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12
“This can’t go on,” Freya simpers at dinner, holding a baby carrot up to her lips. “Poor Jessa’s been getting the brunt of it.”
“I agree.Threedetentions, Jessa? Intwo days.” Becca looks horrified. “I don’t know how you manage. It’d be almost impressive if it weren’t so…”
“Stupid,” Li snaps. “They’re going to complain you’re disrupting class.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. I think it’s the first time I’ve properly looked at Li since the library incident, and I can’t help but notice the infuriated expression on her face whenever she talks to me. They all have it to some degree, like I’m the most embarrassing wunderkind of fuck-ups, but Li definitely lets it shine on her face with more pride than the others.
“Disrupting class?”
“They’re already saying you’re a bad influence,” Li continues brazenly. “Word on the street says you interrupted politics halfway through, were late for French, and totally fell asleep during physics.”
I want to laugh. First, none of it is true. Second, Li possesses a worryingly accurate knowledge of my schedule. Third, I’d be amazed if Li had ever beenonthe street.
But the truth doesn’t matter at Lochkelvin, does it? They just make up any old crap to justify punishing me.
“Anyway,” Becca continues with an eager glance at Arabella. “We’ll show those stupid boys not to mess with usorJessa.” She smiles at me, though it’s not as friendly as it was even one day ago. It doesn’t quite meet her eyes anymore. “We’ll do it in your name, babe.”
I heave a huge sigh, twirling a fork around my quickly emptied plate. “I wish I could help.”
“Why? We enact your revenge while you get to spend some quality time alone with Dr. Moncrieff.” Arabella’s sigh is dreamier than I’d expected from her. “We do all the hard work while you’re practically a saint in all this.”
A saint. My stomach jolts. I have to shake my head to get rid of Rory’s soft murmur as he whispered that very word into my ear.
“I can’t come either.” Li brushes herself down, raising her chin slightly. “I have to practice clarinet.”
Becca cocks her head to the side, looking puzzled. “You can do that in your room, surely?”
“The acoustics are all wrong,” she explains in a clipped voice, refusing to meet Becca’s eyes.
But I get it. I understand her guardedness. She wants to see Rory tonight, and they’re probably going to have sex again. Whoop-de-doo.
Well, turns out they won’t be able to have sex in the library tonight. Dr. Moncrieff and I will be getting hot and sweaty by moving hundreds of heavy, dusty tomes from one shelf to the next…
Because that’s what it ends up being. When I arrive at the library, Dr. Moncrieff’s head is angled as he studies the spines of the huge reference tomes along the bottom row. The old-fashioned desk lamps have been switched on, casting the long wooden table in a soft dark yellow glow. In a room so heavy with mahogany, it’s as though I’ve stepped back into another era — an era of little electricity and dark, shadowy corners that sprawl like gateways to nowhere. There’s a noise that I only realize after looking for its source is a small portable radio with a silver antenna thrust all the way into the air. There’s a rowdy show being broadcast, featuring angrily thrown questions followed by loud staticky bursts of applause.
“Does the Minister for Health not agree that standards could be better maintained evenwiththe sanctions on London?”
“The Minister for Health is a clapped-out arseweasel,” Dr. Moncrieff mutters, and I have to hold back my surprised giggle.
I must make some kind of noise, however, because Dr. Moncrieff’s head whips around. His eyes are wide but then he relaxes when he sees me.
“Jessa,” he whispers, a breathless sigh, standing up to his full height with a few books in his arms. He dumps them on the wooden table, the sound reverberating around the room. The table is covered in open newspapers — huge newspapers, broadsheets with tiny text. “Thank God it’s just you.”
“No one else should know that the Minister for Health is a… what did you call him?”
Dr. Moncrieff rubs the back of his head with a nervous hand. “Forget I said anything,” he mutters hastily. “Some people here wouldn’t take too kindly to my views.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. I don’t think much of politicians, anyway. I’m always surprised when people do.”
Dr. Moncrieff seems taken aback by my words. “And yet you’re attending a school with the offspring of the political elite. Curious.”
It’s not curious to me. I’m here because of activism, for causes I believe in. Well, believed in. For multiple reasons, activism has taken a back seat recently.
I glance at the radio, where people are still shouting questions and wildly applauding certain buzzwords. Dr. Moncrieff reddens. “Forgive me. Radio Four is my one true indulgence.” He begins to hastily fold up the many newspapers covering the table. “There’s no mobile signal for miles so the radio and newspapers are a lifeline here. Unfortunately with newspapers, it means we get yesterday’s news a day late. I have to rely on the radio to stay up-to-date.” There’s the hint of an addict there, of someone who would happily spend hours analyzing all-day news broadcasts. It must be maddening to feel so behind in the world, especially when you’re a doctor of politics who lectures on this wild circus for a living.
“You want me to shelve books?” I remind him, staring at the dark rows beyond us. At least this is nicer than wiping wet porridge off a statue or picking up leaves from the ground.
