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Truetohisword,Zachary goes to the Summer Ball alone. Even if he hadn’t, he would still stand out amongst the other boys in our year. Not because he’s better looking than all of them or because he is dressed better.
Zachary stands out like a beacon of light. His confidence, his intensity, the way he carries himself. In a place full of people our age, he stands out like someone older, like someone important. Like a young lord, not a schoolboy.
Everything I work so hard to project—beauty, elegance, intelligence—Zachary exudes innately without having to try.
The Summer Ball is a depressing ordeal without a date, but Zachary doesn’t seem depressed. He stands amongst his friends, talking and laughing. When everybody ends up on the dance floor, he leans against a pillar, sipping his drink and watching thoughtfully.
Later, I even see him chatting with some of the teachers. He stands with one hand in his pocket and the other gesturing confidently as if spending his time with teachers instead of dancing with girls is the most natural thing in the world.
Although I, too, end up sitting out most of the dancing, I don’t approach him. It’s my fault I’m here alone—he asked me to come with him, and I refused. Commiserating would be sweet—doing so with full knowledge I caused this situation would be too bitter.
It’s Zachary who ends up approaching me. He brings me a cup of punch and hands it to me. I take it and sip tentatively but wince at the sugary taste. He drinks his and lifts an eyebrow.
“Not to your taste?”
“It tastes like sugar and chemicals.”
“I can imagine that’s the recipe, yes.” He hesitates, then asks, “Would you like me to bring you something to eat? I noticed you barely touched your food at dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say automatically.
It’s my go-to response anytime anyone mentions food, and the words unspool from my mouth with practised ease. Zachary nods slowly, his eyes on mine.
“Mm. Are you sure?”
His tone is feather light, almost playful. Part of me wants to stick to the safety of my go-to response, but part of me senses the strange, silent companionship that exists between us. I want to lean into it, let it pull me in, lull me.
Zachary doesn’t press me for a response. He simply watches me, waiting for my silence to transform into words.
“I don’t like eating in front of people,” I say finally.
“Oh, right.”
I wonder if he knows I’m only giving him a part of the truth, not all of it. The truth would be too difficult to explain because it would mean telling him I’ve been depriving myself of food for weeks to look good in this dress. The truth would mean telling him that I am always hungry.
“Well,” Zachary says after a few seconds, “if you want, we could steal some snacks from one of those tables and sneak off to the grounds. They’ve opened some of the French windows to let in some cold air since the dancing was turning a little feral. We could sit on a bench—it’s dark enough that nobody will see us.” He grins. “We can even sit back to back if you like.”
I give him an eye roll, but we end up doing what he says. Zachary fills an embossed paper plate with finger foods and covers it with another paper plate. He half-hides behind me—a ridiculous notion since he’s now taller than me—as we make our way through the crowd of dancing bodies and past bored teachers to one of the windows.
Outside, the evening air is cool and crisp and full of the scent of trees and dewy grass and the sweet perfume of honeysuckle.
We make our way to one of the marble benches lining the path, picking one that’s half-hidden in the shadows cast by the spiky branches of an enormous juniper tree. We don’t sit back to back but shoulder to shoulder. Zachary’s arm is warm against mine. He lifts the makeshift cover off the food and eats. He keeps the plate on his lap and doesn’t make any attempt to offer me food or prompt me to eat.
We sit for a while, him eating and me preparing myself to eat. That involves a sort of inner ritual where I remind myself how all human beings need nutrients for survival and that eating is necessary and that it’s okay for me to do it, right now.
When I finally reach for the food, Zachary doesn’t look down. He just stares ahead, his eyes glazed over in thought.
Surprising myself, I’m the first one to break the silence.
“You should have asked someone else to come with you.”
He turns. In the darkness of the night and the shadows of the junipers, I can barely make out his features.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because being at this stupid party alone is the most depressing thing that’s happened so far in Spearcrest.”
He lets out a low, soft laugh. “Mm, yes.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “You should have said yes, then.”
