Night School

‘I heard there was a kerfuffle at the pond last night. I do hope you weren’t disturbed.’ More nervous laughter. The headmistress’ expression was enigmatic as she pulled on her glasses.

‘I’m sure that most of you are daydreaming of dancing in the arms of your dates but we must get through today’s class nonetheless,’ she said, opening her book. ‘So I thought we would talk about romance today. Let’s open with a beautiful poem about secret love. “Silentium Amoris” was written by Oscar Wilde, who you probably think of more for his humour, but this is a straightforward and simply beautiful story of love.’

She read the first two stanzas in her rich, powerful voice. Lost in the flowery prose, Allie almost instantly tuned out, drawing a sleepy butterfly on her notebook. She was giving its wings elaborate decoration when she heard her name.

Confused, she sat up straighter. Everyone was looking at her. ‘Sorry?’ she said, flushing.

‘Good morning,’ Isabelle said tartly as the class tittered. ‘I said, would you mind reading the third stanza for me.’

Standing, Allie picked up her book and cleared her throat and began reading – she started quickly, but slowed as the words began to take shape.

‘But surely unto thee mine eyes did show

Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;

Else it were better we should part, and go,

Thou to some lips of sweeter melody,

And I to nurse the barren memory

Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.’



An unaccountable wave of sadness washed over her. She thought for a second she might cry, but fought the urge.

What the hell is wrong with me?

‘What does that poem say to you, Allie.’

Horrified to find Isabelle was still focusing on her, Allie tried to think of what to say.

Her voice was nearly a whisper. ‘He’s afraid to tell somebody how he feels about them, but it makes him sad that the other person doesn’t know how he feels.’

‘And why would he be afraid to tell this other person of his feelings?’ Isabelle said.

‘Because she might not feel the same way he does.’ Somehow, the fact that it was Carter who answered that question didn’t surprise Allie, who dropped her eyes to her notebook as her pen drew small, interlinking circles around the butterfly. ‘So he thinks it’s better never to find out if that’s the case.’

‘Now it’s worth pointing out that this poem could well be a he writing about another he, but for the sake of conversation we can discuss it in more conventional terms. So why would he think that’s better?’ Isabelle mused, strolling across the room to lean against an empty desk. ‘She might feel the same way, but if he doesn’t ask he’ll never know.’

‘He’s afraid of being hurt,’ Allie whispered, adding another swirling circle to the chain she’d created.

Isabelle looked from her to Carter curiously.

‘That would explain it,’ she said. ‘Now, speaking of being hurt, I have another poem for you in a somewhat different vein by the American writer Dorothy Parker …’

The rest of the class seemed to take for ever. The minute it was over, Allie was up from her desk and heading for the door with her head down, determined not to make eye contact with anyone.

Especially Carter.

She was the first one to the stairs and her feet pounded on the stair boards as she hurried up, counting to herself.

… thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three …

Inside the sanctuary of her own room, she closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it staring at the neat familiarity of the space.

What just happened? Was Carter trying to tell me he fancies me? Or am I reading into it? Is Sylvain right?

She was so tired, she didn’t trust herself to think about serious things right now. And the bed she hadn’t slept in last night seemed to call to her. Dropping her book bag on the floor, she set the alarm for six, and pulled the shutter to, closing out the dazzling sunlight. She paused only long enough to kick off her shoes before climbing into bed fully clothed. It felt wonderful to be alone, and in the cool darkness she wondered once more about Carter, before forgetting about everything and falling asleep.





FIFTEEN


When Allie arrived at Jo’s room at half past six, Jo and Lisa had already draped the room in dresses and cluttered it with shoes. Allie was feeling much better – more normal. Somehow, sleep had settled her. Whatever might happen tomorrow, tonight she was going to have a good time. Just enjoy the dance. So last night had happened. So what? She’d been through worse. She didn’t care what anybody thought before she came to Cimmeria, and she wasn’t going to start caring now.

Lisa, who was going to the dance with Lucas (‘just as friends, you know?’) was flushed with excitement. ‘I just think it’s the perfect dress.’

Her excitement was contagious and Allie instantly felt more positive about everything. ‘It’ll be beautiful, I’m sure of it.’

‘Frankly, it’ll be great just to spend some time with Gabe.’ Jo sighed. ‘I’ve hardly seen him in days.’