In Scientia, page 29
“Ah,” I said, “don’t say it. I get it.”
Dylan chimed in, attempting to break the tension, “My parents just really wanted me to have the experience,” he said, turning embarrassed at his omission.
I felt terrible, mostly because of how much money everyone had spent—especially my grandma—but, I reasoned, I’d feel far worse if I wasted it.
“This was a trap,” I said.
“Totally,” Delilah agreed.
“I have nothing to wear,” I stated flatly.
A grin slowly appeared across her face. “So you’re coming?”
“I have nothing to wear,” I maintained, my expression accidentally matching hers.
“Then come with me, little lady, ‘cause I pulled out options,” she said, grabbing my hand and skipping off into the bedroom.
Hung across the top railings of her bunk bed and mine were various dress options, each demanding a level of confidence I didn’t possess.
“Do you have anything more…?” I was trying to find the right words.
“Amish?” she suggested.
“Covered,” I said, simultaneously.
She walked over to her wardrobe and opened the double doors, before walking over to my side and doing the same. “Is there anything in one of these?” she asked, stepping aside to reveal four large suitcases crammed inside.
I’d forgotten all about Alida’s ‘gifts,’ if that’s what they were.
The irony was poignant.
“You know, there just might be,” I said, pulling one down and opening it. “But you wouldn’t wanna wear…”
The Chanel dress was on top. Even crumpled, it was stunning.
“That’s… not?” Delilah asked, in disbelief.
“Yup.”
“Some trip,” she said, as she bent down to almost touch it. “Can I?” she asked.
“Of course. Take the first pick,” I offered.
“No,” she replied, outraged. “I could never.”
“Oh, but you can,” I encouraged her. “And should. Especially as they’re going back tomorrow.”
She picked up the metallic dress and held it against her body like a baby. “Bonjour, belle. Je m’appelle Delilah,” she said to the dress, before looking at me, perplexed. “What? She only speaks French.”
We arrived at the hotel where the formal was being held an hour late. According to Delilah, however, this meant we were right on time. A handful of other students, dressed in gowns and suits, were exiting limos as our taxi pulled up.
In front of us, a girl with over-sprayed curly hair posed with her date for photos. The professional photographer had an assistant holding an extra-large light box, the flash of which kept intermittently popping. The spectacle had drawn a crowd of tourists eager to see a celebrity. Little did they know it was just a high school dance.
“Is this compulsory?” Delilah asked the photographer’s assistant as we approached.
“No. This is where my photos are being taken,” said the girl with curly hair, as though it was something to be proud of. “I’d rather die than have the same background as everyone else.”
Delilah nodded as though she agreed, then took out her phone and took a selfie of us with the hotel in the background. “Oops, now we have it too,” she said.
The girl didn’t seem to find it as funny as we did.
The room itself was nothing short of dramatic. Archways adorned with intricate paintings reminiscent of the Italian Renaissance framed the space, but the real showstopper was an elegantly-tiered antique chandelier, which hung above the center of the dancefloor.
Standing atop the opulent staircase that overlooked the party, our mouths hung slightly agape. We were a long way from where any of us grew up.
“Wow,” I said. “It’s like… epic.”
“It’s only The Terrace Room,” said a voice from behind us. It was Ciara, a girl from my Politics class, accompanied by none other than Annabel Monteith herself. “You should see the Grand Ballroom, it’s so much nicer.”
“Will you give it up? It was three times the price,” Annabel interjected, who was basically wearing a chandelier of her own. “People were already complaining about how much tickets—”
“Yeah, well, this gives me Florida. And that makes me sad,” said Ciara.
My eyes flicked to Delilah, and then to Dylan. Both of whom were having trouble suppressing laughter, which only encouraged mine.
“Oh, hi Eva,” said Annabel, as if just noticing me. “So glad you decided to come.” Awkwardly, she kissed me on both cheeks. We’re not in France, I wanted to scream.
“You look stunning,” she said. She genuinely seemed to mean it, which somehow made me feel better about owning her old uniform.
“Oh my god, did I not just say Valentino’s everywhere right now?” Ciara asked Annabel, my excitement deflating.
“Shut up, Ciara. It’s chic and you know it,” she turned to me, “ignore her, her parents never taught her to socialize.”
“What’s your excuse?” I quipped, accidentally snapping the olive branch she seemed to be extending.
Ciara walked off, clearly bored with the conversation.
“Do you, like, think I hate you or something?” Annabel asked. “‘Cause I really don’t.”
I looked to Delilah and Dylan. “Can I meet you down there?” They understood, disappearing down the staircase and into the crowd.
“If you don’t have a problem with me why won’t you let me write for The Advocate?” I asked, trying to be direct.
“I told you, if your winter formal piece is better than Portia’s, I’ll publish it. And I will. I wasn’t lying when I said the other features were already given out. Mr. McKenzie made me allocate everything at the end of last year when I got the job. He said every student had to have at least one article printed otherwise their parents would complain.”
“So what, because I don’t have parents I don’t count?”
“What? No,” she said, indignant. “At least I don’t think so… that would be horrible. It’s probably cause you’re on scholarship and—”
“And what? I don’t have a right to complain because I’m not paying for it? I should just be happy with whatever I get?” I asked, feeling more frustrated than I should have been.
“That’s not what I meant.” She took a breath, trying to get back on track. “I agree, it’s messed up that you don’t get a piece. I promise, I’ll do whatever I can to use what you give me.”
She looked sincere, like she was trying. “Thank you,” I said and I meant it.
“Of course,” she shrugged, as we both looked around the room.
Delilah and Dylan were jumping up and down to a pop song I didn’t know, the sight of them instantly lifting my mood.
I had no idea what I’d write, if I were even capable of doing so. But I knew that if I felt passionately enough to argue about it, when I could have been hanging with my friends, then it must have been important to me in some way.
Annabel descended onto the dance floor, as I started properly surveying the party. It was extravagance at its most excessive.
A thought came to me, so I pulled out my phone to Google it. Anderson was a private school, but it received tax credits from the state government ‘as long as equity and inclusion quotas were met amongst graduating students.’
Immediately, I began drafting a piece in my head:
Anderson Preparatory held its annual Winter Formal with opulent fanfare this past Saturday, at The Plaza Hotel across from Central Park’s lush expanse. No expense was spared for the lavish event, which was open to all students provided they could afford the $350 price tag.
Hundreds of long-stem white roses filled the room, creating an ethereal glow, while students danced and showcased this season’s latest designs from the runways of London, Paris, and Milan.
“You have to stand out,” said Lara Barnett, 15, who wore an $11,000 Dolce and Gabbana chiffon dress. “The last thing you want is to be like everybody else,” she added, filming herself being interviewed to post on her TikTok.
Hors d’oeuvre’s of wild leek pancakes and lamb chop lollipops, were passed around by white-gloved butlers, while the band ‘Don’t Look At Me’ performed covers from a pre-approved list of profanity-free pop songs.
“We wanted to make sure everyone could have fun, even the younger kids,” said Kerrie Baker from the Parents and Teachers Association. “They don’t need to be unnecessarily exposed to adult themes.” In an unrelated reminder, our next lockdown drill is scheduled for this week. Remember: Locks, Lights, Out of Sight kids.
Edward DeLuca and Chloe Shin were crowned Snow King and Snow Queen, breaking hearts across the ballroom as they ‘hard launched’ their budding romance. Nika Dyzla, who hired her own photographer for the event, astutely observed: “They’re the perfect couple because they’re the same level of hot.”
However the real crowning moment of the night may have come from the silent auction, which managed to raise over $300,000. Not for a charity though: for the refurbishment of the school’s own ballroom, which is used for exams four weeks out of the year. Money well spent, I say.
All in all, the Winter Formal was the perfect representation of everything Anderson Preparatory is: a shiny façade so bright it almost detracts from the real issues that matter. Like the carbon it took to fly in the out-of-season flowers from Ecuador, which at the time of writing were already wilting, or the financial strain it took on less affluent families, just so their children could be included in the experience.
It would seem the icy night under the stars was much like the rest of Anderson: subject to catches. Like the scholarship students who are given a free ride, but are kept from ever actually participating in the extracurriculars that matter. Were it not for inclusive teachers like Ms. Marshall, those kids might be forced to think of themselves as mere tokens, used to beef up diversity statistics to qualify for state tax breaks, and nothing else.
Fortunately there are people who want to change the status quo. People like this paper’s editor Annabel Monteith who, by publishing this article despite potential repercussion, proved that diversity in ideology and economic status are not only welcomed, but encouraged.
Perhaps if enough of us follow suit, and stand up for what we believe in, we’ll finally understand the power that lies within us all: change is ours to make. All we have to do is Advocate for it.
I had no idea if she’d actually print it, but it felt good to have cared enough to want to write it. To have cared for something other than losing my grandfather, or losing Max.
Locating Delilah and Dylan hovering near the dessert tower, I negotiated my exit to the dorm so I could write up the piece. After, that was, I joined them for two dances.
Back at my desk, having just finished what I felt was an acceptable first draft, I noticed a stack of mail. Sifting through a bunch of college brochures, my attention was drawn to a thick courier envelope topped by a handwritten letter simply addressed to Eva.
There was no return address, no stamp.
Cautiously I opened it.
Inside was a flier for the Casablanca screening in New Jersey, the same one the doorman from the jazz club had given me.
I pulled out my journal to find the original inside the cover. Unfolding it, I compared the two. They were almost identical, except… upon closer inspection, some of the letters in the one I was sent were brighter than the original. Intrigued, I pulled out a pen and began to circle them.
M and E from movie.
E from dinner.
T from starts.
M from pm
E from live.
I was buzzing, excitement radiating through me. The event was that night, but it had started at 7 P.M. on the other side of the city, and it was already almost ten. Even if he was the one who invited me, I couldn’t imagine he would’ve stuck around for three hours.
But it was worth a shot.
I sprung up out of my seat, almost hitting my head on the bunk above me, and was out the door hailing a cab faster than it normally took me to get out of bed.
One arrived within seconds, and before I knew it, we were pulling off the causeway into New Jersey City.
There was a busy hospital I’d found on Maps, a fifteen-minute walk from the screening.
Rushing into the emergency room, I made a beeline for the restroom, where I pulled out a piece of citrine and turned myself invisible. If anyone from the Sancti were still following me, I didn’t want to be responsible for leading them to him.
I let the effects wear off, as I walked into Liberty State Park, just before 11 P.M. Four hours after the event had started.
String lights were suspended over a vacant waterside lot, which was filled with two-person tables adorned with Moroccan candle-lamps. The poster of the movie was being projected onto the side of an old train station, where I assumed the movie had been shown earlier.
Disappointment gripped me as I scanned the crowd. Only a handful of people were left, still dancing on a parquet wood floor. As if on cue, the female singer started belting out a rendition of “As Time Goes By,” making my solitude feel even lonelier.
“May I?” a familiar voice asked, its sound turning me to jelly. He was wearing a white dinner jacket with a black bowtie. Classic Bogie. “Have this dance?”
“Only if I can lead,” I said, grabbing his hand and drawing him in close.
We swayed to the music, mesmerized by the lights twinkling above us. As the title song from the movie came to a close, he nestled into my ear, his warm breath caressing my skin. “Would it be too clichéd to say, ‘here’s looking at you, kid?’” Max asked.
“Not if you’re the one who’s saying it,” I replied.
We continued dancing. The music echoed across the harbor, the Manhattan skyline shimmering behind us.
It was perfect. Even more enchanting than I could have ever dreamed.
Until I remembered.
“Wait, is this safe?” I asked, concerned about any risks he might have taken. “What if someone sees us?”
“I sent a decoy uptown,” he replied, looking smug.
“You used magic?”
“No. I hired a guy to dress up like me,” he said, his pride evident that he’d managed it without breaking the rules. “I had to do something. It’s a special occasion.”
My heart sank. “Oh,” I said, understanding. “This is a one-time thing.”
He couldn’t answer, or he didn’t want to. Instead, he tried to pull me in closer.
“Why come, Max?” I asked, earnestly. I didn’t want to create conflict but I’d only just stopped crying myself to sleep every night.
“Because I couldn’t not,” he said, matter of fact. “Are you sorry that I did?”
I looked up, wanting to kiss him, but not wanting to pass out.
“How is this fair?” I asked, my voice laced with frustration. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I have a feeling the Sancti don’t care about what’s fair.”
“They killed my grandfather, Max. An innocent man. A good man, who did nothing wrong his entire life.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” he said, but he didn’t need to. I could see it on his face. “That’s why I tried to stay out of your life in the first place. Anything I get near—”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I cut him off. “I’ve known Father Michael since I was a child. They’ve been watching me my entire life.”
It was as if I could see the weight being lifted from his eyes.
“I’m still sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“Eva, if I never came into your life—”
“Come on,” I said, finding the courage to say how I truly felt in the actual moment. “Let’s stop pretending we ever had a choice. Some things are… fated.”
“And yet…” he said.
The singer belted out the last line of the song, “as time goes by.”
“You really think they’ll stop us forever?”
“They outnumber us three hundred to one. They have the power to.”
“We also have power,” I urged him.
“Don’t, Eva. It’s dangerous to even think like that,” he warned, anger to his tone. “You’ve seen what they do to innocent people. I’ve seen what they do to the guilty.”
He tried to pull me in close again. This time, I let him.
“So, what does that mean?” I asked. “For us?” I could hear the self-preservation in my voice but I didn’t care.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. I looked up to see his face darkening. “But we have the rest of tonight. Is that enough?”
“I guess it has to be,” I replied. The only response that felt truthful.
He rested his hand on the side of my head, and held it to his chest.
I could hear his heartbeat, steady and reassuring, as we swayed without music.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
In that moment, I knew how fortunate I was. I’d experienced a love that so many spend a lifetime searching for. Then, just as the band introduced the final song, I let the boy I love kiss me, under the moonlight of a clear New York City night… and this time, I remained fully conscious.
I woke early the next morning, with sunlight breaking in through a gap in the curtains.
Crawling onto my hands and knees to close them, I accidentally pulled too hard, sending the entire rod crashing to the ground.
“No!” screamed Delilah, as if boiling water were being sprayed on her. “That lighting’s homophobic, make it stop!”
I leaped out of bed, attempting to rehang the curtain when she got up to help.
“Meh,” she grumbled, swatting the rod out of my hands when she realized the height involved. “New plan: Brunch. It’s so early we might actually get a table somewhere decent.”
I let my mind adjust to the idea of staying awake, as my eyes gradually adapted to the bright light.
Grunting in agreement, I grabbed my towel from my desk and headed for a shower, inadvertently knocking all my mail to the floor in the process. This is going to be a long day, I thought.
