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Jane paused outside the head teacher's office. She wiped her hands nervously on her plain grey dungarees and fiddled with her Needs Humility badge. She pulled it straight, but as she let go it slipped round again, hanging askew at the very limits of permissibility. Then, taking a deep breath, she drew herself up, raised her chin to a determined angle (which perfectly profiled what was one of East Carmine's most promising noses: remarkable, especially in one so young) and knocked on the door.
Miss Bluebird looked up from her marking. 'Ah. Jane. I suppose you know why I sent for you. What do you have to say in your defence?'
Jane squirmed on the spot. She should probably not have called Courtland a rotten banana and attempted to tear his eyebrow off. But he had stolen her lunch. Not that she was planning on eating it - food was short back in the Greyzone, and she had been going to spend the afternoon with a sock full of hidden porridge to take home for Mrs Olive - but, while she was prepared to go hungry, never for Courtland Gamboge of all people!
Even then, she would probably have managed to keep her temper, had it not been for his casual sneering. 'Got a problem, Jane? I recommend you take that up with the Senior Junior Lunch Monitor. Oh, that would be me.' He'd taken one sip of the porridge, rolled his eyes, and spat it out in front of her. 'Changed my mind. It's terribly salty. Not even fit for Greys.' And then he'd tipped it out at her feet with a swaggering 'Clean that up, will you?'
A wiser child would have done what he'd asked, but then a wiser child would have missed out on the sight of Courtland lying on the floor crying in the porridge, clutching his eyebrow and begging for his mummy. Whatever the consequences, that was a memory Jane was going to treasure.
Jane finally looked up, her large bright eyes meeting Miss Bluebird's timid and weary ones. There was no point in arguing - the Rules were the Rules. 'I'm sorry I attacked Courtland, Miss Bluebird. I shouldn't have lost my temper at him.'
'You did what?' Miss Bluebird's benign expression twitched into shock, before subsiding back into the blandness of the permanently harassed. 'Jane. Perhaps you could remind me of Rule 1.1.01.01.001.'
Jane recited by rote, ' "Everyone is expected to act with all due regard for the well-being of others." '
'And Rule 1.1.6.23.102?'
The sing-song words tripped off her tongue: ' "The raising of one's voice is permissible only at sporting events." '
'Now Jane! All of it, please. You're eight now, not one of the little ones any more. You need to know this. "And only from..."?'
' "And only from..." ' Jane struggled for a moment, until her brain fell back into the usual grooves. ' "And only from spectators. At all other times speech is to be kept to a polite volume." '
'Yes, Jane. See, you do know it, when you try.' Miss Bluebird looked sympathetic for a moment, but it passed quickly. 'And you must try harder! You will be fined ten merits. And you must write me an essay before the end of the week, comparing your behaviour in attacking Courtland with the standards set out for us in chapter nine of Munsell's Book of Truth, with a detailed analysis of the many places in which you have fallen short. Again.' She paused. 'What do you say?'
Jane was secretly relieved. The essay would be difficult, as she was working nights at the linoleum factory this week, but fortunately Miss Bluebird was still marking essays from the year 00398. If her essay was of poor standard she could safely expect to have long ceased being useful to the Collective before her sloppy work was discovered. Far worse the punishment if it had been Sally Gamboge dealing retribution for the attack on her precious son! She handed over her merit book, bowed her head, and recited, 'Thank you Miss Bluebird.' Miss Bluebird's voice joined hers for the closing 'Apart we are Together.' Jane went to leave.
'Not so fast, Jane. I still need you to explain this.' Miss Bluebird laid two stacks of paper side by side on her desk. 'Do you know what these are?'
The pile on the left was clearly Jane's homework from last week. If the cheap, fading Greyzone paper was not enough to mark it as hers, there was a distinctive stain where the broth she'd been cooking while working on the questions had spilled over. It was remarkably similar in shape to a bouncing goat, and indeed she had doodled on the horns. Unwisely, as it turned out. Particularly keen Useful Workers (whether their keenness was for the education of the youth of East Carmine or the extra merits the work would provide them with was never questioned) had been known to mark the homework they set directly, instead of adding it to the teetering heaps of the Collective's backlog. Her goat was now sporting a reference, and she knew without reading the chapter number which section of the Wisdom of Munsell it would be. 'All work submitted during one's schooling is a contribution to the fabric of the Collective, and as such the disfigurement and corruption of such work by doodles or other defacements not only reflects poorly on the student, but damages the whole Collective'. Still, it had looked remarkably like a bouncing goat.
'I'm sorry about the doodle, Miss Bluebird.'
'The doodle? Jane, that should be the least of your many worries. How do you explain the fact that these scripts are identical? I could understand that students might occasionally get the same right answer, but to be so creatively wrong in exactly the same way - you must have copied from Violet.'
Jane looked at the thick creamy paper on the other pile. The handwriting was round and charmingly naïve, elegantly spaced out across the page in the way that only someone who had never known a shortage of paper could indulge in. Each 'i' had a carefully drawn heart floating above it in place of the dot. And indeed, the answer to every question was identical to those on her own soup-stained goat-defaced document.
She knew there was no point in arguing - she could see Violet so clearly in her mind's eye, standing there in the same office, tossing her bunches charmingly, her eyes wide and innocent and the sun glinting off her ever-growing rank of merit badges. Could imagine the gasp of horror in her voice as she was told of the discovered crime. Everybody knew Greys lied. Everybody knew that the daughter of the Head Prefect was beyond reproach. Jane could save a lot of trouble by just confessing to the crime regardless of the truth. Yet the unfairness rankled within her, until it had to burst out, in a loud cry of 'I didn't! She must have copied from me!'
Miss Bluebird looked deeply disappointed. 'Jane. We already have Violet's word that that isn't what happened. This deceitfulness will have to stop.' She reached over for Jane's merit book once more, and in return handed her a badge that simply said 'LIAR'. 'You are fined 50 merits. You will wear this badge until you have convinced me it no longer applies. And, as you have shown you cannot be trusted to work for the good of the Collective, Violet will be replacing you in the performance in next week's Foundation Day celebrations. That will be all.'
Jane mumbled her way through 'Apart We Are Together' and ran out of the door choking back tears.
***
Replaced in the musical! Jane had tried to be strong for the rest of the day, but now in Mrs Olive's arms she finally let go and sobbed and sobbed. The blind old lady rocked her and stroked her hair. 'Hush, little one. Hush now. Tears won't make it better.'
Jane's wilder crying subsided, and words could now be made out between her sobs. 'Stupid musical. I don't want to be in the stupid musical anyway. It's awful, and a waste of time, and it's just another way for the Chromogencia to show off how amazing they are. I'm better off out of it. Only a stupid, over-hued fool like Violet would even want to be in their Rot-ridden musical anyway. They can all go to Beige.'
But even using Very Bad Words didn't make her feel better. Her words sounded hollow even as she spoke them. She had wanted to be in the musical so much. The casting for the Foundation Day celebrations was always a stitch-up, with the children of the Chromogencia assigned to the best roles according to their hue. From the day they had announced that the show was to be My Fair Lilac everyone knew that Violet would be playing Eliza Bluelittle, and Jane would be at the back of the orchestra, second viola (first string). Except then Violet had been ill on the day of the auditions, and Mrs Lapis-Lazuli had reminded everyone assembled of Munsell's instruction that 'Plays and Musicals will be cast from those who attend open auditions. Open auditions are mandatory and all must attend.' As all the other children were already earmarked for roles, somewhat surprisingly Jane had found herself cast as the lead.
She had found an unexpected joy in it. Although the show was still performed in the Outer Fringes, the content was subversive enough that it was no longer permitted in the Hub, and it was rumoured that the next Leapback would see it disappear forever. It was the story of Head Prefect Henry Heliotrope, who wagers with his friend Hugh Periwinkle that he can take a Grey girl, Eliza, and wrongspot her successfully to the Chromogencia. The focus of the play being the great taboo of wrongspotting, it was always a controversial choice, but the light-hearted comedy and the enduringly catchy tunes had kept it on the Collective's stages since time immemorial. Jane had found stepping into Eliza's head and leaving the troubles of her own life behind surprisingly enjoyable – particularly the opportunity to sing 'Just you wait' with great relish at Courtland, who was playing Henry.
And now it was over! Worse, she would have to watch Violet simpering her way through the role woodenly, while the memory of how it should be done echoed in her head. It was unbearable. She dissolved back into sobs again at the thought.
Mrs Olive patted her gently. 'Hush, little one. Tears won't make it better. But a good revenge... Now, that might...'
***
The hardest part had been sneaking into the Lilac family's storeroom and stealing this year's harvest. Well, Jane still liked to think of it as borrowing. After all, they were almost certainly going to get it back. Luckily for Jane, their son Dorian was not much older than she was, and while he wouldn't want to be seen fraternising with a Grey, he was happy to lend assistance to anyone who had had Courtland Gamboge face down in porridge and whimpering. Partly because he felt he owed a favour to anyone who had defeated Courtland, who was not above throwing his weight around even with the Lilacs, and besides, was complementary and so deserved all he got. And partly because if Jane could effortlessly do that to Courtland the thought of what she could do to him didn't bear thinking about.
Now it was the night of the show. Violet was prancing round the stage, singing about how all she wanted was a room somewhere. All the audience wanted right now was for Violet to be singing a semitone sharper, but their desires didn't come into this. At the back of the orchestra, Jane plucked out the second viola part with painful care, sharply aware of the rope hidden under her feet.
The artistic design committee had decided that the imagination of the Collective was not to be trusted, and that the song about longing for an enormous chair would be best illustrated by having an enormous chair centre stage. Violet draped herself over the arm precociously, delivered the line about 'far away from the dark night's scares' and then lowered herself delicately down into the seat. 'With one enormous chair...' she belted out.
Jane released the rope, and the 150 negative pounds of floaties, all of which had been gently inserted into the fabric of the enormous chair between the dress rehearsal and the show, suddenly found themselves free to rise up once more. True to their nature, the chair drifted up and away from the stage over the heads of the audience, irresistibly drawn to the sea. Violet's singing turned into a scream of pure terror. Unfortunately it was slightly challenging for the audience to tell the difference, so initially no-one leapt to her aid. By the time they had realised that this wasn't part of the choreography Violet was already out of the door and drifting down the street. Head Prefect deMauve chased after her, his long robes flapping, and all thought of rule 1.1.6.23.102 forgotten as he cried out 'My daughter! My daughter! That chair is abducting my daughter!'
Jane looked at the scene with pure joy. Oh, there would be investigations and recriminations and feedback and demerits in the future. Eventually someone would realise that the chair was moving slower than a Model T, and so could be easily hunted down and harpooned by the lightning response Ford. The odds of them harpooning Violet in the process were pretty small, all things considered. And then there would be questions asked, and her alibis weren't watertight... She'd have to pay for it later. But for now, there was nothing but Violet's vanishing screams as she drifted off into the sunset, and it was music to Jane's ears.
Mrs Lapis-Lazuli walked onto stage briskly. 'Children! You know what Munsell has to tell us about times like this!'
Thirty eager voices chorused in unison 'The Show Must Go On, Mrs Lapis-Lazuli!'
'Indeed! Jane, I believe you know the role?'
And so Jane found herself centre stage, singing out:
'A working Ford and the open road,
SW3 as my real postcode,
And long magenta robes
Oh, wouldn't it be lovely?
Oh, so lovely with synthetic colour
All on tap,
Things I liked would still be here
Not gone with the last Leapback!
No more work in the afternoon,
Musical theatre that's sung in tune,
And I would own a spoon...
Oh, wouldn't it be lovely? Lovely! Lovely.
Wouldn't it be lovely?'
The audience applauded. Jane smiled. And there was still the whole of the rest of the show to go! Just you wait, Courtland Gamboge, just you wait...