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She turns her head sharply at the sound of my voice and immediately relaxes with a roll of her eyes.
“Ugh, Zach, I’m not in the mood. There’s a reason I didn’t answer your knocks. Can’t you take a hint?”
I ignore her and climb over the railing that separates the two balconies. I stand next to her and take the bottle out of her hands. She glares at me but lets me take it. I glance down at the label and lift an eyebrow.
“Whisky? Really?”
She shrugs. “Men love girls who drink like men.”
“Since when do you care what men love?”
With a roll of her eyes, she snatches the bottle back from me.
She’s changed—not just from when she was a child, but since the last time I saw her. She’s only fifteen, but she has the confidence and attitude of someone older. She reminds me of the scintillating party girls of Spearcrest, Kayana Kilburn, Seraphina Rosenthal, Camille Alawi—the way they carry themselves with that mixture of supreme confidence and desperate need.
Like the world belongs to them, but also like they belong to the world.
“I know Dad told you I’m transferring to Spearcrest,” she snaps. “And you’re obviously here to ask me what happened, so ask already.”
“What happened?”
“I was dating a teacher. The school found out. That’s all.”
My eyes widen at her words, my mouth dropping open, but she continues in a sour tone. “Please don’t bother. He lost his job, and I was forced to transfer schools, and now I get to spend the next year away from friends and being spied on. We’ve both been punished, so spare me the telling-off.”
“I’m not our father,” I tell her. “It’s not my job to tell you off.”
“Hah, right.” She takes a swig of her bottle and hands it to me. I despise whisky, but I drink anyway. I hand her the bottle back, and she takes it slowly, glancing up at me. “Are you… disgusted with me?”
I shake my head. “No, not disgusted. I suppose I’m… disappointed.”
I realise how it sounds as soon as I say it. Zaro’s entire body grows stiff, but instead of the angry tirade I expect, she bursts out into icy laughter.
“Of courseyou’re disappointed!” She throws her head back in a hollow cackle. “Just like Dad—just like always. You know what I loved about Jerome?” She’s not laughing now. Her tone is hard and hurt. “He never made me feel like I was a disappointment.”
I swallow. I want to say something comforting, but I can’t help but say the truth instead. “That’s because he wasgroomingyou, Zaro.”
She watches me for a long moment. When she finally replies, her voice is low and soft and sad.
“Want to know a little secret, Zach? I’m not some naive teenager. I know exactly what it was. I knew about the age gap between us—and, before you say anything, the power imbalance. I knew exactly what he was doing—but I also knew exactly whatIwas doing. And do you want to know the sad, ugly, pathetic truth? Grooming or not, Jerome is the first person who ever made me feel like I was enough.” She pushes off the balcony and throws me a cold look. “So if you’re going to judge me, go ahead. But judge me for the right reasons.”
And then she walks away from me, slamming her window shut and shoving her curtains closed.
Thefinaltableauinmy triptych of summer misfortune comes several nights later, over dinner.
My parents, who are still icing Zaro out with a sort of courteous silent treatment, are recollecting their days in Cambridge, where they met.
My father is just finishing an anecdote when he laughs and says to me, “That’s old Professor Wyle for you. I should get in touch with him—ask him to keep an eye on you and make sure you have a great supervisor. You know how it is—politics is all about who you know.”
He says all this so casually I barely register it at first. When his words finally sink in, I pause with my fork inches from my mouth.
“I’m not going into politics.”
My father laughs and waves a hand, the thick gold crest on his ring catching the light. “Of course you are. You’re a Blackwood.”
“Be that as it may, but I’m still not going into politics.”
My father stiffens in his seat, and my mother’s posture, too, becomes almost imperceptibly more rigid.
