Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, England, Friday Afternoon
At two twenty-nine PM GMT, Jenny set down her glass, said, "Gentlemen," to everyone in the London pub, and then, "Door," and stepped through an orangey hole in the world and into a conference room in Cambridge, for an appointment that should have happened at least two weeks ago, but when it came to Jenny, there were always special circumstances. She suspected they hadn't believed she was serious until she called at the end of the standard interview period to inquire after the status of her application.
Also, there were way more people in the room than there would have been for a normal student interviewing for admittance to Cambridge. "Miss Sparks," the one she suspected was in charge said after a moment, sounding more wary than anything. "Please, have a seat."
Jenny did so. Then she matter-of-factly lit a cigarette, which made a few people look like they might have an apoplexy. Finally, a middle-aged woman in a mauve suit blurted out, "Are you serious?"
"Quite," Jenny said. "I am one hundred and ten years old. One hundred and eleven at midnight. I'll graduate high school in the spring and I think it's high time I properly continued my education, don't you? And I'm certainly not going to do it at an American school, come on." She took a drag off her cigarette before adding, "I've spent enough time over there already, and I've six months to go."
"Yes," said a speccy blond, "but why us?"
"Why Cambridge or why Sidney?" she asked with an arch of her eyebrow.
"Sidney. I don't dare explore your reasoning for choosing Cambridge over anywhere else you could choose to...grace with your presence." Wise man.
"You're across the street from the supermarket and you've got cheap liquor," she answered immediately. "I thought about Churchill, for dear, dear Winston's sake, but it's a bit out of the way, isn't it?" Everyone stared at her a little more. She sighed and leaned forward in her chair, ashing her cigarette on the carpet. It was Cambridge. Surely they could pay someone to clean that up. "Look. I'm Jennifer sodding Sparks. You all know who I am. You all know what I've done. You're welcome, by the way. We could talk all day and it wouldn't tell you one thing about me that you don't already know. I'm the Spirit of the Twentieth Century, and I'm ten years past my expiration date. Every one of you would kill to pick my brain, if you thought I wouldn't lie to your face just for kicks. I'm a pragmatist and an anarchist. I killed God and I've saved the world more times than I care to count. And I'm a senior at the weirdest high school you'll ever have admitted anyone from, who manages a clothing store and couldn't quite manage to keep her seat on the student council for one last year, and I'd like to read philosophy at Cambridge. See how that goes. I have a lot of thoughts. It could be interesting. I can't promise it'll be a smashing success, but I can promise I'll do my best not to burn the college down around all of our ears." She took another drag off her cigarette and said, "It's up to you. It's New Year's Eve and I intend to be properly smashed for my second eighteenth birthday, and I'm sure some of you have plans as well, so I won't keep you." She stood and headed for the door--the real, physical door. Sometimes the mundane exits were best.
It hadn't been the standard Cambridge interview, by any means--much shorter, for one thing--but it was about the best she could do.
"Miss Sparks," someone said, and she turned to look at the man in charge, arching an eyebrow in query. "You'll be hearing from us shortly," he said. "And--happy birthday."
"Happy New Year," she said, and showed herself out.
That could have gone substantially worse, she thought. At least nothing had blown up.
((NFB due to distance, NFI. OOC okay))
Also, there were way more people in the room than there would have been for a normal student interviewing for admittance to Cambridge. "Miss Sparks," the one she suspected was in charge said after a moment, sounding more wary than anything. "Please, have a seat."
Jenny did so. Then she matter-of-factly lit a cigarette, which made a few people look like they might have an apoplexy. Finally, a middle-aged woman in a mauve suit blurted out, "Are you serious?"
"Quite," Jenny said. "I am one hundred and ten years old. One hundred and eleven at midnight. I'll graduate high school in the spring and I think it's high time I properly continued my education, don't you? And I'm certainly not going to do it at an American school, come on." She took a drag off her cigarette before adding, "I've spent enough time over there already, and I've six months to go."
"Yes," said a speccy blond, "but why us?"
"Why Cambridge or why Sidney?" she asked with an arch of her eyebrow.
"Sidney. I don't dare explore your reasoning for choosing Cambridge over anywhere else you could choose to...grace with your presence." Wise man.
"You're across the street from the supermarket and you've got cheap liquor," she answered immediately. "I thought about Churchill, for dear, dear Winston's sake, but it's a bit out of the way, isn't it?" Everyone stared at her a little more. She sighed and leaned forward in her chair, ashing her cigarette on the carpet. It was Cambridge. Surely they could pay someone to clean that up. "Look. I'm Jennifer sodding Sparks. You all know who I am. You all know what I've done. You're welcome, by the way. We could talk all day and it wouldn't tell you one thing about me that you don't already know. I'm the Spirit of the Twentieth Century, and I'm ten years past my expiration date. Every one of you would kill to pick my brain, if you thought I wouldn't lie to your face just for kicks. I'm a pragmatist and an anarchist. I killed God and I've saved the world more times than I care to count. And I'm a senior at the weirdest high school you'll ever have admitted anyone from, who manages a clothing store and couldn't quite manage to keep her seat on the student council for one last year, and I'd like to read philosophy at Cambridge. See how that goes. I have a lot of thoughts. It could be interesting. I can't promise it'll be a smashing success, but I can promise I'll do my best not to burn the college down around all of our ears." She took another drag off her cigarette and said, "It's up to you. It's New Year's Eve and I intend to be properly smashed for my second eighteenth birthday, and I'm sure some of you have plans as well, so I won't keep you." She stood and headed for the door--the real, physical door. Sometimes the mundane exits were best.
It hadn't been the standard Cambridge interview, by any means--much shorter, for one thing--but it was about the best she could do.
"Miss Sparks," someone said, and she turned to look at the man in charge, arching an eyebrow in query. "You'll be hearing from us shortly," he said. "And--happy birthday."
"Happy New Year," she said, and showed herself out.
That could have gone substantially worse, she thought. At least nothing had blown up.
((NFB due to distance, NFI. OOC okay))