“Relationship building?” I whisper.
“Shut up,” she mouths.
“Tell me the last relationship you built. Quickly.”
“I could build one right now, between my foot and your arse.”
“Shh,” I tut. “Don’t talk over Katharine. I’m trying to listen.”
Very, very quietly, Celine screams.
It’s drowned out by Katharine’s microphone boom. “Can you commit to the rules needed to survive out in the wild, and think of creative ways to apply them?” she asks. The next slide shows a woodland with the words SHERWOOD FOREST: THE EDUCATION EXPEDITION written over the top.
She keeps going. “And do you have the determination and teamwork skills to combine all you’ve learned and complete a miles-long trek independently, hunting down Golden Compasses along the way? You’ll have the opportunity to prove it here…” Click. A new slide appears with a picture of a forest. GLEN FINGLAS: THE FINAL EXPEDITION. “During both expeditions,” she says, “trained supervisors will be scoring you from zero to five against each matrix indicator, then averaging your score for the week. After your education expedition in Sherwood Forest, you will meet personally with me to receive advice on how to improve ahead of the final expedition in Glen Finglas.”
I think Celine’s head just exploded and rainbow confetti flew out.
“In the end, your scores from both expeditions will be used to calculate your final marks. For context,” Katharine goes on, “the highest score ever achieved through our matrix is 4.88.”
Um. No one’s ever gotten a five? What the hell kind of competition doesn’t allow a perfect score? I slide a glance at Celine and find her just as outraged as I am, which is unnerving, to say the least. We really shouldn’t agree on anything, ever.
“But first—only those of you whose applications are unique and compelling enough will make it into the BEP at all. We’ll begin with a twenty-person cohort.”
Twenty people? There’s at least ten times that in this room. The general hum of excitement turns into a low buzz of apprehension, of competition, as everyone eyes their neighbors.
For some reason, I find myself eyeing Celine. Not that we’re in competition for this. It’s just habit.
She glares back. “What are you looking at?”
“Not my competition,” I say, “that’s for sure.”
Her mouth forms a perfect little O. “Bradley! Have you finally accepted that I’m fundamentally superior to you in every way? Bravo. I knew this day would come.”
“Oh, Celine,” I say, flashing the sweetest smile in my arsenal. “Some might say it’s cruel to let you live in this fantasy world you’ve created. But if it keeps you from sinking into the depths of despair, I’ll let you dream.”
She scowls. I bet she’d scowl even harder if I got into her precious BEP and won the whole thing （surely someone gets to win? I would definitely win.）， but that would be beyond petty and probably a waste of time. I’m not trying to take over the world like Celine. I do want to work in law—I’d get to help people, and I’d be good at it, and I wouldn’t completely die of boredom—but I don’t sit around daydreaming about elite employers.
I don’t daydream about the future at all. （Unless you count the one where I’m a bestselling sci-fi author, but obviously that’s not going to happen because I can’t even finish a bloody short story, so—）
“…fifty percent of the cohort,” Katharine is saying, and I blink back to the room around me in time to see her latest slide. My jaw drops. On average, around 50 percent of the cohort—Breakspeare Explorers, she calls them—usually quit or are thrown out before finishing the program? What the hell does she have people doing out there, ice bathing and making blood sacrifices to the gods? It’s just two expeditions. I mean, scrubbing about in the dirt and wilderness isn’t my idea of fun—when I was sixteen, the football team camped in Bavaria for a tournament and I spent the whole trip peeing in bushes so I wouldn’t have to use a public bathroom—but even I could complete two expeditions if I had the right motivation. Then again, I’m kind of a badass. I could do anything with the right motivation.
“But those who succeed will attend the Explorers’ Ball to receive their coveted Explorer Awards and mingle with our sponsors, who’ll be searching for students to offer internships. Oh,” Katharine says, like a parent “finding” one last surprise present for their kid under the tree. “And of course, the three Explorers who score the highest on our achievement matrix—who become our Ultimate Explorers—will win the grand prize: a full scholarship to study any undergraduate degree at the British university of their choice.”
The room cheers so hard and so sudden, it’s like sitting on top of an explosion—but I barely notice. I’m too busy absorbing what she just said.
A full scholarship. No tuition debt. My parents have to contribute to Emily’s studies in the US, so I’m determined to handle my own uni fees. I wasn’t going to apply for the maximum maintenance loan—I was planning on cheaper, shared accommodation to reduce my debt. But if I don’t have any tuition debt…
I could request a full maintenance loan. Instead of sharing with strangers, I could get a little apartment by myself, where everything is clean and tidy and proper and right and other people won’t be showering wrong and messing up my kitchen cupboards and leaving crumbs—
If I can get this scholarship, the most nightmarish aspect of university will be dealt with up front. That sounds like motivation to me.
There are three scholarships. Only twenty people make it. Ten of them drop out. If I can just get through two expeditions, I’ll have a decent chance of winning—and I know I could ace that matrix thingy. I’m resilient （you have to be when your OCD wants you to stay in a nice, clean, empty room for safety reasons, but you want to have a life）。 I’m committed （I did therapy for like five years even though it was really annoying）。 I’m a creative thinker （although you wouldn’t know it the way my mind goes blank when I open a Word document）。
My palms prickle with possibility.
By the time the presentation ends, I’m certain. There’s electricity buzzing through my veins. I’m doing this.
“What?” Celine says, right next to me, and I realize I spoke out loud. She’s staring at me with an interesting mix of horror and disbelief, the smile she wore as she listened to Katharine long gone.
I clear my throat. Might as well repeat it. “I’m going to apply. To the program.”
Her jaw tightens, her mouth compresses, her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Why not?” I snap back. She never wants me around. I never want her around either, obviously, but God. “You don’t own the bloody BEP.”
“Neither do you.” She scowls, but it’s not very intimidating. Celine’s face is overblown and dramatically soft, like when magnolia leaves are about to fall. Someone should tell her all that glaring is a waste of time.
Won’t be me, though.
Instead, I say, “Well, now we’ve established our complete lack of ownership—”