Nobody in Particular(11)

Unfortunately, the celebrations lasted well into the night, and by the time I made it to Bramppath I barely had time to lay my head on the pillow before it was time to meet with the headmaster and prefects. Somehow, I made it through a day’s worth of classes—though I couldn’t tell you a single word that fell from a professor’s mouth all day—and I nearly made it to my room at the end of it all. In fact, I was only meters away from Dewitt, and the sweet oblivion of sleep, when the headmaster flagged me down in the middle of the courtyard and asked me to meet him in his office. I would have dearly loved to give him a graphic list of things I would rather do—for example, drive a searing hot poker through my eyeball—but I find it’s best to start the school year off on the right foot, and so I swallowed my words and turned on my heel.

And here I have been sat for over five minutes. Five excruciatingly quiet minutes.

The polished chestnut wood seems every bit as appealing as a goose-feather pillow at this moment. I’m in the middle of debating whether I have long enough to sneak in a nap when the headmaster hurries in, juggling a stack of papers and notebooks. “My apologies, Rosemary. A lot to do on the first day.”

He drops the paperwork onto the desk with a thump loud enough to shock me from my exhausted haze, and I straighten at once. “That’s fine, sir. May I ask…?”

“Oh, you’re not in trouble,” the headmaster assures me, taking a seat and folding his hands before him. “I just wanted to check in with you. See how you’re handling everything.”

I take care to keep my expression measured. “Everything?”

“Your new role, the new building…”

The headmaster is one of those people who can effectively communicate exactly what they mean just through the gleam in their eye, regardless of the message their body language would otherwise send. Right now, he’s doing just that. His bottom lip is sticking out, and one broad shoulder is raised in a shrug, and he’s tossed up one knobby-fingered hand in a manner that’s clearly meant to convey carelessness. But his eyes—his eyes are saying he’s certain I know exactly why he’s asking after me.

And, of course, I do.

“I would say everything’s going as well as could be expected,” I say. “Given…”

I wave my own hand now, mirroring his gesture.

“The circumstances,” he finishes for me.

“Yes.”

The circumstances. It is, I suppose, an efficient way to summarize the events of the last half year. The night in Amsterdam—its consequences—the aftermath—the backlash from the public—the disappointment from my parents—the judging eyes that seem to fall on me throughout every conversation at every family event. Molly.

Oscar.

As soon as his name appears in my mind, I wipe it clear. I do my best to think of him as little as possible. There’s no good in it. What happened, happened, though if thinking of it could somehow rearrange the events of June, then I would. I would think through every second, relive every moment in vivid, graphic detail, again and again if I must, until what I did was finally undone. But as it is, dwelling on it achieves nothing of any real importance.

I tried, once. I let myself think his name, and instead of pushing it away, I let my mind follow the path that name led it down. For perhaps ten seconds, I allowed myself to understand—really grasp—what happened that night.

It felt like drowning.

I haven’t allowed it since.

“I have to admit,” I say, “I was surprised to receive the prefect offer.”

The headmaster studies me for a long time. For now, his eyes and body language are perfectly aligned in their earnestness. “Do you know why I chose you for the position, Rose?” he asks finally.

“I hope it wasn’t out of pity, sir.”

It’s impolite of me, I know it is, but the words leave my mouth before I can censor them. That’s what sleep deprivation will do to a person, I suppose.

He raises his bushy gray eyebrows and purses his lips. “It was not out of pity,” he says, in a tone that is surprisingly gentle. “Do you know who I believe is the least likely person to do something reckless and ill-advised?”

I meet his eyes. “Who, sir?”

“Someone who has recently done something reckless and ill-advised, and is paying dearly for it.”

I tear my eyes from his, staring at his desk instead. My mouth goes dry, and my upper lip twitches against my will. His words land heavy. I have, after all, already made a vow to myself—multiple vows, really—to toe the line perfectly this year. For the rest of my life, too, if I can manage it, but this year seems like a reasonable starting point.

I intend to never experience anything like these last three months again.

When I don’t reply, the headmaster continues, gentler still. “I wonder if you might reconsider my offer of grief counseling.”

“No, thank you,” I say.

“Our psychologist, Miss Billows, is well equipped to help.”

“I’m certain she’s wonderful at what she does,” I say. “But I’m not grieving.”

“Rose—”

“I’ve met all of my commitments,” I go on, speaking over him. Rude again. “I completed all my holiday reading preparations. I’m not housebound, I’m not antisocial, I’m not in tears. I feel fine.”