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“The one that was at the front with the lion.”
He strokes his chin thoughtfully. “You know, I hadn’t even noticed it was gone,” he murmurs, and looks disturbed by the idea.
* * *
I’m browsing the library the following day, and something is different.
Where Danny had been reading books on royalty, the entire shelf is now bare. At first, I assume it’s due to the librarian’s delay in restocking after Arabella’s absurd tantrum, but then I notice it’s not just the royalty section that’s missing — the whole history section has been cleared out, too. A new protruding sign readsKing James.
“Excuse me,” I say to the librarian, who’s busy sticking sheets into the inside of new books. “Where are the history books?”
He blinks at me, owlish. He’s a skinny man with a stubbly brown beard and weak, watery eyes magnified by glasses I think are intended to be trendy. Going on looks alone — which I know is wrong but damn is it often the most reliable indicator — he gets my back up purely because he so resembles an import from St. Camford. “The what?”
“The history books. The books on British royal history?”
“Oh, that,” he says with a small sneer. “No, we got rid of those.”
My blood runs cold. I feel like someone’s poured ice water down my back. “What?”
“Mm, instructions from above — and quite right, too. Very outdated. We have to ascertain students’ thinking.”
My legs suddenly become rubbery as my brain registers what I’ve just heard. “What?”
“It’s okay — we’ll have some brand new,gorgeousbooks filling up the shelves in no time,” he declares brightly, as though the general emptiness had been my issue. He picks up the top one from the stack beside him to show me. The cover is vibrant and glossy and artistic, an eye-catching contrast to the dull-looking ones that had been there previously. This one seems to be a book for younger children. There’s an illustrated, friendly-looking Benji, with big cartoon eyes and a shiny yellow crown, winking and sticking out his tongue while giving readers the peace sign. Smiling lions and happy unicorns dance around the background, where the black and red Antiro flag is positioned up high. In the foreground, Luke’s rich purple robe is drawn around Benji mid-swish. The title reads ‘King James Loves Animals!’
I get chills. I’ve never seen anything creepier — and to be purposefully designed for young children… It makes me wonder how quickly publishers can pump out this shit.
“But… thewhole history sectionis gone.”
“Yes, we couldn’t risk any students becoming anxious should they come across a reference to — well, you know. Better to clear out the old, outdated books and start afresh. We’ll cross-reference and be a little smarter about what we let in from now on.”
Smarter, like the obvious propaganda clutched between his hands.
The librarian speaks so breezily, as though he doesn’t hear anything wrong with his words at all. On the contrary, he seems excited. “It’s a great library here. An incredible resource. When I worked at St. Camford,” he adds in a whisper, and I give a weary check to the box beside my earlier assumption, “it took the main libraryforeverto devote shelf space to King James. He’s the most important event in our lifetimes. They dragged their feet to the point it was becoming suspect. But Lochkelvin’s really going for it!” He beams brightly. “I’m totally here for it. We love to see that on-point activism!”
I keep my mouth shut but my mind is whirling as dramatically as Benji’s illustrated robe. So that’s what it takes, is it, for the largest political library in the UK to fuck up its prestigious collection? A meltdown from a single student.
I’m tired. So very, very tired. With Dr. Moncrieff whispering words of high treason to us in the extremely early hours, I’d thought there’d be hope with the dawn of a new day. A flicker of it, at least, for someone as staunchly anti-monarchy as him to confess that things had gone pear-shaped somewhere down the line. But now, with books being banned and the library being wiped, every day feels like two steps forward and a hundred steps back.
God knows I’d love to yell the place down the way Arabella had. Start ripping up books on Benji and chucking them across the library. Tear out pages and scatter them to the wind. But somehow I doubt my demands would be catered to as outrageously easily as Arabella’s had been.
And besides… as much as I disagree with a whole section on Benji, or books about Benji, I still acknowledge that banning books is wrong. Unlikable ideas are a side effect of democracy — what little of it we currently possess, anyway. If we ever get out of this nightmare alive, it’ll be fascinating to read in later years the historical proof of the time when the country was in the grip of Antiro mania. The utter weirdness of when publishers churned out books designed to indoctrinate children in favor of Benji the beloved savior.
In silence, I leave the library. It feels compelled.
I can’twaitto let rip my political fire in the sanctuary of our politics class tonight.
28
Roast potatoes are normally one of my favorite side dishes at Lochkelvin, fluffy on the inside and crispy on the outside, but I’m almost sick from the thought of eating. I twirl a potato around the brown gravy on my plate, dwelling on the conversations I’ve had today. No unicorn. No royalty. A curious, sympathetic Moncrieff. As usual in the dining hall, all these thoughts have no outlet, the chiefs forcibly separated onto different tables and a distance from everyone else like we’re diseased. Nothing stops us from observing each other, however, and in times of us being spaced apart throughout the hall, this is no minor thing. I find I’m absurdly grateful that I still get to look at the chiefs, to see Danny slumped in his chair, cheek on his fist; to see Rory, his expressionlessness wavering only when our eyes lock; and to see Finlay, who has thrown all etiquette out the window and uses every mealtime to catch up on what the papers say.
With nobody to discuss anything with, the time spent here passes even slower. So it’s something of a welcome distraction when Baxter rises to her feet and moves across from the staff table toward the lectern.
“As is customary for sixth years, a careers fair will take place later in the month.” I almost groan — I couldn’t be less interested. I honestly don’t give a fuck when it comes to my professional future, not when everything is in turmoil. Fuck, I’m not even convinced I’ll still be in the country come graduation.
I try to picture this career fair. The companies Lochkelvin’s lined up probably have policies and bullshit core values stressing how welcoming and generous they are, a culture of being a big supportive family and a valued member of the team, yadda yadda yadda… but I wonder how many would also take an employee aside, give them a quiet word, and discipline them for speaking out about Benji? I don’t trust anyone these days. I’ve seen how quickly a whole bunch of ass-licking masochists tripped over themselves to coronate a narcissist as their king and conqueror. And besides, St. Camford alreadyhada career fair, where I learned precisely nothing about careers and everything about Antiro’s recruitment practices.
“Many high-profile companies have agreed to attend, and there will also be professional one-to-one business coaching and support available. This year we’ve been able to organize the fair to coincide with Burns Night, which will be held near the spectacular Dunhaven Castle. This trip will last two days, with an overnight stay in between, and all sixth years with exemplary behavior are encouraged to attend.”
