Page 46 of House of Bass

“They started extremely late in the game, as you know, being found in the late nineties. Since then, they’ve managed to surpass their predecessors. Even participated in the hostile takeovers of many of their competitors.” He starts to write on the chalkboard, asking the class to throw out positives and negatives about their impact on the economy. I sit there taking notes, like a fool, yet I can't help but also feel like I am in the midst of involuntary research, learning.

“In the end, my question for you is that do you think a company like theirs should exist? Do we need them? Or is that simply an excuse that has been fed to let the rich become richer? That’s your homework assignment for next week.”

Many groans follow this and he smiles at me, like he hadn’t used me and my family as his lecture topic. “Next…” he continues, drifting back to the other types of market structure as though the last forty minutes had never happened. There I sit, feeling my presence in the class amounting to little more than a quiet ritual of humiliation, with an obvious goal of testing my composure. Notwithstanding, I prevail and I manage to teach afterwards without breaking it.

“Is there a reason you did all that?” I ask once every last student is out the door.

“Did what?”

“Use me like that. Is that the whole reason you wanted me here in the first place? To pull me into a false sense of security then humiliate me?”

He packs his bag and nears me, in his black suit and white tie, his face stern, “Annabel in case you aren’t aware, Astaeris is a billion dollar company. A company with an effect on the economy. I teach Economics. Even if you weren’t in the room, as its living successor, we would’ve spoken about it.”

“Does that include the homework assignment on the need of us ?” I use air quotes on the word need .

“I brought you on because you wanted my help in your lack of enthusiasm for the course. There is no hidden agenda. Perhaps you just need a reminder as to the kind of business that will one day become yours. Shielding yourself from that helps no one.”

If David was anyone else, I might have thought he was an elaborate plan concocted by my father to convince me to quit ballet entirely. Nevertheless, I feel a little ashamed in my quickness to assume the worst, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have accused you of anything.”

“It’s understandable that trust might not come so easily to you. But maybe letting people in is a way to fix what you feel is wrong with you.”

He walks out leaving me groaning in my idiocy. David has never given me reason to doubt him, paranoia like this made me sound like my father.

✧✧✧

By noon, I make my way to the library, a building whose architectural display never fails to take my breath away. One can spend a lifetime exploring it and still leave corners undiscovered, a personal challenge I had eagerly undertaken during my first year. Our oval room is constantly lively no matter the hour, and so crowded that it is hard to find a seat.

Though many of us hail from wealth, our social lives are no less spirited, and yet beneath the revelry lay a constant undercurrent of competition. A school of this calibre demands it, and even if it does not, the simmering jealousy snaking its way amongst students provided ample personal motivation.

As I wander from room to room, I admire the stunning stained-glass windows and the seemingly infinite shelves of books. The collection of books were uncountable, including fiction that was tailored largely to student demand: the Brontë sisters, Mary Shelley, Charles Dickens, essentially a lot of nineteenth and twentieth-century classics, alongside contemporary writers like King and Patterson. One could not, of course, overlook the Shakespeare section. My personal favourite remains Romeo and Juliet , the greatest romantic tragedy ever written. I have read every single one of his works. Each year for my birthday my father gifts me a copy, sometimes in different editions, of them. They sit on the shelf in my room, rather than the one in the sitting room.

But fiction is not my purpose today. I eventually got to the political economy section of the business school library. The thought of falling behind on my own work, including my teaching assistant duties, fill me with a sense of dread bordering on the dramatic. I know the material as well as the back of my hand, but nerves compel me to review the course thoroughly before those catty first-years find their way to my emails with even more questions.

My blonde hair is neatly tied back in a ponytail, secured with a white bow to match the crisp white blouse and tailored black skirt, complemented by black heeled Ferragamo Mary Janes. I have my nose buried in the book I had been searching for, utterly absorbed, my legs moving almost automatically as I scan the pages, paying no attention to my surroundings. A sudden jolt startles me; the book slips from my hands and clatters to the floor. I look up instinctively, ready to glare at the culprit.

And there I come face to face with Arden. His arms are still brushing against mine, prompting me to shrug him off while my eyes dart around, ensuring no curious onlookers witnessed the moment.

“Did you somehow become blind recently, that you can’t tell where you’re going?” I snap.

“No,” he drawls, “but I think perhaps you might have, considering you bumped into me.”

“Did not,” I gasp.

“Did.”

“Not.”

“Did.”

I growl in exasperation. “It’s entirely impossible for you to admit when you’re in the wrong, isn't it?”

“I can,” he says, and I blink, startled at the admission before he adds, casually, “Except I’m never wrong. About anything.” It’s true, he took pleasure in being an insufferable know it all. I shoot him a scathing once-over.

“Piss off.” I say with spite and a smile. He simply returns it with a smile of his own. It is unnerving, the ease with which he smiles at me now, after years of refusal to look my way unless obliged.

His dark hair flops forward slightly over his thin glasses, and he wears a crisp collared shirt. I blink rapidly to stop myself from falling under his spell, “Don’t you have somewhere to be? It’s Wednesday.” A day he would normally spend in the weekly student union meeting, considering he is president.

“Why don’t you let me worry about my schedule,” he replies lazily. “Let us talk more about how you have been avoiding me.”