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“Benji,” Rory sneers. “Benji, Benji, Benji. Your stupid brother ruining our country, Benjamin fucking Moncrieff. Happy?”
Dr. Moncrieff says nothing. It seems like assent, that he too believes his brother is a moron.
“They claim Arabella’s been radicalized because she inadvertently spoke the truth,” Rory points out. “You must be watching this, sir. You mustseehow damning and unforgiving their side is to your favorite student. The mob-god with its bullying and intimidation — those were your words. And yet it’susyou berate simply for showing the beast behind the curtain.” Rory pauses, tilting his head to the side. “You are seeing it, right? Or are you just praying you never slip up the way she did, as you play this out-of-control game of pretend? He isn’tking.”
“I must say, you have your father’s talent for manipulation.” Dr. Moncrieff’s words are bitten out, and while the acid in his tone implies that this is some type of moral failing, Rory beams and thanks him.
We are dismissed, Dr. Moncrieff rubbing tired eyes. The last I see of him, he’s slumped over his desk with his head held in his hands.
37
Midway through pudding, Arabella stalks into the dining hall. As the hall sinks rapidly into silence, she takes shaking step after shaking step down the stony aisle, deliberately avoiding the faces of students watching her. Several forks are hovering, poised halfway to gaping mouths. I meet Danny’s eyes across the tables separating us both and glance over my shoulder to see Rory with a raised golden brow. Arabella continues walking, her gait hesitant but her expression resolute, and when she passes me, I hear her quiet, blown-out breath.
She approaches the lectern in front of the staff table. Baxter inclines her head but I don’t think Arabella notices. When she stands behind the lectern, as her aunt has so often done before to deliver one dull announcement after the other, the sight strikes me as particularly strange. No student has ever made a speech at the lectern. Compared to her indomitable aunt, Arabella looks young and small and uncertain. Her fingers are tense around a sheet of paper, which she stiffly places on the stand in front of her.
There is a long moment of silence as Arabella faces the front, adjusting to being in the spotlight. She should be loving this, capturing the attention of everyone in the room. The power she believes her Head Girl badge rightfully offers. But instead, she looks scared, knowing that the turn of the school gossip cycle, and her ability to control it in her favor, hinges on her following words.
“Last Tuesday,” she begins, and you can hear the absence of breath in the room, “I was caught on video, making remarks that let down the anti-monarchist community.” She swallows and adjusts her notes. “I can stand here and make excuses for my behavior — that my desire to defend the group I believe in made me conduct myself dishonorably. My approach backfired and, regrettably, did a disservice to the very group I was hoping to protect.”
Arabella gives her throat a stubborn clear as if her next words have become lodged.
“I am profoundly sorry for my actions, and the hurt that I have caused within the anti-royalist community. This was never my intention, and I am embarrassed that my words could have negatively impacted our shared, important vision. I recognize that my passionate and impulsive response in the heat of the moment was misguided, and it shames me that my arguments on the day were not strong enough to effectively silence Antiro’s critics. For my words, and political position, to be twisted and used against the very movement I support… it pains me. My words have been deliberately mischaracterized by opportunists on the other side to hit back at one of the strongest, most revolutionary, most progressive political movements in history.”
It’s almost audible from across the hall, the heavy roll of Rory’s eyes.
“I should have been more aware, more cautious, that my actions could be manipulated by those whose intentions are not as pure as mine. These are, after all, their tactics. Being in the public eye has been a difficult and unwelcome experience, but also an enlightening one. Receiving even a fraction of the blind hatred that King James receives with grace from the uninformed every day has only made me appreciate his divine strength more. Due to their barbaric methods, and having endured what I realize is a campaign of bullying, my normally robust mental health has unfortunately been compromised. I realize, however, that this is no excuse and that, as an activist, I simply must do better. The only solution, I believe, to make up for my past misdeeds and bounce back stronger, is to take time for myself and reflect. Therefore, moving forward, I will be stepping down as Head Girl until further notice — until the time comes that I deserve the honor that this badge represents.” In front of the whole school, Arabella unpins her glittering gold badge and places it miserably on the lectern. “Thank you.”
Arabella collects her notes. Looking slightly more sure of herself, she nods at Baxter, steps away from the lectern, and then walks straight out the hall doors.
The moment she leaves, chatter instantly erupts.
So she’s sorry — not for any real reason, other than that she made her movement look bad. It should have been expected. The mob came for her and she freaked out, yet still in her resignation speech she managed to drop in her tithe of Antiro worship. It seems to me that anyone who preaches for the abuse of others shouldn’t be quite as shocked as Arabella’s speech made out when the same thing inevitably happens to them. It’s kinda the problem when you worship a very intense cult that attracts its share of very intense people: they will turn around and betray your loyalty the moment you fuck up.
I also can’t quite believe she gave up her Head Girl position. I assumed she’d be clinging onto that with the very stubs of her fingernails.
When I glance back at Rory, he’s wearing a particularly amused expression.Oh dear, I can hear him drawl as his gaze locks with mine,look at all that accountability.
Dr. Moncrieff, I observe, slips away from the staff table not five minutes later, leaving through an exit at the back of the hall. I wonder what that talk will be about.
* * *
Perhaps Mercury is in retrograde or something, because it is a time for apologies, we realize that night, as we listen idly to the radio.
“I apologize unreservedly to my fellow anti-royalists and the best damn political community on this miserable island,” one of the male presenters says, and from his choked-up voice I genuinely think he may be crying on the other side of his mic. “By speaking approvingly of that weird little Lochkelvin girl, my actions were insulting to the power of our movement and, from the feedback we’ve received, caused several incidences of trauma among our beautiful listeners. You know I respect the hell out of you guys, and I’m grateful your feedback brought this to my attention. Above all, I’m humbled to have been called out, that I get to use this as a crucial learning experience, and I apologize for neglecting to consider the damage and hurt my words may have caused you gorgeous folk.
“This is a safe space, where anti-establishment views are encouraged to flourish, and last week I broke the special bond between presenter and listener by referencing thoroughly debunked conspiracy theories on the airwaves and mentioning the toilet paper shitrag that won’t be named. For that, I humbly apologize to our loyal listeners, who deserve better — and Iwilldo better, going forward. I know I have been entrusted with a position of enormous power, responsible for the listening pleasure of millions across the country. I do not wish to perpetuate harmful attitudes, so I promise to be more careful when expressing my opinions live on air.
“But to the ultra-royalists, our enemies, who I know will be out there cackling with glee, I only have one message for you: shut the fuck up.” In the background, cheers and hollers break out from the other presenters. His relatively formal spiel gives way to the brash, bro-y tone that characterizes this radio station. “You think this is you winning? Fuck that noise. We’ve got our boy on the fuckin’ British throne.We’rewinning, and we can hit back at you dumb bitches sooo much harder. So you all better cease and desist your cute little grumpy rumblings about us, or we’re gonna sue your dumb arses for the pennies in your pockets, andthenyou’re gonna look as stupid as your dumb fuckin’ faces. You’re all fuckin’ waste-of-space boomers, anyway, and you’re all gonna die soon, hahaha — tick-tock, baby!”
For a long moment, all we hear are snorts of laughter. Danny glances at his watch.
“Look,” one of the other presenters pipes up with a soft, patient sigh, like a father realizing he probably ought to control his hyperactive toddler, “we’ve had a lot of correspondence on this issue, so let’s address it head-on. We’d also like to take this moment to apologize on behalf of Steve,” he adds, which feels like an insult, because if anyone dared to apologize on behalf of me, I think I’d punch them in the face. “Due to his personal life and current acrimonious divorce proceedings, unfortunately he has been distracted, with his presenting not up to our usual high standards. Since the incident, he has received appropriate training and counseling, and met up with some of our delightful listeners in the past few days, who reminded him of what our fight is about. As Steve is a founding member of this great station, we hope this will alleviate the hurt that he managed to inadvertently cause.”
“God, you can hear the plea in their voice,” Rory drawls, looking delighted. “‘Please like us. Have we whipped and debased ourselves enough for you?’”
I toy with the ends of my hair, trying to figure out what the hell I just listened to. But one idea overrides the others: “So they got complaints because they mentioned The Daily Toot, and the Queen being murdered. But not because of his creepy comments about Arabella.”
“These people are morons, right?” Danny asks, nursing his temple. “Like, everyone can hear that, yeah?”
