I'm Erica Lost

They killed 16 of them. GEP news reported the protesters went wild with rage and attacked the police. Naturally, the police had to use force against the berserk crowd. Most of them were eighteen years old, just nine months older than I. My mother gave a pitying look while my dad scoffed at them. Just before I finished my breakfast, the news report changed to statistics on the improvement of wealth per capita. Dropping the plate at the sink, I excused myself and headed out.

My silver car shined in the early December morning. I dropped my load of books onto the passenger side as I sat down. Reclining down, my neck brushed up against the leather seat, which held a peculiar brand-new car scent and whose dark coriaceous colour contrasted against my white hair. The engine growled. After leaving the driveway I sped up past the 25 miles requirement of residential areas. 15 minutes later I pull up unto the student parking lot.

Breed's Preparatory High School stood tall. Unfamiliar to the town's gothic architecture, the High School's elaborate art-nouveau style stood out in the dim area around Breeds Hill. On the inside, the lounge led up to a spiral stair case which traversed the second and third floors. Around the school large windows allowed sunlight to bathe classrooms. In contrast, the public school was narrow, over crowded, and about to fall apart.

"Erica," a voice called.

I turned to see Karen strut over with her new brand-named purse that cost no less than eight hundred dollars. It was an awful grey colour, but Karen cared only about the price tag. The Morgan family made their money from banking. Over the summer, my father, the head judge of this province, brought my mother and me to the Morgan estate for some of their parties.

"Did you finish the history homework?" she asked innocently.

Taking the homework from the bag, I handed it to her and walked away. She studied it dumbly before yelling out thanks.

"Give it back before class starts."

"Of course," she assured me.

At my locker, John waited for me with a sly grin planted on his face. His black hair and brown eyes stood out against most of the population of Northern provinces. Towering over me at six feet, his smouldering expression told me he was itching to tell me some pressing news.

"Well?" I asked with a curious smile.

"No No," he winked. "Later."

John was excellent at suspense. His mother, from a prominent family of politicians, married James Ainsworth, a captain of industry that revolutionized military production, and expected John to take over the family business. However, John's only passion was acting and wanted nothing with the world of politics.

"Hey guys," greeted Shelby and Jay.

The two were practically attached by the hip. Jay's hands wrapped around Shelby's lithe body in a tight embrace. I've known Shelby since the tender age of 12 when we first decided it was a good idea to draw genitalia in the girl's locker room. Her elfin face looks back at John and me excitedly.

"We got tickets for Against Arsenal," she shared in her high pitched voice.

"Tonight," Jay started, "9'o clock. Be there."

"And bring Bret," Shelby added.

John and I shared the same incredulous look. Only Jay and Shelby would know of an underground band like 'Against Arsenal'. But if it was an excuse to leave home, John and I ate it up like a platter of food. Convincing Bret to come was much more difficult. As a minister and a single father since Bret's mom passed away, Mr. Wright watched strictly over Bret and her two younger sisters.

Ringing loudly, the warning bell dispersed the groups of teens that congregated in the hallway. I waved goodbye and headed up to the history classroom situated between a sparkling water fountain and a bulletin board filled with ads. Moments before entering the classroom, Karen shoved the homework towards me then turned around to her seat. When the bell rang, I scrambled to my seat, attempting to fix the papers into my notebook, while cursing silently at Karen. I should've told her no.

"Good morning," Mr. Holmstrom greeted, "today we'll continue to speak about the industrial revolution."

Mr. Holmstrom was a young man, just 27 years old, tall, and handsome. His green eyes are kind and ready to answer questions from inquisitive minds. Sometimes he attempts to liven up lessons by inserting personal anecdotes or silly jokes which accomplish nothing but the strained laughter of bored students.

"And the Coleman Anti-Trust Act was normally just used against unions, much how the modern Labour Protection Act is used."

He stopped and surveyed the room. From his desk, he grabbed a sticky and crumbled it into a ball to throw at a sleeping student. Greg, the boy that slobbered over his desk, sprang up, finally alert. The class laughed.

Mr. Holmstrom continued, "Because as we all know, unions are bad."

The sedated smile hid the mild criticism Mr. Holmstrom was known for having. He grabbed a packet of papers and began distributing them to the class as students groaned.

Jenny, a small girl with dirty blond hair and curiosity dripping from her face, raised her hand. "Wait... if it's called the Labour Protection Act, why does it go against workers interest?"

Smiling, Mr. Holmstrom responded, "What's in a name?"

Just as Mr. Holmstrom finished speaking, the cacophonous bell commanded students and staff to stand and recite the national anthem. Triumphant drums married sharp singing under infectious patriotism, with 'Oh bless the republic, safe under your blossomed red roses, as dust and ash fall to your valleys' lost to the storm outside.