Page 4 of All Saints: Pledge

We stand, listening to the rise and fall of voices. Goosebumps break out across my arms.

“We can go in,” Dominic says quietly.

Despite Li’s impatience, Dominic seems willing, so I nod and we wind our way around to the front door of the chapel. Above our heads, the afternoon is wearing out, setting the spires off dramatically against the sky. Dominic pushes open the heavy wooden door and we enter.

The lights are low, it’s dark inside save for the colored light filtering through soaring walls of stained glass. It’smagical—I have this sense of something taking shape that is bigger than myself. The voices cut off, and someone says somethingunintelligible to the choir—the echoes in here make it hard to understand speech. I wander closer to the door to the chapel and peek in. Curious rows of chairs line each side of the dais. Each row seems divided by gender and I’m surprised to see children in the first two rows, nearest the director.

Practice resumes, and the angelic sound fills the space, bringing tears to my eyes. The director signals to the second row and a clear baritone voice emerges from among them. More goosebumps blossom along my arms as my eyes find the man responsible for the viscerally lovely Latin lament. A head of messy dark hair over a clear brow, a fine aquiline nose, a square jaw. With his head lifted to the rafters, he’s simply one of the most beautiful humans I’ve ever seen.

Whatdothey put in the water here? How are men smart enough to get into Oxford allowed to also be so…hot? This is going to seriously cause a distraction to my studies if Dominic and this man are a sample of the male populace.

“Our college offers free singing lessons, and we have a chapel choir,” Dominic says in my ear. I love that he’s noticed how entranced I am, and doesn’t make fun.

“I don’t sing,” I respond, turning my back to the choir. “Definitely not this well, I mean. I took one choir class to look good for college applications, but I never did more. There wasn’t time.” We should let them practice without an audience.

“The non-audition choir isn’t quite this good, this choir is for people studying to be professionals,” Li explains. “This is All Souls choir, it tours and gets paid. New College choir just does Evensong a few times a week. If you can match pitch, I bet they’d have you.” She pushes open the front door and we spill out into twilight.

“I need to focus on studies, but I’ll keep it in mind.” With a wince, I recall the 1500 pages of reading I need to finish in the days before my first class. Plus a list of things relatingto campus life: meeting my assigned tutor and getting formal robes. Pictures of Harry Potter cloaks fills my head, and I stifle a laugh. The entertaining pomp and circumstance here is what I want—to step out of American laziness and into this culture of ritual.

Renovated gaslight street lamps pop on around us. The magical scene is marred only by the nearly invisible bicyclists bombing down the narrow stone streets.

“Food!” Li declares, dragging Dominic along toward a destination she alone has determined. Dominic reaches back and takes my arm, allowing us to form a line like small kids.

We find a noodle shop and tuck ourselves into a corner. It affords me a lovely view—both of Dominic and the street.

“So you’re not a Rhodie,” Li says around a bite of noodles.

I raise my eyebrow in question.

“Rhodes Scholar,” Dominic qualifies.

“No. I wish. My scholarship is limited to one term and requires me to meet renewal criteria each term. At least with a Rhodes, you get two years up front.”

“What are you studying?” Dominic doesn’t talk until he’s fully done with his bite. He doesn’t subscribe to the “don’t break the noodles” superstition either, which makes me feel better for cutting mine up to avoid slurping.

“Politics.”

I expect them to be interested, because to me it sounds lofty and important. StudyingPoliticsatOxford.

“PPE,” Li agrees. “Yeah, most Americans study that here.”

“Oh.” I look down.

Dominic studies my face. “That’s cool though. I could never be a politician.”

“Dominic only loves numbers,” Li adds, using her chopsticks to great effect. “He turned down a physics scholarship atCambridge with his cousin, or something. He’s studying maths, or is it chemistry now?”

“Biochemistry,” Dominic says. “And Li is studying Dickensian Era Literature. Or is it just Professor Michscoff you’re studying?”

Li doesn’t seem phased by the question. “If you’re not a Rhodie, you’re here on academic scholarship, then? Are you the whiz kid back home?”

I slurp broth from my bowl, emboldened by Li’s absolute disregard for British propriety. “Not really. I’ve always wanted to go here...figured I’d have to apply for something like the Rhodes during grad school to come. Instead, I got invited for an undergrad scholarship. It showed up in my scholarship packet, requesting my application. I’m not sure what register they used to find the applicants. I’m a great student but I don’t know that I’m top one percent in the country.”

Dominic and Li exchange uneasy glances.

My eyes dart between them. “What?”

“You said your scholarship is based on academics?” This from Li. I don’t like the frown on her face.

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