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She’s a pale, thoughtful girl, introverted and principled. Even though she’s a year younger than me, she intimidates me a little with how serious she is. But, unlike my Spearcrest friends, Inessa likes to talk about real things.
As we grow closer, we talk about our parents, our homes, Russia. She tells me about her siblings, and I tell her about my grandparents.
Like me, Inessa is a hard worker and an avid reader, although she favours religious and historical texts, whereas I favour poetry and literature. Still, that makes our conversations more interesting. Soon, I find myself seeking her out, spending my precious free time sitting on her bed or strolling through the lawns, talking about our lives at Spearcrest, our plans for the future.
“I can’t wait to go to university,” I tell her one day. “I hope I get to study in Oxford—it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
“Would you not like to come to Russia?” Inessa asks, turning her big grey eyes up at me. “You could go to St Petersburg University—it is the oldest and greatest university in Russia, you know.”
“I never thought of it,” I said. “My Russian isn’t great, I’m not fluent like you.”
“I could teach you if you wanted.”
I smile. “As if either of us has the time.”
“I would make the time for you, Dora,” Inessa said, squeezing my arm. “If it means I can still see you after we leave Spearcrest.”
I squeeze her arm and say nothing, but there’s a little ache that sets in my heart that day.
Worryingaboutthefutureof my friendship with Inessa is a luxury I soon can’t afford anyway. There’s simply no time.
Since I ended Year 9 tying with Zachary at the top of every class for the third year running, I’m determined to win outright this year. So I double my efforts with everything I possibly can, and I work harder than I ever have before.
But for every victory I painstakingly earn, Zachary sweeps by and effortlessly gets his own.
I come out on top of the class in chemistry in the winter exams, but Zachary gets invited to Doctor Zheng’s Advanced Physics for upper school students. I become captain of my debate team, but Zachary becomes captain of his. I become a prefect, but Zachary wins at a national chess tournament. A teacher enters some of my creative writing pieces into a national competition, which I win, but Zachary writes an essay on the myth of Echo and Narcissus in Latin class that receives full marks and ends up in a display case outside Mr Ambrose’s office.
I don’t resent Zachary his successes—they drive mine, after all.
What I resent is the ease with which Zachary achieves those successes. He never seems tired, or overworked, or stressed. He looks as if every challenge is something he embraces, even relishes. Worst of all, he seems to be enjoying himself.
Spearcrest is a furnace, and the heat of it is forming Zachary into a diamond—strong and brilliant.
As for me—I’m just burning alive.
Chapter 10
Staghorn Fern
Zachary
ThefirsttimeIhave a panic attack, I’m sitting outside Mr Ambrose’s office.
The meeting I’m about to have with him isn’t serious—I just want to discuss early entry to the Latin exam so that I can start the Latin A-level early and give myself room to study other subjects when I’m in the upper school. My Latin teacher’s already discussed it with him, but Mr Ambrose wants a more informal discussion before we make any decisions.
I sit in the same green chair I always sit in when I’m waiting outside his office. It faces his door, and the light from the window falls right on it. Even though Mr Ambrose is finishing a meeting with a teacher, I keep my posture straight while I wait for him, unwilling to let him catch me slumping in my chair.
My fingers are laced in front of me, my arms resting on my thighs. I look at my hands, at the watch around my wrist.
When it happens, it happens for no reason whatsoever.
I’m not thinking of anything particularly stressful. I’m not even having a particularly stressful day—especially compared to the days I’ve had recently.
Out of nowhere, my heart lurches. It’s a sickening sensation, and I clutch my chest, startled. My heartbeat accelerates, and each beat is a tremor, a horrible shock inside my ribs. My fingers dig into my chest, and I realise, with stone-cold certainty, that I’m having a heart attack.
I fall forward out of my chair, hitting the ground on my knees and elbows. A dull groan leaks from me—a sound of absolute terror. My mind, at this moment, isn’t a cacophony of thoughts—it’s the opposite. It’s calm and empty.
I watch myself as if from afar, and I know I’m going to die.
