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“I couldn’t take philosophy even if I wanted to, Zachary.” I glance up at him, seeking the hurt that brought him here in his eyes. “I’m sorry. You are right, I do love waging war with you, and I do love philosophy. I would have loved to be in the class with you. I just didn’t have a choice.”
He nods and slowly bites down on his lip, dragging the pillowy flesh with his teeth. My honesty works on him like a soothing balm. The tension melts from his shoulders, and he sighs. “What did you take instead, then?”
“I’m taking English lit, history and Russian.”
“Oh. I thought you already spoke Russian.”
“I speak some. I need to be fluent—I should be fluent. That’s why my father—” I interrupt myself. “That’s why I need to take Russian this year.”
“Ah, I see.” His tone is calmer now, almost gentle. “Want me to ask Iakov to help you?”
“Iakov Kavinski?” I ask. “He knows about as much Russian as I do—we were in the same class last year.”
Zachary, for the first time, looks genuinely surprised. “What? I thought Russian was his first language.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s Ukrainian.”
“I didn’t even know he’d been there.”
“He grew up there.” I lean towards Zachary slightly. “Aren’t you two best friends? Shouldn’t you know this?”
He sighs and drops his head onto his arm, which is still resting against the wooden partition on the desk. “Yes, I should. Iakov isn’t very chatty, though. He keeps his cards close to his chest.” He raises his head and gives me an accusatory glance. “Just like you.”
“Cards, Zachary?” I give him a small smile. “You know I prefer chess.”
“Chess pieces don’t keep secrets—they have no mystery. You always know where they can go and where they’ll end up.” He smirks. “If only it was that easy with you.”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” I wave a hand at him. “You found me here, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I found you here, where I hoped to confront you and get you to change your mind and study philosophy with me. And yet here you are, being a wild card, and telling me you’ll be studying Russian instead—a subject in which you know perfectly well I’m incapable of competing with you.”
His tone is playful, so I keep mine playful too.
“Why do you need me there anyway? Can’t you study philosophy alone—without competition? Or are you scared you’ll become lazy and complacent if I’m not there?”
“Every sword needs a whetstone,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “And in this lovely little metaphor, the sword is…?”
He has the audacity to smile. “My intellect, of course. And yours is the whetstone I’ve been using to sharpen it.”
“Is that so?” I sneer. “And what if you’re wrong, Zachary? What if my intellect is also a sword, and all you’ve been doing these past few years is dulling your blade against mine?”
He tilts his head and gives me a slow, enticing smile.
“I suppose we’ll find out at the end of the year.”
“Not this time.”
He raises a questioning eyebrow.
“This is the first year of A-levels—no formal examinations,” I tell him. “That means no results list. For the first time, we won’t have to see our names next to each other’s at the top of the boards.”
The lazy gold of the slow-setting sun glitters in Zachary’s eyes, which are smiling even when his mouth isn’t.
“What a shame,” he murmurs. “It was a bittersweet sight, but I’ve always thought our names look good next to each other’s.”
Chapter 15
