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It’s difficult to stick up for Rory when it comes to this single issue, because as much as Rory had been able to convince me that the things he’d been saying on the island were true, voicing it aloud away from that magical context makes anyone sound deranged. “Maybe you should listen to him,” I advise carefully.
Finlay stares at me in alarm. “Dinnae tell me you believe it, sassenach.”
“I believe in Rory,” I answer truthfully, and Finlay casts me a skeptical glance. But Rory and Finlay, as electric as they are when together — well, they’re only electric because they’re so different in the first place. Finlay is grounded. He’s earthy and practical, ruled by his homeland, unafraid of working and playing dirty. But when it comes to Rory, with his sky-gray eyes and blithe belief in matters beyond this world, I’m starting to think he’s more of a dreamer than I ever knew.
“I believe in him, tae. Disnae mean I believe statues have magical properties, or whitever it is he’s goin’ wi’ this month.”
We sit in silence for the remainder of our journey, and I get the impression Finlay thinks he’s offended me. But when it comes to facts and logic, I know there’s no overriding him. He’d never waste an apology on something he doesn’t believe in. He’d spend his dying breath defending the common truth and nothing more.
Rain continues to spatter.
44
Eventually, we draw up in front of a towering sandstone building, the coach engine cutting to silence. The rain still teems ceaselessly upon us, and as we step off the bus I search like an unquittable habit for Rory, and note his gleaming hair darkening like the sky above. He treats me to a broad, devil-may-care grin that, in the gray, lights up his handsome face and illuminates the rest of our dreary surroundings.
We aren’t the only coach party here, I notice. Just like at St. Camford, groups of students from other schools mingle around the entrance to the sandstone building. Some of the smarter ones have brought and raised their umbrellas. Most of the girls wear the kind of ludicrously short skirts that Baxter would pitch a fit over, huddled together and shivering like deer in the rain.
“Hey,” Rory murmurs, watching me carefully. “You okay?”
It isn’t the first time I’ve been asked this today in the same delicate tone. The whole damn world seems interested in my well-being — which is nice, I guess, because for some reason people care about me. It must be all over my face still, my useless meeting with Dr. Moncrieff. I never know what to say, because anything in the affirmative would be a lie, so instead I just shrug.
“January’s a bitch, huh?” Rory asks, throwing me. He balls his hands deep into his pockets and squares his shoulders against the wild chill of the wind. “I understand. It’s my least favorite month, too.”
“Don’t say the B-word,” I mumble.
“January’s a bastard,” Rory amends, which makes me laugh. Rory gives me a soft smile, but his gray eyes are eternally sharp and I have to look away.
I gaze across at all the unfamiliar students from across Scotland. Different blazers with different crests and braiding in different colors. Like us, but not like us. They chat in their groups and giggle, behaving with much less poise than us. It’s weird. We stand calmly, quietly. They shriek and draw attention to themselves. It’s only when you place a bunch of Lochkelvin students beside their alternately educated peers that the military drill that is Lochkelvin standards presents itself starkly, and I’m not sure I like that I’ve been inadvertently trained to be so different, so detached, and made more mature, than others.
“Is this actually another careers fair?” I mutter, wishing I could step off this treadmill and go live in the woods. “Why are they so obsessed with throwing us into work the second we graduate?”
“It was my father’s policy, wasn’t it? End NEETs for good.”
I furrow my brow. I don’t know what NEETs means, but if it’s anything to do with Oscar Munro then whatever policy he cooked up is probably bad. The rain glimmers in Rory’s hair like sun-kissed dew, and I watch the slow descent of raindrops tracking across his jaw. He looks delectable, like a frozen crystal prince.
I’m quickly snapped from my reverie — from underneath her large black umbrella, Baxter claps at us and tells us to gather around. We do so, dripping, unsheltered, from the rain, and Baxter seems not in the least bit compassionate as she brings the metal of her umbrella closer to her face. Beside me, Rory brushes his cold hand against mine.
“May I take this opportunity to remind all of you that this weekend, and this careers fair in particular, is an immense privilege. Only the top ten schools in the national league table have been invited.” I shift my attention over to the other schools, some of whom are falling about, screaming with laughter. If we’re the best Scotland has to offer… But even when we’re subdued and silent, we’re still never good enough for Baxter.
“You will have the chance to ask questions to respected industry professionals for a whole range of careers. This is the perfect time to firm up your plans for life beyond Lochkelvin — and, for the majority of you, St. Camford. You’re of the age when these are the crucial decisions to be made — at the age you are now, what you choose will change your life, irrevocably, forever.” Across our gathered group, I catch Danny’s eye and we exchange looks of horror. He looks stressed out of his mind. When we watchedGreasetogether, that happy time we were drunk out of our heads at St. Camford, I remember him saying how conflicted he was about what he wanted to do with his life. All the many different options he had, which is the opposite of me.
“So when we go inside,” Baxter concludes loudly, “I expect youallto be on your utmost best behavior. When you are in public, you represent Lochkelvin —always.”
After Baxter’s done scaring the shit out of us, we follow the other schools through the large doors and into a bright gleaming entrance hall with checkered linoleum. We stand for a few merciful moments, free from the wind, and drip into puddles in the foyer. An assistant warmly greets us and encourages us to shrug our wet blazers onto the coat racks.
Ahead of us is a vast, airy room crammed with tables and booths and large banner-sized posters. One contains an arrow with the words “PSYCHOMETRIC TESTING AREA,” while another points to “INTERVIEW PRACTICE.” As the students from other schools pour into the central hall, the excited chatter seems to reach a crescendo.
I’ve never felt more lost. As much as Baxter impressed how privileged we are to experience this circus, where we’re encouraged to sell our principles to the highest bidder, I have no real inclination to hang about or find out which career suits me.
Even Arabella looks miserable as she reluctantly pulls a resume from her bag. I wait until almost everyone’s progressed into the main room, Arabella moving so slowly as to almost be stationary, before tapping her on the shoulder.
“What happened?” I mutter under my breath, and Arabella blinks at me in surprise, as if I’ve woken her from a long, deep dream. “The night of the lockdowns?”
Her footsteps falter on the slick lino. “How should I know?” she says unconvincingly.
“You’re the one going out with the brother of the king. That’s the source of some pretty bad-boy intel right there—”
Arabella’s face screws up like a crumpled ball and she hisses, “I amnotgoing out with Dr. Moncrieff.”
