Page 123 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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Strolling into the kitchen and overhearing the words, “Democracy is a tool of oppression,” is the kind of statement I’d ordinarily turn on my heel for, backing away from the door, but as I listen to Rory firmly declare this to Finlay, I decide I’m in the kind of upbeat, jolly mood that politics can’t ruin.

“Right,” Finlay drawls in disbelief. It’s funny, seeing him like this, all haughty and self-assured, when last night he’d been spread-eagled beneath my mouth, spilling broken, incoherent syllables into the silk pillow.

“Those people out there, the ones blowing up shops and getting triggered by the word ‘royal’? They don’t give a fuck about democracy. If anything, they want to run the show. They’re supremacists. Anti-royal supremacists.”

Finlay casts him a skeptical glance, but he’s listening. I admire the tilt of his exposed neck, the outline of which I’d delicately traced with my tongue before capturing his mouth in a soft, hot kiss. He’d sung for me then, he’d crooned pleas like lullabies into my ear, as I’d worked his iron-hard cock with my fist.

“It’s inevitable,” Rory continues, business-like, with the firm footing of a winner. “It’s a sign of the times. Each identity group demands to be the ones with the power to say what is and is not acceptable when it comes to their group. Their tribe. Because don’t misunderstand what’s happening here, Fin. Thisistribal. The entire world is fracturing into tribes before our very eyes, and if you’re not part of such-and-such tribe, you’re done for.”

Idly, Finlay strokes his chin. I remember licking it last night. I remember tasting my juices from his skin.

Finlay looks like he wants to say something, but he gives Rory the leeway to continue.

“The rest of the world… To anyone outside the group, to anyone who acts against the group, or is even indifferent to the group — well, they’re the oppressors, right? Andmost people are not in the group. They’re the ones who’ve refused to play by the group’s rules, so in their minds, those people don’t deserve a say in how things are run. In fact, to offer anyone outside the group the democracy of debate, of negotiation and even, God forbid, coalition — it’s not an option to them. They’re all-or-nothing, black-or-white. They’re so delusional they’d use actual democracy as a way to oppress others.”

“I—”

“They want to call all the shots, every single one of them, without repercussions. Without backlash. Without consequence. How do you run a successful society like that, when the so-called oppressed are demanding to dismantle democracy for their own cause? Antiro doesn’t negotiate. They don’t debate. They’re fascists. And right now, also terrorists.”

“I agree with Rory,” Luke says from the sofa, looking up from his book —How Destiny Manifests: A Christian Guide to Self-Improvement— to catch my eye. “Morning, Jessa.”

I gingerly step into the kitchen. “Did I come in at a bad time?”

“No,” says Danny, determinedly moving a chess piece before rotating the board to battle himself. It seems like a pointless, self-defeating endeavor. “Please save us.” Danny glances up at me with those big brown puppy-dog eyes. “Or at least me. I don’t think I can take anymore.”

I laugh slightly. Whatever Finlay was about to say in retort to Rory, it seems to have died on his lips. Instead, he stares at me openly, looking like all he wants to do is gather me onto his lap and kiss the living daylights out of me.

At first, I think that’s what he’s going to do, thread his fingers through my own the way he’d done last night as he’d cried his orgasm into our furious kiss, as I’d pinned his wrists to the mattress with all my strength.

Instead, Finlay clears his throat, as though pressured by the weight of Rory’s analytical gaze.

“Antiro isnae an identity group,” he eventually scoffs, though there’s no heat, no passion in this challenge. He seems otherwise distracted.

Rory gives a deep, scornful laugh. “Are you joking? They’re like goths, but worse.”

Finlay’s brows furrow in confusion, and he asks, with something akin to a pout, “Whit’s wrang wi’ goths?”

“What’s happening?” I ask, nodding at the spread of newspapers open across the kitchen table. I’ve become so used to newspapers cluttering up the house that it’s rare to see a surface not decorated with paper and ink.

Though everyone reads widely, I’ve come to observe that everyone has their own favorite newspaper. Rory first readsThe Timescover to cover before spiraling into the others, Finlay devoursThe Guardianbut still mutters darkly about the state of their Scotland coverage, Luke idly flicks throughThe Telegraphbefore casting it aside with a heavy, mournful sigh.

On occasion, they’ll circle things, highlight things, repeat lines from articles in tones of derision.

Danny’s more on my level. Whenever he finishes a random crossword, which he does with prodigious speed, he then reads each paper’s TV guide and, with a kind of innocent joy, circles movies that’ll be shown on TV during the upcoming week.

That’s more my speed, because I don’t want to be involved anymore. I’m tired of the news and its constant depressive background, and far too often foreground, drone. The more ensconced I’ve become with the chiefs, the less interest I seem to have developed in current affairs. Right now, only affairs of the heart matter to me. I don’t understand how the chiefs are able to balance it out, and then I remember they’ve always been news junkies, that they’ve been raised to inhale politics like a drug, that their lives are destined to become part of this circus.

The point is, we now own so many daily editions of newspapers that we could probably wallpaper the entire house at least five times over.

“Father’s giving an address to the country,” Rory remarks with cool detachment, as thoughFatherwere the name of a person he once met on vacation a very long time ago. “I don’t doubt Antiro will be the topicdu jour. If he has any common sense, he’d condemn them.”

Finlay gives him a look that indicates how unlikely he believes that situation to be.

“I can but hope,” Rory notes with a shrug.

I busy myself by making breakfast, grabbing the big bag of oatmeal and spooning out a small measure. I’ve secretly missed oatmeal. It reminds me so badly of Lochkelvin, and yet the memories are comforting instead of bad. To be different, I add blueberries.

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