The Margin of Error

REHEARSAL

Chapter Seven: The Rehearsal

The televised debate schedule meant Mastercollege had to open the old

assembly hall on a Saturday for rehearsals. The air inside smelled of

dust and damp upholstery from the stack of plastic chairs piled in the

corner. A single standing fan groaned near the podium, moving the humid

air without cooling it.

Privilege sat on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling over the side.

His ribs still ached when he twisted his torso—a dull, deep bruise

from the gravel at the junction—but the swelling on his lip had gone

down to a hard pink scar.

Crown was sitting three steps below him, unboxing a pair of brand-new

wireless corporate mics the school administration had purchased for the

broadcast. He wasn't cracking jokes today. His face looked slightly

gray under the fluorescent lights, and his custom watch was tucked

inside his uniform pocket.

"My dad called the principal this morning," Crown said, squinting as

he tried to untangle a black lapel cord. He didn't look up at

Privilege. "He wants me to transfer to International School next term

if the science department averages drop below ninety."

Privilege watched the fan rotate. "Because of the scholarship?"

"Because of everything," Crown muttered. He dropped the cord, his

knuckles hitting the wooden step. "He keeps saying I'm wasting his

capital. Every dinner, Privilege. 'Look at your brother in London. Look

at Mary.' If I don't get into the petroleum engineering track at

Ibadan, he says he's cutting off my allowance and sending me to our

village in Ondo to manage the palm estate." He let out a short, dry

breath that wasn't a laugh. "I don't even like chemistry. The smell

of the lab makes me want to vomit."

Before Privilege could say anything, the heavy double doors at the back

of the hall banged open.

Kane walked in alone. He didn't have Spike with him, and his

Mastercollege blazer was missing entirely, leaving his white shirt

looking crumpled at the waist. He walked down the center aisle, his

heavy boots echoing against the concrete floor. He stopped right in

front of the stage, looking up at Privilege.

"My dad wants to see you," Kane said. He didn't use his usual loud

corridor voice. It was flat, almost mechanical.

Privilege didn't move from the edge of the stage. "Why?"

"Just come to the parking lot," Kane said, his jaw tightening. He

looked at Crown for a fraction of a second, then back to Privilege.

"He's in the SUV. He doesn't like waiting."

"Tell him to come inside," Privilege said.

Kane took half a step forward, his hands clenching into fists inside his

pockets. For the first time, Privilege noticed a small, yellowish bruise

just under Kane's left ear—older than the one Spike had, and shaped

like the edge of a ring.

"Don't do this, Privilege," Kane whispered. He sounded less like a

bully and more like someone reading from a script he hated. "He's

already furious about the ministry letter. He thinks I'm the reason the

school is getting public scrutiny. Just... come out."

Privilege looked at the bruise on Kane's neck, then down at his own

worn canvas shoes. The efficiency of the old conflict felt different

now. He slid off the stage, his feet hitting the floor with a dull thud.

"All right," Privilege said. "Let's go."

Chapter Eight: The Lexus

The white Lexus LX 570 was idling near the tennis courts, its exhaust

pipe puffing a steady stream of thin gray smoke into the afternoon heat.

The air conditioning inside must have been set to freezing, because the

tinted windows were completely misted over from the inside.

Kane opened the heavy rear door but didn't get in. He stood by the

frame, his head bowed.

Inside, the leather smelled of expensive cologne and brand-new carpets.

A man in a dark agbada was sitting in the middle row, an iPad pro

resting on his knees. He had the same heavy jawline as Kane, but his

eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by deep, dark circles of exhaustion.

"You're the scholarship boy," the man said. He didn't look up from

his screen. His fingers swiped through a spreadsheet. "Privilege.

That's the name?"

"Yes, sir," Privilege said, standing on the hot asphalt outside the

door.

The man finally turned his head. His expression wasn't angry; it was

completely blank, the face of a bank manager reviewing a bad loan. "The

state governor is my classmate from Government College. We built the

library your mother's bukka sits behind. I don't care about this

debate, boy. But my son is on the auxiliary register for the UK visa

because of his Mastercollege sports profile. If this televised nonsense

changes the school's accreditation status, his visa clearance will

delay."

He looked past Privilege, targeting Kane, who was still standing by the

door with his eyes fixed on the gravel.

"He's stupid," the father said, his voice flat and brutal. "He

can't pass the Further Maths exam without three tutors from Unilag, and

now he's getting into street fights in Yaba. If his name appears in the

ministry report because of you, I will withdraw the funding for his

flight. He can stay in Lagos and work at the depot."

Kane didn't shout. He didn't say, 'Leave my father out of this.' He

didn't look up. He just stood there, his shoulder pressed against the

white car door, his fingers digging into the rubber seal until his

knuckles turned gray.

Privilege felt his chest tighten, but it wasn't the asthma this time.

It was just the heat coming off the tarmac.

"The debate is about the science curriculum, sir," Privilege said,

keeping his words short. "It has nothing to do with Kane."

The man looked back down at his iPad. "Make sure it stays that way. If

I see his name on the television ticker, your principal will receive a

letter from our legal team regarding your residency status on the school

lands." He tapped the glass screen. "Close the door, Kane."

Kane pulled the door shut with a heavy, pressurized click. The SUV

immediately shifted into gear, its large tires crunching over the gravel

as it turned toward the main gate, leaving Kane standing alone in the

middle of the empty driveway.

The wind from the car's exhaust blew a swirl of dry leaves around

Kane's boots. He didn't look at Privilege. He just turned on his heel

and began walking toward the back gate, his hands buried deep in his

pockets, his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to disappear inside

his own shirt.

Privilege didn't follow him. He walked back toward the assembly hall,

where the standing fan was still groaning against the dark.