The Lion Tamer

Chapter I

in which Remus receives an unpleasant surprise

Lost in the continuous trickle of people down the corridor, I squeeze against my locker to let them pass. I haven't finished my morning pep talk yet. Yes, I need a pep talk to go to school. If it's any excuse, I'm new here.

I know, I know, it always starts like that. New guy in a new school, falls for the most popular girl, who's miraculously into him, even though he has nothing to offer, and they live happily ever after. Well, let me tell you, this is not a love story. I came to Saint Ivo Sixth Form to work my ass off and conquer the West End, and I'm gonna do just that. As soon as I finish my morning pep talk.

I stare into my phone camera—subtly, so people don't stare—and murmur to my reflection, 'Remus, you're a sexy beast. In three years, you'll be a star, just wait for it; a first day like this is nothing. They're gonna love you. Just go and get them!'

Usually, it works, but on a day like this, it rings hollow. Still, I take a deep breath, put away my phone, and stare down the buzzing crowd of the corridor. Let's get 'em.

I'm expected in the principal's office for a quick debrief before I throw myself into the jungle of Saint Ivo, but I have something much more fun in mind. Nobody will get hurt if I just get a quick peek at the auditorium. There's been an assembly there not long ago, but thanks to my dearest mother I was late and missed it.

It's my fault, really. I should've hidden that stupid archaeology magazine with dad's new paper on the cover because I know seeing dad's stuff always makes her feel like crap, enough to get into a screaming match with him on the phone at seven in the morning about weekend visitations and alimonies. I guess it's called displacement when you scream about something completely different than what you actually want to scream about.

The door is open just a crack, enough so I can slip through without making a sound. I breathe in the smell of the auditorium, the blood, the sweat, the tears. Oh, and rubber. Mainly rubber and sweat. Ah, the smell of theatre.

I'm a born thespian. Can't say I'm raised too because I come from a devastatingly rational background—both of my parents are archaeologists. Both my grandfathers were that, too. Even my brother is studying to be an archaeologist. My whole family has been hopelessly swallowed by history.

Okay, I have an uncle who's a solicitor, but we don't really talk about him. I think he's in prison.

And then there's me, the queer theatre-kid. The odd-one-out. Not that I mind—it's always fun to be special, I guess. At least I'm trying to think that way. And right here in the auditorium, it feels like coming home.

I'm not alone. There'll be a new play on in December, and the technicians and the set designers are already hard at work on the stage, cutting and painting a scenery of trees under the glaring white lights of the stage.

'A little to the left—Slightly more—Slightly more!' There's a small, round man instructing the crew, his voice hitching in alarm. He was there on my interview, too, when I applied to Saint Ivo; his name is Mr. Brown, and he's the Drama teacher. Just the man I was looking for.

I start towards him, but there's a rustle and a voice behind me. 'Remy!'

I walk faster. Nobody has called me Remy since primary school; maybe I misheard, or there's somebody else here called 'Remy', 'cause I sure as hell won't turn back.

'Remy, hey!'

No. No, no, no, no, no—I pass Mr. Brown, I can't stop now. Why is my stupid tie so tight?! I don't remember tying it so tight in the morning.

'Remus!'

There's no door on the other side of the auditorium; the only way to get out is to go through the main door again, but I can't turn back. He's behind me. I can't breathe.