Zachary
Ambrose’s Apostles is an honour I long coveted.
Year after year, watching the Year 13 students gather after school to attend the seminars in Mr Ambrose’s office, I couldn’t help but envy them. I imagined how I would feel if I wasn’t invited—if Mr Ambrose hadn’t deemed me one of the brightest minds of Spearcrest.
I imagined such a scenario only to shake my head with an inner smile. As if Mr Ambrose wouldn’t choose me. Mr Ambrose is like me, an alumnus of Spearcrest. He attended Oxford, like I intend to do. He studied classics, a sister subject to my dream alma mater, philosophy. Like me, he is a son of politicians who chose the path of academia and education.
I knew Mr Ambrose wouldn’t pick me because of those things.
In almost seven years at Spearcrest, I’ve never seen Mr Ambrose allow anything to influence his actions aside from his own mind and convictions. Flattery and threats slide off him like water over feathers.
Secure in the knowledge Mr Ambrose chose me because I’m worthy, how could I decline this invitation?
The challenge will be undeniable, of course, and I have no doubt Mr Ambrose didn’t exaggerate the gruelling hard work ahead, but I’d face these challenges a hundred times for the sake of the prize at the end of the programme.
Not the Oxford scholarship or even the mentorship of Lady Ashton. Though worthy prizes, they pale in comparison to the triumph of finally, undeniably beating Theodora for academic achievements.
After so many years of seeing our names linked at the top of the results list, an eternal stalemate that kept proving to both of us that neither of us won—this competition will break the stalemate once and for all.
Theodora might not be in top form right now—whatever happened over the summer clearly impacted her—but she’s not one to give up. If I was beaten and bleeding out, I would scrape myself off the floor if it meant competing against her, and I know she would too.
The tug of war between us, this battle that’s been raging for so many years, is set too deep into our lives. She can’t avoid it any more than I can.
The Apostles programme will be our final arena, our final battle. There’s never a moment when I don’t imagine meeting Theodora on the battlefield.
Until the week is over and I arrive at Mr Ambrose’s office as per his instructions. Out of the twelve students he invited last week, eight came.
Eight students, including myself.
But not Theodora.
Theodora is never late, but it would make more sense in my mind that Theodora would be late rather than absent. Mr Ambrose invites us all to sit and gives us a breakdown of what we’ll be doing in September and October. He hands us schedules, reading lists, and booklets of material he wants us to read before the first lecture the following week. I listen to him restlessly, glancing at the door every few minutes.
I expect Theodora to show up the entire time, even when Mr Ambrose wraps up by congratulating and then thanking us for being part of the programme, even when he finally dismisses us.
My mind is a roar of questions as I fold my sheaf of papers into my satchel and stand. I let the others leave, looking at Mr Ambrose, who’s leaning back against his desk, his arms folded. We both remain silent until we’re alone.
“Where is she?” I ask. My voice comes out low and rough as if I’m unwell.
I feel unwell.
I feel as if a deep black pit has opened in my guts, and everything inside me is sinking.
“Theodora has chosen to decline my invitation.” Mr Ambrose’s face is as calm as usual, and it’s difficult to work out whether the sadness and disappointment I hear in his voice are real or a projection of my own emotions.
“Why?” I want Mr Ambrose to think I’m like him—calm in the face of any situation, unshakeable as marble—but unlike him, I can’t keep the emotion out of my voice. “I don’t understand—she’s perfect for this, we…” I don’t even know what to say, so I stop myself and take a deep breath. “I was certain she would accept.”
“She didn’t give me a reason,” Mr Ambrose says. “Neither does she owe me one.”
“But you know, don’t you?” I stare into Mr Ambrose’s hazel eyes, set deep into his grave face, searching for any clue, any information I can draw out of him. “Something’s wrong with her, isn’t it? What is it?”
“Zachary”—Mr Ambrose’s deep voice is solemn—“Theodora’s life is her own. She is entitled to make her own decisions, just as she is entitled to her privacy. I suggest you go speak to her. You’re her friend, she’ll talk to you.”
“Mr Ambrose”—I let out a frustrated laugh—“being Theodora’s friend is like standing next to the mountain instead of far away. It doesn’t matter how close you are, the mountain is still a mountain. You’ll never get to its heart, to what’s inside.”
“Theodora isn’t a mountain, Zachary. Not some mysterious creature from the heavens nor a tightly furled blossom nor any other metaphor your mind might conjure. She’s a young person, just like you. Just like you, she has dreams and hopes and problems and a mind and a heart and a voice. If you’re worried about her, then look after her. If you have questions about her, then ask her.”
“What if she refuses to tell me anything?”
Mr Ambrose sighs.
“My dear boy, she doesn’t owe you anything. Love is neither conditional nor transactional. If you truly love someone, you can’t love them less because they don’t give you what you want. And you certainly can’t expect them to give you what you want just because you love them. That’s simply not how love works.”
Mr Ambrose and I watch each other in silence for a moment. It’s not jarring to me that Mr Ambrose is speaking of love. He sees everything, and my love for Theodora is about as inconspicuous and discreet as a raging inferno.
I don’t even bother to deny it.
I know he’s right anyway. He’s a fiercely intelligent man, and he’s been alive for much longer than I have. His wisdom is something I trust implicitly.
With sincere thanks, I leave his office, determined to be the kind of man Mr Ambrose wants me to be: calm, collected, and mature. I decide to go talk to Theodora, to be composed and mindful, to avoid a confrontation at all costs and to keep my emotions under control.
My determination holds firm until I reach the top floor of the library.
And then I see Theodora.
And then every reasonable thought in my head is obliterated.
usual desk. Her long hair is half gathered in a gold hair claw. She’s wearing a sage-green sweater that looks impossibly soft, the sleeves long almost to her knuckles. When I approach her, she looks up from whatever she’s writing, and her face is small and pretty as a pearl.
The beauty of her melts me completely. It melts the reasonable thoughts out of my head and the measured words out of my mouth.
I didn’t want a confrontation, but my voice is a harsh accusation when I blurt out the question that’s been burning my tongue.
“Why are you refusing to be an Apostle?”
Our gazes meet. The forget-me-not blue of her eyes is highlighted by the delicate pink of her eyeshadow. Her face is a porcelain mask, with no expression marring the fragile surface.
Her emotionless calm kindles my despair like gasoline thrown into a fire.
Laying down her pen, she folds her hands together on the desk, leaning forward slightly to give me a small, mocking smile.
“What is it, Zachary?” she asks. “Is this the blade and the whetstone again? Are you afraid your blade will grow dull without the whetstone of my mind?”
I immediately understand what she’s doing. This is a sharp deflection disguised as a blow. She wants to appear as if she’s striking when she’s only really parrying.
“You know perfectly well that’s not the case,” I answer, narrowing my eyes at her. “Any whetstone can sharpen a blade. I don’t need you in the programme to excel—I need you there so that I can win.”
“Then win against the others.”
“A victory is only worthy if it’s against you.”
“So you’ve said before. But I know you, Zachary—so proud, so competitive. You’d prefer your victories to be against me, but any victory will feed your appetite.”
“No.” My entire body thrums like the chord of a harp after it’s been plucked. “No, Theodora. You can tell yourself this if it helps soothe whatever you feel about your decision, but you’re wrong. I know that doesn’t happen all that often to you—being wrong. But this time, you are. Because the truth is that I’m not competitive by nature and winning means nothing to me. It’s you. I need to win against you. You’re the only person in this world who’s my perfect equal—the only person who is worthy of me. Two beings like us cannot exist without a battle—we’ve been fighting it all along, and we’ll keep fighting it until there’s a victor.”
“God, do you hear yourself?” She sits back, her face set in a sneer. “You’re so arrogant, you don’t even realise how you come across right now.”
“How do I come across right now?”
“Like you’re better than everybody else in the world.”
“I’m not better than everybody else in the world—you are. That’s why it always has to be you, Theodora.”
She lets out a laugh that’s the coldest sound I’ve ever heard, so cold it almost burns.
“Whatever image you’ve created of me in your mind, Zachary, one day you’ll wake up and realise it was just a dream. I’m not an angel or a goddess. I’m just a human being, and I’m certainly not better than everybody else. If I seem like it, it’s only because I’m good at pretending. I’m not better than everybody else. I’m barely as good as everybody else. Just because we’ve tied grades over the years doesn’t mean you and I are trapped in this great cosmic battle of higher wills. This is just a story you’ve told yourself—a story as fanciful as any children’s book you might look down on.”
Her words wash over me, and I let them do so, taking my time to reply. Theodora’s talk of making up stories resonates with me—but not because I’m the one making them up.
“And what fanciful story have you made up to justify not following the programme when you know it’s perfect for you, when you know there’s a hunger deep inside you for knowledge and ideas and debate, when you know how much you want it? What image is it you’ve created to justify your actions, and how will you feel when you wake up?”
I don’t want to be cruel to Theodora, and I don’t want to fight with her. But this is like a debate. Not two sides debating one motion, but two sides debating two motions.
My house believes that Theodora should be a Spearcrest Apostle because there is no other way, because she wants to be there as much as I want her to be there, because neither of us can or should be doing this without the other.
Her house believes something else, something small and dark and ugly I can’t quite get her to spit out. Something which makes her believe that she’s not an angel and a goddess, that she’s barely as good as everybody else around us.
A blatant lie—but the kind of insidious lie that grows deep underneath someone’s skin, sprouts seedlings and grows into something uncontrollable and barbed.
“The truth isn’t whatever you choose to believe, Zach,” she tells me in the severe, almost patronising tone of a schoolteacher. “You don’t get to state your opinion and will it into truth through sheer power of confidence.”
“Fine, Theodora. Since you know the truth and I don’t, why don’t you tell me?”
She stiffens in her seat. At this angle, the glow of a light somewhere behind her catches the pale sheen of her hair and makes it gleam like a golden halo.
How ironic.
“Tell you what?” she asks, her tone as rigid as her posture.
“Why did you turn down Mr Ambrose’s invitation?”
“Why is it so important for me to accept?”
I answer immediately. “Because I know you want to.”
“If you don’t bother telling me the truth, why should I?”
“What truth?” I draw closer, resisting the urge to pull her to her feet, to draw her into the circle of my arms, to force her to speak to me while we’re heart to heart so that I can feel her emotions in the rise and fall of her chest.
“The truth, Zachary. Do you want me in the programme because you think I want to, because of the enrichment of my soul, or because of Andrew Marvell’s perfect parallels?”
I didn’t expect her to go there.
It’s my turn to stiffen—not defensively, but proudly.
“Are you asking me if I want you there because I love you?”
Colour rises to her cheeks. Perhaps she expected me to tiptoe with my words just like she did, to speak in veiled allusions and poetic analogies. But not in this case, not about this.
“You don’t love me,” she hastens to say as if hoping to do some damage control—as if the idea of me loving her is damage that needs to be controlled.
“No,” I answer without shame. The balance of calm and emotion has tipped now. I’m as calm as a sea after a storm; her eyes are wide with panic. “I absolutely, undeniably, inexorably love you.”
