by Holly Bourne
“What was that?” I asked.
Amber ignored me again, and pointed at Joel. “You. Next.”
Joel, who’d always been too cool for anything, rolled his eyes, but he did stand up, playing with his ponytail with his spare hand.
“This girl ROCKS,” he said, reading from the page. “If everyone did what Charlotte is doing, we’d have gender equality within a year.” He made the metal sign at me with his fingers and sat back down. Still stunned, I made it back.
“Next,” Amber commanded.
Sylvia jumped to her feet. “Charlotte, you’re an inspiration. I’m going to try and start a Feminist Society in my school now because of you. First stop – WHY CAN’T WE WEAR TROUSERS?”
I’d begun to cry. Again. Evie and Amber stood by my side, rubbing my back.
One by one my friends stood up and read something out. Some were funny, some were painful, one mentioned abuse from a boyfriend and Megan quietly got up and went to the bathroom. I was a mess by the end, a weeping incoherent mess.
I couldn’t believe I’d reached that many people. All the good I’d somehow managed – whilst throwing custard pies at rugby players and being publicly outed as a slut.
Fighting for something you believe in isn’t easy. If you hit a sore spot, people are going to swipe at you, gripe at you, try to undermine you, infuriate you, try to shut you up and put you back in your box. I was starting to learn that was a sign you were asking the right questions, picking the right scabs. And though it’s easy to lose yourself along the way, and start focusing on all the people who don’t want things to change – for whatever broken, messed-up reasons of their own – you can easily find your way back. By listening to the people giving you a hand up. To the people who have your back. To the people who don’t think you’re a raving lunatic. Let them be your mirror – not the haters. Let them give you the strength to get the job done.
When the circle had finished, when I was an utter mess, when all the cheese had been devoured…Will came over, stepping over everyone’s legs and kissed me gently on the forehead. The combination of the intimacy of it and publicness of it crumbled me further.
“So,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, yet it still felt like an intimate whisper. “Are you going to see this thing through to the end?”
I looked at all their cheese-smeared faces. Faces of people who didn’t need to be here. People who would’ve found it much easier to laugh at today’s newspaper, discuss it behind my back, tell everyone I was an attention-seeking whore. But instead they chose to pile into my parent’s hippified living room and use their energy on building me back up again – giving me the courage to carry on.
I smiled through my tears and nodded.
“This slut says yes.”
WEEK FOUR
forty-seven
Dad: “What do you mean, Lottie? You’re never going to stop this project? What, ever? What about your Cambridge interview? You promised it was just for a month, Lottie…Lottie?”
Mum: “Lottie, this is your future. Your entire future. Do not throw it away.”
Dad: “I didn’t raise you to be like this. It’s not just you who’s worked hard for this, we all have. As a family. Don’t be selfish, Charlotte. This is a huge opportunity. It will change your life.”
Mr Packson: “Lottie, Cambridge will not take kindly to you pointing out every incidence of sexism you see in your interview…no…no…yes…yes, they are looking for independent thought…but not that kind of independent thought, Lottie…Lottie?”
Evie: “Maybe there won’t be any sexism at Cambridge… What do you mean there’s an annual jelly-wrestling competition? I mean, WHAT?”
Amber: “Fuck uni. Let’s go travelling.”
Mum: “Lottie, why didn’t you tell me about this story in the paper? Lottie? Are you okay? This is terrible. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Dad: …
Me: “The interview’s tomorrow, Will. What do I do?”
Will: “Whatever you feel is right.”
THE FUTURE
forty-eight
Here are the things I knew about Cambridge:
1. Their male students are statistically more likely to get first class degrees than their female students.
2. Around seventy-eight per cent of Cambridge professors are male.
3. Once every year, after exams, Magdalene College holds a jelly-wrestling event where female students in their bikinis grope each other and writhe around in jelly while hundreds of male students watch.
4. But they do have women-only colleges… Is that sexist? Or good?
5. They have a Women’s Officer, who runs “Consent workshops” teaching freshers about the importance of sexual consent.
Mum and Dad insisted they came with me, though they wouldn’t be allowed in. We drove in silence, tension crackling and fizzing between us in the car. There’d been arguments and more arguments. When Dad first found out about the newspaper story, his skin lost all its colour and he sat right down on the floor, looking sick. He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. I couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment, or sympathy. My auntie had gone absolutely nuts for one, ringing the house to say I’d shamed the whole family. Whatever it was, he came down to breakfast the next morning and started telling me off about the project, about Cambridge, about how I couldn’t let one ruin the other.
“I don’t want that either,” I said. “But I want them to want me for me, not a toned-down Diet-Coke version of me.”
It was a bright winter’s day, the sun glowing in a way that made everything look a really stark yellow. We passed a Welcome to Cambridge sign and it was like driving into Hogsmeade. I’d seen photos on the internet, but it didn’t prepare me for how pretty it was in real life. Fairy-tale-like buildings stretched up into the sky; there were actual cobbled streets, made from actual cobbles. And there were students everywhere, biking along in their winter coats, groups of them walking together, clutching coffees, carrying books, laughing.
I slunk down in my seat, feeling embarrassed that I was with my parents.
It was so beautiful. I closed my eyes and tried to picture myself there and it came easily. I had visions of myself running around, clutching one of those black flat-caps to my head, even though I think you only wear them when you graduate. I pictured the things I’d learn, the people I’d meet – the way I could grow and become the sort of person who’d go on to do great things. In my head, I looked happy, relaxed fulfilled…then I pictured some jelly-wrestling and the daydream was shattered.
I mean – jelly-wrestling!
My parents and I fought about where to park.
My parents and I fought about where to get lunch.
My parents and I fought when the waitress at lunch gave the bill to my dad and I called her out on it.
“Lottie, honestly. Please tell me you’re not going to be like this in the interview.”
“It’s one day. Can’t you hold it in for just one day?”
“When she gets back, I want you to apologize to that waitress.”
“Lottie? Where are you going, Lottie?”
I screeched my chair back, grabbed my bag and dashed out of the cafe. I couldn’t stand it. I was too nervous and scared and terrified and confused and nervous and…and…
I dodged down a few alleyways, until I was sure I’d lost them. Then, to stop them worrying – well, to minimally decrease their worrying – I sent them a message, saying:
I just need some time to myself. I’ll meet you outside the entrance to King’s fifteen minutes before.
As I took off through the city, my head was spinning with all the thoughts. I felt giddy and not-with-it and all the other exact-opposite things of how you’re supposed to feel before a Cambridge interview.
I navigated my way to King’s College, using a mixture of my phone and the map that had been sent to me in the post. I had about half an hour.
I’d seen photos on the brochure, but when I arrived at King’s, the
scene still made me not inhale adequately for a good few seconds.
The college was beautiful. A manicured stretch of grass was surrounded by the most stunning grey-brick ye-olde buildings that seemed to just murmur secrets and knowledge and distinction. The famous spire of the chapel seared into the bright blue sky, like it was an arrowhead guiding me there.
It was just about warm enough to take my coat off and use it as a protective cushion from the stone wall outside. I sat myself down, the interview pack perched on my lap to signal to people that I sort of belonged here, for today at least.
I would only belong here if I got in…
A group of students walked by, clutching folders and laughing as they made their way to a lecture. They looked so happy, so proud of themselves, so…I dunno…part of a community.
Recently, I’d started to think more about what it would be like when Amber, Evie and I all went our separate ways at the end of the school year. It made me feel so ill I tried not to dwell on it. It was inevitable though. Time would rip us apart, float us on different gusts of wind, grow us up, make us have separate experiences, and we’d have to cling on and hope we didn’t grow apart as well as into grown-ups.
I would have to make new friends, wherever I was, wherever I ended up. And, looking at the passing group, I really felt they were the sort of people I could be friends with.
A girl had her arm slung around the others, and just as they passed, she said, “I know this vastly undermines everything he said and stood for but, man, Karl Marx did good beard.”
Everyone laughed. I wanted to laugh – to be part of it – but I just smiled eagerly at them from my spot on the wall. The girl noticed, smiled, and slowed – letting the others go ahead. She pointed to my pack. “You here for an interview?” I nodded, delighted she was talking to me.
“You scared?” she asked. I could hardly see her features against the low sun.
“I made my parents stop on the motorway three times on the drive here,” I answered. “It’s only a two-hour drive.”
She laughed again. “I was bricking it too,” she said. “But it’s not so bad. Don’t believe the horror stories you hear.”
Her mates dawdled, waiting for her, and she stepped away, towards them, into the shade. She was pretty, but not in a way that asked to be commented on. Bleached blonde hair, cut very short. Just a smudge of red lipstick, nothing else. I felt dorky in my suit.
“Do you like it here?” I asked, not wanting her to leave.
Her face broke into another natural smile, her lipstick spreading across her face.
“It’s brilliant,” she said. “It’s so hard…but it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Though I think everyone says that about whatever uni they go to.”
I could tell her attention was divided, but I chanced another question.
“I’m scared about behaving in the interview,” I said. “I have a lot of…er…opinions.”
She came and stood closer to me, looking over my shoulder at my brochure. “What you applying for?”
“Human, Social, and Political Science.”
Her smile widened. “Just like me! Let me guess, you want to change the world?”
My blush answered her question and she laughed, just as her friends called, “Portia.”
“Coming,” she called behind her, and she took another step closer, so we were almost at eye level. “Well, if you’re panicking, I guess it’s worth telling you that you don’t have to get in here to change the world…”
“But?” I prompted.
“But,” she said, weighing up her words. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t amazing here. It’s just…” She looked back at her friends. “Something else, you know?”
I took in my ornate surroundings once more. “I know… Any last tips?” She was turning to go.
“Oh sure,” she replied over her shoulder, as she walked away to her waiting friends. “The same as for everything in life, just be yourself.”
I watched her walk away.
Just be yourself.
Everything in my life was supposed to have been leading up to this moment. So I could get in and that would take me to a different moment. Moment upon moment until eventually, in time, I could be in a position to change things.
Getting into a place like this changes things.
But, as I flipped through the brochure again, students grinning inanely at me from the pages as they studied on the lawn, or swaggered down stone corridors, I had a thought.
I had already started to change things.
My project had started something. It had sown seeds, it had reached people. It had lit fires, it had opened minds, changed opinions, raised eyebrows, started dialogues, poked bears, turned Will, helped Megan…
And I’d done all that without a fancy degree from a fancy place. I’d done all that without knowing the right people, saying the right things, moving in the right circles. I was Lottie, I was no one really. All I had was my voice, my anger, and the determination to voice my anger in the best way I knew how. And look what I’d done. With just that. Well, that, and the two best friends I could wish for by my side.
I didn’t need to get in here…
I’d thought I might, but I didn’t.
I could get wherever I wanted to go by myself. I could change things by myself. I’d proven that already.
I stood up, wiping my cold arse from where the damp of the stones had seeped through my coat.
And I decided.
I only wanted to go here if they wanted me for me. I only wanted to go here if they got me. I wouldn’t try and tone myself down so I could get them.
I was ready.
forty-nine
Mum and Dad were already waiting outside – looking even more nervous than me. I expected a telling-off, but their faces softened when they saw me.
“Lottie!” Dad went to hug me. “We were worried you might not turn up.”
“I’m here.”
Mum suddenly looked teary. “Look, darling, about your project…”
I held up my hand. “Please, not here.”
“I know, darling…” She took my hand. “I just want you to know. Well, we’ll always love you, whatever you decide.”
I looked at Dad. “You will?”
He nodded. “Yes, Lottie. Of course. But…well…” Mum must’ve given him a lecture, telling him to back off. “Just think about what the most important thing is,” he continued, giving me a meaningful look, “in the long run.”
I met his eyes. “I will.”
They called me precisely on time.
Even with everything I’d just decided, I felt incredibly nervous. The full force of my panic hit me the moment my name was read out. My palms instantly slickened and I wobbled up to standing, giving a feeble smile to the lady holding the clipboard.
“That’s me.”
“Come with me, dear.” She walked off down an ornate corridor and I followed her and her very yellow cardigan, past doors with signs on them asking for quiet.
“Here you go.” She stopped outside a door and gestured for me to go in.
My hand quivered on the handle. I took a deep breath then, before I lost my nerve, I turned the knob.
The room was small, cosy. Books were everywhere – lining up ramshackle-like, right up to the ceiling.
And there, in two big leathery armchairs, with a small table separating them, two fellows sat.
Two male fellows.
Male.
Both of them.
They stood up, leaning over to shake my hand. One of them was older, with a limp handshake that felt very cold – “I’m Professor Brown.” The other dude, younger, so young he looked like he didn’t need to shave very often, had a firm grip and a wide open smile.
“Charlotte Thomas, nice to meet you. Thank you for coming. Now please, do sit down.”
I found myself sitting, playing with my hands, twisting them over in my lap.
“Now,” Professor Brown said, “I’m ju
st going to explain what’s going to happen. We already have the written assessment you did as part of your application, so we’ll talk about that. And we’ll also talk about your personal statement and why you’re applying here. It’s a discussion really, rather than an interview. We want to hear more about what you think.”
I think it’s a shame you’re both men.
I nodded. “Sounds swell.”
SWELL? SWELL? LOTTIE, WHEN HAVE YOU EVER USED THE WORD SWELL BEFORE NOW?
Do I mention that they’re both men? Is that sexist? Or just coincidence? Maybe there’ll be two women in my next interview? They said there might be more than one. Do I ask? Do I bring it up? I knew I was supposed to, I knew what I’d decided, out there in the courtyard, less than half an hour ago, but I was still shaking for some reason.
“So…” the young man said. He’d told me his name. I couldn’t remember it. Julian? “We were reading your personal statement, and it says here that you’re interested in women’s studies?”
Oh God, they were going straight for the feminism. Out of all the things I’d written in that freaking statement, they were going for my Achilles’ heel. Had they seen my campaign? Is that what they were hinting at?
“That you started a society of sorts at your college?”
I gulped, maybe I nodded. I wasn’t sure. My head didn’t feel connected to anything – certainly not my sweat-engulfed body.
“That’s right.”
“Well, as you know this course is called Human, Social, and Political Science, and we do discuss the role of women…”
Which is why I picked it.
“So, with that in mind,” Julian continued, “our first question is – if you could, what would you do to try and eradicate gender inequality in society?”
My eyes widened.
I couldn’t answer that without bringing everything up. Everything I’d done. Was that why they were asking me? And, if I was going to be true to my project, would they mind me asking them some very pressing questions myself?