Zachary
me anywhere near her.
She’s like Snow White in the glass coffin; I can see her quite clearly but never reach her. Like Snow White with the bite of poisoned apple in her throat, Theodora seems to be suspended in some dormant state, waiting to wake up.
Maybe waiting for somebody else to wake her up.
I spend all of Year 7 watching her from afar. We both end up in the top sets for every subject, which means that, more often than not, we end up sharing classes. I see her in the corridors, in the lower school dining hall. Sometimes I even see the pale shape of her move like a phantom down a path on the grounds or crossing the green lawns.
Sometimes, our eyes meet. She says nothing. There’s no hatred and dislike in her eyes—but that doesn’t make it easier to guess why she’s refusing to have me near her. It only makes it harder to figure her out, like a scientist trying to come up with a theory with too little evidence.
When our first term at Spearcrest is almost over, Mr Ambrose keeps me behind after the last assembly of term.
“You seem to be settling rather well into Spearcrest Academy, Zachary.”
I nod. “I think so, Mr Ambrose. The teachers here have high expectations. I’m working my hardest to meet them.”
Mr Ambrose smiles and lays a hand on my shoulder. “I know you are. You’ve made an excellent first impression on all your teachers, Zachary. I hear nothing but the best.”
My chest swells with pride. I’m not surprised to hear this—I’ve worked very hard for this.
“And how about Theodora?” Mr Ambrose asks. “Have you kept an eye on her as we discussed? Is she settling in alright?”
I pause before I answer. This is something my father taught me: when answering a question, only open your mouth once you are certain of your answer. Opening your mouth before you know your answer is the surest way of rushing yourself into saying something foolish.
My father was right. Every day of my life at Spearcrest, I witness my peers open their mouths before they know their answers, only to rush themselves into saying something stupid.
So. The answer to Mr Ambrose’s question.
Have I kept an eye on Theodora? Of course—it was my sacred duty, wasn’t it? And how could I not keep an eye on her when my gaze is drawn to her like a moth to a flame?
The sense I had during that first meeting—that she was special—never went away. It only strengthened with time. Theodora is special, and Mr Ambrose asked me to keep an eye on her, and that also counts for something.
Whatever it is that sets the events of our universe in motion—call it God, or fate, or the cosmos—chose me for this task for a reason.
If Theodora wishes me not to approach her, that doesn’t mean I have to give up my mission. I can give her what she wants and still not fail in my duty. I never have to speak a word to Theodora if that’s what she wishes, but if anything were to happen to her in Spearcrest, I’d know. I’d be there if she needed me.
So is Theodora settling in alright? That’s what Mr Ambrose wants to know. He seems concerned about her. I don’t blame him.
“Theodora works extremely hard, Mr Ambrose,” I say finally. “She’s in all the top sets now.”
Mr Ambrose smiles and gives a slow nod, as though deep in thought. “I had a feeling that would be the case.” His gaze focuses on me once more, and he raises an eyebrow. “Is she giving you a run for your money?”
It’s hard to tell. Theodora is quiet and reserved. In class, she keeps her answers to herself and never raises her hand. When the teachers pick her to answer a question or solve a problem or give her opinion on a topic, she gives short, thoughtful answers without elaborating.
“I’m not sure yet, Mr Ambrose. I guess we’ll find out at the end of the year.”
“Well, I wish you both luck. I think you two could really help drive each other.”
I give Mr Ambrose a courteous smile. In theory, he’s correct. Theodora and I could help drive each other—how many great achievements in history have been spurred by rivalries?
But Theodora seems to be an ivory tower of her own at the moment. An ivory tower within the ivory tower of Spearcrest Academy—an impressive achievement, actually.
Unfortunately for me, it’s difficult to compete with someone who refuses to even acknowledge your existence.
I’m patient, though. Like two celestial bodies bound by the same gravity, Theodora and I can never quite escape one another.
Of that, I’m certain.
Year 7, I inspect the boards displaying the exam results for each class. I’m not surprised to find my name at the top of each board—but I’m more surprised than I should be to find Theodora’s next to it.
Zachary Blackwood and Theodora Dorokhova.
I would have preferred my name to stand alone at the top—a confirmation of my intellectual superiority over my peers—but seeing my name next to Theodora’s feels right, somehow.
Our names look good together.
Important. Significant. Powerful.
When I return home that summer, my parents ask me about the summer exams. They ask me at dinnertime on the first day of the holidays; they don’t even bother to act like this isn’t the most important question on their minds.
I tell them the truth—that I came first alongside another student. My mother raises her eyebrows.
“Oh?” Her voice is all affected surprise. “How odd. Your sister was first in all her classes—perhaps her school works out academic rankings differently?”
I look across the table at Zahara. She’s two years younger than me, but that never stopped our parents from putting just as much pressure on her as they do on me.
If anything, they’ve engineered a clever system. In that system, I can never win, constantly blackmailed with the potential humiliation of my younger sister somehow outdoing me. And Zahara can never win either, always being made to compete with a brother two years her senior.
It’s a system designed to keep us forever competing but never victorious. But it’s not a system that’s clever enough to work on us.
Because in the cold hostility of our home life, Zahara and I have an alliance forged in marble and gold.
I have her back, and she has mine. This is something I know will never change—not now that I’m away at Spearcrest, not when she goes away to a private girls’ school in France, not when we’ll both be at university and not when, one day, we are both living our own lives wherever we are across the globe.
“Congratulations, Zaro,” I say. “That’s an amazing achievement—makes me proud to be your big brother.”
Zahara gives a little smile and looks down at her plate, which is what she always does when she’s trying not to laugh.
My mother frowns at me. “That’s not what I meant, Zachary.”
“I know, Mother.” I give her my most earnest look. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll work harder next year. I’ll see some tutors over the summer as well.”
She nods, somewhat pacified, and glances at my father, a glance like the passing of a baton in a relay race.
“Don’t forget, son”—his voice is deep and gravelly like I hope mine will be one day—“being great is good, but being the best is better.”
“I won’t forget,” I say.
How could I? He’s been telling me this since I was old enough to walk.
The phrase is as good as engraved into my consciousness.
do exactly what I told my parents I would do.
I study harder and longer. Every free moment I have is spent in the library or my room, poring over books. I read voraciously, on everything, even the things I’m not quite capable of wrapping my head around yet. My afternoons are spent on after-school clubs designed to develop my brain faster and broaden my range of skills, and my weekends are spent on extra homework.
During the holidays, I have my tutors on a rotation designed to imitate my school timetable, and I ask them all to set me homework.
During term time, I excel in all my classes.
Unfortunately, so does Theodora.
It’s difficult to tell how she does it. She could be doing the exact same thing as me: spending every minute of her time studying, working and reading. Or she could be one of those prodigies born with extraordinary minds. But somehow, in every assignment, every project and every examination across all our subjects, Theodora is always fighting me for top of the class.
Sometimes, she wins out: she gets a higher result than me on a poetry unit in English class, and she beats me in the biology and religious studies exams. I beat her several times in maths, physics and geography. We both tie pretty consistently on history and languages.
All of this happens, and as it happens, so does something else.
Theodora changes.
At first, I can’t quite tell how. Then, one day, all of a sudden, I realise it’s her appearance.
One day, completely randomly, we are both lining up outside our English classroom, waiting for the teacher. I stand by the door, she stands by the window, her eyes glazed over, fixed on a point that seems to be both far beyond the window and yet not quite penetrating the glass.
And that’s when I notice it.
Her hair is no longer in those two long braids she wore that day I first saw her outside Mr Ambrose’s office—the same way she wore her hair all through Year 7. Instead, the top of it is bound by a white ribbon tied into a bow, and the rest falls down her back like a river of pale gold. Her eyes have some pink eyeshadow on the lids, and her lips are glossy and the colour of raspberries.
There are tiny silver stars in her ears, and her bag is designer. I didn’t notice any of those things until today, and I don’t know how. Theodora, at some point during the year, started looking different—and I didn’t notice because the whole time, I was too busy trying to stop her from beating me in every subject.
I thought I’d been paying attention to her, but I was wrong.
I’d only been paying attention to what I needed to do to keep up with her.
I’d only been paying attention to myself.
