14. Born Worthless
Born Worthless
Elias
Desdemona’s office is exactly as stuck-up, meticulous and bereft of personality as the image of herself she insists on presenting to the rest of the world.
A small room near the administrative office, with a prim little desk and a prim little bookcase and a prim little window overlooking the marble steps of the Old Manor.
On the royal-blue painted walls are framed photographs of what I assume are Desdemona’s predecessors, girls posing rigidly with the smile wiped cleanly off their faces, their blazer lapels crowded with pins and badges.
When she walks in, I turn away from the portraits just to enjoy the expression on her face. Her eyes widen for a split second, her face tightens with the grimace she doesn’t allow herself to show, her jaws clenched with repressed annoyance.
Nothing left of the breathless, blushing girl asking me about the article in the library.
Maybe that’s for the best.
“How did you get in?” she asks.
So she doesn’t like that I intruded on her space—good. It’s only fair payback. If Desdemona wants her privacy respected, she’ll have to learn it’s a two-way street.
“Through the door.” I cast her a smirk, gesturing at the portraits with my chin. “Where’s yours?”
“My portrait won’t go up until the end of my tenure.”
I resist the urge to laugh in her face. She’s looking really very serious: her uniform is pressed to perfection, her shoes are shiny enough that I’m certain I’d see my own reflection in them if I knelt low enough.
Her long hair is like a smooth cloak on her shoulders, kept away from her face by the grip of two white barrettes.
She stands leaning against her desk, arms folded, and watches me as I rifle with shameless curiosity through her things: the books on the bookshelf, the silver filing cabinet, the papers on the clipboard propped on the corner of her desk.
“Damn, is it really that serious, this head girl business?” I say, half to myself, half to annoy her.
She doesn’t indulge me. “Why are you here?”
I drop back into her desk chair. There are two wooden chairs facing the desk, like in a teacher’s or a social worker’s office; she couldn’t have paid me to sit on those.
“We need to talk about our Inquisitor problem.” I tilt my head in an amused smile. “Since our conversation got cut short last time.”
Desdemona watches me for a moment, and then, to my surprise, she crosses the space between us and perches herself on her desk, right in front of me. I look up at her, nod appreciatively—almost impressed.
She sits with one leg crossed over the other and grabs a notebook from her desk, gracefully balancing it on her knee. She clicks open the pen in her hand—it’s monogrammed, though not with her initials, but with the letters SSK. Desdemona’s fingernails, I also notice, are short and clean and bare.
She must be the only girl in Spearcrest who follows the unpopular rule that nails should be unpainted. What a good, obedient girl she is.
The thought fills me with unexpected warmth.
“Very well. Here’s what I think we should do,” Desdemona intones in very authoritative tones.
“We should aim to be seen together on campus at least once a day for the next week. We can schedule those encounters in terms of what fits our schedules best. We have maths at the same time, for example, so you could come pick me up after class and we could go to lunch together. Maybe you could even hold my hand if that feels comfortable, and we need to discuss how we feel about public displays of affection, since those—”
“Nah.”
I snatch the notebook from her hand and toss it aside. She gasps as it clatters to the floor, her pen dropping from her fingers in her surprise, rolling across her desk to rest against a pile of textbooks.
“I’ve got a better idea.”
I stand up, plant both arms on the desk on either side of Desdemona, forcing her to lean back. But unless she wants to lie flat on her back on her desk—which, hey, I’m not opposed to on principle—then she’s going to have to stay here, our faces inches apart.
Her glare, I’m starting to realise, is a charm of its own. It doesn’t alienate or intimidate, it doesn’t make me feel cowed or regretful. Her glare, actually, is a little bit as if she were spitting a mouthful of oil right into the fiery furnace in the middle of my chest.
Which is exactly what we need right now.
“What we need,” Desdemona says indignantly, “is a strong plan so that we’re both on the same page and we can—”
“What we need”—I cut her off—“is something real.”
“Nothing between us is real,” she snaps.
“But it could be.”
“I can’t force myself to fall in love with you.”
I stare at her for a moment. My heart is beating fast, I realise, and I’m reminded of the times in my life I felt unsafe—which have been many—and the times I felt elated, because fear and elation, when it comes to the body’s response, are shockingly alike.
I answer her very softly. “You think I don’t know that?”
She watches me, eyes wide. Her eyelashes are surprisingly dark, and the fawn-brown of her irises, I realise for the first time, is circled on the outside by a slightly darker brown. I’m reminded of a young, startled deer.
“Nobody’s ever been able to force themselves to love me,” I tell her, truthfully—because that’s how we’re going to fake this properly—by using the truth. “Not even my own parents. So you don’t need to worry about that, love.”
I want to laugh, to defuse the tension like I’m so good at doing, but the laughter doesn’t quite bubble in my throat as easily as it normally does. It’s got nothing to do with my parents, though, and everything to do with the sudden stricken expression in Desdemona’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, and there’s a catch in her voice. “You’re worthy of love, just—”
Now I laugh—not to defuse the tension, but because this is the first truly funny thing Desdemona has said so far.
“No, I’m not.” I shake my head and then look into her eyes, mouth quivering with amusement. “And neither are you. Nobody is. We’re all born worthless and unworthy.”
She stares at me, eyes wide, and this time, she’s got nothing to say. I take her face gently in my hand, and I’m reminded of the first time I touched her, how luminous she seemed, how much I wished to drain the light out of her.
She’s not so luminous now. I brush my fingers across her cheek, fanning them over the smooth skin, latching onto the delicate shelf of her jaw.
“But you know what?”
She watches me silently.
“That’s the whole point of love,” I tell her.
There’s electricity in my veins, a sudden, startling elation.
“Not that we deserve it, but that we don’t.
And one day, someone’s gonna love you just like that—in your darkest day and in your messiest moment.
They’ll love you all the more because you did absolutely nothing to deserve it. And when they do…”
I lean forward, and I speak right against her lips, like a promise.
“It’ll feel so fucking good you’ll never want it to stop.”