Page 86 of Save Me

But I know there’s nothing more to say. He is the way he is. I was a little interlude for him, and it was unrealistic to think James could ever be any kind of friend to me, let alone something more.

I can’t let the fact that he’s here get to me. I have a goal, and I’m not losing sight of it. I’ve come too far for that. Maybe I should just see it as another challenge that I have to overcome on my way to Oxford. And so long as James doesn’t get in my way, I can livewith him staying opposite me. I’ll act the same as I do at school: pretend he doesn’t exist.

With that resolve, I open the door and enter my room. It’s minimalist—a small wooden desk, a white built-in wardrobe, and a simple bed. From the window, there’s a view of the quad with a huge beech tree in the center. I step closer to get a better look. The copper leaves have fallen; the lawn is covered with them. There’s a path leading all the way around the edge, with lampposts and benches. I copy Dad—I imagine myself sitting out there in a few months’ time, a pile of books beside me, my head full of the new things I’m learning, in simply perfect grounds.

The whole thing with James hurts like hell, but suddenly it doesn’t feel so bad. I’m going to do this.

26

Ruby

For a moment when I wake up the next morning, I’m confused by the stark white bedcovers lying over me. The mattress feels weird too as I turn over in bed. And it smells very different from my room.

You’re at St. Hilda’s.

I sit bolt upright and look around. Then I give a quiet squeal. I snatch my phone off the bedside table and skim through my notifications. Mum and Dad are reminding me to eat a good breakfast, because they know that nerves sometimes take my appetite away, and Ember has sent me a motivational quote that I’d love to copy straight into my journal. Kieran is wishing me luck and says he’s sure I’ve got this. The last message is from Lin. She’s taken a photo of her room at St. John’s, which doesn’t look very different from mine. I text back that I’m looking forward to seeing her in the pub this evening—that’s one of the dates on the timetable the office emailed me in advance—and wishing her good luck for her own interviews.

After that, I get up and slowly get ready. My hands are shaking with excitement as I do my makeup and slip into my clothes.

I picked out the cognac-colored cord skirt and white blouse embroidered with subtle flowers months ago and hung them up in my wardrobe, waiting for this day. I’ve also got my burgundy bag, and I put on the plaited leather bracelet that Ember gave me too.

It doesn’t go with the rest of the outfit, but you can hardly see it under my long sleeves, and the moment I fasten it, I feel like there’s a part of my sister and my family here with me.

In the breakfast room, you can tell at a glance who the real students are and who’s only here for the interviews. The former group head straight for the serving hatch, laughing and chatting casually, and I feel a burning desire to be like them this time next year. I want to get my coffee without going twice round in a circle because I can’t find the machine, to sit at a table with my friends and talk about the weekend with them. And I want to give the sixth-formers here for interviews an encouraging smile in the hope that it’ll make them feel better.

Yesterday evening, this all felt so unreal. Now, Oxford is becoming a reality. I listen to the two girls next to me as they talk about a seminar, and at first, I don’t even notice that they’ve caught me eavesdropping. I hastily lower my head and stare at my toast; I’ve only taken two bites, but it feels like a lump of lead in my stomach.

According to my schedule, I should go to the common room after breakfast. When I open the door, I’m surprised by how loud it is in there until I see that there are older students here too, lounging around on the battered sofas and talking at top volume, clearly trying to lighten the mood a little.

I find a free chair next to one of the sofas and sit down on it.There’s a boy my age beside me, a book and a pile of flash cards in his lap. He smiles at me, but it strikes me as more of a grimace. He looks as tense as I feel. My fingers tremble as I pull out my own notes and start to look through them one last time.

Suddenly, I feel pins and needles in the back of my neck, spreading over my whole body. I lift my head and look over to the door. The next moment, I wish I hadn’t. James is standing there, hands deep in his pockets, an impenetrable expression on his face.

Please don’t see me, please don’t see me, please don’t see me…

He spots me on the chair. His eyes stray slowly over my face, take in my outfit, and land on the cards in my hand. The corners of his lips twitch almost imperceptibly, but then, as if he’s reminded himself not to smile, his face hardens again, and he looks around the common room for an empty seat.

“Ruby Bell?” says a voice I don’t know. One of the older students has got up from the sofa. He’s huge—must be at least six-foot-three—has wavy brown hair, slicked back slightly with gel, and a beaming white smile. He’s one of the guys who was trying to cheer things up just now, and that makes me like him right away.

“That’s me,” I croak, getting up. My hands are cold and clammy. I wipe them on the hem of my skirt to warm them up—I want to be able to shake hands with him without it being unpleasant. I put the flash cards back in my bag and stand up to walk to the door where he’s waiting for me.

As I pass James, I straighten my chin, determined just to ignore him. But he takes my hand. His warm fingers wrap gently around my wrist. His thumb strokes the sensitive skin there.

“Good luck,” he whispers. Then he lets me go and walks to the chair that I just vacated.

It takes me a few seconds to pull myself together again. My heart is racing, and this time it’s got nothing to do with my excitement.

The boy who called my name smiles at me and beckons me over. “Hi. I’m Jude Sherington. I’ll show you where to go for your interview,” he says, nodding toward a corridor. I walk out of the common room without looking back. A few minutes to determine everything. In a few minutes, I might know whether or not I get to study here.

I touch the spot where James’s thumb stroked my wrist. I should focus, but I can’t forget the feeling of his fingers on my skin, all the way to my interview.

I wish I could pace up and down to get rid of the nerves. But Jude is still there, smiling at me every minute or two. He led me through a maze of corridors and is now leaning silently against the wall while I sit on a chair opposite the professor’s office, waiting for her to open it. Any second now, surely.

I exhale audibly.

“Nervous?” asks Jude.

What a question. “So nervous. How did you feel when you did it?”

---