It looked like a normal red-brick narrow house in the front, which even the least astute traveler would see all over the place in Maryland. Many would claim this style to be part of the local color, something unique to the area, but it always looked dry to Wayland. In the back, there was a parking lot and the building stretched out alongside it – something not normally seen in narrow houses. And the narrow house was not a normal place. It was here that he would be driven every few weeks to make inquiries, fill out paperwork, and sit around for an hour or two being bored with his temporary parents.
When he was ten, Wayland was taken out of school one afternoon and told that his mother had been killed. Apparently, she'd drowned in the Baltimore Harbor. The details were sparse, as was the funeral, and with no living relatives and no named guardian, Wayland was promptly placed into the care of the state.
His temporary parents, Mr. and Mrs. Yoon, were pleasant enough people, but they no longer had the stamina to forge anything beyond a sort of parental friendship with the children they had volunteered to foster while the nonprofit was finding a permanent home. Wayland knew this. He just didn't know when it would end. By that point, he'd been moved several dozen miles south and finished fifth grade in a new school. His life had been taken apart and shoddily remade, and even over the summer, he hadn't made any friends close enough to spend an afternoon with. So, spending an afternoon at the narrow house was almost a breath of fresh air, if the air inside weren't so stale.
"Don't sulk, dear," Mrs. Yoon said, sitting down with a clipboard. The waiting room was off-white, rather plastic-y, and not air conditioned very well, and Wayland briefly considered grabbing the clipboard to fan himself. "It's a process. I'm sure it won't be long now."
"You said that months ago," Wayland muttered.
Mrs. Yoon sighed. "Yes, I did. If it were me, I'd find you a happy family tomorrow. Maybe with a friendly brother or sister, too," she added, patting Wayland's shoulder in a way she must have thought was comforting. She did this often.
"You two aren't a happy family?"
She looked up from the clipboard. "Oh, Wayland, we've talked about this. Mr. Yoon and I aren't looking for a child. We're just here to help you find a couple who are. If we were to adopt every child we helped… well, we'd need a bigger house."
Wayland slumped back in his chair. "So I'm not special?"
"Never think about yourself like that, Wayland," Mrs. Yoon said, suddenly admonishing. "You're a very special young man. But every young man is very special." Like the shoulder pat, this was not something that encouraged Wayland.
"Mr. Ready?"
The two paused and looked over to the doorway near the front desk. A slightly bulbous man in a button-up blue shirt (which was stained in unfortunate places) was looking vaguely around the waiting room, despite the fact that Wayland and Mrs. Yoon were the only two present. No one at the agency had called Wayland before. Especially not by his last name. Especially not with a title. For a moment, Wayland thought it might be an unlikely coincidence and that a stranger who shared his last name would materialize nearby and follow the man into the back. But this, of course, did not happen.
"Wayland Ready?" the man asked again, glancing down at his own clipboard briefly before using it to fan himself.
"Mr. Ready is over here," Mrs. Yoon said, standing cautiously and gesturing at Wayland. Wayland, in the meantime, remained seated. He couldn't decide if he was suspicious or optimistic just yet.
"Would you two like to step into my office? It's just back here."
"Of course," Mrs. Yoon said, stepping aside so Wayland could stand. "Is there something the matter?"
"Oh, no," the man said, grinning brightly beneath his peach-colored moustache. "In fact, I believe you'll be pleasantly surprised."
The small office was stocked with exactly three chairs, all of which were huddled around an IKEA desk that seemed to be affixed somehow to the nearby wall. Papers were stacked in the corners, filed in a thin bookshelf nearby, and tacked egregiously to the walls. With a flourish, the man sat down and produced a slightly more exciting piece of paper from a small manila folder nearby. It was a thick white envelope with blue decorations around the corners, each decoration detailed with gold filigree around the outside. It looked expensive.
"This arrived in the mail today," the man said. "It's addressed to a mister Wayland Ready," he added, putting emphasis on the mister as though it might excite Wayland, "and we were about to send it back before Sheila recognized the name."
Mrs. Yoon took the envelope by the corner. "Why exactly was a letter addressed to Wayland sent here?"
"I have no idea. Read the front."
Wayland peeked over as Mrs. Yoon flipped the envelope to reveal a golden logo in clean, reflective capital letters. "Markus Young Preparatory School," she muttered, though Wayland hardly needed the help. All he'd done recently was read. He was quite proficient. "It seems like spam to me," Mrs. Yoon said, glancing up at the man.
"No, the school is the real deal." The man twisted his old computer monitor around to display a web page, all bright blues and yellows, for Markus Young Preparatory School. "I took a moment to research it. It's down in Georgia, and it seems pretty top-of-the-line. Usually they wouldn't be sending these kinds of letters around for no reason. Now, we at the agency are thinking, considering Wayland's grades, maybe they've got some sort of program for disadvantaged kids…" He lowered his voice to say this, which was not particularly effective. "Anyway, with your approval, we can arrange for this easily, depending on the price. We're behind it a hundred percent."
Mrs. Yoon thought for a moment and deftly popped the envelope open with her light blue pinky nail. Wayland glanced over, momentarily interested, before he recalled why they'd come to the narrow house at all. "Hold on," he said, looking with shock between the man and Mrs. Yoon. "A preparatory school is where kids live at school, isn't it? You're really thinking about sending me to one?"
"Well, hold on, dear," Mrs. Yoon said. "We haven't read the letter yet." She took it out and handed it to him. "Would you like to do the honors?"
He looked it over, pulling his feet onto the seat. After a paragraph of polite words, the letter became interesting: "Due to Mr. Ready's circumstances," he read aloud, "we are offering him a full scholarship through twelfth grade. It –"
Mrs. Yoon plucked the paper from his hands and scanned over it. "It does say that," she breathed. "And this is a reputable school?" she asked, looking up at the man.
"It is," he replied. "A full scholarship?"
"That's what it says!"
"Hold on!" Wayland said again, this time louder. It got their attention. "What about adoption?"
This gave them both pause. Mrs. Yoon scanned over the letter again. "Wayland," she began, turning her chair as much as she could in the little office, "this is an opportunity. A real opportunity, one where you can use your brain and have a good future. What if you go, just for sixth grade, and we'll look for a family for you in the meantime? We'll almost definitely find one by the time you get back."
"Almost definitely," Wayland repeated lowly, his legs still tucked underneath him and his arms now folded. He saw out of the corner of his eye that the man was watching him closely, but he was more focused on Mrs. Yoon. She seemed to be pleading with him. He wondered if he was that much of a burden, that Mrs. Yoon would want to get rid of him so suddenly.
Mrs. Yoon sat back in her seat after a moment. "You don't have to make up your mind this instant," she said. "The deadline is in a few days."
"I'll go," he blurted. He didn't want to leave even his temporary home – not really. He'd never been to Georgia and, in fact, wasn't entirely sure where it was. But maybe Mrs. Yoon would appreciate it if he were gone. And if she didn't… well, that would be her fault, wouldn't it?
Mrs. Yoon smiled, but it wasn't a relieved smile at all. It was more of a somber smile, one that someone might use when seeing their favorite band perform for the last time or when rescuing a very old dog. "This will be great for you, Wayland," she said, taking his right hand in both of her own. "I'm sure you're destined for great things."
As they began to discuss particulars over the IKEA desk, Wayland was no longer so sure.
It only took them around twenty minutes to confirm the enrollment. As soon as Wayland and Mrs. Yoon left the office, the man waved them down the hall, cautiously shut the office door, and peeled his face off. Below, a pair of curious black eyes darted to the window blinds and a mass of tangled black hair fell in bundles to the man's shoulders.
He slipped the face into the second drawer on the desk and drew out a gorgeous little wand – red oak, ten and a quarter inches, snallygaster heartstring (obviously). With this, he drew a lopsided circle in midair and tapped it once. A projection slowly phased into view, revealing a smart pair of glasses over studious and discerning eyes and a wispy, dark beard. "Trevor," the projection said, adjusting his glasses. "Good news, I assume?"
"He's accepted and we've gone through most of the rigamarole," the man said, picking up the letter and waving it in demonstration. "It looks like we'll have an interesting pupil this coming year." He paused, placing the letter into his front pocket and thinking over what he might want to say. "And, sir…"
The projection sighed, which came out as a sort of staticky buzz. "We've been over this before, Trevor. I've shown you the history and the reports. It's just not true."
"Sir, he has my eyes," Trevor said. "I recognize them like I'd recognize my own in a mirror."
For a moment, the projection didn't reply at all. "We will discuss this at a more opportune time, Mr. Ibaia. Now, pack your things and return to campus. There's work to be done, and only a few weeks to do it."
The man inhaled and swiped his wand through the projection, sending a whorl of energy through the air. In moments, the face, the wand, and every other trace of him were gone in a flash of violet light.