Page 20 of All Saints: Pledge

I’m near tears, wishing I could get a hug from my best friend.

“So this scholarship is theonlyway you can stay at Oxford?” She’s chewing her lip. “I don’t want you to admit defeat, but it seems like if you want to avoid Kendall…”

“I amnotletting him chase me off. Jaqueline, our high school voted me Most Likely to Be Boring. This is what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve always dreamed of. I’m finally here, and no stupid asshole is going to keep me from my dreams.”

She chews her lip again. “I’ve always wondered why he hated yousomuch.”

“Join the club.” I shrug. “General asshole nature?”

Shehmmmms. “Or he doth protest too much.”

I give a labored sigh. “I told you about the closet. He hated that his friends tricked him into thinking I was Clara. It embarrassed him and he overcompensated by being an absolute dick for four years.”

But that’s not exactly the story he told me last night. According to him, he’d been pissed off that the kiss had been so good, and that since he had a girlfriend, we couldn’t continue kissing. Which, again, asshole, since he absolutely could have broken up with Clara if he was that tortured over the trick.

“I mean, that’s what we’ve always assumed. That he’s just a dick. But there’s something else going on. What are the odds you’d end up at Oxford together?”

It gets even weirder when you add in the secret society, but I can’t tell her that part. “Yeah,” I agree.

“And then he just… lays one on you out of the blue.” She shakes her head. “Is it possible that he has been in love with you all these years and can’t resist being near you anymore? Like some epic windswept gothic novel?”

We both pause and then snort with laughter. Mine maybe a tinge on the hysterical side. “He hates me. He even told me last night.” To be fair, I’d said it first.

“Hate is hot. Maybe he just wants a hate fu?—”

“Absolutely not. That…personis not getting my virginity.”

She sits forward. “Oooh, is there a candidate for that? Thank God, you need one fantastic British lay before you come home for Christmas. Let me live vicariously through you. All the guys here are the same as those back home. I’m sad.”

I don’t want to talk about Dominic. “Let’s change the subject. How are classes?”

Her dorm room is littered with Virginia Tech colors, and her sweatshirt is the requisite purple and gold. But on top of that, books are scattered everywhere. And empty cans of Monster energy. “Fine.”

“Jaqueline. Don’t you lie to me.”

She blows out a breath. “Hard.Really hard.”

“You…areaware you’re going to medical school?” I squint at her.

“Why did I let you talk me into this again? How about this, you move here, and study international relations from Virginia. At least then at 2am when I finish studying every night, I can harass you in person.”

It stabs deep. I hated leaving Jaqueline. “Well, studying international relations at Oxford looks better on a resume. But.” I take in a deep breath. I have to be careful here. “I love it here but it’sso expensive. If I lose my scholarship…. I’m going to have to come home.”

“Why would you lose your scholarship? Haven’t you been doing a bunch of volunteer work? I barely talk to you, you’re either doing that or studying.”

“Yes.” I wave my hands, because how do I explain the nature of all of this when I don’t get it myself. “It’s just… they judge on vague criteria. It’s hard for me to know if I’m passing them or not.”

“Itsoundsillegal,” she grumbles.

She’s not wrong. It probably is. Hence thesecret societypart.

She rattles on about her classes for a while. I listen, battling pangs of homesickness. Her college experience so far sounds sonormal, if challenging. And okay, she doesn’t have a hot as hell neighbor with a British accent, but she also doesn’t have to attend Sunday night dinners in weird black graduation robes, or learn a seven-minute Latin prayer.

She’s waxing poetic about her organic chemistry tutor as I flip through my mail. The only thing I’ve done today is dash to the Porter’s gate and grab my mail, hoping for a package from my mother. Peanut butter. Popcorn. Laffy Taffy. But it’s just a card from my Aunt Mary and a blank white envelope.

Oh goody. Another bill.

“You know, you could apply and come here instead,” I cajole, as she shows me her syllabus with her required reading. “England should be able to handle the both of us.”

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