Get Out If You Can

Hunter | Uni's Calling

"This bumper is dead." Dad pronounces the fate of the beaten-up car on the floor of our garage, knocking on the aluminum with a grease-stained spanner. "Don't know why they even brought it here. Hunter, is the tank full?" He flings the spanner on the ground.

I'm completely soaked in engine lubricant and hints of gasoline; I just hope I'm not unlucky enough to stumble upon a fire. I crouch down to the engine of the car, examining the fuel tank. It's dripping with black liquid, and steam is pouring out the edges. I get my greasy hands to work, checking out the pistons.

"All good?" Dad asks, crouching down beside me.

"No," I say, pointing to the source of damage. "This is busted, Dad, we can't fix it up."

"Thank you," Dad says, pulling out his phone and putting it to his ear. "I'm dropping Bertie a call, this isn't working. I told him no less than five times," he says, drumming his fingers on the car's dying frame, "and he won't listen. Still thinks we're miracle workers."

"'Cause we are." I laugh, kicking at the spanner on the ground. Dad grins at me.

He walks over to the corner of the garage, his phone at his ear, and sits on a leather chair we once extracted from yet another dying car. Perks of the job.

I head out to wash my hands at the filthy tap that's placed right outside the workplace. I'm about to turn it on when there's a ring from my phone. Doesn't matter, I'll just ignore it.

But...what if it's Alison?

I pull it out and check the caller ID, and to nobody's surprise, it isn't her. It's someone called Unknown. Technically they beat Truecaller at the name game.

I'm about to stuff the phone back in when I realize it's nobody's loss to just answer it. I tap the green button.

"Hello," a cool, almost mechanized female voice says. I say nothing.

"This is Cecile Martinez," she says it like say-seel, and I have a feeling she's French somewhere. I'm still not ready to respond.

"I'm calling from the admissions board of Callenfield University," she says, and I feel my heart stop. "Your name is Hunter Mason, right? Applied for a course in mechanical engineering a while ago?"

Shit, wait. I hadn't applied for the course a while ago, like she was saying it. I'd applied ages ago. I'd even taken the test they made applicants take — and failed, but that's not the question.

I'm not going to push my hopes up, or anything...but they're definitely not giving me another chance, are they?"

I nod, and then I realize she can't see me. "Yes," I say.

"Very well," she continues. "The board has recognized your ability. We would be honored to admit you for next year's semester."

"Thank you," I manage to say, my heart beating wildly in my chest. Some tiny part of me is waiting for the 'but' to come, and a large part of me is dreading that.

"But," she says, and my heart sinks as soon as it rises. "You would have to attend an in-person interview at our head office. We would be mailing you the details."

That's it? That's literally it?

"Okay," I say. "I'll be there. Where will it be?"

"The Calleja manor," she says, and I immediately know what she's talking about. Only they could afford a head office there. "On the twentieth."

"Of?"

"This month," she says. "We will be sending you an email with the details. Thank you and goodbye."

"But..." I can't finish that sentence; she's cut the call.

God, Hunter, what's wrong with you? What if they think I'm too much of a mediocrity to attend?

Well, there's one way around that. I rush inside the house and boot up my battered laptop.

I open the email application, and right enough, there it is. I can feel my heart pumping back in my chest.

Wow. I didn't ever think they'd give me a second chance. And everything's real. They've got the seal of the university and the signs of the governors, and the customary twenty pages of legalese that makes anything sound official. It looked great.

I scroll down to read the details. Calleja manor was easy enough to find, I'd seen it a lot of times. I scroll down further.

The dinner party thing starts at six in the evening, and whoever is invited is supposed to be there at five. That's fine, I'm usually free at five. And there's a dress code too – now that would be a bit of a problem.

But not unsolvable. I shut my laptop and walk over to the rickety drawer at the side of my bed, fumbling for the keys in my pocket. My fingers grasp a bunch of them.

I unlock the drawer and pull it open.

A hundred sweet dollars stare me in the face. My life's savings, but this is totally the moment I've been waiting for to spend it.