Chapter 2

The Pens He Wanted Me to Use

At half past eight the next morning, the pavement outside Redcliffe Sixth Form was packed with students and parents.

Teachers in fluorescent waistcoats called out room numbers. Someone's mother was handing out cereal bars as if we were leaving for war. Beneath the plane trees, students compared predictions they had sworn they would never discuss.

I stood slightly apart from the crowd, holding a transparent pencil case.

Julian's pens rested on top where he could see them.

“Evie!”

I recognised his voice before I turned.

Julian pushed through the crowd in the pale-blue shirt I had bought him for his eighteenth birthday. He had told me he was saving it for an important day.

He looked exactly like the boy I had loved yesterday—tall, dark-haired, a little breathless, with one side of his collar folded beneath itself.

That was the first cruelty of knowing the truth. Monsters did not always acquire different faces once you recognised them.

“I thought I'd missed you.” He smiled and held out a paper bag. “Water, dark chocolate and another pen, just in case.”

Another pen.

“You came prepared.”

“Of course.” His gaze dropped to my pencil case. “Use the ones I gave you, all right? I tested them. They write beautifully and don't skip.”

He said it easily. Tenderly, even.

“I will.”

His shoulders relaxed.

The movement was tiny, but I saw it.

At the entrance, a member of staff checked our identification and directed us towards separate rooms. Julian squeezed my shoulder before we parted.

“Normal day, normal Evelyn,” he said. “Oxford is already yours.”

His hand felt like a burn through my blazer.

Inside the examination hall, morning light fell across rows of narrow desks. Mine was beside the windows. I placed Julian's pens in the top-right corner, then took one of my own from beneath them.

For the next two hours and fifteen minutes, I wrote until my hand cramped.

I analysed every source, checked each response and filled every page that needed filling. Whenever fear rose in my throat, I glanced at the two sleek black pens by the edge of the desk.

They were not weapons now. They were evidence.

When the invigilator collected my booklet, my writing remained dark and permanent.

Outside, Julian was waiting by the gates.

“How did it go?” he asked too quickly.

I lifted the pencil case. “Your pen was brilliant.”

Relief flashed over his face before he covered it with a grin.

“Told you.”

“Chloe will be pleased too.”

His smile faltered.

“Why Chloe?”

I shrugged. “Because she's my best friend. She wants me to do well.”

“Obviously.” He reached for my hand. “Come on. I'll buy you lunch.”

I let him hold it for three steps before pretending to adjust my bag.

That evening, he sent me the same message he had sent before every important exam.

Proud of you. Sleep early. One more day and then we start our future.

I stared at the word our until the letters blurred.

Did the older Evelyn receive the same message? Had she fallen asleep smiling, never imagining that her future was already evaporating inside a stack of sealed answer booklets?

I replied with a heart.

Then I added the message to my evidence folder.

The following morning, Julian met me outside the centre again.

This time, he watched while I unzipped my pencil case.

“Still using mine?”

“I wouldn't trust anything else.”

I carried the lie into the hall with me and completed my final papers in my own ink.

When time was called, chairs scraped across the floor and someone at the back released a strangled laugh. Outside, students hugged, cried and made plans for the pub.

Before leaving, I stopped beside Mrs Fletcher, our examinations officer.

“Could you confirm something for me?” I asked. “The cameras cover every desk, don't they?”

She glanced towards the small black domes fixed above the hall doors. “They cover the room. Why?”

“My father worries about lost scripts.”

“The booklets are counted twice, sealed here and collected by courier. Nothing is simply lost.”

I thanked her and walked away before she could question my sudden interest.

In the toilets, I photographed my pencil case exactly as it had appeared on the desk: Julian's pens untouched on top, mine with the ink level visibly lower. I emailed the image to myself with the examination centre, date and paper number in the subject line.

It was not enough to know the truth. If Julian and Chloe reacted as the older Evelyn predicted, I would need to prove when I knew it, what I carried and which pens I had actually used.

Only then did I step outside and allow myself to look like any other student who had just finished school forever.

Julian was nowhere near the gates.

I felt relief before I felt hurt.

I went home alone.

He rang as I was putting my keys on the kitchen counter.

“Where are you? I've been looking everywhere.”

Behind his voice, I heard music and a girl's laugh abruptly cut off.

“My phone died,” I said. “I couldn't find you, so I left.”

“Right. Sorry. It was chaos here.”

“Let's celebrate tonight. We can invite Chloe.”

There was a pause.

“I'm shattered. Tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

As soon as he hung up, I called Chloe.

She declined the invitation with almost the same words. Exhausted. Family dinner. Definitely tomorrow.

At eight that evening, Chloe posted a photograph from a café terrace. Two iced drinks stood against a red sunset. The caption read: Finished. Ready for what's next.

In the window behind the drinks, two figures were reflected shoulder to shoulder.

One wore a pale-blue shirt.

I saved the photograph before tapping the heart beneath it.

Minutes later, Julian shared an Oxford admissions video.

May September take us where we belong, he wrote.

Us.

Not me.

I turned my phone face down and stood at the kitchen window. Beyond the glass, rain had begun to silver the street.

They had not just begun choosing each other.

They had begun erasing me from their future.

The difference was that this time, I could see the ink disappearing.

And I intended to keep a copy of every word.