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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 ofOthello. 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.
