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The following week, I deliver a handwritten letter to Mr Ambrose’s secretary, politely declining his invitation. Instead of going to the meeting in his office, I go for a long walk around the outer rims of the Spearcrest campus.
I want to cry, but, of course, I can’t. I’ve not cried since I was a little girl.
No matter how often I’ve wanted to.
Luckily for me, it’s raining. I let the raindrops roll down my cheeks, weeping the tears I don’t get to weep.
Chapter 22
Poetic Analogies
Zachary
BeinginvitedtoMrAmbrose’s Apostles is an honour I long coveted.
Year after year, watching the Year 13 students gather after school to attend the seminars in Mr Ambrose’s office, I couldn't help but envy them. I imagined how I would feel if I wasn’t invited—if Mr Ambrose hadn’t deemed me one of the brightest minds of Spearcrest.
I imagined such a scenario only to shake my head with an inner smile. As if Mr Ambrose wouldn’t choose me. Mr Ambrose is like me, an alumnus of Spearcrest. He attended Oxford, like I intend to do. He studied classics, a sister subject to my dream alma mater, philosophy. Like me, he is a son of politicians who chose the path of academia and education.
I knew Mr Ambrose wouldn’t pick me because of those things.
In almost seven years at Spearcrest, I’ve never seen Mr Ambrose allow anything to influence his actions aside from his own mind and convictions. Flattery and threats slide off him like water over feathers.
Secure in the knowledge Mr Ambrose chose me because I’m worthy, how could I decline this invitation?
The challenge will be undeniable, of course, and I have no doubt Mr Ambrose didn’t exaggerate the gruelling hard work ahead, but I’d face these challenges a hundred times for the sake of the prize at the end of the programme.
Not the Oxford scholarship or even the mentorship of Lady Ashton. Though worthy prizes, they pale in comparison to the triumph of finally, undeniably beating Theodora for academic achievements.
After so many years of seeing our names linked at the top of the results list, an eternal stalemate that kept proving to both of us that neither of us won—this competition will break the stalemate once and for all.
Theodora might not be in top form right now—whatever happened over the summer clearly impacted her—but she’s not one to give up. If I was beaten and bleeding out, I would scrape myself off the floor if it meant competing against her, and I know she would too.
The tug of war between us, this battle that’s been raging for so many years, is set too deep into our lives. She can’t avoid it any more than I can.
The Apostles programme will be our final arena, our final battle. There’s never a moment when I don’t imagine meeting Theodora on the battlefield.
Until the week is over and I arrive at Mr Ambrose’s office as per his instructions. Out of the twelve students he invited last week, eight came.
Eight students, including myself.
But not Theodora.
Couldshebelate?
Theodora is never late, but it would make more sense in my mind that Theodora would be late rather than absent. Mr Ambrose invites us all to sit and gives us a breakdown of what we’ll be doing in September and October. He hands us schedules, reading lists, and booklets of material he wants us to read before the first lecture the following week. I listen to him restlessly, glancing at the door every few minutes.
I expect Theodora to show up the entire time, even when Mr Ambrose wraps up by congratulating and then thanking us for being part of the programme, even when he finally dismisses us.
My mind is a roar of questions as I fold my sheaf of papers into my satchel and stand. I let the others leave, looking at Mr Ambrose, who’s leaning back against his desk, his arms folded. We both remain silent until we’re alone.
“Where is she?” I ask. My voice comes out low and rough as if I’m unwell.
I feel unwell.
I feel as if a deep black pit has opened in my guts, and everything inside me is sinking.
“Theodora has chosen to decline my invitation.” Mr Ambrose’s face is as calm as usual, and it’s difficult to work out whether the sadness and disappointment I hear in his voice are real or a projection of my own emotions.
