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February 18th, 2005
‘So nice of you to join me, Remus.’ Mrs Williams says when Remus slips into her office, ten minutes late.
‘I couldn’t find a way to avoid it.’
‘Well given your inter-class attendance, I thought that might be quite easy for you to do.’ She gives him a knowing look. She could give him isolation with the flick of her pen, so he didn’t bother to argue it.
‘Well..’ Remus looks around, hoping it would be a quick enough talk that he wouldn’t have to sit down. His hand was still hopefully gripping the handle.
‘Sit, come in.’
Remus uncomfortably shuffles forwards, clicking the creaky door shut behind him.
‘How’s your foster dad?’ She asks casually, testing her ballpoint pen on the white border of her notebook.
‘He’s not my dad.’ Remus bites his lip down. ‘Sorry. Mik is fine.’
‘Still…?’ She teeters on the word like the words were an old grenade she had just found while digging flowerbeds in her garden.
‘Yes, still out of work.’
She pauses for a while, the way she did when she was trying to unpick his replies.
‘Remus, I’ve seen you many times over the years, as a councillor, not as a careers advisor and you have always managed to carefully avoid talk of your future.’
‘What else should I do? I’m an orphan, I don’t get to have all the options there for me. Who pays for my college?’
‘The first two years are free.’
‘And what course that I want to do is only two years long? Two years free in a three to four year course.’
‘It would be a great help if you'd tell me what you'd like to pursue.’
‘Not bloody likely.’
‘Remus. There are subsidies. Grants if you would like to attend a private facility.’
‘I’m not smart enough for that.’
‘You very much are.’
The air goes dead as he scowls at his favourite teacher.
‘And what colleges are around here? Do I move out at sixteen with my younger sister or walk half an hour to our one station every morning at five to take the train—which doesn’t bother showing up most days—to go the town over that has such terrible funding they dump London’s homeless there to punish them for daring to want a safe home!’
She scribbled something down, clicking her tongue.
‘Your emotions are running high.’
‘You’re my careers advisor right now, not a councillor.’ He bites. She barks out a laugh, and he hates to say it lightens his anger. ‘You know where people like me end up.’
‘Yes, I do.’ She opens his file, a school photo of him years ago with that now rare toothgap-that-never-really-closed smile and spackles of freckles over his nose and forehead. His caramel hair was lazily poofed, evidence that his foster mum at the time had raked a brush through his curls and sent him out the door. She gives him a pamphlet from within.
‘Old Edwin’s School of Music and Drama.’ She says proudly.
‘What.’
‘I had previously thought that your lack of attendance was random, that you cared for all subjects so little you turned up late to any indiscriminately. But I see that Thursday morning Period One, you are never late. You never miss Friday evenings either, and with my discussions with Mrs. Phon, you are often the last to leave the Drama studio. Tuesday after lunch, Period Four, never missed. You are a sound pianist with some talent for sheet music and composition. And Mr. Elliott played me a recording of you. One of your completely original compositions, and he tells me there are more.’
Remus says nothing.
‘But you will not get in with your marks—You have the talent, the potential portfolio to nail it, but the 2 in English-‘
‘I don’t write the lyrics.’ He bites.
‘You don’t bother with the longer questions. 40 markers unattempted! I wonder what potential you are hiding there.’
‘I missed the lessons that taught analysis.’ She looks at him, almost shocked.
‘That can be solved.’ She brushed over it, revealing another sheet of results. ‘Maths is fine, Science is impressive if you’d take part in practicals-‘
‘I did-‘
‘Without threatening others with acid, no matter what vitriol they spew.’
‘Mik ain’t simple. He’s just-‘
‘I know that.’ Mrs Williams nods along. She understood a lot more about Remus than most others, see, you tend to get shuffled around in schools while in foster care. But Remus had only ever attended here as a secondary school as he had been two months into being eleven when he fell into Mik and Tessa’s care. Mrs. Williams had been the first teacher he met, already a highly independent kid he’d gone straight for the councillor. She had been crafting a rollie, tin of tobacco on her desk which she promptly snapped shut and slid under her binder. She had a sharp look about her and bright purple tights that made her confusing and weirdly comfortable. She had grunted, said ‘fuck’ and then ‘fuck’ again, before telling little Remus not to tell his parents. He remembered shrugging and sitting down.
‘Geography—a five.’ She continued as Remus tunes back in. ‘Not very impressive but shows a basic level of competence.’
‘ I don’t mind the people side of it, but the rocks…’
‘Understandable. I never got all that shite about plates and waves.’ Mrs. Williams nods sympathetically. ‘Do you want a good future, one that gives you choices and acreddition?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then let me help you.’ She grins, looking too excited for his liking. ‘I think I can get you into this school, free.’
‘And what about-‘
‘It’s a boarding school.’ she interrupts, five steps ahead as always.
‘What about Lola?’
‘There’s a lower school. She easily has the grades.’
‘Music and Drama.’ He mocks, remembering the school's name.
Williams reaches under her desk and reveals his sister's file, photo frowning, dark pigtails uneven and school jumper forcefully tugged on over her head.
‘They happen to have a pretty solid engineering branch. Your sister excels at design technology, everything maths and science. Her teachers want her to pursue a highly technical branch, completing her GCSE’s in Edwin’s will give her a certain boost.’
Surely she should be told this not m-‘ He is interrupted by a negligible knock, because just as soon as it starts the door is swinging open. Lola is there chewing gum and looking slightly annoyed.
‘Welcome, Miss Lupin.’
‘Woof.’ She’s frowning, throwing her bag down against the side of the desk and getting comfortable in the other free chair.
‘Sorry. Lola.’ Mrs. Williams corrects. ‘Perfect timing.’
‘Right. What’s going on here?’ Lola says, drawing one of her legs up so she could hug her knee. Her tights are laddered at the shin.
‘Remus is looking at transferring schools for his A-levels, and wants to see if you’d be interested in joining him.’
‘Well that was a stretch of the truth.’
‘You don’t want me to come with, brother?’ She says in a fairly soppy voice, sticking out her bottom lip. He pushes her head away from him and she scoffs ‘Ow!’
‘No, she added enthusiasm that didn’t exist on ideas that weren’t mine.’
‘Why would I transfer during my GCSE’s?’
‘It’s a similar course to the one you're already on, you won’t be at all behind, all the same exam boards and content. The sixth form also explores avenues you have shown interest in.’
‘You’ve really masterminded this.’ Remus raises an eyebrow, but she just shrugs.
‘I care about your future.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s my job. It’s my job to give every kid the correct amount of guidance; the fairest shot, the most options. I understand what it feels like when your guardians aren’t official and the topic of anything that can be a money sponge comes up.’
‘Do you?’ Remus challenged, but just like every time he had tried it with Mrs Williams, she gave him a distantly knowing look.
‘More than you know. If you’re both willing to help yourselves, I can shuffle you along. I have contacts a plenty.’ The siblings share a look. Williams spends a few minutes catching Lola up on her idea.
‘So I'd be joining a private music school for engineering?’
‘Yes.’
‘To further open my options?’
‘Yes.’ Silence spreads. Her fingers drum against the edge of the folder.
‘What’s the catch?’
‘You must take on something music or drama. One of four subjects. Audio Engineering?’
‘We’ll think on it.’ Remus sighs, getting ready to leave.
‘Here are some other options I've prepared.’ She passes across one clear file of pamphlets to each kid and sends them out the door. ‘But you know what I think should be done.’