The moon is high and full, a nightlight above me. My pole sways like it’s trying to rock me to sleep, but I resist, blinking rapidly. It’s probably been ten hours now.
I let my mind wander, so I’m not looking to see what exactly triggers it. All I know is the girl next to Sam, Abbie I think, is suddenly dancing on top of her pole with an expression of terror. Her arms flail, searching for something, anything, to hold on to. She grabs Sam. It’s not calculated, not a betrayal, just pure, panicked instinct. Sam jerks and tries to wrench free, but it’s too late. They teeter for one drawn-out second, and then they’re gone. They tumble to the ground, where Sam lands on top of Abbie in a tangle of limbs. I hold my breath, releasing it only when they both stand uninjured, with Abbie pulling Sam to her feet. Sam shakes her off, then sends me a resentful glare. I don’t blame her. In a weird way, I feel cheated too. I wanted to beat her fair and square, not watch her get dragged down by someone else’s panic.
I turn to Thomson and give him a thumbs up, to let him know we’re close now. Just me and him. At least one of us will win, I think to myself, comforted by thatidea. Instead of returning my gesture, he lifts a hand in a lazy salute and steps off his pole like he’s going for a stroll.
I watch, stunned, as he drops without hesitation. No struggle. No drama. He hits the ground and easily springs to his feet. My mouth goes slack, unable to believe he gave me the win. I don’t know whether to feel grateful or abandoned. Maybe both.
Silence falls over the clearing. Then, from below, a single sharp whistle. It comes from one of the High Council members. My father, I think. A signal to show the test is over.
I’ve won.
I expect to feel pride, elation, triumph, but all I feel is sore. My body aches, my feet burn, and my hands are skinned and throbbing. My chest hurts too, but in a different way. It’s empty. A bitter, uneasy feeling.
I stay perched on top of the pole, unsure if I’m allowed to come down. Unclear about what happens next. Do I get applause? A pat on the back? Maybe a parade?
Doubt it.
I look down at the carnage. The kids on the ground. Some bruised. Some broken. Henryson dead. The High Council rises slowly. They stretch. My father doesn’t smile. No one does. They just gather themselves and wait, expectantly, as if I’m a product they’ve been testing for flaws and now it’s time to clock out.
The kids who are awake stand too, and I feel their eyes on me. They’re jealous, resentful. I wanted to get a medal I could hang around my neck, but all I won was a target on my back. After this, I’ll be the boy to beat, which means they’ll come after me harder than ever before.
My stomach churns, but I swallow it down. I force my legs to move. Swing one over. Then the other. Slide down the pole inch by inch until my feet finally hit dirt.
It’s done.
I’m the last onestanding.
***
I jolt awake, released from the dream now that the story is over. My chest heaves like I’ve been running. Sweat slicks my skin, cold and clammy despite the blanket tangled around my legs.
For a second, I’m disoriented. I don’t know where I am. The pole. The clearing. The children. It all lingers in my head like it’s still happening. Like I’m still up there, waiting for someone to tell me what it meant. What all that suffering was for.
I shake my head and look around to confirm this is my room at Ashford House. My bed. My breath loud in the quiet.
The ache in my body is a leftover memory, but the bitterness? The sorrow? That’s real. It always is after that particular dream.
Some victories don’t feel like wins. Just proof you survived what should’ve killed you.
I sit up, elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. It takes a few minutes to calm my breathing, to settle my heart rate back to its normal speed. Finally, I lay back down, but my mind stays alert and restless, shifting through the past.
I roll over to find Laurel next to me, bathed in moonlight that paints her silver and gold. With her eyes closed, there’s no reason for me not to stare. To take in the gentle curve of her cheek, her lips slightly parted, her hair spilling across the pillow, a dark tangled halo. Her hand stretches toward me with her palm open like even in sleep she’s offering me something.
Last time I had a nightmare, her presence helped. Maybe it’ll work again. Carefully, quietly, I inch closer. She doesn’t stir. Her breathing remains slow and steady.
I hesitate. My pride flares to life and tells me to be strong. Not to need this.
But I do.
I press my fingers to hers, just the tip to her skin which is warm, soft. At that simple contact, something inside me loosens. My breath comes easier. My frantic thoughts slow and settle.
My hand curls gently around hers, not enough to disturb her, just enough for comfort.
I wonder what Laurel would do if I woke her, told her about my dream, my brutal past. Would she pull me close? Tell me it’s okay to be upset or afraid.That not every battle has to be fought alone. Or, more likely, would she respond with revulsion? Knowing the scars in me run deeper than the skin on my back. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to pollute how she sees me or risk the fragile equilibrium we’ve built recently. One more precarious than the balance I had on that pole.
I don’t wake her. Instead, I hold her hand gently in mine. I let that touch push back the darkness that waits every time I close my eyes, knowing she can’t find out about this, about how I reached for her like she’s a lifeline and I’m drowning.
I’ll keep it a secret. This weakness of mine.
