go?”
Azwer shrugged. “To London.”
Luc said, “I see,” in tones that patently signalled that he didn’t.
He took Miranda by the shoulders and turned her in the direction of the door.
She didn’t look like a promising interview candidate at all, she knew. All the colour in her face was in her lips, and her dress was still far too big. The back of it gaped around her shoulder blades as if the dress had been designed for someone who had wings. She would have to talk fast and come to surprising conclusions and smile a lot so no one would notice.
•
Miranda’s first interview was an hour and a half after Eliot’s, so she wandered in and out of the entrances to the college’s stone stairwells. She wondered how Eliot’s interview had gone and where he was, but she couldn’t find her phone; she must have left it somewhere. Cambridge was subdued; it wasn’t just the frost and the puffy felt sky, it was the abundance of massive, old stone. And then the bells, which pealed their deep songs at mysterious intervals. Miranda felt as if she was being pressed to the ground beneath a great grey finger. She had a pocketful of onyx chips
(properties of onyx: it helps you hold your emotions steady; side effects of onyx: it is the sooty hand that strangles all your feeling out of you) and she used her teeth to carve tiny, acrid flakes of onyx onto her tongue. She knew how to do it so that it looked as if she was simply biting her nails.
She collided with another girl on her way back into the waiting area outside the interview room. They both held their heads and moaned.
“Oh Lord! You must have the hardest head in all creation,” the girl said.
Miranda waited until she could look at the girl without it hurting, then lifted her gaze. The girl was black, all long legs and platform trainers, clad in grey school uniform. Her head was covered with tiny plaits that had coloured elastic bands tied around the ends, and her eyes were dark and large like drops of rich ink.
There was an awkward silence. Then Miranda held the door open and said, “Let’s try again, you first,” before she remembered that she had been the one going in. The other girl had been leaving.
“Look . . . what’s the time?” the girl said.
Miranda said, “I don’t know,” and looked around for a clock.
The girl looked at the watch on Miranda’s wrist.
“It doesn’t work,” Miranda said, rather than explain about Haitian time. “How have your interviews gone?”
“They haven’t. I mean I haven’t been called yet. I’m not doing it after all. Fuck it. I only wanted to know the time because there’s a train I might be able to catch if I leave right now,” the girl blurted.
“You’re . . . not going to your interviews?”
“No! I can’t be bothered.”
The girl’s hands were shaking. Miranda tried not to stare.
“Er . . . listen, it will be very demoralizing for me if you leave.”
The girl looked Miranda up and down and quietly advised her that she probably had nothing to worry about.
Miranda frowned. “What are you saying? Do I just walk in and say a secret password?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Do you?”
Miranda pushed the question aside with her hand. “It would be ashame not to bother. After you applied and everything. And . . . where do you live?”
“Faversham.”
“Right. So you came all the way up from Faversham—”
“Indeed!” the girl said. “Look . . . what’s your name?”
“Miranda.”
“I’m Ore. Look, Miranda. I’ve already been through all that ‘you’ve already applied and here you are’ stuff in my head. But hear ye, hear ye: only one person from my school’s got in here in the last five years, that’s a very discouraging pie chart to draw, plus I’ve been thinking about my personal statement and there are at least seventeen lies in there and I can’t keep track of them all. Plus I just realised I’m
stupid
, an actual dunce. I got a C for
Azwer shrugged. “To London.”
Luc said, “I see,” in tones that patently signalled that he didn’t.
He took Miranda by the shoulders and turned her in the direction of the door.
She didn’t look like a promising interview candidate at all, she knew. All the colour in her face was in her lips, and her dress was still far too big. The back of it gaped around her shoulder blades as if the dress had been designed for someone who had wings. She would have to talk fast and come to surprising conclusions and smile a lot so no one would notice.
•
Miranda’s first interview was an hour and a half after Eliot’s, so she wandered in and out of the entrances to the college’s stone stairwells. She wondered how Eliot’s interview had gone and where he was, but she couldn’t find her phone; she must have left it somewhere. Cambridge was subdued; it wasn’t just the frost and the puffy felt sky, it was the abundance of massive, old stone. And then the bells, which pealed their deep songs at mysterious intervals. Miranda felt as if she was being pressed to the ground beneath a great grey finger. She had a pocketful of onyx chips
(properties of onyx: it helps you hold your emotions steady; side effects of onyx: it is the sooty hand that strangles all your feeling out of you) and she used her teeth to carve tiny, acrid flakes of onyx onto her tongue. She knew how to do it so that it looked as if she was simply biting her nails.
She collided with another girl on her way back into the waiting area outside the interview room. They both held their heads and moaned.
“Oh Lord! You must have the hardest head in all creation,” the girl said.
Miranda waited until she could look at the girl without it hurting, then lifted her gaze. The girl was black, all long legs and platform trainers, clad in grey school uniform. Her head was covered with tiny plaits that had coloured elastic bands tied around the ends, and her eyes were dark and large like drops of rich ink.
There was an awkward silence. Then Miranda held the door open and said, “Let’s try again, you first,” before she remembered that she had been the one going in. The other girl had been leaving.
“Look . . . what’s the time?” the girl said.
Miranda said, “I don’t know,” and looked around for a clock.
The girl looked at the watch on Miranda’s wrist.
“It doesn’t work,” Miranda said, rather than explain about Haitian time. “How have your interviews gone?”
“They haven’t. I mean I haven’t been called yet. I’m not doing it after all. Fuck it. I only wanted to know the time because there’s a train I might be able to catch if I leave right now,” the girl blurted.
“You’re . . . not going to your interviews?”
“No! I can’t be bothered.”
The girl’s hands were shaking. Miranda tried not to stare.
“Er . . . listen, it will be very demoralizing for me if you leave.”
The girl looked Miranda up and down and quietly advised her that she probably had nothing to worry about.
Miranda frowned. “What are you saying? Do I just walk in and say a secret password?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Do you?”
Miranda pushed the question aside with her hand. “It would be ashame not to bother. After you applied and everything. And . . . where do you live?”
“Faversham.”
“Right. So you came all the way up from Faversham—”
“Indeed!” the girl said. “Look . . . what’s your name?”
“Miranda.”
“I’m Ore. Look, Miranda. I’ve already been through all that ‘you’ve already applied and here you are’ stuff in my head. But hear ye, hear ye: only one person from my school’s got in here in the last five years, that’s a very discouraging pie chart to draw, plus I’ve been thinking about my personal statement and there are at least seventeen lies in there and I can’t keep track of them all. Plus I just realised I’m
stupid
, an actual dunce. I got a C for
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