•Green: Important!

•Turquoise: School.

•Pink: Maxton Hall events committee.

•Purple: Family.

•Orange: Sports and nutrition.

Purple (Take pictures of Ember's outfit), green (Buy new markers) and turquoise

(Ask Mrs. Wakefield about the topic for the Math assignment): for today everything is

already done. For me, the best feeling in the world is, by far, putting the "check" sign on one of the items on my to-do list.

Sometimes, I even write down something that I've already completed just so I can

cross it off afterwards, although in a discreet light gray so as not to feel like a complete cheat. If someone opens my agenda, they will recognize at first glance that my day-to-day

is mostly composed of green, turquoise, and pink. However, just over a week ago, with the start of the new term, I'm using a new color:

Gold: Oxford

The first task I've noted down with the new marker: Pick up the letter of recommendation from Mr. Sutton.

I slide my finger over the metallic shimmer letters.

Only one year left. The last one at Maxton Hall College. It seems almost impossible that it's finally going to happen. Maybe in three hundred sixty-five days, I'll be in a politics course taught by the smartest people in the world.

My body even tingles with nerves when I think that I'm not far from knowing if my greatest wish will come true. If I've really achieved it and if I can study… at Oxford!

In my family, no one has yet gone to university, and I know it doesn't make sense that my parents didn't just smile tiredly when I first announced that I wanted to study Philosophy, Politics, and Economics at Oxford. I was seven years old then. But now, ten years later, nothing has changed, except that I am closer to reaching my goal. Having come this far still

seems like a dream. I often catch myself fearing to suddenly wake up and find that I'm going to my old school and not to Maxton Hall, the most prestigious private school in England.

I glance at the clock hanging over the solid wooden door of the classroom. There are still three minutes left. I finished the homework we had yesterday afternoon and now I just have to wait for it to end. I swing my leg impatiently and instantly receive a blow to the side.

"Ouch!" I say through gritted teeth, and I move to return the blow, but Lin is faster and dodges it. She has incredible reflexes. I guess it's because she's been taking fencing classes since elementary school, and after all, there you have to stab with the speed of a cobra.

"Stop fidgeting so much!," she tells me without taking her eyes off her fully written sheet. "You're getting on my nerves." This surprises me: Lin never gets nervous. At least, not enough to admit it or show it. Although at that moment I do manage to discern a hint of unease in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I can't help it." I run my fingers over the letters again. In the last two years, I've worked my hardest to keep up with my classmates. To improve.

To prove to everyone that I deserve to be at Maxton Hall. And now that the university application process is starting, the nerves are killing me. I can't do anything about it no matter how hard I try. Although, apparently, Lin feels the same way, and that reassures me a bit.

"Have the posters arrived yet?" Lin asks.

She glances at me sideways and a lock of her medium-length brown hair falls over her face. She impatiently brushes it away from her forehead.

"Not yet. This afternoon, for sure," I answered, shaking my head.

"Okay. We'll distribute them after Biology tomorrow, okay?"

I mark it in my notebook under the pink line and Lin nods in satisfaction. I look at the clock again. I have to make an effort to restrain myself and not move my leg. Instead, I start to collect the markers as discreetly as possible. Since they all have to point in the same direction, I need more time to arrange them.

I don't put away the gold marker, but instead hang it ceremoniously on the thin elastic ribbon of my agenda. I turn the cap so that it points forward. That's the only way it feels right, and looks the best.

When the bell finally rings, Lin jumps out of her chair faster than I would have thought humanly possible. I look at her puzzled.

"Don't look at me like that," she says as she slings her bag over her shoulder. "You started it!"

I don't answer and smile as I gather the rest of my things.

Lin and I are the first to leave the class. We cross the west wing of Maxton Hall at a brisk pace and turn left at the next intersection.

During the first few weeks, I always got lost in this huge building, and more than once I was late to class. It was overwhelming, even when the teachers kept assuring me that almost every newcomer to Maxton Hall was experiencing the same thing as me.

The school looks like a castle: it has five floors, a south wing, a west wing and an

east wing, and three adjoining buildings in which subjects such as Music and

Computer Science is taught. The forks and paths down which one can get lost are uncountable, and the fact that not all the stairs carry automatically to all plants can be exasperating. But, while at first I was completely lost, I now know the building like the back of my hand. I'm even pretty sure I'd be able to make it to Mr. Sutton's office blindfolded. "I should have asked Sutton to write me the recommendation letter, too," Lin grumbles as we walk down the hall. To our right, some Venetian masks from a senior art project adorn the high walls. Sometimes I stand before them to admire the sophistication of the details.

"Because?" I ask, making a note in my head that I have to tell our custodian to put the masks in a safe place before the weekend when we have a back-to-school party right here.

"Because he likes us since we organized the end-of-year party together and he knows how involved we are and how hard we work. He is also young, ambitious and has just graduated from Oxford himself. God, I'd slap myself for not having thought of it sooner." I pat her arm. "Mrs Marr also studied at Oxford. Also, I imagine it's better to be recommended by someone who already has a little more professional experience than Mr. Sutton." She looks at me in disbelief, "Do you regret having gone to him?"

I just shrug my shoulders. At the end of last year, Mr. Sutton heard by chance how much I wanted to enroll at Oxford, and he invited me to ask him anything I wanted to know about it. Although he had studied a different career than the one I intend to do, he was able to give me an enormous amount of inside information that I carefully noted in my agenda.

"No," I finally answered. At the end of the hallway, Lin has to turn left. We agreed to call each other later and said goodbye quickly. I glance at the clock- one twenty-five- and pick up my pace. I have my appointment with Sutton

at one-thirty, and I don't want to be late for the world. I pass the tall Renaissance windows, through which the golden light of September shines on the hallway, and make my way through a group of students wearing the same royal blue uniform as me. Nobody notices me. That's how things work at Maxton Hall.

Although we all wear the same uniform-blue and green checkered skirts for the girls; beige pants for boys; and tailored dark blue jackets all-it doesn't escape my attention that, in reality, this is not my place. While my fellow students arrive at school with their designer bags, the fabric of my green backpack is so worn in places that I fear it will tear at any moment. I try not to be intimidated by that, nor by the fact that some people behave as if the school were theirs just because they come from wealthy families. To them, I am invisible and I do whatever it takes to keep it that way. "No matter what, don't attract attention": So far, this has worked well for me.

With my eyes lowered, I run past the rest of the students and turn right one last time. The third door on the left is Mr. Sutton's. Between his office and the previous one there is a heavy wooden bench, and my gaze oscillates between it and my watch.

There are still two minutes left.

But I can't stand to wait for another second. I straighten my skirt with determination, adjust my jacket, and check to see if my tie is in place. Then I approach the door and knock. No one answers. I sigh, sit on the bench and look up and down the hallway. Maybe he went to look for something to eat. Or tea. Or coffee. Which makes me think it would have been better if I hadn't taken one. I was already quite nervous,

but my mother had made too much and I didn't want to throw it away. So here I am, my hands shaking. In a little while, I check the time again.

Half past one o'clock, according to my watch. I look down the hallway. Nobody in sight.

Maybe I didn't knock on the door loud enough. Or I've made a mistake. This thought makes my heart race. Maybe we weren't meeting today, but tomorrow. Restless, I unzip my backpack and take out my homework notebook. But no, everything is correct. The right date, the right time. Shaking my head, I close the backpack again. I don't usually get so overwhelmed, but the thought of something going wrong with my application and not being accepted into Oxford drives me crazy. I force myself to calm down. I get up again, determined, I go to the door and

knock again, when I hear a noise. It sounds like something has been dropped. Someone's in there? I open the door carefully and slyly look into the room. My heart stops. I was right, Mr. Sutton was in there all right, but... but he's not alone.

A woman sits at his desk and they're kissing passionately. He is between her legs, his hands around her thighs. A moment later, he picks up with more determination and pulls her toward the edge of the table. She moans softly into his mouth as their lips melt together and she sinks her hands into his dark hair. I can't distinguish where one begins and the other ends.

I wish I could look away from both of them, but I can't. Not when his hands slide under her skirt. Not when I hear him breathing hard and her sighing, "Jesus Christ, Graham." When I finally recover from the impact, I no longer remember how to move my legs. I stumble on the threshold and the door swings open, banging against the wall. Mr. Sutton and the woman jump apart. He turns his head and sees me in the doorway. I open my mouth to apologize, but all I can manage is a dry wheeze.

"Ruby," says Mr. Sutton, surprised. His hair is disheveled, the top buttons of his shirt are open, and his face is red.

I feel a suffocating heat rising up my cheeks. "I... I'm sorry. I thought we had one…" It is then that the young woman turns around and the rest of the sentence gets stuck in my throat. I open my mouth and an icy cold spreads throughout my body. I stare at the girl. Her turquoise eyes are at least as open as mine.

She looks away suddenly, looks at her expensive high-heeled shoes, slides them across the floor and then looks helplessly at Mr. Sutton, at Graham, as she said before between those sighs. I know her. I especially know the ponytail of a copper blonde and with a perfect wave that always swings in front of me in history class.

In Mr. Sutton's class. The girl I see in there, with my teacher, is Lydia Beaufort. My head might fall off any second now. And I'd rather that not happen, thus, I take a step back.

As much as the two of them would want to try erasing the last few minutes from my

head, and as so would I, it's impossible. I know it, and Mr. Sutton and Lydia know it too- from what I can judge from their clearly upset faces.

Mr. Sutton takes a step toward me with his arm outstretched. I stumble again on the threshold and regain my balance. "Ruby..." he starts to say, but the ringing I feel in my ears is stronger every time. Wasting no more time, I turn on my heels and run away. Behind me I hear Mr. Sutton say my name again, this time much louder.

But I keep running.