In a silent school corridor, only Joan McKenzie's door was red. The other classroom's were contained by white, or plain wood doors, but not Miss McKenzie's. Of course, it was a complete stroke of luck that her room was unique in this way, but she always felt a smug smile on her face when she arrived at school of Monday mornings.
Besides the scarlet door, there wasn't a lot in the room that would mark it as different. Admittedly, it was fairly small, and there was a collection of jink scattered over the giant's desk that possessed half the room, but there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Even Joan herself appeared to be remarkably normal. The short, ginger curs that sat on top of her head were beginning to give way to grey strands, and her kindly face had started to how the wrinkles she wished weren't there, but she was a normal woman. She spent her Saturday afternoons helping out in a charity shop, her Sundays doing chores around the house and her weekdays here, in the local high school giving careers advice to rowdy children who didn't care what she had to say anyway.
The students called her Miss McKenzie – although a large number of them seemed sure that, by her age, she simply must be married – and to the teachers she was practically non-existent. It would seem that no one had the time to learn the first name of a cuddly-looking careers advisor who wore loose cardigans from BHS.
Joan shifted uncomfortably in her seat behind the unnaturally large desk, her blue eyes drifting over to the clock above the door for the tenth time in as many minutes. It was three o'clock, and she was more than ready to go home. The boy in front of her looked as though he was just as eager to leave as she was.
She stifled a yawn - it wouldn't be polite to show how boring this was for her – and leaned forwards in her chair, glancing down at the green slip of paper in front of her. Benjamin Young, one of fourth years' quieter boys. A large part of her was glad not to have to deal with one of the school's many trouble makers, but a little voice in the back of her head yearned for some excitement. "Have you had any ideas on possible careers, Benjamin?"
Her horn-rimmed glasses glinted in the sunlight that shone in from the window as she watched him squirm in his seat. There was a detached expression on her face, and she wondered if there was something about her that put people on edge. The students never seemed at all comfortable around her. She wondered if she was at all bothered by this fact, and wasn't even surprised to find that she didn't even care.
"Well…I thought that…y'know…acting, maybe? Sounds like it might be a laugh…" One thinly plucked eyebrow raised behind her glasses, and Joan leaned backwards. Another boy with delusions. This boy, this Benjamin Young, would never make it as an actor. There were some things she just Knew.
The baby's cries are erupting from one of the apartments in a dingy council flat, in one of the less reputable parts of town. The smell of stale beer and old take-out is in the air, and a poorly-kept garden is full of weeds. Joan wants to throw up, the stench is so bad.
Inside the flat on the bottom floor, the TV blares uselessly, showing blurry images from some chat-show. There are empty pizza boxes and beer cans scattered over the floor, and a pile of dirty laundry sits, forgotten, on the arm of the dirty sofa.
A male – somewhere between 35 and 40 – is spread out over the couch, adding yet another beer to his pot-belly. His mouth moving slowly as he yells at the TV, obviously not pleased with the chat show's topic. Though hidden by a double chin and layers of age, Benjamin Young's face is still recognisable behind the early wrinkles and mound of fat.
Joan frowned in disgust, trying to bring herself out of Benjamin's foul-smelling future. She didn't have time for Knowing right now; the young boy was looking at her expectantly, waiting for the redundant advice that she was paid to hand out.
Knowing had brought trouble into her life before, and Joan would have preferred to have a hitch-free existence. Of course, such a thing is difficult to achieve when, for some unexplained reason, you are born with the ability to see someone's future. Joan had long since stopped telling people what she saw in her path, because, as a general rule, people aren't fond of bad news and they tend to try and shoot the messenger.
Miss McKenzie wouldn't have been able to describe Knowing, even if she'd had some burning desire to do so. There were of head-splitting visions, no images flashing before her eyes, and absolutely no crystal balls required. It was as though the knowledge of future events had always been embedded in her skull, just waiting for the chance to reveal itself. It was fairly distracting to be whisked off into a memory while you were trying to maintain a conversation with someone.
She rearranged the pile of papers on her desk, pretending to be looking for some very important document. "Really? Acting? You know, that's a very hard career to break into…" She didn't know why she was bothering to try and change his mind; his destiny was already set in stone and signed in blood, and there was nothing she could do to try and change the future's events. She tried, and failed spectacularly, before.
"Yeah, I know…looked some stuff up on the 'net, saw this drama college in Glasgow. 's hard to get in, an' there's an audition an' everything, but I think it sounds ok." Joan fished out a folder and started flicking through. Her fingers settled on a short page with the basic details on drama, but she paused, unsure whether to hand it over to him. The boy's mind was dead-set on his dream of fame and glory, so she wouldn't try to alter his decisions. She doubted if even her knowledge of his disastrous audition would dissuade him.
There is a veil of barely contained tension in the air, and the muffled sounds of speech can be heard through the doorway. It's the day of Benjamin Young's audition for the RSAMD and he's suitably nervous.
On the stage, he's stuttering through his traditional piece – Puck's monologue from A Midsummer Night's Dream. M…my mistress w-ith a m-m-monster is in love – and on his contemporary piece he almost fell from the stage.
He's tall now – taller than his 15-year-old self – and his lanky height and glasses help to mark him as different. He doesn't have the smooth air on confidence that the others have and somewhere deep don he already knows that he's not got a place.
As he forgets the closing lines, his shoulders slump and he consigns to his fate.
She gave her paper with the basic details on it to Benjamin, as quickly as possible. He was her last student of the day, and she was eager to get home as soon as possible. She had guests coming to dinner that night, and wanted to start cooking as soon as humanly possible. She just Knew that the lobster would prove to be a nightmare to cook.
"Well, there's a list of various colleges that do courses in drama." He dismissive tone in Miss McKenzie's voice showed how bored she was with this day – this life. It seemed pointless to dole out advice everyday, and yet Know that it didn't do any use. In short, Joan was feeling useless. "I'll make a note to look out some more information and send it along to your registration teacher."
The clock's hand had edged along an extra few minutes, but Joan felt like she'd been talking to the doomed Mr Young for a least a few hours. Tedious work, really. "If you head along now, you'll get at least twenty-five minutes of class." Jean's smile was false, and made the creases around her eyes intensify. For a second, the Career Advisor was sure that Benjamin was about to say something in reply; the way her eyebrows raised seemed to get rid of any such thoughts. He was on his feet in an instant, mumbling goodbye, and thanks, and grabbing at his school bag.
The red door slowly closed following his hasty departure, and Joan let out an involuntary sigh of relief. Her shoulders were still tense as she scribbled a brief note, but relaxed once she leaned back and let the pen drop to the desk. It rolled off the side and onto the carpet without a sound, but she didn't bother to pick it up.
She stood up, slung her handbag over her shoulder and headed for the door. The paper work on the ill-fated Benjamin Young could wait – she had a stubborn lobster to cook and a roomful of hungry guests to feed.
A/N: Just a little English project that I had to write. I liked it, once I'd finished it, and thought I'd stick Joan up here.