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Professor Holland turns out all the lights in his classroom and acts as the Narrator so we can play the party game Mafia, telling us that it’s a useful illustration of intention and deception. Since the professor has been sipping out of a pocket flask all afternoon, I’m not sure he actually believes it will teach us anything, but we all enjoy the game regardless.
Not all the students are happy to be trapped at school when they’d rather be at home with their families. This is peak time for homesickness, especially amongst the Freshmen who aren’t used to being so isolated.
Luckily for me, the only family I care to see is right here at school with me. Cat and I spend hours together making Christmas cards for our friends.
Cat’s cards are, of course, infinitely prettier than mine. She paints landscapes of Kingmakers: the cathedral, the Octagon Tower, the view from the Solar, and so forth.
I choose simple and achievable motifs like a snowflake or a sprig of mistletoe. Since mine are easier, I finish before she does, and spend the rest of the time working on my story, or my “script” as I’ve begun to think of it, despite how pretentious that sounds.
It’s extremely pleasant to scribble away while listening to the swish of Cat’s paintbrush and the music playing on Anna’s speaker. We snack on paper-wrapped oranges brought up from the dining hall, and hand-made caramels bought in the village.
We’re working in Chay and Anna’s room because it’s larger than mine. Cat and I could barely fit in my bedroom at the same time, and there definitely wouldn’t be space for art supplies.
When I hear a knock on the door, I assume it’s Chay or Anna coming back from class. Instead, I find Miles standing there, looking spruce in a perfectly-fitted white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show his tanned forearms. Miles always looks tan, even when we haven’t had sunshine in weeks. His face is freshly-shaven, revealing the little cleft in his chin and the square lines of his jaw. His dark curls are damp.
“What are you doing here?” I say, trying not to smile too hard.
Miles takes a quick glance into the room to check who’s present before replying. He’s always careful in that way, which I know is more for my benefit than his.
“I need to see you tonight,” he says. “I have a surprise for you.”
“I don’t like surprises,” I tell him.
“You will when it comes from me,” he says, showing that crooked smile that has an irresistible effect on me.
A ball of warmth expands inside my chest. It gets bigger and bigger every moment that Miles stands in front of me. Despite what I said about surprises, I’m excited to spend a few hours in his company.
“Nine o’clock,” Miles tells me. “I’ll meet you behind the Solar.”
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“See you, Cat,” Miles calls over my shoulder.
Cat lifts her paint-spattered hand in a wave.
Miles casts a quick glance down the hallway, then kisses me so swiftly that I barely have time to feel his mouth before he’s gone. My lips burn all the same, for a long time after.
I wish I had something to give Miles for Christmas. The only person who could sell me a good gift would be Miles himself, and Ibarely have any money. My father has never given Cat or me a generous allowance.
I did make Miles a leather bracelet. Cat showed me how to do it. It isn’t as professional as it would have been if Cat made it, but I was determined to do the work myself, and I think it turned out nicely.
Miles has a distinct sense of style, so I’m hoping he’ll like it, or at least not feel obligated to wear it if he doesn’t.
I wrap the bracelet in colored paper and write Miles a note in the mistletoe card.
Then I spend a long time getting dressed, wondering what the surprise might be.
What I told Miles was true—I’ve never liked surprises. But that’s because they’ve usually been unpleasant. I already know him well enough to assume that I might actually enjoy his plans for the evening. In fact, I probably will. I just have to let go of that need to be prepared, that desperate desire for control that I’ve always felt, despite never actually having any meaningful control in my own life.
When your life is a slow-motion car crash, you try to compensate by controlling stupid, insignificant things. For me it was grades. In Barcelona I wasn’t permitted to choose my schedule or my friends, but I could at least get a perfect score on tests. It earnedme praise from my teachers, and even occasionally from my father.
I tried to be perfect to please him, and to placate Daniela. It never worked.
I always dressed neatly, shoes polished, hair brushed. I kept my room spotless, clothes organized by color, books lined up flawlessly on the shelf with all the spines at precisely the same depth. I was always on time. I never smoked or swore.
Pointless actions become crucial, even compulsive.
Actually, I see a little of this in Dean Yenin. I see how he lines up his notebooks and pencils on his desk. How his clothes and person are always scrubbed clean. How he washes his hands again and again after Marksmanship or Chemistry classes.
