jumps up and I follow after him; we get small boxes out of a side cupboard Hatten indicates.

Inside we find three-dimensional models of the brain, each bit numbered and fitting together, interlocking like a puzzle. The minutes tick past with us taking the brain apart and putting it back together, writing the names of each structure by number on a worksheet. Cerebellum, brain stem, frontal cortex, left and right hemispheres… The diagram reminds me of the cross sections of my brain I saw on Dr Lysander’s computer. That wasn’t a sketch, though; it was a scan through my living brain.

‘Listen up,’ Hatten says. ‘One last thing. Everyone, hold your hands together to make a small circle between them you can look through.’ He draws an X on the whiteboard. ‘Hold your arms out; with both eyes open, stare at the X through the circle in your hands. Now, close one eye at a time without moving your hands. When you close one, the X should disappear; when you close the other, it should still be there in the centre.’

So we do: I hold my hands up and look at the X. Sure enough, when I close my left eye and look with my right, the X is blocked by my hand. When I close my right eye and look with my left, it is dead centre.

Hatten scans the room, then his eyes settle on me. ‘Kyla? Which eye saw the X?’

‘Left,’ I answer.

He smiles. ‘Interesting. You must be a biological anomaly.’

I say nothing. He goes on. ‘Dominant eye is generally the same as dominant hand. If you saw the X with your left eye, you should be left-handed. Yet there you are, holding your pen in the right hand.

‘How about the rest of you: did everyone else find their dominant eye and hand are the same?’ Voices concur. I shift uncomfortably in my chair.

‘I see we’re nearly out of the time,’ Hatten says. ‘But you might be wondering why we did this last experiment in connection with our work on the brain model.’ Still his eyes are on me, not looking around the room at anyone else; just on me.

‘It was a key discovery in the study of the brain: the influence of handedness on the development and organisation of memory storage and access. If you are left-handed, in certain key respects, memory access is right hemisphere dominant; if you are right-handed, the left is dominant. Though in rare individuals this doesn’t hold: often those with artistic abilities seem to be able to use their brain differently.’ He finally looks away, gazes about the room, than straight back at me. ‘This is all very important in surgery and treatment of brain conditions.’

Surgery.
Like being Slated.

The bell rings. End of class.

‘Hand your sheets in on your way out!’ he says.

Everyone shuffles about, putting books away.

Right-handed…left-handed. My left forms a fist of its own accord: my left fingers smashed with a brick. But that was only a dream.

Was it?

‘Kyla?’ Ben nudges me. ‘Come on.’ I shake myself internally, and make myself get up, walk closer and closer to the front desk with feet like lead, so slow that I’m last after Ben. Mrs Ali stands waiting at the door.

I put my sheet on top of the pile in Hatten’s hands.

‘Did you find that…interesting?’ he asks, and winks.

I jump, don’t answer, and bolt for the door and Mrs Ali.

She frowns. ‘I want a quick word before your next class, Kyla. Come on.’

She pulls me into the empty classroom next door.

‘There have been some concerns raised about you, my dear.’ She smiles her gentle smile.
That is when she is most dangerous.
‘And by what I just witnessed, I must echo them.’

What she just witnessed? I frantically scan the last moments of class: was she there when Hatten said I was a biological anomaly? No. I’m sure she wasn’t. She arrived at the end. And she couldn’t have seen him wink; his back was to her.

‘What do you mean?’

She frowns. ‘That lovely new teacher asked you if the class was interesting, and you didn’t even answer him.’

That lovely new teacher
: huh. There is more to him and I’m guessing it isn’t all lovely. But I get the impression she doesn’t know a thing about it.

‘And a number of your other teachers say you have been distant, inattentive, and not ready to learn.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.’

‘Don’t just try; do it. This is a warning, Kyla. We’ve talked about this before. Don’t forget you are being punished until you are twenty-one. Your contract requires you to do your best to integrate and do well at school, with your family and community. You are over sixteen now; if you fail, other treatment options are available.’ She smiles warmly. ‘Now, run along to your next class, dear. Have a nice day.’

She disappears out the door, down the hall. Ben: I need Ben. Everything is tumbling inside: confusion about Hatten, who he is, what he said; shock and fear at Mrs Ali’s threats. My levels are on the way down.

When I step into the hall Hatten is just coming out of the biology lab. He pulls a face at Mrs Ali’s retreating back, crosses his eyes. ‘What a bitch,’ he whispers, winks again and smiles a cheeky grin. He looks younger, more natural like that – as if his teacher face earlier was a mask – and I can’t help but smile back. He leans in close and holds a finger to his lips. ‘Ssssh, our little secret.’ Then goes in the other direction.

Well. I could swear he heard every word Mrs Ali said. How? And what is ‘our little secret’?

Time will tell.

Ben is out front, waiting. ‘I saw Mrs Ali leading you off for a chat. Is everything all right?’

‘Things could be better,’ I say. Though I check my Levo and am surprised it has gone up to 5.1: did Hatten pulling silly faces stop its descent? Or, more: was it him standing
close.
My heart still beats faster.

‘Can you come for a run before Group tomorrow?’ Ben says, face worried.

‘Of course. We’ll talk then.’ The first bell for next class goes, and we rush in opposite directions.

Time to be attentive and ready to learn. Or to get better at faking it, at least.

I pull aside the curtain next to the front door, and scan up the road: no sign.
Hurry up, Ben.

‘Kyla?’ Dad calls out from the front room. I go to the door. ‘Come talk to me a moment while you wait.’

I hesitate, look down at my feet: trainers on.

‘Don’t worry about that, she’ll never know,’ he says.

Mum may be out but I’m sure she has some sort of radar that keeps tabs on whether shoes are worn on the carpet. I wipe them carefully on the mat and stand uncertainly in the doorway.

‘Have a seat,’ he says, smiles.

I perch on the edge of an armchair.

‘Your boy isn’t very punctual, is he?’

‘No,’ I admit.

‘So he is your boy, then.’

‘What?’

‘
Your boy.
You know: your boyfriend.’

I colour. ‘No.’

‘…or maybe, you’d like him to be.’

‘No! I don’t know. We’re just friends.’

He raises an eyebrow and it feels like he can see, he can understand my mixed up feelings better than I can.