Lisa Heathfield - I Am Not a Number

‘They made Hannah Maynard go and change her skirt,’ Destiny says.

‘Who did?’

‘The soldiers. They told her it was indecently short.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Completely.’

‘They didn’t put that in their campaign speeches,’ I say.

‘They’re all about traditional values, aren’t they? We should’ve guessed they’d eventually come round to the way we dress.’

‘They’ll have us in high collars and skirts that touch our ankles.’

We’re silent for a bit. Around us it’s getting busier the closer we get to school. The gates are still a walk away but even from here I can see two soldiers standing either side of them. I look over at Destiny but I can’t read her face – it’s kind of neutral.

‘Are we still going to go in?’ I ask.

‘Of course.’ Yet when she looks up at me I can see she’s not neutral after all. There’s rebellion deep in her eyes. ‘They’re not going to stop me doing anything.’

We’re nearly there when I reach up for my ponytail and pull down my hair, letting it fall dead straight to my shoulders.

‘Ruby!’ I hear Luke call my name as soon as I walk through the door. Whatever the chaos of everyone getting into school, we always wait in the same spot for each other. And after one year, two months and five days I still get that crazy blood-flip when I see him. Even though he recently cut off his curls, he still looks beautiful.

‘Hey.’ He’s leaning against a wall as he kisses me, but I pull away from him.

‘Did you see them?’ I ask, remembering the soldier’s smell. His eyes on me.

Luke puts his arm round my shoulder and pulls me close enough to feel the beat of his heart.

‘They’re only people,’ he says. ‘Just in different types of clothes.’

‘But they’ve got guns,’ I remind him.

‘They’re just here to scare us. So don’t let them.’

The bell for tutor time rings out.

‘Did your dad know they’d be here?’

Luke shrugs. ‘He suspected. But sometimes journalists are the last people to find out. People try to hide everything from him.’

‘Hurry up, you lot.’ Our head’s voice ricochets down the corridor, scattering everyone.

‘See you in Art,’ Luke says, kissing me before I head off to my tutor room.

Mr Hart is looking for something in his drawer. It’s only a matter of time before the pile of books on his desk topples.

‘What do you think of the soldiers?’ Sara asks. I put my bag on the chair and sit on the table, my back to the front of the classroom.

‘There weren’t any on my street.’ Conor swings back on his chair, his new shoes up on the table next to me. He hates them. When the Trads brought in a no-trainer rule in all schools he tried to start a petition, but it didn’t get very far.

‘My dad told me not to be frightened of them,’ Sara says. ‘That they’re here to do good.’

‘What good ever came from people with guns?’ Conor snaps at her.

‘Don’t be so arsey,’ Sara says. It’s not like these two to fight. ‘I thought you of all people would like seeing men in uniform.’ She leans over and pulls one of his blond curls and lets it ping back into place.

‘Leave it, Sara,’ he says, swatting her hand away.

‘Settle down!’ Mr Hart shouts from the front.

Sara moves my bag so I can sit. Conor takes his feet from the table but doesn’t stop rocking backwards.

‘Sir,’ Sara calls out. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Do you mean right this moment?’ Mr Hart asks, adjusting his tie so it goes wonky the other side. ‘Or in the country in general?’

‘Both.’

Normally at least a few people are still talking, but now it’s more silent than I’ve ever heard it in here.

‘Well, right this moment we have soldiers outside our school.’ Mr Hart coughs and rubs his hand over the stubble on his chin. ‘And the country in general seems to be in the grip of a maniacal political party who want to take us back to the Stone Age.’

‘With John Andrews as the caveman,’ Conor says.

‘As he’s their leader,’ Mr Hart says, ‘it would appear so.’

‘Surely, sir,’ Ashwar says. ‘He’s just trying to make a better place for all of us to live.’

‘All of us?’ Mr Hart says. ‘Or just the people like him?’

‘By like him ,’ Ashwar says, ‘do you mean people who believe in the family unit? Who believe in a safe country?’

‘It depends what your definition of better is, Ashwar,’ Mr Hart answers. ‘I’m not sure that dictating how we think and what we do is necessarily better. Take, for example, their proposed law about single-sex schools throughout the country. You do realise that would mean this school will no longer exist as it is? You’d all be split off, divided.’

‘It’s been proved that they work,’ Ashwar says. ‘Grades are consistently higher when boys and girls are separated.’

‘But it’s about choice,’ Mr Hart says.

‘We’ve had choice for tons of years and look where that’s got us,’ Ashwar says.

‘Do you actually work for the Trads, or something?’ Conor asks and a few laughs scatter about.

‘I’m just saying that perhaps it’s better to finally be told what to do. To have someone in charge who has the guts to put their beliefs into place.’

‘Are you mad?’ Conor asks her. Even though we all know she’s not. Ashwar is a straight 9 student and probably heading for Oxford.

‘I think she’s got a point,’ James says.

‘You would agree with her,’ Sara says. ‘You just want to know the colour of her knickers.’

Laughter cuts into the atmosphere again and James’s face goes so red I think he might explode.

‘I think what you have to consider,’ Mr Hart says, waving a book in the air to quieten us, ‘is why John Andrews and his party are really introducing these new rules. Could it be less about what’s good for society and more about control?’

‘Curfew for anyone under eighteen definitely seems like control to me,’ Conor says.

‘Or could it be that they just really care about what happens to us?’ Ashwar says.

‘The Core Party care,’ Conor tells her. ‘They stand for Champion Of Rights for Everyone, if you remember.

‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ Ashwar glares at him. ‘But they didn’t get voted in, did they? People voted for the Traditionals. They’d had enough of our country sliding towards oblivion.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Conor says. He manages not to shout it, which is pretty impressive for him. For years he was angelic Conor, terrified of spiders and wasps, but since his mum got ill anger sometimes turns him inside out.

‘My mum voted for them,’ Sara says. ‘But she didn’t expect them to start telling us what we can and can’t wear. Even half her wardrobe isn’t suitable by their standards.’

‘Well, I’m not complaining about the length of her skirts,’ Leo says, smirking at her.

‘Shut up.’ I reckon if Sara had a book in her hand she’d lob it at him.

‘Maybe John Andrews is right,’ Ashwar says. ‘That without the trigger of provocative clothing, rape crime will go down.’

Conor slams his fist on to the desk. ‘You seriously believe it’s a girl’s fault if she’s attacked? Because of the way she dresses?’

‘I seriously believe that it’s a complex topic,’ Ashwar says calmly. ‘No other government has tried to face it and we’re left with a country that’s rotting from the inside out.’

‘Sir,’ Conor shouts. ‘You’ve got to stop her spouting this bullshit.’

Mr Hart waves his book from the front again, but this time he looks like he has fury in his veins. ‘I think –’ he says, his voice raised enough to get everyone quiet, ‘– that if we voted again now, some of your parents who ticked a box for the Traditionals might change their mind.’