The gates opened and I slunk inside. The landscape within the estate was barren. The barriers which were designed to protect cast an ominous prison feeling. Old photos that hung in the hallway depicted the manor surrounded by lush gardens, but all that was left now was scuffed dead grass and scattered leaves. Suffice to say, it offered protection but no warmth. Opening the large front door, I stepped inside.
“Where have you been, Abigail Swish? Class has started and I see you aren’t in it.”
I jumped at the sound of the cold high voice behind me. Spinning around, I hesitated to deliver a smartass reply. Standing, hands on her bony hips, was Patricia Olden, head of Compound 23. Her black hair was short and slicked back, framing her sharp features. She was forty-five years old, one of the youngest leaders among the rebels. Her joys in life included being a controlling bit– witch ... no, I was right the first time – bitch. On top of that, her loathing of teenagers was legendary. This was my mother figure. Hence why I ran in the ganglands.
She continued, arrogance and derision dripping from every syllable: “I don’t care if you tattoo yourself, get a face full of piercings and join the gangers, but if I have to see your face under my roof, I expect to receive my full cash payments. You will make it in time for every single class.”
“Since I’m tattoo and piercing free...” I glanced at my watch. “And classes have only just started, I’ll head that way now.”
The resistance planned to take back the city by breeding the strongest rebels. It was a long-term plan. Very long-term.
Education was deemed to be of utmost importance. Future rebels were trained in both academics and combat. They paid the compounds per class attendance, so it was priority one around here. It was also why junior compounds were single sex. Less distractions.
Marching over, Olden grabbed me, her bony fingers pinching my arm. She dragged me across the hall and we ended up in our main classroom. Using my free arm, I attempted to protect my injured ribs. Breathing was becoming somewhat painful.
The teacher paused. She was resistance-employed, around sixty years old, but it had been a hard sixty years. As Lucy would say, ‘The lady has city miles on her’. The pain dulled to an angry throb as Olden released me.
“Mrs Crabbe, note Abigail Swish is present for this class.”
The teacher glanced at her watch before nodding. “A little too close, Patricia. I’ll let it slide today, but have your girls here on time in future.”
As she shuffled off to open her attendance book, Olden rounded on me.
“You will make every class from now until you’re eighteen. You’ve irritated me since the day you arrived. It’s a bad habit that will not serve you well on the streets.”
“I can imagine,” I said drily. “Seeing as I was one when I arrived, must have been all the dirty diapers.”
Ignoring me, she continued, her voice dropping dramatically. “You’re eighteen soon, Abigail. No one will be around to protect you then. You’ll be on those damn streets you love so much.” Her thin lips curved slightly, a cruel smile. “You have no idea what awaits you.”
Da dum dum. Wasn’t she dramatic tonight. With one month till my eighteenth, Lucy and I had been trying to figure out what to do. Most made their way to an adult rebel group. Junior compound leaders were supposed to direct you. And that was my dilemma – Olden was not trustworthy.
Throughout the room, girls were studiously reading their books, hoping her attention wouldn’t turn toward them. Not Lucy, though. She was sitting near the back of the room in her usual spot, glaring daggers in my direction. Luckily, Olden appeared to be done for the day. Turning to leave, she was out the door in record time, like she was afraid if she spent too much time with us she’d catch something. In my opinion, her absence was her most enjoyable aspect.
Threading through the room, I made my way toward my desk. I dropped into the chair, ungracefully, of course, painfully jarring my side. Ignoring this, I faced the front. The teacher continued the lesson in her tedious tone. In ten years I’d never had an interesting teacher. I was beginning to think they were myths, like unicorns and comfortable high heels.
Movement to my right caught my attention. Lucy Laurell, best friend, still glaring. Her gorgeous, doll-like features all screwed up in annoyance. Big blue eyes narrowed. Major PMS mode, if you ask me. Lucy was tiny, barely five-foot, and angelic with shoulder-length wavy blond hair and a delicate heart-shaped face. The delicate facade covered a core of steel and determination. I knew that firsthand.
When we were six she’d forced me to perform a blood bond. She’d decided this was the number one requirement of sisterhood. I hated the sight of blood, often throwing up or, in extreme cases, fainting. But somehow, despite her size, she held me down and hacked away. The painful memory will always be with me, along with a crooked scar along my left palm. Lucy was no surgeon.
“Where did you disappear to, Abigail?” Her low voice sounded calm but I wasn’t fooled.
“I was unexpectedly delayed, Luce, but I’ll tell you about it later.”