Page 100 of Spearcrest Prince

“Je sais, je sais, mais—”

Mr Ambrose opens the door to his office, and my parents turn to face him. He welcomes us inside, and I take a deep breath as I follow my parents in.

If I could, I would rather wait outside. It’s not like my parents are interested in my reasons and excuses. But I don’t want my father to think I’m incapable of facing this head-on.

Maybe it’s time to faceallmy mistakes head-on.

Mr Ambrose shakes their hands, and we all sit. His office is bleak and austere, just like him. Dark leather and sleek surfaces, a wall of pictures of alumni and a bookshelf full of old volumes. I sit between my parents and face him across his broad desk.

He sits back and begins.

“First of all, thank you, Mr and Mrs Montcroix, for taking time out of your busy schedules to be here. I was hoping our next meeting would be at the end-of-year exhibition. It saddens me that we should meet under such solemn circumstances.”

My parents nod. Although both of them show no sign of impatience, both sitting elegantly in their chairs, I can tell that they just want to know what I’ve done.

Mr Ambrose begins with an earnest reiteration of Spearcrest’s reputation, history and ethos. Then he continues by reminding my parents of the school’s zero-tolerance policy towards misconduct and violence.

My father stiffens ever so slightly in his seat. My mother throws me a glance from the corner of her eyes. Neither of them says anything, but I can tell they’ve figured out I’ve been in a fight. I can tell they’re shocked—I don’t blame them.

I’ve not been in a fight since my first year at Spearcrest, almost seven years ago.

To Mr Ambrose’s credit, he tells the full story very calmly, without any accusation or blame-slinging. When he’s done, Mr Ambrose asks me if there is any additional information I wish to add to his statement of events. I shake my head.

To my parents’ credit, they handle themselves with the utmost dignity. They don’t question Mr Ambrose like everything is his fault. They accept responsibility on my behalf and apologise to Mr Ambrose and ask him to extend their apologies to the Pembroke family.

Mr Ambrose tells them the standard punishment is three days of exclusion, which Parker and I will both serve this week. My parents accept this without protest. They don’t complain about the negative impact on my studies or exams. They simply tell Mr Ambrose that I will work extremely hard to keep up while I’m gone.

I offer little contribution aside from formal apologies and agreeing with everything I’m being told. I’ve had a week to prepare for this, and I’m already braced for the grilling I’m going to face once my parents and I are alone on the way home.

But for now, I’m too busy mentally bracing myself for what I’m about to do.

“Mr Ambrose,” I say when silence finally falls. “There’s something else.”

He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem surprised.

My parents do.

“Go ahead, Séverin,” Mr Ambrose says calmly, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers.

“The exhibition.” I brush my hair back and swallow. “It was me, Mr Ambrose. I was the one who snuck into the gallery and wrecked everything. I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Right,” Mr Ambrose says. “Thank you for telling me, Séverin.”

“What’s this?” my mother asks, leaning forward and frowning at me. “What did you do, Sev?”

“I, um… the arts and photography students have started putting their work together for the end-of-year exhibition—the one you’ve been invited to—and I… I wrecked it.”

My mom’s eyes, so much darker than mine, dark and soulful and framed with thick black eyelashes, widen in her surprise. “Oh, Sev!”

My father offers more apologies and asks Mr Ambrose about the sanction. Mr Ambrose sinks into thoughtful silence before finally speaking.

“In this instance, I think Séverin’s actions will not result in additional days of exclusion. Instead, Séverin will serve his sanction in person upon his return. It would be fair for him to serve his sanction by helping the Arts Department and make amends.”

Mr Ambrose thanks my parents for coming to meet him. He stands and shakes hands with them and accompanies us to the door. I shake his hand before walking out, but he doesn’t let me go straight away. He tightens his grip around my hand.

“You’re not a bad person, Séverin,” he says quietly. “You’re better than the behaviour you’ve displayed this term. Whatever is causing your actions, I suggest you find a more mature and elegant way of dealing with it.”

He’s not wrong. “I know, Mr Ambrose. I will, I promise.”

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