The Slippery Slope [Worm AU]

When Taylor makes a new friend at Winslow, it may not be as good a thing as it seems ...

Disclaimers:
1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.
2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, then I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, then I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.
3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.

Part One: Approach (below)
Part Two: Acceptance
Part Three: Points of View
Part Four: Consolidation
Part Five: Meet the Family
Part Six: Fight or Flight
Part Seven: Preparations
Part Eight: Best-Laid Plans
Part Nine: Out of Control
Part Ten: Enmities and Allegiances
Part Eleven: Reports and Conclusions
Part Twelve: Meetings and Conferences
Part Thirteen: Analyses and Revelations
Part Fourteen: Families and Foreshadowing
Part Fifteen: Farewells and Continuations
Part Sixteen: Montage
Part Seventeen: Behind the Scenes
Part Eighteen: Try, Try Again
Part Nineteen: Means to an End
Part Twenty: The Gathering Storm
Part Twenty-One: Point of No Return
Part Twenty-Two: Everything Goes Sideways
Part Twenty-Three: Harsh Measures
Part Twenty-Four: Regrouping
Part Twenty-Five: Backlash

 

The Slippery Slope

Part One: Approach


September 2010

The impact came out of nowhere. I was thrown from my feet, landing on my side with stunning force. The wind was knocked out of me; I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. A foot trod heavily on my hand. Through tears of pain, I looked up, into Sophia's sneering face.

“Want to watch where you're going, Hebert.”

And then she was gone, and others were running past, a couple sneaking surreptitious kicks with their gym shoes into my back or my legs as I curled up protectively. Emma's friends. Always Emma's friends.

But of them all, it was Sophia I hated the most. She was always there, always at the forefront, most willing to hurt me. To cause me pain.

“Hey, you all right?”

I looked up, surprised, through eyes still blurry with tears of pain. Someone was crouched beside me, offering me a hand up. Awkwardly, I gave him the hand that hadn't been trodden on, wasn't throbbing with pain. Is it broken? I couldn't tell.

He didn't seem to be simmering with internal mischief, so I let him help me to my feet. I was still a little wobbly, so he helped me stumble to the benches at the side of the gym. Mr Johannsen glanced my way, saw that I was walking wounded, looked back toward the action. I heard the whistle blow as he pointed out a foul. He hadn't blown it for me. The simmering tide of resentment within me notched up a fraction.

“Thanks,” I croaked, as my rescuer helped me lower myself to the seat. As my eyes cleared, I got a good look at him. About my age, kind of good looking, blue eyes, sort of dark brown hair that was messily tousled at the moment, but looked good anyway.

“Hey, anything for a sister,” he told me with an engaging grin, then ran off to join the pack jostling for the ball. I was left sitting there, holding my aching ribs, wondering what the hell he actually meant. Sister? I'm not his sister.

By the time the period ended, I could stand and walk on my own, and I had decided that my hand wasn't broken. I spotted my rescuer in the crowd as we herded out of the gym; he caught my eye and grinned, and then he was gone. I felt an unexpected lightness of heart for just a moment. I have a friend at Winslow.

And then I shook my head, reality intruding. I have no friends at Winslow. Emma's made sure of that.

Whatever this guy was playing at, I had to be wary of it. It would come back to bite me. Of that I was sure.

<><>​

October 2010

My hands hit the linoleum first, followed by my face. At least I managed to soften the impact enough that I didn't break my cheekbone or my nose; however, I knew I would have a beautiful shiner. My glasses came off my face and skittered away across the floor. The backpack that I'd had slung over my shoulder also came free; books slid out of the open top, scattering far and wide.

“Jesus, Hebert, you're so fucking clumsy.”

It was Sophia's voice. It was she who had pushed me down the stairs. Of course. I heard her descend the steps behind me, her giggling coterie following. She crouched beside me; tears filled my eyes as she took hold of a handful of hair and twisted it. “You need to stay down, Hebert,” she murmured, just loudly enough for only me to hear. “It's where you belong. In the fucking dirt.” With a push that smacked my face against the linoleum – again – she let me go and stood. “She says she's fine,” she announced loudly. “So let's leave her alone, shall we?”

My wrists ached, as did my chest, when I tried to push myself to my feet. I could see that Sophia's little group was making a game of kicking my books down the hallway, treading on them and twisting viciously to rip the pages and covers off. I would have to do a lot of repair with tape, tonight. If I ever got all the books back.

And then I heard footsteps descending the stairs behind me, in a rapid staccato pace. Heavier footsteps. A guy. I braced myself for a knee in the back or a kick in the ribs – both of those had happened to me before – but neither of those eventuated. Instead, someone was kneeling beside me. “Holy shit,” a familiar voice asked. “Are you all right?”

I'd been asked that before, not long ago. I turned my face to his; even with my imperfect eyesight, even with one eye starting to swell, I recognised him as the guy from gym class. “I … I guess,” I managed. “I'll be fine. Once I get up.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Let's get you sitting up, at least. Make sure you aren't hurt worse than you think.”

Carefully, he rolled me over and helped me into a sitting position. A few people coming past looked at us curiously, but no-one commented and no-one stopped.

“Your ribs need to be palpated,” he told me. “To make sure you didn't fracture or break any. I'm not about to do it, so you need to do it yourself.”

“Okay,” I wheezed. “How?”

So he demonstrated on himself, and I copied his movements. No place I pressed seemed to be sharply painful, and I didn't have stabbing pains when I inhaled deeply, so we concluded that I'd live.

“Just rest there for a minute,” he advised me. “I'll get your books for you.”

Without giving me a chance to respond, he was off, doing exactly what he said he was going to do. I was just about ready to give the idea of standing and walking a try, when he came back to me, carrying a stack of books. “These are yours too, right?” he asked, holding out something to me.

I took them; they were my glasses. “Oh, uh, thanks,” I muttered belatedly. I put them on; one lens was cracked, but not badly. I could still see through it, but I'd have to get the spare pair from home. Again. But I could see his face clearly now. He was just as good looking as before, maybe more so. The sweatshirt held a nicely muscled torso. His hair was adorably tousled, making me want to run my fingers through …

He cleared his throat; he was still holding the stack of books, and looking meaningfully at the backpack, which was still lying beside me. “Oh, uh, right,” I blurted, feeling the flush creeping up my cheeks. Bending over was an effort, but it hid my face from him for a moment; a moment I desperately needed to regain my composure. I had been checking him out. I barely knew him! Scratch that; I didn't know him at all! And I still didn't know if this wasn't some insidious plot by Emma to get my guard down, so that she could humiliate me on some grand scale.

I held the pack open, and he carefully placed the books within. “Some of them are pretty badly damaged,” he told me apologetically. “But I found all the pages, I think.”

I steeled myself and looked at his face. “Why?” I demanded bluntly.

He blinked. “Why … what?” he asked.

“Why are you nice to me?” I elaborated. “It's not because of my looks. If you were just going by looks, you'd be off drooling over Emma like the rest of the school. Or Madison. Or Sophia.” I was surprised at how bitter that came out, but it was true.

He shook his head. “I can't like you because of how you look?”

I was starting to get my head back together. “What's your name?”

“Peter,” he offered, holding his hand out. “Taylor, right? Taylor Hebert?”

Very gingerly, I shook it. He was careful with it, which I appreciated; my hands and wrists were still sore from landing on the floor.

“It's nice to meet you, Peter,” I told him. “And thanks for helping me out. I'm grateful, I really am. But I've already been warned about guys who act nice to loner girls, just so they can … “

He blinked rapidly, and held his hands up in front of him, even taking a couple of steps back. “Hey, hey, not my intention.” His tone was either sincere, or he was the best actor I had ever seen.

Of course, when it came to getting what my Dad solemnly informed me that all teenage boys want from teenage girls, I knew quite well that teenage boys could be very good actors indeed; the number of teen pregnancies just within the halls of Winslow was testament to that. So I was still dubious.

“If it's not your intention, Peter, what is? Because I find it hard to believe that you're just being nice to me out of the goodness of your heart. How about all those other kids who are being picked on right at this moment, that you're not helping?”

He shook his head. “I'm helping you because you're a sister. Because you're being stepped on and put down, and I've been there, and I don't like seeing it happen to others.”

I frowned. “Like I said, other kids are being picked on all the time. Why are you being my white knight?”

His expression was serious. “Because they're not being picked on by that nigger bitch Sophia Hess.”

It took a few seconds for the content his words to sink in, and the tone of them. “Wait, what?” I stared at him. He looked so nice, so clean-cut, so wholesome. “You're ... in the Empire Eighty-Eight?”

He nodded. “Yes, I am. Is that such a bad thing?”

“Well, yes, it is,” I told him. “It's a terrible thing. Because I was just starting to think that you're a nice guy, and now I find out that you're a member of a criminal gang that commits hate crimes all the fucking time.” I slung my pack on my back, my movements jerky and uncoordinated with my haste. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Taylor … “ He didn't move forward, didn't try to grab my arm. “Can I just … “

I shook my head violently, so violently that I nearly lost my glasses again. “No. I'm grateful that you helped me, but leave me alone.”

He watched me as I strode away; he didn't follow me, for which I was grateful. And also obscurely disappointed, for some reason.

Just my fucking luck. The one guy at Winslow who's nice to me, and he's a fucking racist prick.

<><>​

November 2010

Taylor's a bitch
A dirty, dirty snitch
All you can do is tell tales and lie.
Taylor's a bitch
A dirty, dirty snitch
Why don't you just crawl away and die?

I stared at the email that had just popped up on my screen. “What the hell?” I muttered.

Drawing a deep breath, I hit the button to send the mail to the printer, then got out of my seat.

“Is something the matter, Taylor?” asked Mrs Knott, looking up.

“I … no, Mrs Knott. Just doing a test print,” I told her, hoping that she would not request to see it. But she and I got along quite well, and I was pretty good at using the computers properly. Unlike some, I wouldn't use the pretext of 'test prints' to put dirty jokes or rude pictures on to paper.

“All right,” she replied mildly. “Carry on.”

I thought furiously as I walked over to the printer, which was even now grinding out my 'test print'. Things had been relatively quiet for the last few days. Even my email inbox hadn't been jammed with hate mail for more than a week; maybe they were running out of spiteful things to say to me. But this latest one had come out of the blue. Snitch? Tell tales? What's that all about?

Tearing off the sheet, I folded it carefully and headed back to my desk. Where I found that I may as well have saved myself the walk; six more emails were waiting for me. All of which were unpleasant in nature, and all of which extolled my lack of virtue as a snitch and a tattletale, and other such implications.

I clicked off the emails, noting that at this rate it would be full in a matter of hours, and sighed as I began to go through the process of opening another account. I must go through more of these than any other three students at Winslow.

After that, there was actual classwork to do; I looked over the parameters of the program Mrs Knott wanted us to work at, and figured it out in my head. Then I began typing rapidly. There were benefits to having my own computer at home; I finished it before the bell went, saving it to my school account. Most of the kids in the class were still plugging away at it, referring regularly to their textbooks.

“Those of you who haven't finished, save your work and complete it tomorrow,” Mrs Knott told us. “In the meantime, your homework tonight is to complete the exercise on page one hundred and twenty-nine.”

I grinned to myself; I had already done that exercise myself, a few weeks ago, to prove that I could. All I had to do was copy it out properly, and I'd be done. Which left me only one thing to do; find out why I had been sent those emails.

<><>​

I got to the cafeteria and groaned at the length of the line-up. I would hardly have time to get to a quiet place to eat my lunch at this rate. And given that unless I found some place out of the way, one or another of Emma's friends would find an excuse to harass me, which meant that even lunchtime was going to be an unpleasant experience. Maybe I should start buying pita wraps and bringing them to school.

“Hey, Taylor!” I looked up as the totally unexpected occurred. No-one ever called my name out. But someone had; staring around, I finally picked out who had done so. It was Peter, standing in the lunch line.

I wanted to ignore him and just walk out, but he had been nothing but polite to me, so I walked over to him, edging my way through the crowd.

“Peter,” I greeted him, as neutrally as I could. I didn't want him thinking that I actually approved of him or his associates.

“Hi, Taylor,” he replied, as cheerfully as if I had just smiled and hugged him. “Have you already eaten?”

I shook my head. “No. Got delayed leaving World Affairs. My bag got tipped all over the place.”

He frowned. “What, again?”

I gave him a warning glance. Don't talk about that in front of everyone. “It was an accident.”

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed, but I saw his look. Like hell it was. “Anyway,” he went on, “seeing as I'm nearly through the line, want me to get you something?”

“I … what?” I blinked.

“I could buy you lunch, or something,” he explained. “You know, if you want.”

I thought about it. He's actually just trying to be nice. “Okay, but you don't get to spend your money on me.” I pulled out my purse and pressed some money into his hand. “Pita wrap, orange juice, banana. Got it?”

He nodded once. “Pita wrap, orange juice, banana.”

“That's right. And … uh, thanks.”

He grinned. “No problem.”

I moved away from the line, before the mutters about me 'budging in' could become more than mutters, and found an empty seat at a table. Before long, he had collected his food, as well as my own, and was gesturing me toward a table, where several other boys sat. Most of them had buzz-cuts, and looked a little taken aback to see me walking alongside Peter.

I stopped him before we got to the table. “No, sorry, I'm not sitting there.”

“What?” He looked confused.

I plucked my order from his tray. “I'm not sitting with your friends. Sorry, but you and I are barely friends, if even that, and I don't want to be associated with the Empire Eighty-Eight in any way, shape or form. Especially as I don't subscribe to your racist viewpoints.”

He blinked. “Oh. Okay.” With a shrug, he put his tray down and picked up his own food order. “Lead on, then.”

It was my turn to be taken aback. “What?”

“Where do you want to sit? We'll sit there. I don't have to sit with my friends. They'll understand if I choose to sit with someone else.”

Damn it, how am I supposed to deal with this? He's not supposed to be reasonable. He's supposed to tell me to choose to sit with his friends or go away.

“And if I told you that I wanted to sit alone?”

A shrug. “Then I'd go and sit with my friends. But I'd much rather sit with you.” That damned engaging grin again. “You're a lot prettier than they are.”

I felt a flush rising in my cheeks, and spoke harshly. “Fine. We'll sit together. But one more comment like that, and you're wearing your lunch. Do you understand me?”

“Entirely.” He managed a courteous half-bow. “We shall sit, and eat, and talk about whatever you want to talk about. Or I will shut up and let you read a book.”

Which actually sounded quite attractive, to be honest. I had a new book out of the library, about the early days of the PRT, and I was looking forward to getting into it.

I tried to glare at him, but couldn't quite pull it off. “Okay. Come on.”

<><>​

“I don't know why I haven't eaten out here before. It's rather pleasant.”

We were sitting on the front steps of the school; Peter was leaning back against the top step while he ate a fish paste sandwich. I was using the wall at the side of the steps for a backrest as I ate my pita wrap.

“Maybe because you and your racist buddies like to pal it up in the cafeteria?”

I hadn't meant for my comment to come out quite so nasty, but he looked around mildly all the same.

“Yeah, sure, the Empire discriminates against some ethnic types,” he agreed, “and I won't try to justify it to you, but you will agree, won't you, that one of the major gangs in the city is overwhelmingly Asian in nature, and they don't even hold to the standards of civilisation that the rest of the gangs do?”

I frowned. He had a point; the ABB had a reputation for savagery, especially their leader Lung, and his second in command Oni Lee. The man carried grenades, for crying out loud.

“The Merchants are also pretty bad when it comes to that sort of thing,” I pointed out incautiously.

“So you're agreeing that the Empire, of the three major gangs in Brockton Bay, is the most civilised of them?” he asked; his question was cheerful, not triumphant.

“I … that's like asking which of the three sports cars is least expensive,” I countered weakly.

“Just a little unfair, if you ask me,” he replied. “We don't kidnap girls for sex slavery. And we don't forcibly recruit people into the Empire. Anyone joins, it's because they want to.”

I blinked. “Sex slavery? Are you trying to tell me that … “

“The ABB kidnaps teenage girls and sells them to brothels overseas, yes,” he stated seriously.

“Oh, god,” I muttered. “That's terrible.”

“And then there's the ones that the Merchants take, and forcibly addict to drugs, so they'll turn tricks for a fix,” he went on. “Is it any real surprise that the leader of the Merchants is a black man? Or that his girlfriend is underage? Or that they're all drug-addicted perverts who will whore out their sisters for their next hit?”

“What, Skidmark's black?” I asked. “I never knew that.”

“As black as the bitch who's been bullying you all this time, along with her r- with her friends,” he confirmed.

I stared at him. “What were you about to say?”

He looked back at me. I saw him come to the decision to not lie. “I was going to say 'race traitor',” he admitted. “It's not a phrase you're very comfortable with, I can see.”

“'Race traitor'?” I asked. “What does that even mean?”

“It means someone who sides with someone not of their race, against someone of their own race,” he explained simply. “Emma and Madison, they're siding with Sophia against you … and Emma knows you, doesn't she? The things I've heard, she knows you pretty well.”

I put my head back on the concrete wall and rolled it so that I wasn't facing him any more. “We used to be friends,” I admitted, in a small voice.

“So Emma's basically a race traitor against you with Sophia,” he concluded. “Do you feel bad about that? Betrayed? Angry?”

After a long moment, I nodded. “ … yeah,” I admitted.

“Well, that's how we feel, whenever someone who should otherwise be a good, honest upstanding white citizen sides with a black man, or an Asian, or some other ethnic, against his own colour, his own creed,” Peter explained reasonably. “That's why we call them race traitors. Because we feel betrayed.”

“I … I get it, I do,” I admitted. For a moment, considering the feelings I had about what Emma had done to hurt me so many times, I actually knew what it felt to be raging against the unfairness of someone else co-opting what had once been mine. I could feel the sincerity in Peter's voice, and for just a moment, I felt sympathetic toward him. We weren't the same, and I would never advocate violence against other races, but I felt I understood him better now.

“So, have things eased off a bit yet?” he asked me, breaking into my train of thought.

“What?” I asked.

“I said, have things eased off a bit? I've been keeping an eye on who's been doing the most harassing of you, and this morning before school started, I took the list of names, as well as times and dates, to Principal Blackwell. Has she asked you about it yet?”

I stared in horror at him. “You fucking did what?”

“Reported the girls for bullying you,” he told me, looking somewhat taken aback at my reaction. “Why? I thought you'd be pleased. She seemed to take it most seriously.”

All the pieces fitted together then, with a deafening clang. “So it was you!”

“It was me, yes,” he agreed. “But why -”

I pulled the folded paper from my back pocket and threw it at him. “Because that, you idiot!”

He reached over to pick it up from where it had fluttered to a lower step, and unfolded it. Lips moving silently, he read it. Then he read it a second time. Comprehension crept over his face. “Oh.”

“Fucking 'oh' is right!” I snapped. “My inbox will be full of that shit by now. Everyone thinks I snitched. I had Madison and Julia staring daggers at me through World Affairs, and at the end, Madison distracted the teacher while Julia grabbed my bag and tipped it over.”

“But surely he saw -”

“Mr Gladly wouldn't see a clue if it bit him on the leg, not if a pretty distraction wearing a short skirt was in his face at the time,” I snarled. “I get that shit all the time, and now they're going to be doing it twice as hard, to make sure I don't snitch again.”

“But you didn't snitch,” he protested. “I did. I was just trying to help you. To protect you. Because I don't know if you can see it, but Sophia Hess isn't very stable. I mean, even if she was white, I'd be wary of her, but being what she is, I wouldn't trust her not to do anything.”

“You shouldn't say bad things about her, just because of the colour of her skin,” I tried to protest, but it sounded weak, even in my ears.

“Then why else is she pushing you down so hard?” he countered. “You yourself said that it was only after Sophia met Emma that Emma started bullying you. Sophia infected her against you, and Madison is following her lead, because she doesn't know any better.”

“But she's not being a racist about it,” I responded, trying to find my footing in the argument.

“Yes, she is,” Peter insisted. “And Emma and Madison don't see it, but they're taking a black girl's side against a white girl. And you know what's worse?”

I swallowed. “What?”

“You told me that the Empire Eighty-Eight is guilty of hate crimes. Suppose that's true. Then what's Sophia been inciting the others to do to you all this time? She knows you're better than her, and she's been making the others force you down, humiliate you, so you don't realise it. She's the real hate criminal, here. And she's inciting white people, people who should be on your side, to do her dirty work for her.”

I took a drink of orange juice, trying to clear my head. His arguments were insidious, persuasive. I could see the logic in them, and it scared me. Have I been wrong all this time? Are black people and Asians really the enemy? Is Sophia really just the tip of the iceberg?

“So what can I do about it?” I asked. “How do I get her off my back?” The phrase 'that black bitch' rose up in my head, and I forced it down again.

He didn't answer, and I looked around. He was sitting up, and his open hand was extended toward me, palm up, an offer. An invitation.

“What?” I blurted. “No!”

“Why not?” he asked. “If you're known to be affiliated with the Empire, she won't dare come near you. Nor will any of her friends. Because once you've got friends, you've got the power, and they know it. The Empire protects its own.”

It was tempting, very tempting, for just a second. To know that if Sophia or Emma or anyone else tried to bully me, I would have a bunch of tough Empire Eighty-Eight kids ready to hit back. They would have my back. At long last, someone would have my back.

Then reality intruded, and I shook my head. “I'll just be trading one set of enemies for another. The ABB is in Winslow. And so are the Merchants. I don't know how to fight; I'd be asking to be shanked in the first week.”

He shook his head. “You wouldn't be a full member,” he assured me. “That takes more than an introduction. It takes initiation, and dedication on the member's part, to show that he's got what it takes to be part of the cause. ABB only goes after members who show the colours, or people who are bucking for membership. Everyone who hangs around with us, just because it's a bit safer? It's not worth going after you guys, because they know damn well that if they touch you, we'll touch them up a damn sight harder. And no-one wants a war inside Winslow.”

I blinked. “Oh. I see. I guess.”

He shrugged and smiled. “So you see, there really is no downside to at least giving it a try.”

I took a deep breath. “Still not sure. If I start sitting with you guys, people are going to think I'm in with you. That I think the same way. That I hate everyone who's different. And I don't, not really.”

He leaned in and grinned conspiratorially. “I'll let you in on a little secret. Not everyone in the Empire is like that. Oh, we all know that white people are better, because we're white, and it stands to reason. But not everyone hates black people, or Asians, or Hispanics, or Jews, or even gays or cripples. Some people believe one thing, and some people believe another. But none of us believe that we deserve to be shoved in the dirt by people who think they're better, because of their skin colour.”

“So ...” I ventured. “I'm allowed to think that Sophia Hess is a bitch … “

“A black bitch,” he prompted me.

“A black bitch,” I repeated, feeling a weird sense of liberation. How many times have I wanted to say that, and not done it, because I felt it was wrong? “ … because she's been bullying me all this time? Not really because of her colour, but because of what she's done?”

“You're perfectly allowed to feel that,” he assured me. “It's another step on the road to understanding what's really going on. And trust me, it's far better for you to feel that way, than to think that it's okay for her to do that to you because of some white guilt trip over what someone's ancestors did, two hundred years ago.”

“I … I guess,” I replied. “I just wish she'd stop. I wish they'd all stop.”

“That's fair,” he agreed easily. “Actually, now that I've brought it up … you aren't Jewish, are you? Because your hair's kind of curly and all. And your surname … you know, Hebert, Hebrew … ”

I blinked. “Uh, no. Not that I know of. My family name is French. I know, because I looked it up one time. My great-great-grandfather emigrated from Normandy just after the First World War. Previous to that ... well, that's where the Vikings settled, so ...”

He smiled broadly. “Oh, that's okay then. That's better than okay. Vikings are very good.”

I tilted my head. “What would you have said if I'd said I was Jewish?”

He shrugged. “I'd have still been your friend, but nothing more. You could never have become a member.” He held up his hands. “Nothing against you, personally, of course. You're a really nice girl, and I like you. But if you'd been a Jew, there would be people in the Empire who wouldn't have allowed you to get any farther in than you are now.”

“But I'm not,” I pointed out, “and in any case, I don't really want to be a member.”

"That's also fair," he conceded. "But you'll accept our protection? My protection?"

I frowned. "Still deciding. What's expected of me if I accept?"

"Well, it's not the same as actual membership, of course," he pointed out. "You don't get to know anything important, or meet anyone outside of the current group. But if an Empire member needs your help, you help them. You're expected to keep what secrets you do learn about us, well, secret. And if you're invited to a gathering - you're free to not go, of course - anything you see and hear there, we'd expect you to keep it to yourself."

I thought I saw a trap. "What if it's something illegal?"

He shook his head. "Not everything we do is illegal, Taylor. You'd still be an outsider, just one who has some views in common with us. Not totally trusted, but not distrusted until you gave us a reason to. No, even if I was to admit that the Empire commits crimes, which I'm not -" he shot me a conspiratorial grin, "- we wouldn't compromise you by dropping them on you. Any help would be things like food, what money you could afford, a phone call, stuff like that. Nothing that would get you in trouble. And any gatherings you were invited to wouldn't have anything like that. They'd be more like ... get-togethers. Barbecues. Parties. With a very specific invitation list. Letting us young people mix, with adult supervision."

“And what about people trying to, well, convert me?” I asked.

He shook his head again, looking mildly amused. “We aren't a church, Taylor. We're an organisation of like-minded people. If you show up, you're assumed to be at least partly in line with our views, so we don't try to shove them down anyone's throat. Just be aware that there will be people there whose language will be a little … stronger than you're probably used to hearing, because yes, we are a whites-only organisation. But on the other hand, if you've ever wanted to cut loose and use those words, no-one will censure you.”

“But I'm not like that.” I wasn't sure if I was trying to convince him, or me. It actually sounded kind of … inviting? To go somewhere that I knew I'd be welcome, to mix with people of my own age, without having to worry about being bullied. “I don't believe in what the Empire believes in. And I'm not sure that I want to be seen as being 'with' you and your friends. Okay, sure the ABB and the Merchants might not bother me, but what about other people? I don't want them thinking I'm a racist.”

“Taylor.” He looked at me directly. His eyes were a very piercing blue. I felt as though they could see through to my very soul. “Answer me this directly. Is Sophia Hess a good person?”

I blinked. “No, she's not.”

He nodded. “Is she a bitch and a bully?”

“I … yeah, she is.”

“Do you think that there's any possibility, absolutely any possibility, that the reason she's treating you like this is because she's black and you're white?”

I paused. I wanted to be honest, but I didn't want to sound like a bad person. “I, uh … “

“Okay, let me put it this way. Do you think that there's any possibility that she might be treating you this way because of how blacks were treated by whites back before Civil Rights happened, before the slaves were freed? Pushing them down into the dirt? Like she's trying to do to you?”

It was hard not to see his point, follow his logic. “I … I guess there's a possibility, yeah.”

“So, because she's a bad person for treating you like this, and you're a good person, do you think you're better than Sophia Hess?”

I took a deep breath. “... yeah, I think I am.”

He smiled. “So tell me.”

I smiled back. “I think I'm better than Sophia Hess.”

A mock frown. “'Think' or 'know'?”

My voice was firmer now. “I know I'm better than Sophia Hess.”

His grin was back. “And what's Sophia Hess?”

“A black bullying bitch.” The answer came readily.

“And so … ?” He gestured, inviting a statement.

It only took me a moment to figure it out. “I'm so much better than that fucking black bullying bitch Sophia Hess, they'll need to invent a whole new system of measurement to work it out.”

By the time I finished saying it, I felt flushed all over again, proud that I'd finally gotten it out of my system. Peter was nodding appreciatively.

“I like it,” he agreed. “So we agree that you're better than one black bitch. That's a good start.” Rising to his feet, he dusted himself off. “Lunch tomorrow?”

I accepted his hand to help me up. He was unexpectedly strong; there was real muscle under that sweatshirt. “I … sure. If we can sit out here again?”

He spread his hands. “Sure. Anything you want. You want to vent, I'll listen. You want to hear more about the Empire, I can talk about that. Hell, you want to talk about TV shows, we can do that, but you'll have to give me prior warning.”

I chuckled. “You're an idiot, but I might just take you up on that.”

His return grin warmed me all over. “You just let me know when you're ready to sit with everyone else. I'm not going to push you.”

“Hey.” My tone was light. “I haven't even decided whether to accept your friendship or not.” That wasn't true, but I was pretending otherwise, and he knew it. I just had to finish convincing myself that it was a good idea. To accept the friendship – and no more – of a bunch of guys who would watch my back, or to spend the rest of the school year, and the next two as well, having my life made a living hell by Sophia and her patsies.

It was a no-brainer, really.

“Okay,” he offered. “Tell you what. Take this phone, and think about it. When you make your decision, let me know.” He held out an inexpensive-looking cellphone, along with the charge cord.

“I can't take that from you,” I demurred.

He shrugged. “Call it a loaner. If you choose to affiliate yourself, it'll be necessary in case you ever need to contact us. If you decide not to, you can always give it back.”

It made sense. “Okay, fine,” I agreed, shoving the charge cord in my pack, and the phone in my pocket. “How do I call you if I need to?”

“My number's already on it,” he pointed out. “Speed dial one.”

“Uh, okay,” I told him. “Thanks, I guess.” I paused. “You don't call me, though. Dad doesn't like cellphones, and if he finds out I have one, he'll be asking all sorts of questions.” Especially if he finds out a boy gave it to me.

“That's fine,” he agreed. “Just think about it, okay? Let me know when you come to a decision.”

“Yeah. I'll do that.”

He pushed open the door to the school and stood aside to allow me entry; I pretended not to notice, while he pretended not to see my pleased smile. And then the antiquated PA system crackled to life.

“Taylor Hebert to the principal's office. Taylor Hebert to the principal's office.”

That was the other shoe. I knew I'd been feeling too good.

I shot Peter a brave smile. “Well, gotta run. See you around.”

He nodded. “See you around.”

Shouldering my backpack, I jogged off down the hallway.

<><>​

“Ferguson, reporting in.”

“Ah yes. You're working on the Hebert girl, right? How's that going?”

“I think she's coming around.”

“Only 'coming around'? You've been talking to her since September. How long's this going to take?”

“As long as it takes, sir. She's a smart one. You've got to dangle the hook. Let them reel themselves in.”

“Is it worth taking this long on her?”

“Yes sir, I think it is. Her father runs the Dockworkers; if she becomes a member, she can influence him. Through her, we could have an in.”

“Good thinking, Ferguson. But are you sure there isn't more to it?”

“ … yeah. I kind of like her, sir. She's good. Smart. Sharp. Keeps me on my toes. We need people like that in the Empire. She could be a real asset, in time.”

“Just don't let your emotions get the better of you, Ferguson. If she rejects us altogether, be ready to cut your losses and get out.”

“Understood, sir. But I think I've got it covered.”

“For your sake, I hope you do.”

“Yeah, look, the bell just went. Got to get to class.”

“Fine. Go.”

<><>​

I knocked on Principal Blackwell's office door. “You called for me, ma'am?”

She looked up. “Yes. Come in and sit down.”

I did as I was told. “Uh … what's the problem?”

“The problem, Ms Hebert,” she told me, an ominous tone entering her voice, “is this stack of allegations against other girls that was handed in, in your name. Do you know anything about it?”

“Uh, yes, ma'am,” I answered automatically. “I mean, no.”

Her brows drew down. “Which is it, yes or no?”

“I mean that I didn't know that it had been done, until just a little while ago,” I explained. “But I didn't have anything to do with it happening.”

“So are the allegations true?” she pressed me.

“I don't know, ma'am,” I protested. “They're probably true. It's just that I didn't -”

“Well, which ones are true, and which ones are not?” she interrupted.

I took a deep breath. “I don't know what allegations were made, so I can't tell you until I see them,” I pointed out. “If you'll tell me what they are, I can tell you if they're true or not.”

She drew air in through her nostrils, then finally nodded. “Very well,” she stated.

As I sat there, she read out half a dozen accusations against some of Emma's friends. I nodded, as each of them seemed familiar to me.

At the end of it, I nodded. “Yeah, those things happened.”

She frowned. “Do you have proof?”

I grimaced. “No.” I did have my own notes on what had been happening to me, but they were at home.

“I'm sorry, but without proof,” she stated, “I can't act on them.”

“What?” I was dumbfounded. “But I'm telling you they are true.”

“And yet you say you didn't hand them in.” She tilted her head. “Do you have a witness? The person that you say handed them in?”

“I – I guess,” I admitted. “But -” I didn't want to bring Peter's name up. If he was known to be part of Empire Eighty-Eight, it would ruin all the testimony.

“But what? Does this other person even exist?” She leaned forward and stared hard at me. “Your evasiveness is not filling me with confidence, Ms Hebert. Without something or someone to back up these allegations … “

“It's been going on for months,” I told her. “More than a year, in fact.”

Her expression closed down. I wasn't surprised; I'd as much as told her that she and her staff were blind and deaf, and so they might be. “I find that hard to believe. I've heard nothing of this.”

I was beginning to get frustrated. “But I did tell teachers when I was being picked on. Nothing ever happened. It just kept going.”

“That's a weak excuse,” she retorted. “When I spoke to the other girls - “

“Wait, you spoke to them?” I asked. “When?”

“This morning. I had them pulled from class so that I could investigate.” Her look at me didn't make me very confident that it had gone my way. “They all categorically denied that any of it was true. Mss Barnes -”

“You never mentioned Emma's name just now,” I realised. “Or Madison's. Or Sophia's. Weren't there allegations about them too?”

“As I said, Miss Barnes was quite upset that you would do such a thing to her. She -” Blackwell paused, then went on. “Needless to say, I am now satisfied that all the allegations are utterly unfounded. I called you in here to see if you had anything to do with them.”

“What?” I asked. “But Emma, Sophia and Madison are the ones -”

“ - who urged me not to punish you for spreading rumours about them,” she interrupted me. “Does that sound like the act of a bully to you?”

It did. The act of a smart bully. Such as Emma.

“I – there are emails,” I began. “Since this morning. Hateful emails.”

She didn't leap to turn on her computer, as I had vaguely hoped that she would. “Ms Hebert, emails can be faked. I'm aware that you spent part of the morning in Computer class. Unless you have more solid proof, or a witness, any witness … ?”

“Sorry, ma'am, but -”

She sighed; it almost sounded regretful. “Ms Hebert, I'm going to tell you this once. It is a vicious, spiteful act to spread damaging rumours about other people, and I will not stand for it in this school. I don't know whether it was you or someone else who handed in those allegations, but I'll be letting you off with a warning, this time. Do you understand?”

“But it's not true,” I protested. My frustration began to grow. She was warning me not to bully Emma!

“I've made my decision,” she declared. Before my eyes, she held up the stack of papers that Peter had handed in, and tore it in two. “As far as I'm concerned, this incident never happened. But be aware that you're on notice; if anything like this happens again -”

“For fuck's sake, you stupid fucking bitch!” I shouted. “They're causing trouble for me! Can't you see that? Why are you being so fucking obtuse?”

There was a long, frozen moment. Principal Blackwell stared at me, and breathed deeply. When she spoke, her voice was almost normal.

“I'm going to chalk that up to an excess of emotion, Ms Hebert,” she stated quietly. “But no more warnings. One more word, and you're suspended. One. More. Word.” Another long pause. “Do you understand me?”

I went to shout at her again, but then I stopped. Slowly, I nodded.

"Good," she told me. "Now, get out of my office."

I went.

Outwardly, I was meek and respectful. Inwardly, I was furious.

Dad can't protect me at school. The staff can't or won't protect me. Sophia and her patsies won't leave me alone. I can't watch my back all the time.

Pulling out the phone that Peter had given me, I brought up his number, and sent a text. It consisted of two letters.

OK.

A moment or so later, the phone chimed, with a return text. It was a smiley face.

I drew a deep breath. For better or worse, I was committed to friendship with the Empire Eighty-Eight.

Now to see if Peter is as good as his word.


End of Part One

Part Two