Slated

Chapter 17

My stomach is churning when I get on the bus the next morning. But Amy has my back.

And there she is, in her usual seat: the Slater Hater who tripped me yesterday. Sitting upright and staring out the window. I watch her carefully as we go past. She won't catch me unawares, again.

Amy follows my eyes. "That the one?" she whispers, but I don't say anything.

When I sit next to Ben at the back of the bus, his eyes widen. "Poor you," he says, and touches my face with fingertips, a feather light touch around my lip. It bruised up over night and looks worse today than yesterday. 'Does it hurt?'

"Only if I smile," I say.

He slips my cold hand in his warm one. "No smiling today, then," he says, sternly, and wipes his off.

His face, serious for once, looks different. The sameness – the happy expression all Slateds wear – is gone. His eyes still smile, though. I'm struck again by a feeling, one that says I know him and have always known him; that close to him, I am safe. My stomach lurches. Not in a bad way.

Mrs Ali is waiting for me at the Unit. She takes one look at me, and frowns. "What happened to your face?"

"I fell on the bus."

"Really."

"Yes."

"Listen to me, Kyla: if anyone is hassling you, tell me. It will be dealt with. What really happened?"

I look into her eyes, and see only concern. But just when I think I might tell her everything, some voice inside says bad idea.

"I tripped, and fell."

She frowns. "Well. If you remember anything else about it, tell me. Anyhow, we've got your test results. A clever girl, you are: it is straight into mainstream classes from today. Year 11, so you're just a little older than the other students. Not that anyone will know if you don't tell them: most of them will be taller than you, anyhow."

She hands me a timetable. "Come on: tutor group for citizenship, first. Yours is in English block."

I open the timetable and scan it, quickly at first; then again, taking more care. Tutor group, English, maths, history, biology, study hall, general science, agriculture, and Unit three times a week, whatever that means. It's not there.

"But what about art?"

"What's that, Kyla?"

"Art. It isn't on my timetable."

"No. You don't get to take an option like the other students. We have to fit extra classes in at the Unit. There's no room."

I stare back at her. This can't be happening. It is the only thing I actually want to take; part of the reason I wanted to come to school. We even had art classes at the hospital.

"But..."

"No buts; there's no time. You'll be late for tutor. If you have a problem with it, talk to Dr Winston," she says, and she sweeps out of the Unit. I follow along, numb. This can't be right. Even Nurse Penny said I could take art, as long as they thought I was good enough, didn't she? And that doctor had no interest in me or what I wanted, that was obvious enough. There'd be no point talking to her.

Mrs Ali drags me along paths and through buildings, dodging students rushing in all directions. At the class she reminds me to swipe my card, then introduces me to Mr Goodman, who is not only my form tutor but also my English teacher. Other students begin to arrive, to take their seats. And she leaves, saying she'll be back to take me to my first class before tutor ends.