Page 6 of Cross My Heart
“Are you out of your mind? I’m not drinking that!” Jia protests, wincing as she combs her fingers through her wet, choppy dark hair.
“It’s a miracle hangover cure!” Kris swears, his lanky, slim frame folded into a chair. “Just one shot of pickle juice and a cold shower and boom, you feel like you never drank at all.”
I kick off my sneakers and stretch as they argue. Jia and Kris are British students, here for graduate programs too, and so far they seem to split their time between the library and the many pubs and drinking spots of the city.
“Do you believe this nonsense?” Jia asks me.
“It’s true,” I agree with Kris. “Something about the acids? I don’t know the science.”
“Ha! See? Works like a charm.” He beams.
“Then you drink it,” Jia argues.
“I’m not the one who did whiskey shots all night,” Kris reminds her, as I cross to the refrigerator and grab a bottle of water, gulping half the thing down while Jia lets out a pained groan.
“The guy from my poetry seminar was buying. He was so hot, Tessa,” she adds. “Very ‘consumptive Edwardian ghost boy,’ just the way I like them. You should have been there.”
“So hot, he gavemehis number,” Kris says smugly.
“What? So this hangover is all for nothing…?” Jia sighs, shakes her head, then downs a gulp of the pickle juice. “Ewww! Fuck. I’m never drinking again.”
“Except we have that college mixer tonight,” Kris reminds her.
“Right. I’m never drinking except that,” Jia corrects herself, laughing. “You should come, Tessa. It’ll be fun!”
“Maybe,” I say vaguely, as they drag themselves up, and collect an assortment of jackets, books, and study materials. “I have a ton of reading to do, to get ready for my first class. I mean, tutorial,” I correct myself, using the Oxford term for the small discussion groups I’ll be learning in.
“You know what they say,” Kris says, mock scolding. “All work and no play… There’s more to Oxford than dusty old books, you know. You’re here for the full experience!”
They clatter out, leaving me in the early morning peace of the old apartment; sun falling through the iron-paned windows and warming the scuffed wooden floors.
He’s right, I’m here for more than study. Which means I don’t have time for regular student amusements. I quickly shower and dress in comfortable jeans and a T-shirt, then grab my bag, and head back to Ashford.
The college is waking now, and the front quad bustles with students, and tourists snapping photographs of the famous buildings and neat, manicured lawns.
“… Founded in 1583, by the first Duke of Ashford in tribute to his patroness, Queen Elizabeth the First,” the tour guide announces, “Ashford has produced dozens of leaders in media, industry, and even the government. Three British Prime Ministers attended here, soon to be four, if Lionel Ambrose wins his current bid for leadership…”
I weave past them, through the wrought iron gates and into the squat gatehouse lodge, where the college custodians direct all visitors and mail in their smart maroon uniforms and peaked caps.Porters, they’re called, and I add it to the list of lingo everyone throws around here so casually. I go to check my mail cubby. It’s stuffed with flyers for student events, junk mail, and—yup, my official class schedule.
I look at the list of seminars and lectures, and feel a tremor of nerves.
Once I decided to hunt down the truth about what happened to Wren, I knew that just hopping on a flight to England wouldn’t be enough. Places like Ashford College are closed to outsiders. If I just showed up asking questions, I’d be like one of the tourists at the gate: peering through the bars from the outside, not ever glimpsing what secrets the college is hiding past those crumbling, ivy-covered walls.
No, I had to get inside. Walk the same stone hallways, the way Wren did. See what she saw. Follow whatever trail she might have left behind.
Which meant I needed to become a student here, too.
I’ve never excelled academically. I always cared more about clubs and sports, and volunteering around town. But it turns out, I just needed the right motivation, because once I had my target in view, I stopped at nothing to find a way here. I searched for weeks until I found an obscure scholarship for ‘non-traditional’ (read, B-average, older) students. It’s a year-long study program where I’ll take lectures and tutorials alongside the regular undergrads. I badgered every vaguely impressive person I knew into writing me glowing recommendations, and, yes, bullshitted my way through every interview and application with my fingers crossed behind my back, as I talked about my love for eighteenth-century literature, Gothic fiction, and subversive philosophy—trying my best to make it sound like I hadn’t been studying on Wikipedia all night long.
Somehow, I pulled it off. The lies and exaggerations were worth it when that letter arrived telling me I’d won the spot at Ashford—with a full scholarship for the year. But now that I’m actually here, staring at my printed schedule, it’s sinking in that I’m actually going to have to fake it full-time—and somehow make it through all the classes that I’m signed up to.
“Uh oh,” a jovial voice breaks me from my anxiety, and I look up to find one of the porters distributing mail around the room. “I know that look,” he continues with a wink. “It’s the first year, ‘What on earth have I gotten myself into?’ look.”
I exhale with a rueful smile. “Grad student, but yes. It’s… a lot.”
“Everyone panics, don’t you worry,” the man says, friendly. He’s got a weathered face, and local accent, withBatesprinted on his polished nametag. “I’ve been here twenty years, and you all look like scared little mice the first week, but you’ll find your feet.”
“I hope so,” I say, as he arrives at my cubby.