Call Me Rumpel

Chapter Ten

"Hi, Mrs Anderson, I was just—"

"Come in, come in; sorry I'm running late. And please, it's Mrs A."

Mrs Anderson smiles warmly as she ushers me into the classroom. She strolls over to the teacher's desk, indicating the plastic chair in front of it. As usual, she's forgone neat slacks for a pair of dark-wash jeans in a poor attempt to pretend she's a 'cool teacher.'

I sit my bag at my feet and wait as she shuffles through the papers scattered over the desk. "One moment, dear, I know your file is here somewhere..."

In my rush this morning, I'd completely forgotten about our appointment. Every year eleven student is supposed to discuss their study plans for our final year, which begins next term. I'm not planning on dropping any subjects, except maybe biology, nor am I in real danger of falling behind in any of my work. I'm still dreading what she has to say, though, and that has nothing to do with school.

As she titters and searches through a stack of folders, I'm drawn to the jagged scar running across her face. I trace it from the bridge of her nose all the way to the top right corner of her lip. It's stark against her dark skin and unable to be concealed by foundation—not that she's ever tried to hide it.

I remember Quinn confiding in me one day, a few months after the accident, that their mother still blamed herself for their paraplegia, refusing to accept some fancy doctor's offer to remove the scar for free. It was the other driver's fault for being six times over the legal alcohol limit. But as their mother was behind the wheel, Quinn's protests had fallen upon deaf ears. It was likely the reason she transferred from being a kindergarten teacher at our primary school to Kingston High when we entered year seven.

I look away, realising I've been staring for far too long. Mrs Anderson finds the document she's looking for and fixes her watery brown eyes upon me.

"So, Mishka, how have you been?"

It's an innocent question, but I know the deeper meaning behind it: 'where have you been?' 'Has anything changed since you stopped being friends with my child?' 'You and Quinn don't speak anymore, so I have to ask you myself.'

I plaster on a smile. "Fine, thanks."

She continues to stare at me for a moment too long, as though doing so will make me spill some solution to our irreconcilable differences. When I purse my lips, she sighs and looks at the file.

"It seems you're on track with your studies. Have you thought about which university you'll apply to next year? You are still planning to go to university, aren't you?"

"Of course." When she blinks, I add, "I'm not sure which course I'm set on yet, but I'm thinking of applying for the University of Tasmania."

I almost say 'or any university that accepts HECS loans,' but I don't want anyone to find out about my family's current financial woes, least of all Quinn. There's nothing wrong with taking out a HECS debt from the government, but most of my peers assume I'll pay off my tuition outright. I doubt Mrs Anderson would be unprofessional and tell Quinn what she gleans from these interviews, but I can't be too sure.

"But... that's in Tasmania," she says, blinking rapidly as she no doubt calculates the kilometres between the states.

"Yes."

"Have you considered somewhere more local? I mean, in New South Wales? Sydney University, perhaps, or The University of New England? Western Sydney University is only a half-hour drive away..."

The first two are a good few hours away, but that's where most of my peers will go—if they get in. I smile sweetly. "I'll consider it."

It satisfies her, for she nods and places my file in a purple plastic tray. "Alright, well, I think at this stage you're all set, although perhaps you could think of joining some extra-curricular activities. Maybe a sport, or student leadership, or the Buddy Reading Program..."