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Defunct Philosopher
Theodora
Attheendofthe first academic day of Year 12, I finish my last class and head straight to the library.
Armed with a reading list a mile long for my new subjects, I climb the broad marble steps up to my usual desk nestled in a corner of the top floor. I lay down my things and hang my blazer on the back of my chair, and I almost jump out of my skin when a dark figure bursts from amongst the bookshelves.
“Why on earth are you not taking philosophy this year?”
Zachary looks different. Not just because I’ve not seen him since the summer and he’s now taller, broader, more handsome—but because he’s all out of sorts, and Zachary is never anything but calm and composed. His hair is longer and slightly ruffled, and his eyebrows are drawn into a thunderous frown.
“Pardon?” I say, not because I haven’t heard him, but because I’m on the back foot and not sure what to say.
“You weren’t in my philosophy class earlier, and when I asked Dr Duvigny why, he told me you weren’t enrolled in the course.”
I sigh and compose myself. Gathering my windswept hair, I smooth it and then twist it into a topknot. It’s so long and heavy now it feels like a constant distraction—a distraction I don’t need right now.
Zachary’s eyes follow my movements, and I wonder if he’s as distracted by my hair as I am.
“I didn’t enrol in the philosophy class,” I answer him. His eyes fall back to mine as soon as I speak. “I’m not sure why this surprises you. I never told you I would enrol.”
“You never tell me anything,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But I’ve spent every Wednesday afternoon for the past—I don’t know, five years?—debating ethics and philosophy with you, so forgive me for assuming you might care about this topic.”
He seems genuinely upset about this. Zachary never displays strong emotion, but he should. It suits him. He has an air of the Byronic hero about him.
Part of me wants to calm him down, to soothe and pacify him, but another part of me wants to stoke the flames of his emotions, watch them burn bright and gold.
The former wins out.
“I do care about philosophy, of course. But as you know, we can only choose three A-levels. Even if I’d argued for a fourth, it wouldn’t have fit into my timetable.”
“What made the cut if philosophy didn’t?” His tone is cold and imperious, but when he steps closer, I’m enveloped in the heat of his presence.
“If you want to know what A-levels I chose, you could just ask.”
“I am asking,” he says.
“You’re disguising your question,” I tell him. “You ambush me with your anger and your demanding tone—” I change my voice, deepening it in a purposely paltry imitation of his voice. “I command you, Theodora, for the sake of the love of philosophy—tell me what A-levels you chose.” I go back to my normal voice. “When what you could have done is come to see me and ask me, quite normally and calmly, what A-levels I’ve chosen.”
He watches me for a moment, his expression softening into something thoughtful and inquisitive. From this close, his cologne is rich and intoxicating, a smokey, woody scent that seems mature for someone his age. I hold my breath because smelling his cologne makes this moment feel intimate even though it’s not.
And the last thing I need in my life is to think about intimacy with Zachary Blackwood.
“What are you going to do now we no longer have debate club?” he asks in a gentle, ponderous voice. He tilts his head. “All that carefully contained belligerence, Theodora. What are you going to do with it now you no longer have a formal outlet?”
The library is quiet at this time of day, especially this floor. The silence is thick and satiny, and the heavy sunlight of early autumn afternoon droops from the cupola and lies like a blanket over us. Zachary’s hair and skin and eyes catch that luxuriant sunlight and he glows like a young god.
I answer in a clipped tone. “Luckily for me, we still have literature class together. I’ll still get to prove you wrong all the time.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “No, no, it’s not the proving me wrong you like, Theodora. It’s what comes before that—the weighing me up, the scratching at me with the tips of your barbed words, the seeking of weak points for you to pierce. That’s the part you like—that’s the outlet.”
“Congratulations,” I reply. “You’re the first person to discover that the best part of a debate is the debate itself.”
He steps forward again, but I retreat once more, and this time, the corner of the desk comes between us to stop his approach. Unfazed by it, Zachary rests his elbow on the corner of the polished wood partition that keeps the desk shielded from distractions.
“I’m not talking about debating,” he says, never dropping my gaze. “I’m talking about you and I and that need we have to wage war.” His lips curl into a sardonic half-smile. “If you cared about debating, you’d be in my philosophy class with me.”
I sigh and look away, busying myself pulling my things out of my bag and finding my reading list.
