Free Filtered by G.K. Lamb

doubt it, but it makes a comfortable distraction while I pass the time on the way to school.
    The bus slows. The change in momentum nudges me forward, waking me from my daydream. I take a second to reenter my surroundings. Checking out how many kids are sitting in front of me, I can count them as they get up. I am thirteenth in line; I sit and wait. Row after row in perfect order and wordless discipline we do what we’re supposed to do. A fire of indignation erupts inside me. I sit at home, school, and here on the bus everyday telling myself I will find the truth. That I won’t put up with the way things are, but I never act. Enough is enough. Student ten stands, enters the aisle and turns to exit. My turn. Quickly, without the chance for anyone else or myself to lodge any protest, I jump from my seat. Taking large strides down the aisle, my backpack banging on every row of seats as I pass, I reach the exit in an exhilarating blink of an eye. Taking the short steps down off the bus, I feel invigorated. The worries of the last few days melt away. But no good thing lasts forever, and while still in the euphoria of victory, the world comes crashing down on me.
    “You, stop!”
    Two large monitors in their brown uniforms and black rebreathers make their way through the line of students toward me. They must have figured out that Victoriana didn’t type in that search. I wonder how long they tortured her before they decided she didn’t do it? Feeling like an animal in the zoo, my fists tighten and my teeth clench. They picked the wrong day to bring me in, today I won’t go quietly.
    “You. Are you a twelfth-year student?”
    Expecting fighting words, I relax my guard. “Yes, I am a twelfth-year.”
    “Report to the parade grounds immediately.”
    Both monitors point in unison to my left. A line of monitors corral the other twelfth-years around the corner of the school out of sight. This could be a trap, a way of singling out who the real perpetrator is. Or maybe we’re simply practicing for graduation. Too many uncertainties. I’ll wait to run once I turn the corner. I’m not willing to comply, but I can’t start running without knowing what I’m running from.
    “Do you comply?”
    I desperately desire to say no, but fear and complacency hold me back.
    “Yes.” The word sticks in my throat.
    Not wanting to spend any more time under their gaze, I head toward the left hand side of the school. An iron gate normally locked stands open and flanked by monitors. I step through the gate, holding my head high. The monitor on the left locks eyes with me while I pass. In no mood to avert my gaze, I stare right back.
    I pass through the gate and continue the length of the school. I’m struck with the realization that nothing happened. All those years I sheepishly looked at my feet and I answered their questions with zeal I was only bowing to authority they didn’t possess. What would they have done? Beat me for looking them in the eyes? There is no rule saying you can’t, no grounds for their power, it’s just one of those social cues you pick up: “Never look them in the eye or they’ll beat you.” “Never back-mouth, they’ll whip you.” A bunch of crap. One monitor, at one school, one time must have beaten some poor kid into a pulp and by the time the tale made its rounds to all the schools, it turned into a full-blown myth. How much of our imprisonment is self-inflicted?
    The corner of the concrete wall approaches. Muscles tensed, tendons loaded, I prepare to bolt, but when I turn the corner there are no Police Officers waiting to grab me. Instead, a few dozen meters away in the parade field there is a stage set up. All the twelfth-year students are forming neat rows in front of the stage. A wide ring of monitors encircles the gathering students, and farther away a ring of skyscrapers disappear into the soot-filled sky encircling the black ash-covered field. Nothing like this ever takes place without months of