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“No!” Her face is furious. “You know you can’t just use Dr. Moncrieff as blackmail on me foreverything, right?”
“Stop shagging a teacher, then, and you’ll be less easy to manipulate.”
Arabella scowls at him.
“Unless youwantSt. Camford to be made aware you’re having illicit relations with staff members? Because I’d be delighted to let them know—”
The guide whips his head around, trying to locate the furious whispers between Arabella and Rory. Their argument briefly subsides with Arabella’s lips pressed into a tight line.
“Of course I don’t,” she finally hisses the moment the guide resumes talking, and we’re led through a high-spec chemistry lab. “But there’s something you should know.” She glances around, making sure no one else is listening. “There’s to be a demo at five.”
“Oh?” Rory asks blandly, as though he didn’t already know this.
“Some stupid Luke fanatics are holding it, but I heard from the woman at the Antiro stand that the counter-protest will bemassive.”
Rory’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this?”
Arabella is quiet for a moment, reflecting. “Because even if I don’t agree with him, I don’t want a Lochkelvin student to get hurt — or for other people to get hurt because of a Lochkelvin student.” She raises her chin slightly and adds in a prissier tone, “Besides, it just makes the whole school look bad and us seem a bunch of ruffians.”
Rory’s gaze is still suspicious. “Why, Belly… was that a tinge of conscience?”
“Do not doubt where my loyalties lie,” she growls. “You’rethe ones on the wrong side of history, not me, so if you truly wish to buy my silenceandmake amends in the process, you could of course give a substantial donation to Antiro. You have more than enough money for that.”
Rory laughs at her. “Fuck off.”
“Worth a try.” With her nose stuck in the air, Arabella pushes toward the front of the tour group, which is discussing the university’s investment in some rare and expensive lab equipment. Finlay, Rory and I linger at the back, growing increasingly disenchanted with the day.
“Wanna skive?” Finlay asks, and I raise a querying eyebrow. “Skive! Y’know… bunk aff?”
My confusion doesn’t fade.
“What he means is, screw this for a game of soldiers. Let’s fuck off somewhere and get pissed.”
I credit my time spent in Scotland for meaning I can at least fathom the majority of Rory’s attempted translation.
The three of us take off into the university grounds. The sun has dipped slightly and there seem to be fewer students milling around the stalls. We spend a significant amount of time trying to track down Jonie to warn her about the counter-protest, but it turns out she reallyisan underground rebel because we find neither hide nor hair of her.
“Do you trust her?” I ask Rory. “Arabella?”
“I don’t know,” Rory says honestly. “She’s annoying but she’s not stupid. She’s self-serving through and through, so no, for her own sake I don’t think she’ll spill.”
We have roughly an hour to kill before the demo. I’m still deep in my thoughts about Arabella’s arrogance as she called uswrong, her entitlement in implying that she’sright, and how few students here seem unwilling to think for themselves. Imagine political beliefs — at a university of all places — somehow being considered inherently wrong and non-negotiable, not even up for discussion never mind debate.
“Here,” says Finlay, pointing at a book store integrated to a building that resembles a miniature castle, which the tour guide had called the student union. “I want tae try somethin’.”
Despite its olde worlde exterior, it’s unquestionably a chain store — glossy instead of cozy, with shiny new modern books boasting uncracked colorful spines, a world away from the muted ancient second-hand tomes I’ve become accustomed to in the Lochkelvin library. There are spotlights on the ceiling and varnished wooden floors. It looks slick and commercial, less of a comfortable reading nook and more the kind of place where students are encouraged to drain their savings buying expensive textbooks no one really needs.
I find myself drifting automatically to the fiction section. Rory idly flicks through a special edition copy ofBrave New World.
Finlay ignores all the books and instead eyes the man behind the till, who’s examining a tall pile of new stock with a handheld scanner. He clears his throat and approaches the desk.
“Hiya,” Finlay says, bright and cheery.
The man gives him a wary look. “Can I help you?”
“Where d’ye keep yer Tilda Raleigh books?”
The man’s expression shutters. “We don’t.”
