Siberia by Ann Halam

summer break was endless. We got short rations when the Termers had gone home, on the grounds that we weren’t doing brain work. But the Cats liked us to be exhausted, because it made us easy to handle, so they didn’t cut our chores. Hours of scrubbing floors that didn’t need scrubbing, and not even a full stomach to look forward to. It was awful. And we didn’t steal during the “holidays,” not even food for ourselves. It wasn’t safe. There were only a few students, which meant the Cats could watch you every minute. . . . Also Rain was ill, and they took him to the school clinic. I tried not to think about it, but I missed him, and I worried about him.
    It was a big relief when the Termers came back, and Rain was let out of the clinic. I was tempted to concentrate on my schoolwork for a while just to relax. I was getting bored with being a criminal. But this was the fat time of year, with a new crop of Bugs to be fleeced, and kitchen opportunities it would have been a shame to miss. I told myself I would quit once the harvest was over.
    One of our meeting places was a disused watchtower, north of the Dogs’ barracks (the wardens were still Cats, and the guards were still Dogs). It was out of the way, but near enough to the school buildings so we didn’t look suspicious heading in that direction; and we weren’t afraid of the guards. They wouldn’t do anything except under orders. It was the wardens we feared: they
enjoyed
being nasty. . . . Our safeguard was that the stairs to this tower had been taken apart, to stop anyone from doing what we were doing. You had to climb the metalwork of the struts, and get in through the open trapdoor in the floor of the tower. It was a challenge, especially for me: and you were a long way off the ground when you got to the most awkward bit. But that added to our security.
    I met Rose there, after lights-out, to discuss what to do with our plenty. The watchtower was heaped with stolen blankets, plus a big stash of canned stew, and fat jars of pickle. We wrapped blankets around us, opened one of the cans, which was full of con—our favorite, protein concentrate— stewed in savory gravy, and sat there, with our dark lantern, slurping stew and gnawing on pickled cucumbers. Rose counted the blankets with an expert eye. She didn’t need to touch them.
    “You sure there’s no fleas or lice?”
    “College issue, just fumigated. The same blankets as we sleep in ourselves. What d’you think you can get? Chocolate? I can get unbelievable prices for chocolate from my Permanent customers. New shoes, pens, really good stuff.”
    She narrowed her eyes impressively. “Maybe I can get chocolate. I’ll consult my associates.” I never asked her who these associates were. It was better not to know. She grinned, suddenly. “Hey, Sloe, I’ve got an idea. We’ve got all this stuff. We’re doing so well. Why don’t we throw a party up here?”
    “What, you mean at night?”
    “Yeah. After lights-out, with cards and liquor. No strangers, just the gang.”
    I said, “No one would hear us. It’s that time of year: the dorms will be full of screamers, sobbing like strangled cats.”
    We both laughed. I savored a lump of cheesy, delicious concentrate.
    “I never cried,” said Rose.
    “Nor did I. Not even when they made me a Permanent Boarder.”
    Rose gave me a brooding look. She leaned over to fish for another pickle. “D’you remember the day you were moved up to the seniors, back at home?”
    I shrugged. “Maybe I do. So what?”
    “You walked up from the babies’ end as if you owned the place, and you went straight to the globe. That light-up globe on the bookshelf ?” Her eyes caught cruel yellow gleams from our shaded candle. “Not even the big teenagers dared to
touch
it without special permission. You went over and casually started pushing the buttons. You were so far above us. We could tell you’d had lots of things like that, when you lived in the city. You and