Theodora
Zachary goes to the Summer Ball alone. Even if he hadn’t, he would still stand out amongst the other boys in our year. Not because he’s better looking than all of them or because he is dressed better.
Zachary stands out like a beacon of light. His confidence, his intensity, the way he carries himself. In a place full of people our age, he stands out like someone older, like someone important. Like a young lord, not a schoolboy.
Everything I work so hard to project—beauty, elegance, intelligence—Zachary exudes innately without having to try.
The Summer Ball is a depressing ordeal without a date, but Zachary doesn’t seem depressed. He stands amongst his friends, talking and laughing. When everybody ends up on the dance floor, he leans against a pillar, sipping his drink and watching thoughtfully.
Later, I even see him chatting with some of the teachers. He stands with one hand in his pocket and the other gesturing confidently as if spending his time with teachers instead of dancing with girls is the most natural thing in the world.
Although I, too, end up sitting out most of the dancing, I don’t approach him. It’s my fault I’m here alone—he asked me to come with him, and I refused. Commiserating would be sweet—doing so with full knowledge I caused this situation would be too bitter.
It’s Zachary who ends up approaching me. He brings me a cup of punch and hands it to me. I take it and sip tentatively but wince at the sugary taste. He drinks his and lifts an eyebrow.
“Not to your taste?”
“It tastes like sugar and chemicals.”
“I can imagine that’s the recipe, yes.” He hesitates, then asks, “Would you like me to bring you something to eat? I noticed you barely touched your food at dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say automatically.
It’s my go-to response anytime anyone mentions food, and the words unspool from my mouth with practised ease. Zachary nods slowly, his eyes on mine.
“Mm. Are you sure?”
His tone is feather light, almost playful. Part of me wants to stick to the safety of my go-to response, but part of me senses the strange, silent companionship that exists between us. I want to lean into it, let it pull me in, lull me.
Zachary doesn’t press me for a response. He simply watches me, waiting for my silence to transform into words.
“I don’t like eating in front of people,” I say finally.
“Oh, right.”
I wonder if he knows I’m only giving him a part of the truth, not all of it. The truth would be too difficult to explain because it would mean telling him I’ve been depriving myself of food for weeks to look good in this dress. The truth would mean telling him that I am always hungry.
“Well,” Zachary says after a few seconds, “if you want, we could steal some snacks from one of those tables and sneak off to the grounds. They’ve opened some of the French windows to let in some cold air since the dancing was turning a little feral. We could sit on a bench—it’s dark enough that nobody will see us.” He grins. “We can even sit back to back if you like.”
I give him an eye roll, but we end up doing what he says. Zachary fills an embossed paper plate with finger foods and covers it with another paper plate. He half-hides behind me—a ridiculous notion since he’s now taller than me—as we make our way through the crowd of dancing bodies and past bored teachers to one of the windows.
Outside, the evening air is cool and crisp and full of the scent of trees and dewy grass and the sweet perfume of honeysuckle.
We make our way to one of the marble benches lining the path, picking one that’s half-hidden in the shadows cast by the spiky branches of an enormous juniper tree. We don’t sit back to back but shoulder to shoulder. Zachary’s arm is warm against mine. He lifts the makeshift cover off the food and eats. He keeps the plate on his lap and doesn’t make any attempt to offer me food or prompt me to eat.
We sit for a while, him eating and me preparing myself to eat. That involves a sort of inner ritual where I remind myself how all human beings need nutrients for survival and that eating is necessary and that it’s okay for me to do it, right now.
When I finally reach for the food, Zachary doesn’t look down. He just stares ahead, his eyes glazed over in thought.
Surprising myself, I’m the first one to break the silence.
“You should have asked someone else to come with you.”
He turns. In the darkness of the night and the shadows of the junipers, I can barely make out his features.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because being at this stupid party alone is the most depressing thing that’s happened so far in Spearcrest.”
He lets out a low, soft laugh. “Mm, yes.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “You should have said yes, then.”
There’s no resentment or anger in his tone, only a wry sort of amusement that makes him sound far older than he is.
“It didn’t feel like a fair thing to do.”
“Making us both endure this party alone is unfair.”
“I specifically advised you to ask someone else.”
“And I specifically told you I only ever intended to ask you.”
I give him an unimpressed look, which I’m sure he can see about as much as I can see his expression—hardly at all.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t have options. I know you and your friends are the most popular boys in our year.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t have options. I didn’t need options. I made a choice and that choice was you. That’s all.”
“Why me?”
He laughs again, this time soft and mischievous.
“Who’s fishing for compliments now, Theodora?”
My cheeks flush with heat, and I’m thankful for the cover of darkness. “I don’t place value in flattery.”
“A compliment isn’t the same as flattery.”
“What if I told you there’s no need for either if you just answer the truth?”
“I like the truth,” he says. “It has this nice, clean, stark quality to it. But sometimes, speaking truthfully and speaking the truth don’t mean the same thing.”
“That’s a nothing sentence—you love those.”
He leans closer as if trying to peer into my eyes even through the darkness. I don’t move back, refusing to retreat.
“A nothing sentence?” he repeats.
“A sentence where it sounds like you’re saying something meaningful, but you’re not actually saying anything at all.”
“I’ve never spoken such a sentence in my life.”
“You use them all the time when debating. It’s your signature style. Every time your team loses, it’s because you’ve used one, and I’ve pointed it out to my team.”
There’s a moment of silence that spins and glimmers like a cosmos between us. It’s not uncomfortable or awkward. It’s not even hostile. It’s like intimacy but without affection.
“How’s your team going to win next year?” he asks in a light tone. “Now you’re about to lose your secret weapon.”
“I’ll just have to find a new weakness of yours to exploit.”
“You’ll struggle to find one.” I can almost hear the arrogant smile on his mouth. “You might wish to consider beating me fair and square with strong arguments and clear logic.”
“I’ll do that too, don’t worry.”
He lets out a sigh that turns into a laugh, and I laugh too. The summer night air is cooler, and a plume of wind brushes against me, making me shiver. Zachary crumples the now-empty paper plates and stands to throw them into a nearby bin.
When he’s done, he returns to the bench and stands in front of me, reaching his hand out to me.
“Shall we go back in?”
“Alright.”
I give him my hand, and he helps me up, even though I don’t need his help. For a moment, we just stand near each other, his hand still on mine, our fingers brushing in a delicate touch. His presence is bright and warm next to mine, the heat of it thawing the ice of me.
Zachary finally releases my hand, and we cross the pebbled path back to the French window we escaped through.
Right before we step through it, Zachary turns to me and says, “Since we’re both stuck here alone and it’s too early to leave, shall we dance together?”
Now that we’re standing in the violet and silver lights of the ballroom, the darkness can no longer conceal the flush in my cheeks, so I answer quickly, giving him no time to search for an answer on my face.
“Yes.”
He leads me inside to the dance floor. The string quartet has moved on from the more formal waltzes of earlier and is now playing scintillating renditions of modern songs.
Zachary wraps his arm around my waist. He holds me close but not close enough to press my body into his. My senses are full of him—his presence, his warmth, his intensity, his scent. We dance, and the moment is soft and unusual and special.
We dance, and although I would sooner have died than admit it to him, Zachary was right.
I should have said yes to him when he asked me to the dance.
