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I know what she wants me to say.
That I’m struggling to cope with the workload, that this year has been difficult and that I’m suffering from stress. She wants to diagnose me, to give me a good reason why I randomly had a panic attack.
I don’t resent her. She’s only doing her job. If I was suffering from stress and anxiety, she would be asking me the right questions, and she’d certainly be the right person to help me. And if I needed her help, I’d take it.
But I don’t need her help, and she’s not asking the right questions.
The questions sheshouldbe asking are: are the sacrifices you are making necessary to your success? Is this temporary suffering worth the reward? Are you ready to sleep less, work harder, have more panic attacks if it all means that you get to win against Theodora Dorokhova?
If she asked me those questions, she would know the answers are all yes.
Yes, this is necessary.
Yes, it’s worth the reward.
Yes, I will do anything it takes to win against Theodora.
Otherwise, what would be the point? Who else in Spearcrest—in this world, probably—would make me feel the way she makes me feel? The thrill of her expression when I solve a problem first in maths class? The slight pinch of her lips when my name gets called out before hers as our teacher hands us our marked essays back? The satisfaction of being invited to the sixth form lectures when she’s not?
The sweetness of those moments is worth the bitterness of falling to the floor in front of Mr Ambrose, the tightness in my chest, the constant exhaustion—all of it.
It’s wortheverybitterness.
The nurse, getting nothing but short, formal answers from me, sighs and tells me to be careful. She tells me about burnout and about the importance of rest and recovery. She tells me to look after my mental health, that it’s as important as my physical health. Then she reaches for some leaflets, hands them to me, and tells me she’ll write me a note to excuse me from the rest of today’s classes so I can go back to my room and rest.
“No. Thank you, Miss, but that won’t be necessary.”
She watches me for a moment. Her eyes are full of sympathy, but her sympathy is about as necessary as her note. I need neither. Neither is going to get me to the top of my classes, neither is going to buy me a victory against Theodora.
In the end, she sighs. “Alright, Zachary, that’s fine. Feel free to come see me if you’re ever worried about anything. And don’t forget to read the booklet I gave you on panic attacks—it’s better to be prepared for things like that, to have coping mechanisms.”
On that, we can agree. “Of course, Miss, please don’t worry. I’ll have a read of all the booklets you’ve given me.”
She nods, clearly not completely satisfied with the exchange, but since there’s nothing I can say to soothe her, I thank her, excuse myself and leave the infirmary.
Outside the door, I sigh and rub my hand across my too-tight chest and the treacherous heart within it. Then I slide the leaflets into my bag and head straight for the next lesson.
Chapter 11
Sweet Dreams
Zachary
Thefollowingmonths,Icatch myself watching Theodora for signs of weakness—for any indication that she’s finding this year as difficult as I am.
But Theodora remains as impenetrable as ever.
She glides from class to class with the heavy cloak of her pale hair on her shoulders, her face set like stone, unreadable. Over the years, she’s developed a look that’s uniquely hers: raspberry lip gloss and natural make-up aside from her eyeshadow, which is always a delicate colour: mint-green, carnation-pink or periwinkle. She wears almost no jewellery apart from silver earrings, and she always uses the same bag to carry her things, a Kate Spade tote in a pale shade of pink. Her hair, she wears either down or half-up, tied with ribbons or pinned with silver clips.
In class, she carries herself with dignity and still keeps to herself most of the time. The only times she comes out of her shell is when I force her to, and it’s easy enough to do that: all I have to do is be overly critical of something without good enough reason to be or else make a statement where I present my opinion as fact.
In those instances, Theodora will cast me a look of exasperation. Sometimes, she’ll try to bite her tongue, but most of the time, she can’t.
That’s when she comes out of her shell, and that’s when she truly shines. Theodora is an excellent speaker: she doesn’t rush, she enunciates everything, she’s thoughtful and eloquent. I like her voice too: it’s quiet but clear, and it has this musical lilt to it. Her voice suits poetry and it particularly suits Shakespeare. When our English teacher picks her to read out loud, everybody listens like they’re under a spell.
Watching Theodora, though, yields no result. It’s almost impossible to tell what she’s really feeling—ever—so working out whether or not she’s struggling is impossible. She might very well be—she might feel as much panic and anxiety and exhaustion as I do.
She might be haunted by the same terror as me: the paralysing fear of slipping up, of falling behind and never being able to catch up.
