A fight against the corporate takeover of education
This is Chapter Three of Brain Slaves, the story of Nelly Kidd’s fight against a corporate run, automated education system. Chapter One can be read here: Chapter Two is here.
Chapter Three
Teaching A Lesson
It happened so fast, I didn’t even know what I was doing. Hector collapsed, falling into the guys behind him. The Dropouts stood there, stunned for a second. No one had expected that. Then Louis, the one in the tracksuit with the shaved head, stepped forward, his fists ready. Pauley, the one in the jeans jacket, came at me from the side. As Louis moved to hit me, I stepped sideways, caught his arm and flipped him over my shoulder. He landed on the sidewalk flat on his back. I heard a distinct crack as his head struck the cement. Meanwhile, I had wheeled around and landed the sole of my foot in Pauley’s belly. He let out a gasp of air and stumbled backwards.
Then a third guy, the one in the suit, moved toward me. I dropped my right foot, then immediately kicked up with my left, catching him under his jaw. His mouth shut with a loud clacking sound and he fell to the ground.
The whole thing took about four seconds. I didn’t have to think about it, my arms and legs just knew what to do. When it was over, I was standing on the corner, in a fighting stance, fists ready, legs spread for maximum support, scanning the group for the next threat. I was breathing hard, but I wasn’t scared. Three of them, including Hector, were on the ground, the rest were shrinking back. No one wanted to take me on. They didn’t know I could fight like that.
Neither did I.
I’d never done anything like it in my life. It was like, suddenly I was a black belt in judo or karate or something.
The guy I kicked was sitting on the sidewalk, rubbing his stomach.
“Hey!” he squealed, “No fair!”
That’s when Rosie laughed.
“I told you to leave her alone, Hector.”
Hector was on the ground where he had dropped, holding his nose in both hands.
“I think she broke my nose,” he whined.
“Serves you right,” Rosie told him, and sounded quite pleased. “About time someone cut you down to size.”
“I was just playing around.” He sounded like a little kid.
“Yeah, well, next time you’ll think twice before trying to push someone around.”
Then Hector did something I didn’t expect. He laughed.
“You’re right, sis,” he said,as he bounced to his feet, still holding his nose with one hand. He was smiling again and didn’t seem angry at all.
“Come on, losers,” he said to his buddies. “Let’s get out of here before someone else sees how this girl kicked our ass. Then he strode away, following the schoolyard fence. His pals grumbled and whined, especially the two still on the sidewalk, but they hauled themselves up and followed him all the same. They gave me a wide berth as they went by — except for Hector. He just bopped past me like nothing had happened even when I pivoted to face him, fists up, still in my fighting stance. Then he did it again — he winked at me.
“I think you can relax now,” Rosie chuckled, as we watched their departing backs. “They won’t bother you again.”
“Huh?” I gasped. I felt like I was waking from a trance. Slowly, I lowered my fists and uncurled my fingers. My shoulders relaxed. I felt something taking over my body — and realized it was my usual bad posture. (“Stand up straight, Nelly” my mother always said.)
Rosie clapped me on the shoulder and laughed again. She and Hector had the same laugh — and the same yards of pearly white teeth.
“Come on!” she said tugging me across the street. “Man, I wish I had a video of their faces — especially Hector’s. And Carl crying, ‘No fair, no fair.’ What a big baby. Where did you learn to fight like that?”
Where did I learn to fight like that? I had no idea. I’d never been in a fight in my life.
“I don’t know...,” I started to say. Then I realized there was only one explanation- the lesson. Somehow I had been programmed with the fighting skills of some ninja warrior, or at least someone who knew how to fight. But why would the Educators program me for martial arts? I’d heard of kids who were programmed for sports or dance, but never for fighting, though I guessed that’s how they trained the Monitors and the police.
But why would they train me to be a fighter? No way was I cut out to be a cop. It couldn’t have been the Educators who had done it — it was that kid, Cal Stone, the voice in my lesson. It was the floating cube, the one I had reached out to touch just before I woke up. Somehow, that cube was a lesson. It had rewired my brain pathways to give me the reactions and reflexes of a skilled martial arts fighter. Lessons could do that, that’s why they were so powerful. One thirty-minute lesson download could take the place of months of practice the old-fashioned way.
But I’d never heard of someone choosing a lesson before. It was always something that was chosen for you and downloaded into your brain whether you wanted it or not.
What was it that Cal had said about the Net? “You can use it however you want, if you know how.” Is this what he was talking about? You could use it to learn whatever you wanted to learn, not what the Educators chose for you. Maybe that’s why that Educator had looked suspicious when I woke up. Maybe she could tell that I had learned a different lesson than the one I was supposed to get. Did she know? Had she told the Monitors? Maybe the Monitors were coming after me right now. It’d not like I did it on purpose. It’s not like I even knew what I had done.
“Nelly!” Rosie had stopped walking and was looking at me. “Are you okay?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I stammered. The truth was, I felt totally wiped out — lessons could program your brain, but they couldn’t condition your muscles — that took old-fashioned exercise. Plus the skin on my knuckles felt pretty raw.
“I’m just a little shook up, that’s all,” I added. It was the truth.
“I don’t blame you,” she nodded. “Those guys are jerks. I wish Hector didn’t hang around with them.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just shrugged.
“He wasn’t always like this,” she said, as we started to a walk again. “He was a good guy, before…before he dropped out.”
I could tell it was hard for her to say.
“How’d that happen?” I asked, without thinking. But it seemed that Rosie wanted to talk about it. The words started pouring out.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He was just a regular kid. We used to hang out and play all the time when I was little. He used to take me to school on lesson days. He taught me basketball and soccer. My parents were so proud of him. Then when Hector was twelve and I was about ten, my dad lost his job. My mom was sick and things were really bad for a while. That’s when Hector got, I don’t know, angry or something. He started cutting school and the Monitors started hunting for him — every week. They’d bring him home and my dad would yell and my mom would cry, but it didn’t do any good. And now look at him. His life is ruined.”
She paused like she had run out of breath. “But that won’t happen to us, right, Nelly?”
She said the last words like she might cry.
“Right,” I said.
“I’m going to be a lawyer,” she said proudly. “It’s just a few more years of lessons.”
I didn’t know what else to say. No one could decide to become a lawyer. It was up to the Educators. I just nodded and we walked on in silence.
At Bellevue Avenue we turned left. This was the main shopping street of our part of Bridgetown, or what passed for one. There were a couple of diners or cafes, a couple of liquor stores, a discount clothing store and a Food City supermarket with a parking lot in front. Most people around here couldn’t afford a car, so the lot was always half empty. It was a hangout for older Dropouts, most of them homeless drunks or addicts. That’s what Rosie was worried about — Hector had that future waiting for him.
Meanwhile, up the hill to our right was Collings Estates, where the rich kids lived. It was just three blocks away. You couldn’t see their houses, just the big walls meant to keep out people like us. Behind those walls they had mansions and cars and swimming pools and all the tutoring they needed. Their lessons were pain-free because their parents could afford the tutoring pills. They went to their own private schools in their own private cars. No Monitors were needed to come collect them, they went happily. Why shouldn’t they? School was easy for them and their future was guaranteed.
The history lessons said things had been better before the Collapse. Back then, people had more money and more things and life was easier. Now there was just less of everything. That’s why the Department of Education couldn’t give everyone the same education — it was just a waste of money.
At least, that’s what they said.
As we walked down the littered sidewalk, a couple of the older Dropouts leaned over the parking lot fence and made kissing noises at us. They were filthy, with scraggily beards and yellowed teeth. Their clothes were greasy and torn.
Rosie kept walking without turning her head, but without thinking I snapped into that same fighting stance, weight balanced, eyes alert. All on their own, my hands formed fists and rose up, at ease, but ready. The Dropouts looked startled and backed off the fence.
“Whoa!” Rosie laughed. “They’re harmless. You know that.”
“Yeah, what’s your problem?” one of the Dropouts sneered. “Better get out of here, girly.”
Now, that made me mad — which was the way I felt every time I walked by these bums and they whistled or made a remark. Only now, for the first time, I knew I could do something about it. The entrance to the parking lot was just a few feet away. I could go over there and kick their…
“Nelly, come on!” Rosie tugged on my arm and I felt the anger drain out of me. She was right. No use getting worked up over a bunch of old winos. I let her pull me along, down the street.
But it felt good to know that I could have done something if I wanted. That was a new feeling and I liked it.
At the next corner we turned right, down a street lined with small, one-story wooden houses built close together, painted in shades of yellow or gray or green. There were four or five tall trees growing along the sidewalk, their branches bare.
Each house had a peaked roof and a porch in f front and a driveway leading to an old garage in back. Some of them were neat and tidy with flower boxes in the windows, others were kind of shabby with worn out steps and peeling paint. Some had rusted out old wrecks of cars sitting in the drive and probably some of those wrecks still ran, if the owner could afford the gas.
We stopped in front of one of the neater houses, painted a dull yellow with white trim around the windows. There was a tiny lawn of faded grass. The only thing that spoiled the picture were the five cars lined up in the driveway in various stages of being taken apart and put back together. Rosie must have seen my look. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, next to her headband.
“That’s my dad’s business,” she said proudly. “He fixes cars.” She paused, to make sure I heard her. “He learned on his own.”
“How’d he do that?” I asked.
“He had people show him. His dad, my granddad, knew how to fix cars. When Dad lost his job, he started doing it to make money and now it’s a regular business. He taught Hector, too. He could work here, if he wanted.”
“Cool,” I said. At the same time I wondered if there was a lesson on the Net that taught you to be a car mechanic — and if I could find it.
“Come on,” Rosie said, tugging on my arm again. “You wanna watch TV or something?”
She was pulling me down the short walk to the front door, but I held back. I didn’t know why, exactly. Rosie seemed really nice, not at all like a stuck up “A” student and it’s not like I had so many friends that I could be picky. I wanted to go in and tell her everything — about the voice in the lesson, about Cal Stone and what he’d said about the Net and especially about the way I had learned to fight.
But I wasn’t ready. How did I know I could trust her? She was so busy proving to everyone that she was an “A” student and not another Dropout, she might think it was her duty to turn me in to the Educators.
Gently, I pulled my arm free, feeling bad as I did
“I can’t,” I said, “I have to get my little sister.”
It was true, sort of. I did have to get her, but she was just down the hall from us in a neighbor’s apartment and it didn’t matter if I was late.
Rosie looked annoyed.
“Hector won’t be home for hours,” she said.
“It’s not him. I really have to go. Next time, okay?”
She nodded, but not like she believed me. I realized then that she probably had trouble making friends, with the Dropout King for a brother.
I smiled as big as I could, though it seemed fake.
“Really,” I said. “Next time.”
That seemed to make her feel better.
“Okay,” she nodded.
“Well, see you.”
“Okay, she laughed again. “I’ll tell Hector you said hello.”
I laughed and walked on.
It turned out Rosie lived just a few blocks from our place. A couple of minutes later I was at our building, one of two low apartment buildings on the block. Ours was brown brick and the one next to it was red brick. Otherwise, they were pretty much the same. Two other apartment buildings faced them across the street, each four stories tall. A few tired, bare trees stood in rows along the sidewalks on either side.
The buildings were worn down so much that there were hollowed-out dips in the stone steps, made by generations of kids running in and out. The windows were grimy and cracked in places. But the roof didn’t leak and there weren’t mice or anything and there was always enough hot water — or almost always.
I bounded up the steps to the third floor, then I caught myself. I never ran up the steps after a lesson. What was I going to tell my parents? They’d never turn me in but I didn’t want to give them anything to worry about.
I was still thinking about it when I knocked on the shabby green door of Mrs. Duncan’s apartment.
Susan Duncan was our neighbor — had been since I could remember. She was old, like really old, and lived alone. She helped my mother out by watching my sister, Clara, just like she’d watched me when I was younger. Afternoons at Mrs. Duncan’s were always fun. Her place was crammed with toys and art supplies like crayons and paper and paint. Plus, she had a lot of books — floor to ceiling in some places. She used to take one out and we’d look at the pictures together and she’d try to get me to sound out some of the simple words, though I could never see the point in that. I mean, that’s what the lessons were for, right?
But then, Mrs. Duncan was a teacher, so you had to make allowances.
Of course, what I mean is, she had been a teacher, long ago, before the Collapse, when kids went to school every day and had to learn from books. But I guess she never got over it, because she was always trying to teach someone something. She might try to teach Clara how to read or teach my mom how to bake a perfect apple pie.
“Never stop learning,” she kept saying.
The door opened and Mrs. Duncan stood there in her favorite (or maybe only) housedress — it probably once had a print of some kind but now was just a fuzzy smear of colors from being washed so many times. She was short, not taller than me, and wide, with big flabby arms that she was always waving around. Her curly hair was white and she had cheerful blue eyes. Her pale, round face was wrinkled from smiling and her cheeks and neck sagged.
“Nelly, my dear!” She gave me a big smile like she always did and waved me inside. Then she gave me a look of concern. “How was school today? Not too bad? Did they hurt you very much?”
It occurred to me that maybe I could talk to Mrs. Duncan about what had happened. She hated the Department of Education and the Lessons more than anyone I knew and she wasn’t afraid to say so. But I didn’t think she could help — she really didn’t know anything about the Standardized Learning Experience or what went on in schools now. All she’d do was give me another rant and lecture about it.
So I just mumbled, “Not too much,” and stepped inside.
The place was sort of a neat mess, with stacks of books and papers arranged on chairs or the floor. Mrs. Duncan lived alone, and she always said she liked it that way, “No one to clean up for.” She had a son and a daughter, who were probably older than my parents, but they didn’t live in Bridgetown anymore and only visited a couple of times a year. Every now and then she did have company, a group of friends who were just as ancient as she was. “My old teacher colleagues,” she would say with a knowing smile, like it was some big secret. And of course, she had her cats.
Clara was sitting in on an old red and blue rug in the middle of the small living room, leaning against the legs of a stuffed chair where a fat black and white cat lay, asleep. Clara’s curly-haired head was leaning over a large piece of paper, scribbling on it with a red crayon.
“Come on, Bug,” I said. I always called her that. “Time to go.”
She looked up and stuck her tongue out. I stuck mine out at her. That was the way we always said hello. It showed how much we loved each other.
Clara wasn’t exactly a mini version of me, but close. Her hair was a little lighter, her facer was a little rounder, her eyes were green instead of brown. And of course, she was only six and hadn’t started school yet.
“Look,” she said, as soon as she’d put her tongue back in her mouth. She held up the paper and waved it at me excitedly. “I can write cat, bat, and hat.”
The words were scrawled in rough letters next to simple pictures of each thing — a cat, a bat and a hat.
“Uh, that’s nice,” I said. She was so happy I didn’t bother to tell her she was wasting her time, that she’d learn more in one Standardized Lesson than she could learn in a three months from Mrs. Duncan.
“Nice!” Mrs. Duncan cried out as if I’d stabbed her. “She’s a natural born student. This is what learning is supposed to be about — joy and curiosity and imagination.” She sighed deeply. “You were like that, Nelly, before…,” her voice trailed off. We both knew what she was going to say. “It’s not right,” she mumbled. “It’s just not right.”
Now I almost blurted out the whole story about what had happened to me, but Clara jumped up and ran to the door, waving her paper like a banner.
“Come on, stupid!” she shouted to me. “Let’s show Mom!”
She threw open the door, then wheeled around.
“Thanks, Mrs. Duncan!” she shouted
“You’re very welcome, dear.” Mrs. Duncan patted me on the shoulder as I followed Clara into the hall.
“It’ll be all right, dear,” she said. It was kind of random, but it still made me feel good.
Clara was already at the door to our apartment. Mom stood there in the open doorway, in her work clothes: waitress uniform, old running shoes. Her curly light brown hair (yes, that’s where we got the frizzes) was pulled back into a messy ponytail. She had a better figure than me, and I always wondered why I couldn’t have gotten that from her instead of the hair. Her oval face was lined with worry and her eyes looked red.
“Look, Mom!” Clara shouted as she ran into the apartment. “I learned how to spell!”
“That’s wonderful, Clara,” Mom said, forcing a bright smile. “We’ll put it on the refrigerator.”
Clara ran to the room we shared as I stepped in from the hall. My mom held up a folded piece of paper. I knew what it was as soon as I saw the Department of Education seal at the top.
“Clara has been cleared for school,” she whispered. “She starts lessons next month.”
We had known it was coming. She’d been going for tests since the start of the year. But it was still kind of a shock. I wanted to say, “Oh, crap!” but I kept my mouth shut.
My mom looked so hopeless I thought I was going to cry.
“What are we going to do, Nelly?” she asked. “She’s so little, she’s not tough like you were. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know Mom,” I told her.
But I did know. I knew exactly what I was going to do.
End of Chapter Three
Chapter Four will be published here in a few days, or you can “binge” on the entire book right now by buying it at Amazon, iTunes,Barnes & Noble, Kobo or Smashwords.
