Opportunities for Development - Ch.1 - Family Matters

Chapter 1: Family Matters

Amazons are not understanding people. Littles learn this almost as quickly as they can learn to read and write. Mainly because Amazons pretend not to understand what we read and write.

Everything we do takes that little bit of extra work to convince them they need to listen to what we’re saying. Being just about waist height doesn’t help us in most instances but their ears are perfectly capable of hearing a Little speak to them.

But there is a particular point where some Amazons will choose to understand a Little and listen intently. For whatever bizarre reason or quirk of biology, the moment one of us is in distress an almost terrifying maternal or paternal instinct will kick in. So as I had a new pair of shorts brought up my legs, Miss Church was acting like a fire alarm had gone off.

"I can't believe Mr Douglas did that Eddy, I'm so sorry" she shook her head "Do you need anything? A pacifier or a..."

"I'm fine, thank you"

She sighed, looking me in the eye "Are you sure?"

I rolled my eyes "Yes, I'm fine, seriously"

She picked me back up again and headed back towards the school entrance "Are your parents still here? Do you need a lift..."

"Yeah, they should be outside" I replied "I don't need a lift home"

I could see the look of disappointment on her face. No Little took a lift from an Amazon unless they were absolutely sure there was no chance of abduction. I was the perfect age for it now too, technically mature enough to be considered independent but under the most intense scrutiny for any sign of failure. She could have claimed that those pants, now in a little ziplock plastic bag in her hand, were the result of me pissing all over myself in a tantrum. I'd have been her little baby boy by the end of the day.

I looked out of the front playground of the school and saw my parents sitting on one of the many benches near the gate. They were very formally dressed, suit for my father and black dress for my mother. No Little adopted by an Amazon would wear that unless they were at a wedding or funeral. It was a signal to any Amazon parents who were visiting for the same reason that they were not one of the students.

"Mr and Mrs Carlisle! Oh goodness there's been a bit of a disaster..."

My parents shot to their feet and ran over. Great, she'd definitely got them thinking I was about to be given to the closest orphanage with that line.

"What's happened?!" My mother asked. "Is Edmund ok?"

"Oh yes, he was positively excellent" Miss Church smiled "But I'm afraid Mr Douglas decided to take matters into his own hands. Miss Grimsby is dealing with him now."

"What do you mean? Did Edmund pass the test?" My fathers concern was etched across his face. What Miss Church didn't know is that he was hoping the answer was "No".

Miss Church shook her head "Sorry Mr Carlisle, we'll need him to come back tomorrow. I don't think we can proceed with the results of this one, given what John... Mr Douglas decided to do..."

My father was looking at me up and down as if he was expecting to see any sign of injury.

"Wh...what did he do?"

"I proved I was potty trained in front of him and he didn't like it" I replied, forcing my way into the conversation "Made me piss in a demonstration potty and..."

"LANGUAGE!" Miss Church interrupted, "He made you wee in the potty. Honestly, where do you Littles learn such awful words…”

“Not from us I assure you” my mother was now trying to regain her composure “We’ll bring him back tomorrow if we need to, that’s quite alright”

I groaned audibly “Really? Can’t we just say I failed and get this over with?”

“Oh Eddy don’t say that!” Miss Church sounded like I’d just given up on life itself “You always have a chance right?”

My mother and father looked at each other and rolled their eyes. They knew as well as I did that those words were complete nonsense.

“Even if you don’t make it through to Reception, you’ll have one more lovely year with us!”

My turn to roll my eyes “Yes, Miss Church”

She playfully prodded me in the stomach “Now now, don’t be like that! Not every Little gets the chance to…”

“Miss Church, if there’s nothing else, we’ll take Eddy home now” my father interrupted “If we have to be back here tomorrow I’d rather not waste time speculating”

The Amazon's face dropped. My father had spotted that particular piece of coddling and wasn’t going to let it go further.

“Sorry, got a bit carried away. He’s just such a bright boy Mr Carlisle, I don’t want him to…”

“He’s my bright boy,” my mother responded. There was venom there, if she was a cobra she’d be rearing for a strike. There was a terrible silence as I was let down to the ground, my mother and Miss Church staring at each other until I walked back towards the small car I could see parked outside the entrance.

“We’ll see you tomorrow” she said “I hope Mr Douglas gets what’s coming to him”

“I… Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow” Miss Church calmly composed herself, turning back towards the school and tidying herself up.

For every overly maternal or paternal Amazon there was an equally fiery Little that would never be tamed or broken. Faye Carlisle was one such Little, a mother who had forced me through every single educational hoop and hired every Little tutor she could find to teach me how to navigate the ridiculous systems Albeine employed to test us. She had married a man with less fire, but more grit. An escapee no less. Ted Carlisle was a man with the exceptional talent of forcing Amazons into discomfort. He’d been in the care of an Amazon for two years before she hired a rather stupid Tweener babysitter.

He’d been out of the city in a day and had a new life by day three. Or so my mother tells me. He seemed to mostly use story to explain his lack of hair at parties.

Once the car doors were shut I knew an interrogation was in order. For any Amazon the machine would’ve been an incredibly tight squeeze, but for us it was positively luxurious. There was only one company in Albiene that built cars for Littles, “Tykes” being the rather embarrassing name of the brand. Still, it was largely Little run and owned, even if Amazons would patronisingly call them “Tykemobiles” everywhere. I strapped in, literally and figuratively, and waited for them to do the same.

“What the hell happened there?” my mother turned to face me as my father pushed the start button on the dashboard.

“Bastard tried to prove I wasn’t potty trained.” I replied “Put a potty down in front of me and told me to use it. So I did”

“That… that’s not normally part of the test” despite her clear confusion her anger was undiminished “Amazon kids are useless at potty training sometimes, they couldn’t put that in and still look good”

Dad laughed “Yeah, Amazons don’t want “Your child isn’t potty training well, unlike all the Littles” as a report on the fridge”

I chuckled “He then shouted at me, called me a “Stupid Little”.”

“Then I’m not surprised Grimsby ended it there” Mom responded “Say what you like about that woman she won’t have you cocking up procedure”

Turning onto the main Little lane running up the high street, I took a look out of the window at the town centre. It was still early morning, my test was the first of the day, and hardly any Amazon cars were whizzing past us on the road. One rather dopey one decided to cut over the front of the lane however, forcing my father to smash the horn.

“Idiots. Treat us like children but drive like chimps…”

“That’s being unkind to chimps Dad” I responded, eliciting a chuckle from the man.

“Look, I didn’t ask for them to give us a “special” lane, but the least they could do is actually let us use it without… oh for the love of…”

In front of us was an Amazon motorcyclist, their huge beast of a machine belching acrid smoke out of the back as we stopped at a red light. The gas poured over the front of the windscreen, blocking the view of the road.

“When did this prick last clean his air filter…” Dad mumbled to himself.

The rules of the road in Albaine were something of a mixed blessing to Littles. Many other nations either kept them off the road entirely or left them to the whims of the same rules as Amazons. But Albiene had to be the “inclusive” place for Littles, it had to make sure they got every opportunity and that things weren’t “unfair”.

Of course, that was bullshit. It was actually just motorists wanting us off the road, to stop having to worry about crushing us between massive four by fours without hounding us off of the tarmac entirely. So now we had our own lanes on either side of the road, just for us to use to get around “at a Littles pace”.

The irony was that in rush hour traffic Littles got to their destinations substantially faster this way. There aren’t that many of us driving around for a start, so when the roads were clogged, Little Lanes were a positive boon. Whether intentional or not, Amazons wanting rid of our “Tykemobiles” actually made us better off.

Except when Amazon motorcyclists considered them their personal method of skipping the queue.

“Just beep the horn, he shouldn’t even be there” my mother was already annoyed today, this wasn’t going to get in her way.

If the noise registered with the rider it made little difference, they sped off as the light went green, leaving us to wait for the smoke to clear. The rest of the journey home was uneventful, allowing me to get my breath back before we arrived in our driveway.

Our home was a terraced house, one of ten along a small street with two storeys. It was clearly built for an Amazon, and from the outside the only evidence to the contrary would have been the Tykemobile parked out front. Dad had installed a clever little device into the frame that pulled the handle from our shoulder height, rather than it’s position about a foot above our heads.

“Go on Edmund, get inside and get that diaper off.” my mother patted my rear as I walked past the front door of the car.

I groaned a little at the mention of my underwear. I wasn’t going to stay in it any longer than needed and she knew that. But I knew she was reminding me more for her sake than mine. She’d had enough of changing my diapers when I was three, Amazons demanding I wear them or not.

Heading into the kitchen I opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out a wonderful little tool we’d acquired from a caravaning trip. Amazon diaper tapes were notoriously difficult, if not impossible, for Littles to remove. No manner of pulling or tearing would get a Monkees off of me without help from one of the giants.

Scissors were a last resort. Far too big for most Littles unless they were childrens pairs, and those couldn’t cut through butter. A knife? Too risky, if any of us were injured taking off a diaper we’d be put in the care of a local clinic and adopted by a more “responsible” family in moments.

But this little unassuming device was positively marvelous. It was a small wooden box, hinged down the middle and soft felt on one very thin side. Slipping that side in the gap between my tape and my thigh I opened the box, the glint of a sharpened razor just about visible. With one quick motion I smacked it down, cutting the tape clean off of the wing of the Monkees and allowing the padding to drop to the floor as it loosened. It would be incredibly difficult to injure yourself with it, but I’m sure at some point some idiot must have found a way.

“Oh come on Edmund, at least do it upstairs!” My father walked in, grabbing the electric kettle from the kitchen side as he watched me complete the task.

“You’ve seen it all before Dad, don’t be such a prude.”

He chuckled as I threw the diaper into a large pail. Typically it never saw a dirty diaper if I could avoid it. I wondered sometimes if the recycling truckers that came by and picked them up were ever confused by the completely dry and carefully snippered padding but they probably didn’t give it a second thought.

Obliging to Dad's request I headed up to my room. It was rather spartan compared to a lot of my friends, basic furniture was set up along the back wall, a bed, a desk and a wardrobe. Two bookcases on the wall opposite contained a variety of encyclopedias and workbooks from many years of study, a couple of small model planes sitting on the shelves. I hadn’t built one in a while, but there was a box containing a Spitfire sitting on my desk asking for me to get it done. I’d been getting ready for the Reception Test and it had been put on a backburner. You’d think answering a few questions, especially the same ones every year, wouldn’t require much preparation, but today was not representative. Thanks to Mr Douglas…

“What a wanker…” I mumbled to myself, sitting down at my desk. I wasn’t in the mood to do much except sulk. I’d have to do all that again tomorrow, go through all that patronising nonsense all for the sake of confirming I’d need to spend my last year at school getting my diapers checked and being made to sing nursery rhymes.

Grabbing my laptop from the drawer of my desk I booted it up and started to play some online chess. I was hardly a good player, but it was a cerebral enough task to keep me occupied and cleanse my brain of the last few hours.

“Want a cuppa Edmund?” my mothers voice came from downstairs, shrill but clear. At least I could end the morning with an adult drink.

“Milk and two sugars please!” I called back. In a few moments she’d be up here, probably telling me to go back to working on my preparations for tomorrow. Mom took my survival, and it really was survival, more seriously than many other parents. You’d think us getting through life would be a parents top priority, but some just… accepted the inevitable. They saw the struggles of their kids at Amazon pre-school, the anxieties of getting through it and could sometimes just see the final result. The giants knew where they wanted us and had all the power to do it. Guilt and shame were the only barriers, which while exploitable to a degree could be rationalised away easily with enough evidence. And enough wasn’t much.

So I had to learn a trade, be a good boy at school and be a thorn in the system. Take the fun where I could get it, avoid poking the wrong hornet nests and keep my head down and my back up straight.

Just had to get through one more year.