Chapter 1
1
“ A nd here is the door to your room,” my guide—a reedy upperclassmen with an Oxford sweatshirt—says, motioning to a wooden door with a metal handle. We’re standing in an alleyway of sorts, a tall stone wall dividing our quad from the next to our left, and the tall building of student housing to our right. Everything is stone, from the walls to the paving under our feet, and I swear I can smell the history here. Overhead, an early fall sky shines bright and blue—not as overcast as the last time I was here in Spring for my interview.
He shows me how to use the fob on my keyring to gain entry to my room—it will also work at the dining hall and the libraries—and then leaves me to unpacking. It’s a narrow room, about half the size of a hotel room, but it’s mine . Despite Kendall, I’m victorious stepping foot in here . My new start. My first day in Oxford. The first day of the rest of my life. A life where I’ll become one of the good ones. A political force based in family values, altruism, and hard work. Work begun by watching my grandfather serve our small community faithfully as a town councilman—but I’ve dreamed of that work on a bigger scale. Oxford gives me a springboard and a clear track to doing what my grandfather did, but for the whole of the United States. It’s why I chose Oxford. Yes, it’s far away from my provincial upbringing and agriculturally-based family. And not just because Oxford has always captured my fancy, calling like a siren to my soul. From a practical place, Professor Margaret Dusberry, whose track record of producing US and UN ambassadors is unparalleled, teaches here. I’m in her First Year lecture. I’m finally here.
I can only pray that Kendall’s words to me during our spring break meeting here hold true: may I never have to speak to him ever again. He’d gone back to hating and ignoring me the rest of Senior year. If possible his sneer had increased, his silences stonier. Kendall is one enormous pile of furious attitude with no steam vent and I don’t want to be there when he blows.
Meeting his father gave me some insight into why —if my father was that man, who lived apart from my family full time on purpose, and spoke to me like that—I might not be a nice person either. But Kendall has a choice to continue to be like that. And I have a choice to avoid him like the plague.
I rip open the plastic of the simple duvet I’d purchased online and had delivered. Moving overseas means my actual luggage is minimal. Some people might use the word “capsule” but compared to my cozy room at home, the word “sparse”or “depressing” seems more applicable. I open my new pillow, spread the new sheets over the bed, and flop down.
The room is comprised of a built in wardrobe by the door, a built in desk across from my bed, a narrow window with a lovely view of the quad, and my bed. That’s it. At least I don’t have to share it with anyone, unlike poor Jaqueline at Arizona state with her loud Texas roommate Bonnie. They started school three days ago, and I’ve received texts of ever-increasingly-ridiculous antics as she navigates living with a huge personality.
Unpacking my clothes and backpack only takes twenty minutes, and soon I’m scanning my schedule app. Now that I’m sitting still, loneliness crashes in for the first time. I feel very far away from Jaqueline and my parents. It doesn’t help that the schedule for today is empty until an Orientation meeting. No dining service, so hopefully the Orientation comes with food? There is a welcome buffet tomorrow, kicking off Fresher’s Week, and something called Formal Dinner training the next day.
I eye my granola bar on the desk, chucked there along with my purse. It’s the only food I could keep from the plane ride for import reasons.
“Hellooo?” A voice comes from outside, along with a knock. “We thought we’d come say hello! We’re your neighbors!” The voice is cheery and British.
I pull open the door to reveal a girl with a curtain of sleek dark hair and a smiling face. I start to say a hello when I catch sight of the other person with her. A tall black guy with natural hair leans casually against the stone wall of the building. In a long trench coat, under a wrought iron street lamp, he resembles a character from a novel.
Our gazes collide. He blinks and then a small smile forms on his lips.
The girl glances between me and the guy, waiting for me to say something. Anything.
“Hi.” I say, as normally as I can. It’s a bit breathy, which could be cool in different circumstances, but feels awkward for a first-time meeting. I clear my throat, rip my eyes from the guy to focus again on the girl.
“Yeah, that’s Dominic. He takes a little getting used to.” She puts out her hand. “I’m Li Fey.”
“Helena,” I say, taking her hand. Her grip is firm and cool, proving she’s adjusted to Dominic’s presence. “Eades.”
“American!” Li says, shaking my hand. “Did you bring ketchup and mayonnaise with you?”
“What? I—no. Why would I do that?”
“Isn’t that what you eat crisps with?”
She means potato chips. This much I know from my books about England. “Um, no. Definitely not.”
She considers me. “Pity. The last American did. I love that stuff.” I snort, but she continues without waiting. “So, have you had a tour yet?”
“I met the porter and saw the room where we get mail?—”
“No, not that official bullshit, the real tour. The Li and Dominic tour.”
My jet lag takes a back seat. This is why I’m here—for a genuine experience. I’m here to make my mark and unleash the Helena I’ve always aspired to be. “Why no, I have not had the Li and Dominic tour,” I confirm. I allow myself a brief glance at Dominic. Yep, still utterly gorgeous.
Li Fey gives me a smile. “Perfect. We’ll show you the sights.”
“Are you going to the orientation tomorrow?” I ask, as I grab my Oxford-issued jacket—my puffer, as they call it here—in case it gets chilly tonight. When I dressed today, I’d felt trendy in my jeans, ballet flats, and long-sleeved T-shirt, but now I feel dowdy next to the effortless European-ness of Li Fey and Dominic. The puffer will help cover my clothes.
“Nah, we’re both second years. Dominic enjoys living near the First Years.”
Dominic’s face pinkens. “I enjoy living here . It’s historic. I can see the sunset from my window,” he qualifies. “And plenty of second years live here.”
“Dominic is a romantic,” Li Fey says with a re sig ned sigh. “He likes the architecture . And the history .”
“I like not having to ride my bicycle down the High,” Dominic mutters.
Their repartee sets my nerves at ease.
“We’ll get you back in time for orientation, and we’ll get you a decent meal while we’re out,” Jing Fey declares as we amble out of the alleyway and onto a wider street.
“Fellow’s garden,” she says, motioning to the quad near us. “Those trees are a popular snogging spot.”
I cough. “Um, noted.”
They twine me through stone walls, wooden doors, quads, showing me their favorite secret spots on both sides of High Street. At one point, we duck through an archway, and I’m accosted with a heavenly sound. Like, literally. It sounds like angels.
“What is that ?”
“One of the New College choir practices,” Dominic answers. He hasn’t said much on our walk, content to listen to Li Fey’s non-stop—and hilarious—commentary on everything including: the best places to buy weed, the best Thai food, places used in the Harry Potter films, the best place to pick up drunk first years, the best place to pick up drunk graduate students or professors, and the libraries with more lax librarians that allow you to have small snacks.
We stand, listening to the rise and fall of voices. Goosebumps break out across my arms.
“We can go in,” Dominic says quietly.
Despite Li’s impatience, Dominic seems willing, so I nod and we wind our way around to the front door of the chapel. Above our heads, the afternoon is wearing out, setting the spires off dramatically against the sky. Dominic pushes open the heavy wooden door and we enter.
The lights are low, it’s dark inside save for the colored light filtering through soaring walls of stained glass. It’s magical —I have this sense of something taking shape that is bigger than myself. The voices cut off, and someone says something unintelligible to the choir—the echoes in here make it hard to understand speech. I wander closer to the door to the chapel and peek in. Curious rows of chairs line each side of the dais. Each row seems divided by gender and I’m surprised to see children in the first two rows, nearest the director.
Practice resumes, and the angelic sound fills the space, bringing tears to my eyes. The director signals to the second row and a clear baritone voice emerges from among them. More goosebumps blossom along my arms as my eyes find the man responsible for the viscerally lovely Latin lament. A head of messy dark hair over a clear brow, a fine aquiline nose, a square jaw. With his head lifted to the rafters, he’s simply one of the most beautiful humans I’ve ever seen.
What do they put in the water here? How are men smart enough to get into Oxford allowed to also be so…hot? This is going to seriously cause a distraction to my studies if Dominic and this man are a sample of the male populace.
“Our college offers free singing lessons, and we have a chapel choir,” Dominic says in my ear. I love that he’s noticed how entranced I am, and doesn’t make fun.
“I don’t sing,” I respond, turning my back to the choir. “Definitely not this well, I mean. I took one choir class to look good for college applications, but I never did more. There wasn’t time.” We should let them practice without an audience.
“The non-audition choir isn’t quite this good, this choir is for people studying to be professionals,” Li explains. “This is All Souls choir, it tours and gets paid. New College choir just does Evensong a few times a week. If you can match pitch, I bet they’d have you.” She pushes open the front door and we spill out into twilight.
“I need to focus on studies, but I’ll keep it in mind.” With a wince, I recall the 1500 pages of reading I need to finish in the days before my first class. Plus a list of things relating to campus life: meeting my assigned tutor and getting formal robes. Pictures of Harry Potter cloaks fills my head, and I stifle a laugh. The entertaining pomp and circumstance here is what I want—to step out of American laziness and into this culture of ritual.
Renovated gaslight street lamps pop on around us. The magical scene is marred only by the nearly invisible bicyclists bombing down the narrow stone streets.
“Food!” Li declares, dragging Dominic along toward a destination she alone has determined. Dominic reaches back and takes my arm, allowing us to form a line like small kids.
We find a noodle shop and tuck ourselves into a corner. It affords me a lovely view—both of Dominic and the street.
“So you’re not a Rhodie,” Li says around a bite of noodles.
I raise my eyebrow in question.
“Rhodes Scholar,” Dominic qualifies.
“No. I wish. My scholarship is limited to one term and requires me to meet renewal criteria each term. At least with a Rhodes, you get two years up front.”
“What are you studying?” Dominic doesn’t talk until he’s fully done with his bite. He doesn’t subscribe to the “don’t break the noodles” superstition either, which makes me feel better for cutting mine up to avoid slurping.
“Politics.”
I expect them to be interested, because to me it sounds lofty and important. Studying Politics at Oxford .
“PPE,” Li agrees. “Yeah, most Americans study that here.”
“Oh.” I look down.
Dominic studies my face. “That’s cool though. I could never be a politician.”
“Dominic only loves numbers,” Li adds, using her chopsticks to great effect. “He turned down a physics scholarship at Cambridge with his cousin, or something. He’s studying maths, or is it chemistry now?”
“Biochemistry,” Dominic says. “And Li is studying Dickensian Era Literature. Or is it just Professor Michscoff you’re studying?”
Li doesn’t seem phased by the question. “If you’re not a Rhodie, you’re here on academic scholarship, then? Are you the whiz kid back home?”
I slurp broth from my bowl, emboldened by Li’s absolute disregard for British propriety. “Not really. I’ve always wanted to go here...figured I’d have to apply for something like the Rhodes during grad school to come. Instead, I got invited for an undergrad scholarship. It showed up in my scholarship packet, requesting my application. I’m not sure what register they used to find the applicants. I’m a great student but I don’t know that I’m top one percent in the country.”
Dominic and Li exchange uneasy glances.
My eyes dart between them. “What?”
“You said your scholarship is based on academics?” This from Li. I don’t like the frown on her face.
“Yeah, and a bunch of other variables. Moral character. Philanthropic interest. Honestly, it’s all a little vague what exactly the re-determination criteria is.”
“So you’re an ASC scholar?”
I blink, shocked Dominic has heard of my scholarship. “Yes. Why?”
Dominic sets his chopsticks down and sighs. “It’s been nice knowing you.”
I laugh, but they don’t. Li just sighs in agreement.
“Wait, what?”
Li talks over me to Dominic. “Guess we’re going to have to hope a second year takes that room next term.”
I put my hands on the table. “What do you mean, it’s been nice knowing me?”
Li levels me with a straight gaze. “Every person we’ve met here on that scholarship has disappeared.”