The lesson drones on around me, but all I have eyes for are the white strands of hair falling down her back. I will her to turn around, give me a sign. A glance. She never does.
After the bell, she’s gone before I reach her desk, disappearing like smoke.
Friday morning’s lesson is the same, and when the bell rings for lunchtime, I position myself on a bench where I can see Ophelia clearly. Basil appears a few minutes later, but this time he’s come prepared. He’s carrying roses, a dozen of them. Red and long-stemmed and cliché. Exactly the kind of romantic gesture that works magic on vulnerable girls.
The noise drops several decibels as people notice. Basil makes a show of it, letting everyone watch as he approachesOphelia’s bench. She looks up, sees the roses, and her face does something complicated. Surprise, maybe. Or fear.
The distance between us feels like miles instead of metres.
Basil gets down on one knee. The area is almost silent now, everyone watching the public spectacle. Even the tuck shop staff have stopped working, craning their necks through the serving window.
I watch Chelsea watch Ophelia, her expression eager and hungry.
Basil is talking, his voice carrying across the cafeteria in fragments. “…would make me the happiest… senior dance… say yes…”
Ophelia reaches for the roses. Takes them. Nods.
The watching crowd erupts in applause.
Basil stands and pulls Ophelia into a hug that she doesn’t return, her body stiff and uncomfortable in his arms. Over his shoulder, I see her face. My vision blurs at the edges, everything around going soft and indistinct.
The emptiness in my chest doesn’t exist anymore. It’s full of something dark and howling that demands satisfaction.
I follow her. Between fourth and fifth period changeover, she walks on the far side of the quad, near the empty prefab classrooms no one’s used since Covid. She doesn’t hear me until I’m right behind her.
“Ophelia.”
She spins, her eyes wide behind the dark lenses. For a moment, we just look at each other. Then she turns to walk away.
I grab her wrist and pull her towards the unused classroom. She resists, planting her feet, but the outcome isn’t ever in doubt. I drag her inside and kick the door shut behind us.
The room is dark except for the light filtering through the dusty blinds. Desks are stacked in corners, chairs missing legs piled against walls.
“We need to talk.” An echo of her on Monday morning, and even I can hear how my voice has changed. The charm is gone. The careful modulation. It emerges flat and cold and absolutely certain of what I want.
Ophelia backs away until she hits a desk. “Let me go.”
“You’re going to the dance with Basil.” It’s not a question.
She braces a hand on her hip. “What do you care? You never asked me.” Her chin juts forward. “It’s my senior ball too, and I want to go.”
“Fine.” Stepping closer, breathing in her floral bodywash and the sweet scent of her apprehension. “I’ll take you.”
“No.”
My fingers run through her hair, so soft. “No, what?”
“No. Basil asked me first.” Her stance changes, palms flat against my chest, pushing until the cords of her neck strain. “If I’m going, it’s only fair I accept his offer.”
“The fuck you are. You’re coming with me, or—”
“Or what?” Ophelia glares straight up at me. “Your leverage won’t work on me any longer.”
She steps sideways, but I match her, pressing another inch closer, my body bare millimetres from her now, our body heat mingling. “You’re not going to the dance with Basil.”
“I will if I want to and it’s none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.” The words come out wrong, too honest, too raw. I’m supposed to be better at this. But the jealousy is like static in my head, interfering with my usual calculation. “You can’t go with him.”
