Excerpt
Save Me
1
Ruby
My life is divided into colors:
Green-Important!
Turquoise-School
Pink-Maxton Hall Events Committee
Purple-Family
Orange-Diet and Exercise
I've already completed purple (take Ember's photos), green (buy new highlighters), and turquoise (ask Mrs. Wakefield for maths revision notes) for today. Ticking something off on my to-do list is the best feeling in the world by miles. Sometimes, I even write down things I did ages ago, just so that I can cross them straight off again-although I use a subtle gray for that, so that I don't feel like so much of a cheat.
If you opened my bullet journal, you'd see at a glance that my daily life consists mainly of green, turquoise, and pink. But just over a week ago, at the start of the new school year, I added a new color:
Gold-Oxford
The first task I noted down with my new pen was "pick up reference from Mr. Sutton."
I run my finger over the letters with their metallic shimmer.
Just one more year. One last year at Maxton Hall. I almost can't believe that it's finally here. In a little more than a year's time, I might be sitting in a politics seminar right now, being taught by the world's cleverest people.
It won't be long until I know whether my deepest wish will come true, and the mere thought makes everything within me tingle with excitement. Will I get in? Will I be able to study at Oxford?
I'd be the first in my family to go to university, and I know that I'm lucky that my parents gave more than a weary smile the first time I announced, at the age of seven, that I was going to go to Oxford, and later, that I wanted to study Philosophy, Politics, and Economics.
But even now-ten years later-the only thing that's changed is that my goal is now within touching distance. It still feels like a dream that I've even got this far. I keep catching myself in the fear of suddenly waking up and realizing that I'm still at my old school and not at Maxton Hall-one of England's most famous independent schools.
I glance at the clock over the classroom's heavy wooden door. Three minutes to go. We're meant to be working, but I finished the task last night, so all I have to do is to sit here and wait for this lesson to finally come to an end. I jiggle my leg impatiently, earning myself a dig in the ribs.
"Ow," I mutter; I'd jab my friend Lin back, but she's too quick and dodges out of the way. Her reflexes are incredible. Presumably because she's been having fencing lessons since primary school, so she needs to be able to strike like a cobra.
"Stop fidgeting," she whispers back, not taking her eyes off her paper. "You're making me edgy."
That makes me pause. Lin never gets nervous. Or if she does, you'd never tell, and she'd never admit it. But at that moment, I can actually spot a hint of worry in her eyes.
"Sorry. I can't help it." I run my fingers over the letters again. I've spent the last two years doing everything I can to not just keep up with the others, but to be better. To prove to everyone that I have a right to a place at Maxton Hall. And now that it's time to start filling in our university applications, the anxiety is almost killing me. I couldn't help it, even if I wanted to. I'm slightly reassured that Lin seems to feel the same.
"Have the posters arrived, by the way?" Lin asks. She squints over at me, and a strand of her shoulder-length black hair falls into her face. She brushes it back impatiently.
I shake my head. "Not yet. Should be here this afternoon."
"OK. Shall we put them up tomorrow after maths, then?"
I point to the bright pink entry in my bullet journal, and Lin nods in satisfaction. I glance back up at the clock. It's a real effort to stop my legs from jiggling again. Instead, I start to put my pens away, as subtly as possible. All their nibs have to point in the same direction, so it takes me a while.
I don't put the gold pen away though; I slip it solemnly through the thin elastic band around my planner. I twist the lid so it's facing the front. Only now does it feel right.
When the bell finally goes, Lin jumps up out of her chair faster than I'd have thought humanly possible. I raise my eyebrows at her.
"Don't give me that look," she says, slipping her bag over her shoulder. "You started it!"
I don't reply, just put the rest of my stuff away with a grin.
Lin and I are the first to leave the room. We hurry across the west wing of Maxton Hall and take the next left.
I spent my first weeks here getting constantly lost in this huge building and ended up late to class more than once. I was so embarrassed about it, but the teachers kept on reassuring me that most new arrivals at Maxton Hall do the same. The school is like a castle. There are five floors; south, west, and east wings; and three other buildings for subjects like music and IT. There are countless corridors and shortcuts to get lost in, and you can't be certain that every staircase comes out on each floor, which is enough to drive you insane.
However confusing it was at first, I know the buildings like the back of my hand now. I'm pretty sure I could even find my way to Mr. Sutton's office blindfolded.
"I wish I'd got Sutton to write my reference too," Lin grumbles as we walk down the corridor. There are Venetian masks adorning the wall to our right-the work of last year's A-level art students. As always, I'm amazed by all the playful detail in them.
"Why's that?" I ask, making a mental note to ask the caretaker to put the masks away safely before the Back-to-School party at the weekend.
"Because he's liked us since we worked on the summer ball last year, and he knows how dedicated and hardworking we are. Plus, he's young and ambitious, and it's not that long since he was at Oxford himself. God, I could kick myself for not thinking of that."
I stroke Lin's arm. "Mrs. Marr was at Oxford too. Besides, I bet it looks better to get a recommendation from someone with more teaching experience than Mr. Sutton."
She eyes me skeptically. "Are you regretting asking him?"
I just shrug. At the end of last term, Mr. Sutton picked up on how desperate I am to get into Oxford and said he'd be happy for me to pick his brains, ask him anything I wanted to know. He didn't study PPE, but he was still able to give me heaps of insider information, which I devoured greedily and later noted down carefully in my journal.
"No," I reply in the end. "I'm sure he knows what to put in."
Once we reach the end of the corridor, Lin and I are heading in opposite directions. We agree to speak later and say a quick goodbye. I glance at my watch-1:25-and pick up the pace. I'm due to meet Mr. Sutton at half one, and I don't want to be late. I hurry past the tall Renaissance windows, through which the golden September light floods into the hallway, and squeeze past a group of students in the same royal-blue uniform as me.
Nobody takes any notice. That's how things are at Maxton Hall. Everyone wears the same uniform-blue-and-green tartan skirts for the girls, beige trousers for the boys, and tailor-made blazers for everyone-and yet there's no mistaking the fact that I don't really belong here. Everyone else comes to school with expensive designer bags, but my green backpack is so threadbare these days that I'm constantly expecting it to rip. I try not to let myself be intimidated or fazed by the fact that certain people here act like they own the entire school just because their families are rich. To them, I'm invisible, and I do everything I can to keep it that way. Just keep your head down. So far, so good.
Eyes lowered, I push past the others and take one last turn to the right. Mr. Sutton's door is the third on the left. There's a heavy wooden bench between his and the neighboring office, and I glance down at my watch again. Two minutes to spare.
I can't wait another second. Resolutely, I smooth out my skirt, straighten my blazer, and check that my tie is where it should be. Then I knock on the door.
No answer.
With a sigh, I sit down on the bench, looking both ways down the corridor. He might just be getting some lunch. Or tea. Or coffee. Which reminds me that I've drunk too much caffeine already today. I was antsy enough as it was, but Mum had made too much, and I didn't want to waste it. Now my hands tremble slightly as I take another look at my watch.
It's half past one. On the dot.
I look down the hallway again. Nobody in sight.
Maybe I didn't knock loud enough. Or-and the thought makes my pulse race-maybe I've made a mistake. Maybe I'm not meeting him until tomorrow. I tug frantically at the zip on my backpack and pull out my planner. But when I check, everything's correct. Right date, right time.
I close my bag up again and shake my head. I'm not normally this out of it, but the idea of not getting into Oxford only because I messed something up on my application is freaking me out.
I force myself to calm down. I stand up, walk back to the door, and give a firm knock.
This time I hear a sound. Like something being knocked to the floor. Cautiously, I open the door and peek into the room.
My heart skips a beat.
I did hear something.
Mr. Sutton is there.
But . . . he's not alone.
There's a woman sitting on his desk, kissing him passionately. He's standing between her legs with both hands around her thighs. The next moment, he grips her tighter and pulls her to the edge of the desk. She groans softly into his mouth as their lips melt together once again, then buries her hands in his dark hair. I can hardly tell where one of them stops and the other begins.
I wish I could tear my eyes away from the two of them. But I can't. Not when he slips his hands farther under her skirt. Not when I hear his heavy breathing or her quiet sigh of "God, Graham."
By the time I've shaken off my state of shock, I've forgotten how to work my legs. I stumble into the room, knocking so hard into the door that it slams into the wall. Mr. Sutton and the woman leap apart. He whirls around and sees me in the doorway. I open my mouth to apologize, but the only sound that emerges is a dry choke.
"Ruby," Mr. Sutton says breathlessly. His hair is messed up, his top buttons are undone, and his face is flushed. He looks like a stranger, not like my teacher.
I feel a hellish heat flood my cheeks. "I . . . I'm sorry. I came to collect . . ."
Then the young woman turns around, and the rest of the sentence sticks in my throat. My mouth drops open and my whole body runs ice-cold. I stare at the girl. Her turquoise-blue eyes are at least as wide as mine. She jerks her head away and fixes her eyes on her expensive heels, stares at the floor, then looks helplessly up at Mr. Sutton-or Graham, as she just sighed.
I know her. Specifically, I know her red-blond, perfectly waved ponytail that bobs around in front of me in history.
Which Mr. Sutton teaches.
The girl who's been here making out with her teacher is Lydia Beaufort.
I feel dizzy. And like I'm about to be sick.
I stare at the two of them and try desperately to delete the last few minutes from my memory-but it's impossible. I know that, and Mr. Sutton and Lydia know it too, as I can tell from their shocked faces. I take a step back; Mr. Sutton comes toward me, his hand outstretched. I stumble again, just about keeping myself upright.
"Ruby . . ." he begins, but the roaring in my ears is louder than ever.
I turn on my heel and run. Behind me, I can hear Mr. Sutton saying my name, considerably louder this time.
But I just keep running. And running.
2
James
Someone's pounding a jackhammer into my skull.
That's the first thing I notice as I slowly wake up. The second is the warm naked body lying half on and half off mine.
I glance to one side, but all I can make out is a mane of honey-blond hair. I don't remember leaving Wren's party with anyone. To be honest, I don't even remember leaving the party at all. I shut my eyes again and try to summon up images of last night, but all that comes to mind are a few disjointed scraps: Me, drunk on a table. Wren's loud laughter as I fall off and land on the floor at his feet. Alistair's warning gaze as I dance right up close with his big sister, pressing hard into her arse.
Oh, fuck.
Cautiously, I lift my hand and stroke the hair off the girl's face.
Double fuck.
Alistair's going to kill me.
I sit bolt upright. A stabbing pain shoots through my head, and for a moment everything goes black. Beside me, Elaine mumbles something incomprehensible and rolls onto her other side. At the same time, I realize that the jackhammer is actually my phone, buzzing on the bedside table. I ignore it and hunt for my clothes off the floor. I find one shoe close to the bed and the other right next to the door, beneath my black trousers and belt. My shirt is on the brown leather chair. I pull it on, but when I go to do it up, I discover that a couple of the buttons are missing. I groan, seriously hoping that Alistair isn't still around. I don't need him seeing either the wrecked shirt or the red scratches that Elaine's bright pink fingernails left on my chest.
My phone starts to buzz again. I glance at the screen and see my dad's name. Great. It's almost two on a school day, my head feels like it's about to explode, and I've almost certainly had sex with Elaine Ellington. The last thing I need right now is my dad's voice in my ear. I reject the call.
