Nigel Griffith-Jones
Chair of Council University of Surrey
Disappointment blooms inside Hugo, and for a while he just sits there, his future closing in around him again. For a brief moment, it had been all dusty train stations in far-flung towns, endless blue oceans, and mountain vistas. Now, once again, it’s something smaller than that: interviews in which the six of them explain how much they love being at uni together, a tiny room shared with George, dinners at home on the weekends.
It’s like a light has been switched off, and where there was just a series of brilliant colors, there’s now only black and white.
His first instinct is to text Mae, but she has bigger things to worry about right now. He knows this is no great tragedy, being forced to go home and attend a top-notch university for free. So instead he writes to Alfie:No go.
A few minutes later, the reply comes through:
Alfie: What did they say?
Hugo: All for one and one for all.
Alfie: Sorry, mate. It’s rubbish sometimes, being a musketeer.
Hugo: It could be worse.
Alfie: How?
Hugo: We could be septuplets.
Alfie: Or octuplets.
Hugo: Did you tell any of the others?
Alfie: No.
Hugo: Don’t, then.
Alfie: It won’t be so bad, you know.
Hugo: I know.
Alfie: You can travel next summer. Or after we graduate. The world isn’t going anywhere.
Hugo: I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?
Alfie: See you soon.
He opens a new message, then heaves a sigh before writing to George:
Hugo: I call top bunk.
George: Really? You’re in?
Hugo: I’m in.
George: Brilliant! It’ll be fun. Trust me.
Hugo: Can’t wait.
He pauses for a moment before sending this last text, wondering if he should add an exclamation mark instead. But in the end, he can’t bring himself to do it.
Afterward, he goes for a walk, trying to unscramble all the thoughts that are whirling around in his head. He makes his way down to the river, past the station where they’ll be catching the train tomorrow morning, and the baseball stadium, which sits hushed and quiet beneath the late-afternoon sun.
The streets are lined with old warehouse buildings, and when he passes a western shop, he can’t resist stopping in to try on a cowboy hat. “I don’t think it suits me,” he says to the saleswoman, squinting at the too-tall hat, which makes him look like a cartoon character.
