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“Fuckin’.Evil.TWAT.” Each of Finlay’s words is punctuated by another blow, and I know this isn’t just about the names he called me but about what happened in the line outside. Everyone watches in awed, still silence, the disco lights the only thing moving, spinning overhead. It must last seconds at most, but time stretches and lengthens in a weird way that it feels as though we’re watching Finlay brutalize him for a whole eternity.
Finally, Rory grabs Finlay’s shoulder, which he jerks away, until Rory has to physically haul him off. “What thefuckare you doing?”
“Why are wehere?” Finlay yells, his hair tangled, his face patchily red.
Rory tightens his fingers around Finlay’s biceps, leaning in close enough that the only thing Finlay can focus on is his face. “Calm. The fuck.Down.” It takes a long moment of silent concentration but Finlay’s breathing eventually levels.
“Eyes on twelve o’clock,” Danny instructs. Rory glances up and groans. Two bulky security guards in black are cutting through the crowd and aiming directly for Finlay. The room is full of talk again, a background burble that builds once everyone comes to terms with what just happened.
“Get to Luke,” Rory urges Finlay. “Leave with him. He’ll still be at the hotel. Get him to safety. It’s your only way out of this.”
Beside them, I notice Arabella tilting her head in their direction, her expression full of undisguised interest.
Finlay hesitates, but when he meets Rory’s storm-gray eyes one final time, he gives a grim, defeated nod. He flicks his gaze over to me, a small, ironic smile beating at his tight slash of a mouth, before he rushes past Rory and dives deeper into the crowd toward the green neon lights signifying an emergency exit.
The security guys follow at an adamant pace behind him, but they’re broader and bulkier and it takes them longer to slip through the confused mass of revelers. By the time they reach the exit, Finlay’s long gone.
“Wow,” Danny says. “And then there were three.”
April picks up the microphone, looking shaken. “Can we get some emergency treatment over here? On-call first aid? Someone take him to the walk-in clinic.” A few people rush over to tuxedo guy, who’s still sprawled on the floor, only able to look dazedly through one eye. “Thanks,” April says solemnly, almost seeming on the verge of tears. “Poor darling Teddy. Luckily, his dad will no doubt make mincemeat of that hooligan boy.”
I swallow in trepidation, these words sounding like more of a substantial threat than anything Finlay came out with. “Who’s his dad?”
Rory doesn’t answer at first.
“Everyone’s father here is important and influential,” he eventually murmurs, with an almost mocking edge. “It’s how they make it to St. Camford. But I honestly don’t think Fin could have picked a worse target.”
My stomach sinks. “He runs St. Camford, doesn’t he? He’s the chancellor.”
“Close. He’s chief executive of the steering committee. Which, in effect, means he has more power than the chancellor and everyone else put together.” His lips tighten. “Fin won’t be seeing the inside of St. Camford again for a very long time.”
“I think this attack just shows how, as St. Camford students, we always need to be on our guard,” April says, her tone heavy with outrage. “These attacks can even come from people who hate us so much they want tobeus. Because of our elite heritage, we’re the most marginalized subset of British students, and this can threaten a lot of less worldly folk. Our progressive values are too much for other, more narrow-minded students to handle.”
“There are homeless on the streets,” Danny mutters, “and theseelitesthink they’re oppressed because they believe a student activist should crown himself king.”
“The fight wasn’t even about that,” I remark glumly. The St. Camford lot can’t even think of reasons beyond their precious political cause for a brawl to break out; it’s the only thing through which they seem able to frame the rest of the world. “The guy called me names, then he launched himself at Fin for daring to stick up for me.”
Rory’s eyes narrow. “Then he deserved it. Prick.” He loops a comforting arm over my shoulder, drawing me in tight. I breathe in the crispness of his suit, the soap of his warm skin. Rory watches hawk-like as tuxedo guy is assisted out the hall, looking as though he’d have spared no tears had he been murdered instead of maimed. “So now they’re lying about what happened and trying to claim victim status. A win-win for Antiro PR.”
“I know we’re all in a state of shock right now,” April murmurs into the microphone, “butthis is how they win. Theywantus demoralized. They want us too weak to fight back. So as we mourn an attack on one of our own, I think the most important thing we can do right now is reaffirm our commitment to justice.” She places the microphone back on the stand and raises her index fingers and thumb out to the crowd. Grandly, she declares: “To Antiro and all that they stand for.”
Her words echo from every other student in the hall, all of them thrusting theirA-shaped fingers into the air and chanting. It’s like living deep among a crowd of zombies. Arabella’s hands beam energetically in front of her, as she whispers intently to the woman beside her.
“I can’t play these games,” Danny says with a nervous glance at Rory. “I can’t lie about this.”
“They’re all lying,” I say through gritted teeth, though I don’t raise my hands either. I’m reminded of the graffiti in the restroom. Statistically, not everyone here believes in the gesture they’re throwing out. To live a peaceful life, everyone and everything has become fake. Genuine beliefs and personal reservations are hidden and kept private. This kind of stupid symbolic nonsense does nothing more than indicate allegiance to the group. It’s performative activism: all about other people’s perception of you as the right kind of person rather than the wrong set of beliefs.
The right side of history.
“It seems we have a few people in tonight whoaren’tinterested in the expression of our political rights,” April says in a testy tone, her eyes on us. And like a siren call, hundreds of heads turn to stare at us from behind their Antiro symbols.
My blood runs cold.
“There’s no nuance — they want submission,” I say from the corner of my mouth. “If you don’t submit then you’re the enemy.”
“If they’re lying,” Rory murmurs, sticking his hand languidly into the air, “then we tell the truth.” And I realize as I observe the careful arrangement of Rory’s poised, straightened fingers that it isn’t the Antiro symbol at all. His middle finger lies prominently between his index fingers, and it’s juvenile, it’s so fucking juvenile, but this coupled with Rory’s exaggeratedly grave expression almost makes me laugh.
Danny and I copy the gesture. As long as it looks like we’re making the right shape, as long as it looks like we’ve fallen into line, then no one seems to notice the three of us flipping the bird.
“What a beautiful expression of solidarity,” April says, giving her chest an exaggerated clutch as tears spring into her eyes. I’d laugh were it not for the woman Arabella had been talking to suddenly approaching the stage. She speaks in a low tone to April, whose glimmering eyes widen, and the two of them nod seriously.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” April murmurs, looking dazed. “I’ve just heard the most astonishing news.” Her expression turns equal parts angered and nauseous as she slowly announces into the microphone, “The bastard prince, the bonny prince… Lucas Milton… is currently located next door.”
