My Oxford Year(25)

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Apparently that one word is enough to give me away. “A Yank!” Ian exclaims.

Ahmed leans around Ridley and addresses me. “Are you a Rhodes scholar, then?”

“That obvious?” I laugh.

He smiles tightly. “Always nice to have a Rhodie at the table.”

He’s saying the exact opposite of what he means. His father may be an ambassador, but Ahmed’s diplomacy could use some work.

“I’m honestly curious.” I shrug, wanting to play nice. “What exactly is the ‘Rhodie’ reputation here in Oxford?”

Before anyone can answer, Ian comes to life. “Bloody insufferable,” he yells. “They think they’re the cleverestest blokes in the room, but they can’t wipe their own arse without a manual.”

Silence.

“They’re also loud!” Ian shouts.

Cecelia clears her throat. “I think what Ian is trying to say—quite poorly—is that Rhodes scholars are often selected for their academic achievement and professional drive. However, once here, they can have a difficult time adjusting to the freedom from structure that Oxford affords.” She gazes calmly at me. “They don’t know what to do with the rather significant amount of time between classes, the lack of syllabi, and such.” She affords me a small smile. “Also, they often seem quite overwhelmed by the, shall we say, unorthodox relationships that can often occur between student and tutor.”

I stare levelly back at her. Her face is a mask. I can’t tell if she’s judging me, if she’s implying something about what she thinks she witnessed between Davenport and me a few hours ago, or if she’s just being her.

“And they can’t drink for shite,” Ian sneers. “The gravest fault of all.”

Charlie perks up. “Then we shall put our dear Ella to the test. Time for one of our infamous British drinking games.” He looks at me, and gives a wink.

I nod, happy to move on from the subject of my Rhodie shortcomings.

“A shame Jamie couldn’t come tonight.” Cecelia sighs. “He so loves a good drinking game.”

Pray tell, “Ce,” what else does he love? Whatever. At least I know he’s not going to suddenly pop out of the bathroom. I can relax.

A hand plops onto my thigh. I jerk, whipping murderous eyes to Ian, who withdraws his hand as if he’s touched a stovetop.

“Sorry! Jus’ trying to get your attention. I have a question for you, an immensely important one. Ready?” He gets serious, even though his eyes are floating in two different directions. “Do you go left or right?”

“What? I don’t—”

“Your political leanings. What are they?”

Here we go.

CHRIST ALMIGHTY, THESE people can drink.

I’m a good drinker, I can hold my own. Still, I’ve had to sit out the last few rounds of Fuzzy Duck (deceptively innocent name) because I need to, you know, not die tonight. Ian, on the other hand, somehow gets drunker. He’ll start talking to me, then forget why he started talking to me, go silent for a few minutes, and then start up again. It’s excruciating. He also creeps closer to me every time he speaks.

Ian aside, I look around the table and find myself smiling. Maggie is red-cheeked and laughing, Tom’s asleep with his head on the table and arms dangling down like a little kid. Cecelia is smiling. Charlie continues to work his magic on Ridley. He’s a master. He’s rigged the game so Rower Boy has to pour the shot into Charlie’s mouth every time he “loses.”

I’m at that place where I either need to drink more or I need to leave. It’s the point-of-no-return portion of the evening.

“You completely misunderstooded me,” Ian exhales onto the side of my face.

He’s referring to the last fragment of conversation he doled out. I answer him in the hopes of shutting him up. “I understooded you perfectly. You’re saying Americans are stupid. I get it.”

“It’s your disdain for intellectualism, your narrow-minded ignorance, your . . . your . . . your—”

Ridley leans across me. “You’re pissed, Ian, go home.”

Ian gets closer to my face, barreling on, “Your obliviousness to the imminent demise of your arrogant empire.”

“Well,” I say before I can stop myself, “if anyone’s an expert on dead empires, it would be you guys.”

While Ridley laughs, Ian takes the comment personally. “And you’ll end up just like us, bloody irrelephant!” The table goes quiet. He seems to sense, through his drunken haze, that he’s misstepped. He tries to regain some dignity by laughing at his malapropism. “Irrelephant! Now you’ve gone and done it, ol’ boy. Tusk, tusk.” He bursts out laughing and everyone relaxes. But then he drops his hand on my shoulder. “Ah, let’s not fight.” His tone turns intimate and he moves closer. “Let’s kiss and make up.” He leans in, and I turn fully to face him, hoping to scare him with my eyes, bracing my back against Ridley’s strong shoulder and arm.

In my deadliest tone, I say, simply, “Don’t.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Ah, come now, let’s be friends! We love our Yanks here. Don’t we?” he spews to the table. Then, back to me, “Especially a tasty bit like you.” I stare at him, recognition niggling. Tasty bit. Realization hits me: he was the drunk guy from the street the other night. Oi, that’s a tasty bit. Instantly, my skin begins to crawl.