Resistance will not be tolerated

Chapter 2

 Copyright © carpe_lucem 

All rights reserved by the author

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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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.