Theodora
kiss, didn’t you?” I ask. “My first kiss, right?”
Zachary nods. His eyes glitter with hunger. Desire ripples through him; I see it in the tightening of his fists, the slight shudder that runs up his spine, and the sinking of his teeth into his bottom lip.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Your first kiss.”
“Well, you can’t give me that,” I tell him. “Someone beat you to it. But you can give me my second… no, my third… well—” I laugh. “You can give me a kiss, anyhow.”
Pain and anger flash across Zachary’s expression, too quick and raw for him to conceal.
“Busy summer, Dorokhova?” he asks, a sharp edge beneath his ostentatious amiability.
“My summer was awful, as you well know, Blackwood,” I answer, matching his false courtesy, “but parties are always so rife with temptation, don’t you agree?”
“I thought you were too strong to give in to temptation,” Zachary sneers. “That armour of yours must be made of glass to shatter so easily.”
“Plenty of ways to kiss with armour on,” I say with a smile.
“And was it everything you could dream of?” he asks suddenly, almost interrupting me. “Was your chosen purveyor worthy of you?”
“I think so. Someone worthy of being your friend should be worthy of my kisses, no?”
He laughs, sharp and unamused. “My friends would never dream of kissing you. They’d never dare.”
“Luca would,” I say, thinking of Luca’s feral laughter earlier, his repulsive offer.
Zachary’s entire body goes stiff. “Luca kissed you?”
“I never said that,” I answer.
Pinning my lie on Luca is a perfect solution. One, because whatever code of honour the Young Kings have between them, Luca doesn’t seem to care. Two, because Luca would probably go along with my lie out of nothing but sadistic amusement. And finally, most importantly, because Zachary hurt me, and I want to hurt him back.
“So much for this prize, then,” I say, filling the silence left by Zachary, who stands frozen and jaw clenched in front of me. “Maybe next time offer me something you can actually give me.”
With the same satisfied smirk he gave me earlier, I turn and leave.
Outside the study hall, the silence is almost deafening. I’m far drunker than I’ve ever been before, and the darkened corridor sways around me as I walk. At the end of the corridor, a face appears in the gloom, startling me.
I draw closer and let out a breathy laugh of surprise.
A marble bust of Apollo on a plinth—the god of music, poetry and archery. I draw closer until I’m standing right in front of him. I stare into the empty eyes and trace with my fingertips the curls of his hair, the folds of the cloak he wears thrown over one shoulder.
He’s handsome and beardless, with an earnest expression—almost a frown—and the slight pout of his pillowy lips is rendered in loving details by the sculptor.
I lean forward, close my eyes, and press my lips to Apollo’s.
The marble is cold under my lips—a metaphor for the coldness inside my heart. I lied to Zachary for pride, and I hurt him for vengeance, but I feel no satisfaction, no triumph.
I don’t feel anything at all.
his Meditations, “How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it”. Easy to say when you lean towards the philosophy of Stoicism, which values logic over everything else.
Letting logic rule your actions is a noble goal, but how does it work when alcohol takes over and suddenly you’re acting out of pure, petty impulse?
And does that mean that the natural impulse of humankind is towards emotion and that logic is, therefore, unnatural?
I don’t know. I used to think there was an answer to everything, so long as I worked hard enough to find it. Now, I’m two months into my last year of college, two months into the Apostles programme, and all I know for certain is that I know nothing at all.
Well, no, I know something for certain.
That my actions during the study hall party have consequences. I realise this first in literature class, my first time seeing Zachary after the party.
We sit next to each other, of course, since every English teacher in Spearcrest seems to be under the impression that the only way for us to achieve top marks is if we are helping each other, not realising that the only thing driving us is competition, not cooperation.
Zachary is there first, already sitting down when I enter the classroom. I considered not turning up at all, but I’ve been doing exceptionally well in literature and can’t bring myself to give Zachary a potential advantage over me by missing a class. I slink into the room, clutching my bag, and sit down quickly, taking out my books and letting my hair fall like a curtain between Zachary and me.
If we don’t make eye contact and don’t speak, and never interact with one another ever again, then everything will be okay. That’s my lie of the day, and I hold on to it like an amulet against an angry god.
“Alright, folks, today is the moment we’ve all been dreading—act five scene two of Othello. When we first began the play at the start of September, I asked you all to read up to act five but no further. Can any of you guess why?”
A girl somewhere in the room raises her hand. “Because you wanted us to make predictions about how it would turn out?”
Professor Elmahed shakes her head. Another girl raises her hand. “Because you wanted to watch us suffer?”
Professor Elmahed laughs. “Am I so transparent? Now—my instructions were clear, and I asked nicely. So why do I know for a fact some of you defied my instructions and read this scene already? I suspect some of you have even finished the play already.”
She’s standing in the middle of the desks, a bit behind the desk I share with Zachary, but I can still feel the weight of her gaze on us.
“How do you answer my accusation, Theodora?” she asks.
I sigh. “I’m sorry, Professor.”
“Zachary?” she asks.
Zachary turns to look at her, and I allow myself to sneak a look at his profile as he speaks. “I did read it, Professor, although I won’t apologise. I had read it before the class—I’m sure you understand there’s a limited pool of classical literature featuring central characters of colour.”
“Mm.” Professor Elmahed’s lips quirk in amusement. “What an excellent answer, Zachary. A politician’s answer. Still, since you both have read the scene before, you’re best qualified to bring life to these characters. I know you’ll both do the scene justice.”
My heart sinks, and I cringe into my chair. Zachary loves reading aloud and is always one of the first volunteers, but I’m the opposite. Reading out loud in front of the class makes me almost shrivel with anxiety.
But I know better than to refuse Professor Elmahed. Even if I refused point blank to read, she’s the kind of teacher who is perfectly comfortable sitting in excruciating silence, waiting for me to bend to her will.
Before either of us can say anything, Professor Elmahed flips open her copy of the play with a theatrical gesture.
“Act five, scene two,” she reads. “A bedchamber in the castle: Desdemona in bed asleep. A light…” Professor Elmahed pauses heavily. “Is burning. Enter Othello.”
“How would you like me to read Othello in this scene, Professor?” Zachary asks, looking up from the page. “Sad? Reluctant? Angry? Determined?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Zachary? How would Othello feel?”
“Hurt,” Zachary says immediately. “Like he’s about to lose everything. Like he’s already lost everything.”
Professor Elmahed nods, and Zachary begins Othello’s monologue.
“It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul—”
His voice is deep and almost shakes with emotion. He reads on, bringing a world of pain to Othello’s voice as he considers the consequences of taking Desdemona’s life, as he realises killing her will be a point of no return, something he can never take back or undo.
But Othello interrupts his monologue—he must wake the sleeping Desdemona up so that he can confront her. And even though he’s about to kill her, he loves her still—he loves her desperately.
That’s why he wakes her up with a kiss.
Zachary pauses at the end of his line to let Professor Elmahed read the stage directions. She does so in a hushed tone of reverence.
“Kissing her,” she reads. She looks up and asks, “How do we think he kisses her?”
“Like a first kiss,” Zachary answers immediately. “With all the tenderness and reverence and importance of a first kiss.”
“It’s their last kiss, actually,” I say, my patience finally snapping. “And he’s about to kill her. He kisses her with a liar’s kiss, a traitor’s kiss.”
Zachary’s jaw clenches, but his voice remains stony.
“She’s the love of his life. Every single kiss between them is a first and last kiss, every single kiss is momentous. That’s what love does. It heightens everything, it makes everything raw and intense and important. Every touch, every word, every strawberry-spotted handkerchief—and yes, every kiss.” He gives me a sharp, sudden smile. “One day, Theodora, you’ll kiss someone you actually love. Maybe then you’ll understand.”
My mouth drops open. I look up at Professor Elmahed, whose eyes have widened. I’m speechless, and heat floods my cheeks in a way that has me praying to every saint that I’m not blushing.
Professor Elmahed lets out an incredulous laugh. “When literature touches true emotions, it can often be easy for the line between fiction and reality to blur. Zachary, let me remind you that Othello is not a real person, and neither is Desdemona—neither is their kiss, for that matter. Theodora, on the other hand, is a real person, and you just spoke to her in a way you perhaps should not have. Consider apologising to her after class—privately. Now let’s resume reading, please.”
We finish reading the scene—Othello sounds hurt and desperate but never remorseful, and Desdemona is full of anger and sorrow. We let our emotions bleed right into the characters, and everyone watches us like we’re a little insane.
Maybe we are.
