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“Promise me, Theo.”
“I promise.”
He smiles and then darts out of the classroom, leaving his leather satchel in the seat next to mine. My head is still spinning, so I fold my arms on the desk and rest my forehead on them.
I close my eyes. Zachary called me Theo. He’s never called me that before.
Theo.
It’s short, boyish and affectionate. It doesn’t suit me at all, but I like it.
I like it because of the way Zachary said it, without explanation, as if my name takes enough space in his world to necessitate a nickname.
As if the lie I told him before—that we are friends—is actually the truth.
Zacharyreturns,carryingabrown paper bag against his chest.
I watch him with a slight frown as he hurries back to our desk and sets the things out of his paper bag: some plates, glasses, cutlery. A bottle of wine, bread, and two containers of food still warm enough to steam up the lids.
Once his little picnic is assembled, Zachary dishes out some food on both plates and pours a little wine into both glasses.
“Where on earth did you get wine?” I ask, staring at his display.
“The kitchens, of course.”
“The kitchen staff gave you wine?”
He smiles at me—a victor’s smile, a hero’s grin. “I asked nicely.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m sure you won it with your charm and not just because your father is a generous financial patron of Spearcrest Academy.”
He lets out a laugh. “How long have you been keeping that particular bullet loaded in the chamber of your mind?”
As he speaks, he pulls his plate towards him and picks up a fork and knife. He doesn’t touch the second plate he made, doesn’t push it in my direction, doesn’t even point or look at it. He eats without prompting me to do the same as if it doesn’t matter to him what I do with the food he’s put on that plate.
“I wasn’t taking a shot,” I concede. “I don’t know why I feel it’s my responsibility to keep you humble.” He half-rolls his eyes with an amused smirk, so I add, “Maybe I’m just scared your ego will inflate so much you’ll explode one day.”
“I’m as modest as a monk,” Zachary replies.
“Does that make me the divinity that keeps your bald head bowed in devotion?”
“Always,” he says, “my beloved goddess.” His tone is no longer mocking but deep and sincere.
I glance down at the plate in front of me, my stomach squirming. Spoonfuls of a creamy vegetable bake and an array of greens. There’s sliced-up steak in some of the containers, but he didn’t place any on my plate. I’ve never told him I was vegetarian—but of course, Zachary would never presume to know my dietary habits.
When he calls me a goddess with such reverence, the plate he’s placed on the table in front of me, with its accompanying cut of wine and slice of bread, appears to me in a new light.
Is this Zachary’s worship? His offerings at the altar of my well-being?
I pull the plate to me and pick up my fork, staring at the food.
When I started following my mother’s dietary plans all those years ago, I was so certain I would always remain in control. I wasn’t naive, not even back then. Just like my mother, I was well aware of what an eating disorder was—I thought I was clever enough that I would never allow my relationship with food to become dysfunctional, to tilt into the territory of illness.
Maybe this is punishment for my hubris: this sickening sensation every time I look at a plate of food. The wave of panic, the desperation to ascertain control through small, manic gestures—cutting up my food into tiny pieces, breaking bread into a line of morsels.
Does Zachary know? Can he tell?
Does he think it’s pathetic that I can’t even fulfil one of the most basic human functions?
