Theodora
9 is marked by the Summer Ball—a Spearcrest tradition seeking to denote the end of an era and the beginning of another. A rite of passage of sorts.
Unlike the glittery proms movies filled my imagination with—wristfuls of flowers, spinning disco balls filling blue darkness with coruscating lights, orange slices floating like wheels in blood-red spiked punch—the Summer Ball is a solemn affair. Black tie and ballgowns (though Spearcrest, surprisingly, allows boys and girls to wear whichever they prefer), a formal dinner, then a dance with a string quartet.
Although no student wishes to admit it, everyone is excited for the dance. The entire month leading up to it, it’s all anybody can talk about. Students complain about the over-the-top formality of it, the old-fashioned dress code, the fact there’s not going to be any “good music”.
But above all, they complain about finding a date. They complain about having to ask someone, having to be asked, having to learn a dance. The girls loudly state there’s not a single good-looking boy in the year and that they’d rather go with one of the Year 11 boys. The boys ostentatiously question why girls are so difficult to approach when they all secretly want to be asked out. Everyone jokes about going to the dance with their same-sex best friend.
Everyone is lying, of course. The girls are desperate to be asked out by the boys, and the boys are both petrified of asking and petrified of not asking.
I feel nothing at all.
The thought of being at a formal dinner makes me ill. I rarely eat in front of people anymore. My relationship with food is too complex for that. Like an abusive marriage, it requires utter privacy.
As for the thought of being squeezed into a ballgown, of having to look more beautiful than ever when looking beautiful is already a daily effort, it is disheartening. And dancing with a boy when I’m not allowed to date just sounds like a complete waste of time.
In my group of friends, we all decide to pair up and go together as friends. I get Giselle Frossard, the pretty French girl who flirts with any boy that enters her field of vision. Once the boys find the courage to start asking girls, I can imagine she’ll be one of the first bastions to fall, so I don’t hold out much hope of making it to the Summer Ball with her.
I have other things to worry about anyway, like trying to make sure my name finally appears alone at the top of the exam results boards or trying to give myself as much of a head start for my GCSEs as possible since I know for a fact Zachary will be doing the same.
And worrying about a silly dance isn’t going to give me the advantage I desperately want to get over him.
mostly empty at this time of the year. Exam groups, like Year 11s and the upper school years, have all more or less finished their exams by now, leaving the library eerily deserted. The cold sunrays of early summer drop from the glass cupola crowning the building, tilted columns of light alive with the faint glimmer of dancing dust.
I’m sitting at one of the reading tables near the poetry section one afternoon, a volume of Keats open in front of me, my cheek resting on my palm. Keats is the poet I tend to gravitate towards in my more sedate moments, his lyricism soothing as a lullaby. My eyes open and close slowly as I read each line to myself, my lips moving but my voice shut.
The cushioned sound of footsteps draws me out of my torpor, and I know before I even look up who I’m about to see. Maybe it’s because I can simply sense him, or maybe it’s because I’m used to the smell of him by now, soap and a rich, alluring cologne.
“Theodora,” he says, standing by my reading table.
His hair is longer now, and the curls of it, normally so neat and tight, become looser and softer the longer they are. The light catches them and outlines them in a warm halo. He’s wearing the summer uniform without a blazer, his short sleeves revealing newborn muscles.
While I spent the entire year working so hard trying to become beautiful, Zachary simply blossomed into his beauty. A natural sort of beauty, warm and polished.
I remember the first time I saw him, the way his bleak intensity brought to my mind the icons of saints in their iconostases. That bleak intensity has morphed into something different. A burning intelligence in his gaze, an aura of conviction and self-faith.
Three years ago, Zachary was austere as a saint.
Now, he’s as beautiful and intimidating as an angel.
“Zachary.” I greet him in the same formal tone as he greeted me.
We watch each other like two wary animals. At first, I guessed he was here to study, but his leather satchel is nowhere to be seen, and he stands by my table, fixing on me the full beam of his attention.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask, tilting my head slightly.
He gestures at my book. “What are you reading?”
“Keats.”
“Keats?” He raises his eyebrow, his lips curling in a sardonic smile. “I wouldn’t expect you to enjoy such a sentimental poet.”
“I happen to find him more emotional than sentimental, and there is a lot of beauty in how emotional he is.”
“You know Byron hated his poetry, right?”
I raise a hand in an indifferent motion. “So? I don’t like Byron?”
“You don’t like Byron?” His tone is incredulous. “You seemed to like him well enough that time you defended him like he was paying you to do it in Mr Kiehn’s class.”
We’ve had many arguments since, but it’s almost amusing he’s still not over that particular one.
“I wasn’t defending him,” I point out. “I was just saying his interpretation of the Prometheus myth had more merit than yours.”
“Ah, so what you’re saying is that in the list of your esteem, Byron might rank low, but I rank lower?”
There’s laughter in his eyes when he says this. His eyes are a rich, satisfying brown, but in the sunlight flooding down from the glass dome, they are limpid gold.
I lean back against my chair to transpierce him with a sharp gaze. Zachary is doing this thing he does where he thinks he has the upper hand because he’s amused and I’m not. He’s also doing something else, something he’s quite adept at.
“You’re normally much more subtle than this when you’re fishing for compliments,” I point out with a mocking smile. “Feeling a bit desperate?”
“I’m always desperate for a compliment from you, Theodora.” His smile is easy and guileful. “They are the rarest of treasures. How could I not want to collect them?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Fine. Your handwriting is incredibly tidy. There’s your compliment—take it and go.”
He takes out his phone and types a note.
“Excellent,” he says, looking up. “So far this year, I’ve got ‘not insignificant’ and ‘tidy handwriting’.” He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. “You’re really sweeping me off my feet, Theodora.”
I roll my eyes, though there’s still laughter tickling my throat. “Is that all?”
“No.” The amusement fades from his eyes and the intensity I always associate with him returns. “I didn’t actually come here to beg for compliments, believe it or not.”
I frown. “What did you come here for, then?”
“I came here to ask you if you wanted to come to the dance with me.”
My heart squeezes like a fist and drops in a sickening sensation. I stiffen in my chair, my entire body feeling both as if it’s turned to ice and filled with flames at the same time.
“Are you being serious?”
“Deadly serious.”
“You’re asking me to the dance as—what, as a…” I hesitate and decide to proceed with caution. “As a friend?”
“No, not as a friend. As a date. As my date.”
We look at each other. Of all the things I expected, this was the very last of them. Zachary, though, is full of fervent conviction, that disturbing self-confidence I envy so much. Unlike the other boys I’ve watched ask girls to the dance, he’s not blushing or making excuses. There isn’t a hint of anxiety or embarrassment to chink that impenetrable aura of determination and certainty.
For a moment, I fumble through my thoughts. Sirens wail in my head, warning me to be alert, to be sharp, to be cautious. Reminding me of my father’s words, his warnings.
I give Zachary the safest answer I can think of—the truth.
“I’m not allowed to date.”
His eyebrows raise. Faint surprise registers for a moment, then is immediately erased by a calm smile. “That’s fine. Are you still allowed to go to the dance?”
“Yes.”
“Are you allowed to go with a boy?”
“I suppose.”
“Alright. Well, would you like to come to the dance with me as my date for the dance? We don’t have to do anything else. It doesn’t have to mean anything else.”
I stare at him. His serenity and sincerity is nothing short of disturbing. His unshakeable calm is somehow making me feel more unnerved and nervous by the second.
“I…” Again, I make sure to be cautious. I don’t want to be rude, or unkind, or insensitive. The honesty with which Zachary approached me deserves a courteous response. “Would you not rather ask someone else? A girl who’s—well, allowed to date?”
He shakes his head. His eyes don’t leave mine, not for a second, the golden-brown depths of his irises a glimmering pool for me to drown in.
“No. You’re the only girl I intended to ask. There’s nobody else I wish to go with, and therefore I won’t ask anybody else.”
My heart is so tight I’m convinced it’s not even beating. I have the sinking feeling that something incredibly important and meaningful is happening. Zachary, with that unswerving intensity of his, has somehow taken me by the elbow and led me through a gateway of sorts, a point of no return.
I swallow. “But what if I say no?”
He waves a hand. “If you say no, then it’s a no. I’ll go alone.” He tilts his head questioningly. “Are you saying no?”
Going to the Summer Ball with Zachary is the only thing that makes sense. Out of everybody in Spearcrest, he is my true peer, my true equal. My relationship with him, as strange and fraught as it is, is the only relationship I have in Spearcrest that is steeped in truth. His soul and my soul sit across the chessboard of life, and everything between us is the game, each move real and urgent. Nothing with him is a shadow of a thing. It’s all real.
Going to the dance with him wouldn’t be real, though. It would be a shadow. I can’t be his date for the dance because I can’t be his date. Whatever happens between Zachary and me, my father’s voice will always stand between us, asking, Are you a whore?
Saying yes to Zachary wouldn’t be truthful, and it wouldn’t be fair.
“I’m saying no.” I sigh. “I’m sorry, genuinely. But it wouldn’t be right.”
“That’s fine,” he says. “You don’t have to apologise to me. Well, I should go.” He tilts his head and one corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “At least I got a compliment out of it.”
I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “You should ask someone else.”
A serene smile blooms on his face. “I won’t.”
He walks off with a casual wave of his hand. The rays of sunlight fade as he leaves. I look up at the cupola with a frown. Clouds, dragged by the wind, have hidden the sun away, taking away its warmth.
I resume reading Keats, but his poetry, too, seems to have lost its warmth.
