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27
At St. Camford, the cognitive dissonance never seems to end.
We’re shuffled into a vast lecture hall, where a panel of professors and admissions people celebrates the highlights of the university. As expected, the highlights are incredibly high — the household names of notable alumni, the world-beating facilities, the international experts in charge of molding bright young minds… I end up zoning out as they toot their prodigious horn, which is funny because only a year ago I’d have been inspired just sitting here.
A lot can change in a year. It only takes a moment — or a lot of troubling little moments — for minds to widen and beliefs to do a complete one-eighty.
The room is ancient. It’s in the energy of the space, in the towering vibrant Renaissance painting dominating the stage, an angel bedecked with clouds and carrying a scroll of knowledge. The lecture theater expands upward on several levels, like ladders of mahogany, polished and shining.
Luke has been sent off to a side room at the roped-off upper level with Finlay and Mr. MacKechnie. I can make him out if I squint, and although he seems quiet and poised, taking in the speakers’ words, he still looks achingly lonely as he’s cast adrift from the majority of his peers.
A lot can change in a year, true enough. This is not, I imagine, how the Luke from last year would have ever imagined he’d spend his St. Camford open day.
“You are all here,” one of the professors is saying, “because you are all incredibly gifted students. Unfortunately, that is not enough. St. Camford maintains its status as the best of the best because we only acceptthemostsuperior students. We winUniversity Challengeso frequently because we only accept the best. You may well be academically gifted in your school — you may be the best in your class or even in your year group — but that is by no means a guarantee that you will meet the astronomical standards that have been set here since our formation. It does not mean you are anything other than a big fish in a small pond. Our admissions policy dates back centuries to ensure that we only accept the biggest fish into our reputationallygiantpond.”
I feel like this fish metaphor has been extended too far for an internationally renowned university, and the temptation to roll my eyes is paramount. But it also strikes me as a very Lochkelvin-like speech, something I’d expect Baxter to blab on our first day back to remind us all to shift our asses into gear.
“Does Lochkelvin mold itself on St. Camford,” I murmur out of the corner of my mouth, “or is it the other way round?”
“My father attended both,” Rory replies, “so make of that what you will.”
Everything is so wonderful and perfect and up itself at St. Camford that even Danny, with his significant collection of freebies lying at his feet, ends up nodding off on my shoulder.
He’s startled awake during the Q&A section, when a man grabs the microphone and speaks into it louder than the panelists ever did.
“What’s telling to me is that you haven’t yet addressed the elephant in the room,” he says in this preachy, adamant tone that forecasts what’s about to follow. “Are you trying to make us forget before we hand money over to the university?”
The panelists glance at each other in confusion, murmuring together in soft tones, before one of them bravely steps up to the microphone. “Apologies, we’re not quite sure what you mean — please elucidate.”
And filled with his own self-importance, the man plows on: “Don’t play coy. You know well enough that St. Camford is highly problematic because of its historical ties tothatex-family. Where do you stand today on the issue and what steps have you taken to rectify past indiscretions?” After a moment’s silence, during which the willing speaker on stage reluctantly opens then closes his mouth, the questioner adds indignantly, “Why should we give our money for tuition when it gets spent on outdated political causes that students don’t believe in? I even read that you still have aroyalamphitheater?” He drawls the wordroyallike it’s a peculiar expression from another language. “Everyone sitting here today should be ashamed of the university board’s lack of action.”
I glance up at the level above, where Luke towers over all of us. He stands stoic and staid, watching the proceedings from the shadows, his history teacher poised beside him.
I wonder if the speakers are aware Luke himself is in the auditorium. I imagine not, because they press on, with a tinge of nerves: “Obviously, we believe the royals were never royal—”
Danny blows out an exasperated breath. “The royals were never royal?” he murmurs. “What does that even mean?”
“—and that King James’ claim to the throne is valid.”
“Fucking hell.”
There’s this strange, flustered nervousness about the speaker, as though every syllable he manages to eke out is coupled with the idea that the next one could result in his humiliating demise. Sweat starts beading on his diminishing hairline, illuminated under the yellow spotlight. His whole speech is the very definition of the phrasewalking on eggshells.
“At St. Camford, we believe in diversity of thought and public expression. However, some beliefs are basic tenets of political civility. They lie beyond the parameters of debate and should therefore be discouraged from all public, and indeed private, discourse. The safety and dignity of our student political groups are paramount, and we support the mission of Antiro wholeheartedly. Students of all political affiliations, but especially the aforementioned, have the right to come into class and not be attacked with offensive material.”
“What if I’m offended by Antiro?” Danny mutters, and I note that this does seem like a paradox. “How do you even determine offensiveness? Someone just says they’re offended and that’s it, is it?”
“This is why we are strict about cracking down on offensive material within campus. We will not stand for intolerance or hatred. We believe in freedom forallstudents, and we are willing to escalate any reports to the highest authority to demonstrate our commitment to political progress.”
“They’ve lost the fucking plot.” Rory crosses his arms tightly against his chest, his silver eyes dagger-sharp. “If you’re offended, be offended. I don’t give a shit. But threaten people with your pet law enforcement agency, who leap at your beck and call, purely because your feelings got hurt…?”
“It’s interesting, though,” I say slowly, “because if they’re cracking down on offensive material on campus, then that means thereisso-called offensive material circulating. So not everyone’s a lost cause. This is just some weak-willed official position from leaders of an organization terrified of the mob.”
“Some leader you are if you don’t have a fucking spine.”
The talk continues for a while along a similar vein, as though the more the speaker can say to placate this one random dude in the audience who just wants to stir trouble, the greater chance he’ll have to alleviate concerns. But while, over time, the random guy’s anger is slowly cooled — but never quite vanishes — the speaker seems to forget everyone else in the room, all of whose irritation levels are, I imagine, quickly spiking.
A girl stands up.
