Zachary
and only one day left before my final school year begins with a vengeance, I have only one thing left on my mind.
I haven’t seen Theodora since the end of last year—a party in the empty study room which devolved into chaos and from which Theodora disappeared all too fast—and we haven’t spoken since then either.
Last year, in a rare moment of peace and camaraderie, Theodora and I exchanged phone numbers. She never texted me, and I fought long and hard with my pride over whether or not I should text her first.
I did, in the end.
Right in the middle of the holiday, tormented by loneliness and frustration. I tapped on her profile picture: a slightly blurry photograph of a swan in a sparkling lake.
The white feathers remind me of Theodora’s angel wings that time in the forest, the sight of her white skirts floating through the trees as I chased her like a lascivious god chasing a gorgeous nymph.
The instinct that made me follow her into the trees then is the instinct that pushed me to tap on her profile picture in the middle of the holiday. What I truly craved, at that moment, was to see her face. To devour the sight of her like a delicacy: the pretty eyes, the graceful features, the lovely bones underneath the silk skin.
What I did, at that moment, was text her. A short, harmless, cautious text that did nothing to convey the turmoil of desire and longing lashing like ocean waves in a night storm.
It was a risky move, that text, and I held my breath as I sent it. I felt as though I had lain my head upon the wooden block, hoping that the beautiful executioner would lay down her axe and grant me a caress.
My beautiful executioner did nothing; I never received a reply.
So the day before school starts, I make my way to the library, right to the top floor. I approach Theodora’s usual desk, and my heart sinks.
It’s empty.
I sit for a while, thumbing through the pages of Descartes’s Meditations, but I skim the lines without registering them. The thin pages of my paperback turn in my fingers, the whisper of paper like tiny sighs.
My gaze finds the line, “Is there anything more intimate or more internal than pain?”
Descartes seems to be mocking me with that sentence; I close the book with a sigh.
Stuffing the book back into my pocket, I stand and glare at the vacant space where Theodora should be. Why is she not here? Does she not have work she should be doing, books she should be reading? A volume of poetry to pore over or a literary villain to romanticise?
When the sun drops beyond the reach of the cupola, plunging the interior of the library into sudden dusk, I accept defeat and leave.
see Theodora, she’s sitting outside of Mr Ambrose’s office, and I’m struck with a powerful emotion I can’t name.
The only way I can think of describing this emotion is as a sort of reversal of déjà vu, like everything is wrong, upside down, not as it should be.
For one, Theodora and I aren’t alone outside Mr Ambrose’s office. Several students from our year group—all of them familiar faces from the gifted and talented classes—sit or stand in the small waiting area, some conversing, some silent.
Theodora is sitting and silent.
This time, she’s sitting in the blue felt chair I sat in the first time I saw her. The blade of sunlight falling from the window is dimmer today than it was back then, silver and not gold. It falls over her long legs, making her skin gleam like porcelain.
The thing that strikes me the most, the thing that makes my gut clench and my heart sink, is Theodora herself.
She’s changed since the last time I saw her: she’s slightly taller and much leaner. Her hair is so long now it’s well past her waist. The heavy, almost white-blonde strands fall around her like a pale cloak. Her blue eyes are huge in her drawn face. She doesn’t look emaciated, but she doesn’t look healthy either. There’s no colour in her cheeks, and the only colour on her lips is the artificial glaze of her raspberry-pink lip gloss.
I can’t even describe the expression on her face.
Not quite sad, not anxious, not afraid, not pained, not angry.
It’s just… vacant.
My throat feels tight, and for the first time, I don’t quite know what to say to her. She doesn’t seem to notice me. Her eyes have the haze of someone lost deep in thoughts, except that I know what Theodora’s thoughtfulness looks like, and it looks nothing like this.
What’s happened to her? That’s what I want to ask, what I’m desperate to know. In reality, I have no idea what Theodora’s life might look like when she’s away from Spearcrest. Does she live in England? In Russia? Does she travel? Who does she stay with? Does she go out, date, live a normal life? Does she spend time with her family?
Theodora is one of the few students in Spearcrest who’s perfected the art of maintaining a social media presence without compromising any of her privacy. She posts about books she’s reading, quotes she loves, pretty shots of statues or landscapes, and she posts beautiful selfies of her outfits—but none of these things ever give away any information about where she is or what she’s doing.
Something has happened to her during this holiday. Something bad. But what?
The door to Mr Ambrose’s office opens, and he greets us all with a solemn nod before welcoming us into his office.
Everybody follows him inside in solemn silence. We all know exactly why we’re here. I expect we’ve all dreamt of this moment.
Theodora is last to stand, but I wait to let her through the door and enter the office after her. She brushes past me with her gaze still lost somewhere far away. I reach to her and touch her elbow with two fingers.
She looks up. I raise my eyebrows at her, asking her with my eyes what I can’t ask with my mouth. Are you alright? She lifts the corners of her mouth in a wan smile and nods.
It’s not like I’m going to get any answers now, but I still choose to stand next to her seat, close enough that I can smell the sweet fragrance of her perfume, like roses and peaches.
Once we’re all assembled in front of Mr Ambrose’s desk, he sits down and looks us all over. I notice his eyebrow drawing into a shadow of a frown when his gaze sweeps over Theodora, but he doesn’t linger on her or say anything.
Instead, he clears his throat.
“Thank you all for being here. Every single one of you here tonight has been personally selected by me, and you all represent the pinnacle of academic achievement. As such, I’m sure you can all guess why I’ve asked you all here.”
There’s a pause. I don’t need to glance at the others to confirm the veracity of Mr Ambrose’s words. He gives a small but sincere smile and continues.
“It is my honour to officially invite you all to participate in the Spearcrest Apostles programme. I have no doubt most of you are well aware of this programme—its reputation precedes it. Past Spearcrest Apostles represent the programme well and have contributed to its reputation as one of the most challenging academic enrichment programmes in the world. One day, you might very well do the same.
“You all excel in different academic areas—many of you excel at many. But the Spearcrest Apostles programme, above all, is one that seeks to elevate students’ minds and souls. As such, this programme will have a heavy focus on philosophy. Not just the theories and history of philosophy but its ethics and applications. Should you be successful in it, this programme will not only enrich your mind and knowledge—but it will also enrich your spirit, your morality. It will make you a more thoughtful person with a powerful understanding of the world and those who live within it.
“Now—I know you all know the honour being bestowed upon you, but the decision of whether or not to enter should be fully and freely yours. I do not wish to ask anything of you that you are not willing to do. This programme is incredibly demanding: it will include weekly lectures and seminars as well as a variety of projects, challenges, assignments and essays. It is extra-curricular in its most real sense: you will be expected to follow it alongside your A-levels, not instead of them. You will still be expected to attend all your classes and submit all homework, essays and coursework on time.
“I could not possibly exaggerate how demanding this programme is. Every year, more than half of students drop out by the end of the winter term. Your year group is one of the strongest cohorts Spearcrest has seen in a long time. As a result, I predict a particularly high drop-out rate. Many of you will end up choosing to prioritise your grades and university applications—this is understandable and commendable.
“For those of you who wish to pick up the gauntlet, understand that you will need more than hard work to succeed. The Spearcrest Apostles programme carries with it a great and noble pedigree, but it comes without any formal certificate or qualification. However, at the end of the year, I will personally select the best student in the programme—this student will receive a scholarship to Oxford University and will be personally mentored by Lady Alessandra Ashton, Countess of Lyndham, the Vice-Chancellor.”
When Mr Ambrose stops speaking, silence descends upon the room like a heavy mantle.
He was right about everything, of course: we’ve all heard of the Spearcrest Apostles. Nobody has ever managed to get any information about it, though. Past alumni seem to all have a pact to leave the air of mystery surrounding the programme untarnished.
Even my father, who sits on Spearcrest’s board of governors, knows very little about the programme.
I expected it to be as challenging as Mr Ambrose describes it—but I could never have expected the prize he might offer for the best student in the programme.
By the sudden tension in the room—none of us had.
By the sudden tension in the room—I’m not the only one who realises the implication of such a prize.
Mr Ambrose nods solemnly.
“I would like to give you all one week to seriously consider whether or not you wish to accept my invitation. One week—a full week. I do not wish for any answers in the meantime. I ask you all to think about it—really think about it. What you want out of your final year in Spearcrest; if this programme is right for you, if it is something you desire or something you covet. If it will fulfil you or break you. If you decide to accept my invitation, return to my office at the same time next week, and you shall receive your programme schedule for the winter term.”
He stands, thanks us warmly for coming, and then dismisses us from his office, leaving us all reeling.
