I saw that arsehole’s name on the back of her leaflet.
But when I sneak a glance at her, she looks the way she always looks: completely unbothered.
The conference hall is a wide-open space crammed with rows and rows of chairs, most of which turn out to be messily and noisily occupied. “Come here,” Celine says suddenly, and grabs the sleeve of my coat. There’s that zing again, that crackle like a sparkler on Bonfire Night. I thought I understood it, but now I’m officially confused.
I don’t have time to overthink, though, because Celine is dragging me to a pair of chairs at the edge of a back row. There’s more space in this section, probably because the view of the room’s stage isn’t great. “Here?” I wrinkle my nose. “How are we supposed to make friends and influence people if we sit all by ourselves?”
I think Celine shudders in disgust. “We’re here to listen, not to talk.”
Actually, I’m always ready to talk. “If you say so.” We sink into our seats and I squint at the stage. “Can you see?”
“Do you care?” she shoots back with faux sweetness.
Honestly, it’s like blood from a stone. “No.” I turn firmly away from her bullshit, craning my neck to see past the hair of the guy in front of me. There’s a blank screen above the stage, and as I watch, the lights lower and the words Breakspeare Enrichment Program rise. Then a lady in a slick, peacock-blue suit strides onto the stage, all swishy hair and piercing dark eyes. She raises the mic and says, “Good afternoon, guys. I’m Katharine—”
There’s a cheer. A literal cheer, like she’s a rock star. I slide a look at Celine; she’s not making a sound, but she is watching Katharine Breakspeare with a bright nervousness I haven’t seen in years, all her attention （and let me tell you, Celine’s attention is intense） trained toward that stage like a spotlight. She sits up straight like there’s a rod against her spine.
I used to think it was cute, how she took everything so seriously. Until I decided I wanted to make new friends and do new things and be someone other than Bradley of Bradley-and-Celine, and she very seriously dropped me like a hot potato.
I really need to change seats in Philosophy. Celine’s always smelled like vanilla cocoa butter, and scents trigger memory.
“Wow,” Katharine is saying with a muted aw-shucks vibe that feels a bit too on-the-nose, “I take it you’ve heard of me.”
A completely unreasonable amount of laughter floods the room. I roll my eyes and glance at Celine, Queen of Interpersonal Skepticism. She analyzes every single thing I do and say with grave suspicion, but right now, she’s eating this crap up. Katharine Breakspeare must be a wizard.
“But this isn’t about me,” Katharine goes on. Then she clicks something in her hand and the slide behind her displays a list of her latest and greatest accomplishments, plus a giant picture of her face. “Or rather,” she corrects, “it’s not just about me—it’s about all of us. Everyone, past and present and future, who dares to dream bigger than the world around us. When I was at school, no one ever believed I could make something of myself.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wonder what she gets out of this, besides the PR philanthropy points. Maybe she’s aiming to be made a baroness in ten years, or something like—
“I’m dyslexic,” Katharine says simply. “As a child, that one difference in the way my mind works convinced teachers I was incapable. So they gave up on me, and I gave up on my dreams.”
I blink and sit up straighter. Since I’m here, I might as well pay attention. I mean, the woman is providing kids with this opportunity out of the goodness of her heart; of course I’ll hear her out. I’m not a monster.
“My journey to the legal field was long and difficult, just because I’m different. But those differences make me damned good at my job—and I have other qualities, too, ones that I believe all trailblazers have in common, that so many examinations just can’t capture.” Katharine wanders back and forth across the stage as she speaks, gesturing at the presentation behind her. The slides keep changing, but I barely notice.
“That’s why I started this enrichment program for undergraduates three years ago, and that’s why—this year—I’ve adapted it for pre-university students for the first time ever.” There’s another cheer. She grins and shakes her head at us rowdy but adorable fans. This woman is what Mum would call a “magnet,” like a team captain or a cult leader. I was determined to hate her, since Celine likes her so much, but unfortunately, I’m feeling the pull.
“You’re all at a crossroads in your lives,” she tells us. “You know you want to make something of yourselves, to succeed, but so many professions have high barriers to entry—especially in this economy. You might study law or accounting or marketing at university, qualify, and find your only option is to move to London if you want to earn enough to pay off your loans.”
I notice she doesn’t mention anything about being a writer. Probably because it doesn’t matter what you study or where you work—you can only write the book by writing the book.
Spoiler alert: I still haven’t written the book.
“You might even be hesitant to study at all—not everyone wants to start their adult life with mountains of debt,” Katharine says, and I know that’s right. Would you believe when my parents went to uni it was free? Injustice stalks my generation, I swear to God. “Maybe you dream of a certain professional future,” Katharine goes on, “but you’re well aware that you’re rarely the highest flyer in your academic cohort, and thus you might secure a degree by the skin of your teeth and struggle to find employment as a result. The BEP,” she says with relish, “is here to help you with that. This program is sponsored by a diverse range of employers within our region—why should Midlanders have to move south just to succeed?”
There is a ripple of agreement across the crowd, which, yeah, okay. She didn’t lie.
“Being a BEP graduate means something, both here and across the country,” she says, and the slide changes again. I’m not a numbers person, but she’s got graphs illustrating the career trajectories of BEP alums that look impressive. “You’ll distinguish yourselves to potential employers just by finishing the program, and you won’t be doing it by swallowing textbooks and regurgitating them in an exam hall. Our unique enrichment program combines outdoor education with the patented BEP Success Assessment Matrix.”
The slide switches to an image of a dark, dramatic forest. “Two outdoor expeditions,” she says, “each taking place during a school holiday. The first is a training session, intended to teach you the necessary skills to survive and weed out those who can’t hack it. The second is the real deal, independently executed by yourselves in the Scottish woodlands. Both expeditions are an opportunity to show you’ve got the skills elite employers desire.”
The new slide tells us these skills are:
Resilience
Commitment
Creative thinking
Relationship building
Leadership
I smirk and glance over at Celine. Maybe she predicted my reaction, because our eyes meet, and she scowls.