Rebels, Page 2

  Chapter 2

  I pick up my pace, over the uneven asphalt, taking giant leaps over any pot holes. I run alone—one of the few, if any, who run to school. I run past Mark Jenkins’s house, an extraordinary family with so many children I have lost count. All of them crammed into the typical three-bedroom house that most everyone has. Mark has been my best friend since pre-school. But because Mark is not in the Young Army, I hardly ever get to see him any more except at lunch. Stephanie, Mark’s sister, sees me through the window. She must have been waiting for me, as she runs out to greet me.

  “John,” she calls out to me. I slow my pace and finally, begrudgingly, I halt my run.

  “What is it, Stephanie?” I ask with my hands on my knees trying to catch my breath. I still have at least a mile to run, and I know it will be harder to get going again once I stop.

  “Dad lost his job yesterday,” she says. I stand up to look at her fully, and her green eyes fill with tears. What does she think I can do, what does she want from me? I am only fifteen, what could I do to help? It will be months before the proper paperwork can even be obtained in order to apply for the needed aid for their family, by then, some, if not all, of the young children will die of starvation.

  “What happened?” I ask, knowing perfectly well it is very difficult to lose one’s job.

  “He smarted off to one of his bosses about how cold we had been this winter and that the State was letting us freeze to death,” she says, looking down at her feet, embarrassed by her father’s actions. It is common for the State to teach children they must always listen to the State and never to their parents because the State knows what’s best for them.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I said while doing a calf stretch and flopping my arms across my chest warming them up again for the run.

  “Thank you, John, thank you for anything you can do.” I start my run again, running past more houses and wonder what lies behind the other doors, how many families are hurting, hungry, helpless, while my family has more than enough. Why does the government steal from its own people? So, what, they can have bigger, more lavish parties in the Capitol, once called Washington D.C. now referred to as the District, so they can have more and we less? Don’t they know there is more than enough? If they just let people work for themselves. Don’t they know people want to do good, it’s in our nature to help one another? If they will give us back what is rightfully ours in the first place then we can, as a people, do all the things they promised they would do.

  I stop in front of the monstrous building that is my school. It is square and cream with one giant red stripe all the way around the middle. It’s apparent that parts of the outside walls are starting to crumble from age and other parts of the building have been patched with different types of material due to the lack of funding. What appears to be the outside playground is nothing more than metal rods sticking out of the ground since play equipment is rarely replaced or repaired. I go in through the gym entrance, in order to shower and change for the school day. Sergeant Epps, the leader of my Young Army platoon, is already in the locker room.

  “Good to see you here this early, John, it shows motivation and strength of character. Do you run to school every day?” I nod yes.

  “Good, no wonder you’re ahead of everyone else. Keep up the good work.” He turns and leaves me to my shower. I turn the water on as warm as it can go, which is barely above freezing. I will only get two pushes on the water button, so I better hurry. I wash my hair in a flurry of movement, rinse, push the button again and quickly wash the rest of my body as the last drop comes out of the showerhead. I dry myself on an old towel I keep in my gym locker and hang it up to dry momentarily before folding it and placing it back. I dress in my smart Young Army uniform, studying myself in the mirror for a moment. I have a thin, wiry but fit build, nothing particularly special about me but still overall I think I’m a good-looking guy.

  Checking my watch, I see I have more than enough time to go to the hall locker and then get to class. My watch isn’t like a traditional watch—the one with straps that come on and off according to one’s pleasure. I received mine like everyone else on my twelfth birthday. When I went in for my yearly checkup at the doctors, they placed a circular disk on my wrist. It sat there for a moment, warming up, configuring to me, then chains, or bands as they are called, came out of either side and burrowed under my skin where they hooked up to my nervous system, holding the watch firmly in place.

  I can still see the black bands underneath my skin reminding me I am not my own. Did it hurt? Yes, it sure did, as link after link of the chain burrowed into my skin. What does the government say about the pain? That it is offset by all the good the watches do. From then on, it tells me what to do, when to sleep, how often to laugh, how much exercise I need, and it allows the State to know where I am at all times. It keeps record of all governmental credits, this makes sure no one can buy anything that is not government approved and, by the way, it also tells perfectly good time.