Truancy Origins (4 page)

For Umasi especially, it was impossible to imagine living any other way.

 

H
ow goes the implementation of the new program?”

“Initial reports would suggest very well, sir. We sent the instructions to the teachers in a random order over the course of the entire month to avoid any student suspicions. Some teachers have only recently received the directions, of course, so we should have more comprehensive data within a few weeks.”

“I trust that there were no complaints from the teachers?”

“Nothing filed officially.”

“But of course you cannot prevent gossip.”

“Of course.”

“How about the student reaction?”

“That's where things get interesting, Mr. Mayor. Firstly the negative effects—we've seen the expected loss of student morale, as well as an overall grade decrease across the board, both of which seem to be a direct result of the program. Also, observed physical altercations between students shot up by seven percent.”

“And the positives?”

“The tactic produced immediate and dramatic results. Punishing entire classes for any one student's misbehavior effectively turned the rest of the class against that student. They punish their own even more effectively than we can directly. As a bonus, so far no students have yet been observed to blame the teachers or us.”

“Give me a rundown on the statistics.”

“Overall marked classroom behavior improved by thirteen percent. There was an especially significant improvement in overt outbursts, with only twenty-seven having been reported the entire month. It seems that even if a class is not subject to the tactic themselves, word spreads quickly.”

“Excellent, sounds promising on every count. Tell the board to continue the regimen and observe its effects over an extended period of time.”

“Yes, sir. Also, the concept committee has produced another proposal that you might find interesting.”

“Give me a summary.”

“In short, we'll restrict students to one room during their free periods. We'll enforce this using the security guard patrols rather than teachers. Consistent harassment during free periods should apply an interesting new level of pressure that we've not yet explored.”

“It's getting late. Have the proposal on my desk by tomorrow morning, I'll review it then.”

“Consider it done, sir. Are you heading home now?”

“Yes, my sons are waiting for me.”

“If I may be so bold as to ask, sir . . . do you ever notice our policies having effects on your sons?”

“All the time. Do you have any children?”

“No, sir.”

“You should hope that it stays that way. You don't ever want to have to go home and look your kids in the face after a day of this work.”

“I love my job, sir.”

“And so do I. But I also love my sons, and I find it . . . difficult . . . to reconcile the two.”

 

I
t's really not that hard, you know,” Umasi said, looking up from his desk.

“Speak for yourself,” Zen snorted, lying back comfortably on his bed.

Umasi sighed as he looked back down at the two lists of math problems spread out on his desk. One was his, and the other was Zen's. It had become routine for Umasi to do the homework for both of them. Zen never seemed able to do his on his own, and Umasi had decided that it saved time if he did it all himself rather than coaching his uninterested brother.

As Umasi went to work on the problems, Zen began tossing darts at a board hung up on a wall. The room was large, and shared by the both of them. It had been divided down the center by an invisible line that they had both agreed to after a dispute when they were younger—one of the few times Umasi could ever recall quarreling with his brother. One half was host to Umasi's bed and desk, which held various stacks of books, paper, and writing utensils. Zen's half also had a desk, though it was mostly empty. The dartboard was hung up on Zen's side, and a large dresser, which held both their clothes, rested right upon the border, half of it on either side. Next to the door were a bunch of pegs where they hung their jackets, and Umasi knew that Zen kept a baseball bat and unused chess set under his bed. Everything was very orderly. Their interests might have been different, but they both had an inclination to keep their things organized.

As Umasi continued working, the darts that Zen was throwing made a low
thunk
each time one slammed into the board. Out of the corner of his eye, Umasi couldn't help but notice that Zen was managing to precisely hit the rim of the bull's-eye with almost every shot, forming a ring around it with his darts. As impressive as the display was, however, Umasi found it rather annoying.

“Could you stop that?” Umasi asked, looking up from his work. “It's distracting.”

“If you say so,” Zen replied, tossing his last dart at the board, where it struck the midst of the circle that he had formed with all the previous darts.

“Thanks,” Umasi said as he turned back to his work.

“How're your ribs feeling?” Zen asked, changing the subject.

“Better,” Umasi answered, not taking his eyes from his paper. He knew where Zen was going to steer this conversation, and he wasn't very fond of that particular subject.

“You know the only way you're going to get them to stop messing with you is to fight back for once,” Zen advised, putting his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

“Too bad I'm not as tough as you,” Umasi murmured, scribbling down another answer.

“You took the same self-defense courses that I did,” Zen pointed out. “You should've been able to escape, at the very least.”

“Those were the only courses you were better at than me, remember?” Umasi countered.

“Yet you still passed,” Zen replied. “I'll admit there
is
a difference between training and real fighting, but you're never going to find out how big that difference is for you if you don't try at all.”

“I don't want to try,” Umasi muttered, sharpening his pencil.

“And why's that?” Zen asked, sitting up straight and looking over at Umasi.

“Because I don't like fighting,” Umasi answered, his eyes remaining focused on his papers.

“Well that's obvious,” Zen snorted. “But you don't like getting pounded either.”

“I guess that makes me a pacifist then, doesn't it?” Umasi suggested.

“Pacifism is a losing attitude,” Zen said derisively. “Look where it got
you
—beaten up on the ground with your head in a puddle.”

Umasi was now starting to get annoyed—probably what Zen was after in the first place. Whenever Zen was bored, which was often, his favorite pastime seemed to be aggravate the nearest person within earshot.

“Do you want me to finish this or not?” Umasi demanded, turning around and gesturing towards their collective homework.

“Of course!” Zen replied with mock surprise. “Don't tell me that our little chat managed to interfere with your work ethic.”

“Don't play dumb,” Umasi scolded. “Why don't you help for once? Go get some lemonade, I'm thirsty.”

“I don't think that we have any left.”

“Then go out and buy some, it's not like you have anything better to do,” Umasi suggested, turning back to his work. “Dad's going to be home for dinner soon. At the very least I can drink it then.”

“Point taken,” Zen said, sliding out of his bed and walking over to the dresser, upon which rested two shiny plastic cards. “Of course you don't object to me using your money, right?”

“Go ahead, it's not like either of us are going to run out anytime soon,” Umasi pointed out.

Zen laughed at that, and then picked up both of the cards. One of them had the letter
Z
scribbled on it, and the other a
U
. Ever since their father had entrusted the cards and their accounts to the twins, on their thirteenth birthday, they'd been sure to mark them so as not to confuse them. Two years later, they had hardly managed to dent the massive sums at all—not that they had tried much, of course, as they were both modest spenders. Still, for one brief moment, Zen enjoyed the feeling of the plastic in his hands, knowing that he held more money, and consequently more power, than most of the wealthy in the City ever saw in a lifetime.

And then he dropped the card marked
Z
, pocketed the one labeled
U
, and strode out of the room.

 

Y
ou sick or something? You don't have to do this if you're too weak.”

Red gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet, ignoring the merciless aches in his gut. Untamed brown strands of hair dropped in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision as a sudden wave of pain forced him to double over slightly. Glaring at his companion, Red straightened up slowly.

“Who, me? I'm fine,” Red lied. “It's not like we're robbing a bank. I'm ready to go any time, unless
you
wanna chicken out, Chris.”

Chris raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever you say, man, but you look ready to collapse any moment now. You're damn lucky you fell in with my gang, else you'd probably be dead by now.”

“I don't need you,” Red snarled, his body tensing. “I did fine by myself for
years.
”

Chris and Red stared each other down. Chris had the advantage in height and weight, and had the support of most of the other vagrants in their group, which was no small feat, all things considered. However, Red, at least, could tell that the boy was a coward at heart. Red wasn't scared of him, and would not allow himself to be bullied.

A few more tense moments passed, and then Chris backed down, a conciliatory grin spreading across his face.

“All I meant was that you're better off with us than without, Red,” Chris said. “And since you ain't run off yet, you probably agree, yeah?”

Red nodded grudgingly, relaxing slightly himself.

“Good then, let's go,” Chris said.

As soon as Chris turned, Red shuddered and grasped his knees, another wave of pain racking his body. Despite the setting sun casting a warm orange glaze over the streets around him, Red couldn't help feeling cold. The air was getting chillier every day now, and the leaves in the park had been dying. Winter was near, and judging from the increasingly savage pain in his gut, Red knew it would be the worst one he'd seen yet. It was the reason why, after years of hacking it alone, Red had decided to join up with Chris' gang.

Then, as suddenly as they had come, the sharp pains faded away. Forcing a grin as Chris glanced back at him, Red began walking, cursing his appendix as he did. For a long time he had ignored the pains, dismissing them as hunger pangs; after all, he rarely, if ever, enjoyed a full stomach. When they grew worse, Red convinced himself that something rotten he had eaten was to blame. A few weeks later the pain had still not subsided, and Red had begun to accept that something else must be wrong with him. He didn't actually know if his appendix was the problem, but he liked the word, one that he vaguely remembered learning about back when he still attended school. It had been three years since he had last sat in a classroom—three years since he had become a vagrant. He was sixteen now.

Taking a deep breath, Red followed Chris down the empty sidewalks of District 7, an abandoned district—one of the many miniature ghost towns within the massive City. The entire City itself rested upon a large island, surrounded by two rivers and, on its west side, the ocean to which they flowed. That landmass was divided up into districts, from 1 to 57, and these districts in turn formed the City. Districts with low populations in poor neighborhoods often fell into disrepair, and every so often the Mayor's Office would order these districts evacuated and sealed off with fences. These districts had been a blessing to the vagrants of the City, who used the emptied buildings to hide from the Enforcers—uniformed officers who maintained law and order in the City and often hunted down vagrant children.

For the past few days Red and his companions had camped out in District 7. The Enforcers had recently swept the area, meaning that they wouldn't be back for a while. There was only one rival gang around, which meant that, despite their sole competitors growing increasingly belligerent, they could spend most of their energy on basic necessities rather than
fighting. But most important, District 7 bordered on the bustling District 5, from which the vagrants were able to steal a decent amount of food.

As Red slipped into a dark back alley, a rich scent reached his nostrils, and he paused to savor the smell. Driven by hunger, he and Chris swiftly proceeded down the alley until they came face-to-face with a crude wooden barricade—one of the fences that had been erected to separate District 5 from the abandoned District 7. Red crouched down next to Chris to wait. On the other side of that barricade, he knew, was an alley where a restaurant dumped its trash.

“I'll be waiting here on lookout,” Chris said. “You go on in and bring us some food.”

Red narrowed his eyes.

“Aren't you coming?”

“Nah, today's not my turn. You're kinda new, this your first time out with me, yeah? Well this is how we roll,” Chris said. “ 'Sides, you wouldn't even know about this place if I hadn't told you about it.”

He had a point there, but Red wasn't about to let it go. None of the other members of the gang had ever mentioned this, and Red knew that if he gave in and fetched Chris food without complaint, he'd be pegged as a pushover.

“Listen, Chris,” Red said, standing up slowly. “I'm going to go along with this now because I like the crew. But if screwing me out of food gets to be a regular thing with you—”

“How am I screwing you out of food?” Chris said defensively.