Chapter 6
Mr Brentnall sits across from me. He’s about forty, tall and lanky, with a pleasant, thoughtful-looking face. He’s wearing black jeans, Blundstone steelcaps, and a neatly ironed long-sleeved white shirt. I can’t work out whether he’s a teacher or a social worker. It’s his job to figure out which school I should go to and what year I should be in.
‘I’m not sure what to make of your test results, Len,’ he says, not as if this is a problem. His lack of curiosity is a relief. Most people get annoyed when they don’t know what to make of me. ‘Your mathematics scores are excellent. You didn’t miss a single question in the weights and measures section.’ Mr Brentnall looks up from the folder. ‘Did you do all the problems in your head?’
I nod.
‘I thought so. You didn’t make any notes in the margins or on the scrap paper we gave you. Your reading comprehension and writing skills are similarly impressive. As for history and science . . .’ Mr Brentnall frowns slightly and shakes his head. ‘I bet you were home-schooled,’ he says, more to himself than to me. ‘These results don’t make sense otherwise.’ He closes the folder. ‘Anyway, you’ve got some catching up to do in some areas. But that shouldn’t be too hard.’
I tell Mr Brentnall that I don’t want to go to Ramsay Training Institute if it’s full of people like Bindi and Cinnamon.
Mr Brentnall looks surprised. ‘Why, Len, have you been worried that we were going to send you to Ramsay?’
I nod again.
Mr Brentnall shakes his head and laughs a little. ‘Ramsay Training Institute is a school for kids who’ve been in trouble with the law or who have serious behavioural problems. We’d never send someone like you to Ramsay.’
I look down. ‘It’s not just that I don’t want to go to Ramsay. I really don’t want to go to school anywhere.’
To my surprise, Mr Brentnall doesn’t argue.
We agree that I’ll study with a private tutor three days a week. If my progress is satisfactory, then I’ll begin year nine at a normal school at the start of the next school year. If I do well enough on my exams, I might have a shot at going to a selective school, where there’s guaranteed to be nobody like Bindi or Cinnamon.
‘We can discuss other options further down the line, when you’re settled in a foster home,’ Mr Brentnall says, putting my test results back into the manila folder. ‘There’s even some scholarship money available, if you’re interested in going to a private college, like International Academy.’
I leave Mr Brentnall’s office feeling relieved that I don’t have to go to school right away. I push the part about the foster home to the back of my mind.