Another monotonous day. Monotonous because I have no work to do. Monotonous because I’ve been instructed not to do any work. Monotonous because anyone who I want to talk to is busy, and anyone who I could talk to I’d rather not. And, finally, monotonous because he’s not here.
Theodore.
The name bounces everywhere in the room, and I follow its raucous path until it dives out the study. I miss him, but of course I have no reason, nor cause to miss him. Unless we’re counting professional motives. I shouldn’t miss him like I do, like I have him, like he’s mine. Because he’s made his feelings towards dear President Adelaide’s niece Charlotte very, very clear. I don’t think I like Charlotte. Not at all. But it can’t be helped: you can’t change people’s minds just because you feel the person who he’s interested in doesn’t give an ounce of genuine true affection. Charlotte’s like a slab of stone: tall and smooth and beautiful, but cold and unreceptive. Theodore, my great inventor, has too much heart for someone like her. And all the while I, the assistant, sits back and keeps her mouth shut, just like a cliché.
I give a slow survey of the room once again. I can’t exactly clean: the maids at Capital Hall are too thorough. There isn’t an ounce of dust in the bookshelves lining the walls, or a stain on the hardwood floor. The elegant throw rugs, the deep mahogany furniture, the red armchairs, all impeccable. For the fiftieth time I ponder why this room is considered fit for experiments. I close my eyes as his name makes another unwilling appearance. At least I get to work with him, to be close with him. And then as soon as I manage to make it big in my singing career I can pursue International Relations, putting me even closer to his work.
The only reason I’m here, right now, serving as an assistant to inventor Theodore Penn is because the President favors my signing. Now I’m just waiting for her beck and call so she can show me off like a new pet to everyone she knows. Hopefully, with the right popularity, I can strike it rich, rich enough that I’ll be able to take care of my parents like I promised. And then I can get the h*ll out of the politics of entertainment and pursue the kind of politics I like.
Thankfully I won’t be performing at tonight’s presidential ball. But that also means that I won’t be attending, period. Which also means that I won’t get to see Theodore until tomorrow, maybe. With the conferences he’s been attending and now this, I won’t have seen him in about a week. I sit back in one of the armchairs and sigh. If only I was the President’s niece…
There’s two sharp raps on the door to the study, and then it all but explodes in. The very person I loathe to see is standing not ten feet away. Charlotte. With automatic response I stand and give her a slight head bow.
“Miss Charlotte,” I say.
She stands there with her hands on her hips, over a corset too small to be called healthy. Her dress skirt shoots out on every side so that she looks like a red tinted mop. She doesn’t even bother with formalities.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she says, a scowl on her face. Before I can even open my mouth she’s speaking again. “I just wanted to remind you that you are not to attend, or even step foot, near the party tonight.”
“Yes ma’am,” I say.
I already know this, and so does she. She’s just coming to shove it in my face, and I know she also knows that I’m not heartbroken about attending some stupid ball.
“It’s going to be very exciting,” she says, her eyes lighting up with wicked humor. “I can’t imagine the people I’ll see there tonight.” She looks me up and down once, quickly, and smirks. “Too bad,” she says, and then she turns and strides from the room with all the speediness that her dress can afford her, and it’s not much. The door closes and I’ve heard and seen this kind of thing from her multiple times before, but for some reason, I want to cry. It’s not fair that she gets to be close to him all night, while I’m stuck here contemplating the meaning of life. I know everything about him, I’m fascinated with all of his work, and he just too busy looking at someone else. Well, it’s to be expected; it’s not like I’m the president’s niece.
I’m not sure how long I stay in that chair, but some amount of time later I hear the beginning of soft music from downstairs. The party has begun. Minutes pass and I hear the sound of several voices conversing. An hour later and there’s a whole rush of them, speaking and talking in that animated fashion that only being dressed up in something ridiculous and glorious can bring. I sit very still, leaning forward, trying to catch any snippets of conversation I can. Nothing sounds remotely close to the voice my ears are hunting for. I stay there, suspended for the longest moment, and suddenly I hear it. Even through the mess of voices I can pick out the soft baritone, the one that laughs nervously when it feels overcrowded. And then…and then another, a high pitched soprano, clear as a bell and effortless, laced with poison and deceit. The despair, the overwhelming jealousy eats at my insides with a searing burn. The silence feels too much in the large study, pressing down on me until I spring up without control. I look around for something to do, anything. Anything so I wouldn’t have to listen anymore to that stupid celebration. Funny how just moments before I was straining my ears to hear his voice.
For a moment I hate the maids for being so good. I feel like I want to dust for years, or maybe throw a book. I feel the tears brimming dangerously, and I swipe them away quickly. I always knew I would have a fat chance of gaining mutual affection from someone I’ve been in love with for years who, let’s face it, never ever ever knew who I was up until recently. I just never thought I would have to see it reserved for such a b****.
I walk over to the far right wall and pace along the bookshelves, letting my fingers trail along the spines. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think. A tinkle of laughter swells up throughout the Hall and reverberates in my ear like a horrible echo. Too late.
A low whimper escapes my throat. It’s so not fair. Anyone but her. I keep travelling until my fingertips catch on a book sticking out of place. I turn automatically to shove it back in place, and pause. It is nameless, but the worn brown leather cover and the thick gold band near the bottom of the spine is instantly recognizable. I trail my fingers up and down the spine, wistfully remembering how only a week ago Theodore had been filling these pages with all kinds of sketches and notes, notes that I had help him make. Another swirling, hateful chime trickles upwards from the ballroom and mocks me right in the face. Against my better judgment, I imagine Charlotte extending her hand towards Theodore, dark and handsome in some impeccable suit. He bows his head and presses his lips to the back of her hand, smiling wickedly at her in some promising manner. That’s it.
I bang my head against the shelving sharply, but the tears are still coming anyway, gushing over and streaking my face like a waterfall. I hate this, hate this so much. Just as I’m feeling my knees go weak I flip over and sag against the bookshelf all the way down to the floor. Burying my face in my knees, I pour out the frustration and longing that had been tormenting me for months.
Rapid footsteps sound right outside the study door, and nanoseconds later it bursts open with a loud bang. I shriek and bolt upright, standing ram-rod straight like I am one of the housemaids caught doing something she shouldn’t. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and then picks up even more.
My inventor stands in the open doorway, having burst in with an apparent notion that no one was here. I know this, because he took five hurried paces inward before freezing, his face masked in perfect surprise. I am similarly paralyzed, my hands at my heart. We stand there like that for what seems like forever.
“Oh,” I finally manage.
He gives me a short, not quite smile. That’s when I notice in fact that he is not wearing the suit and tails of my earlier fantasy, but his standard shirt, stretching slightly over his broad shoulders, and his black pants. Something shines near the collar of his shirt, and it looks like oil. His hair’s a mess, flying every which direction, and it still looks fantastic. And I still want to touch it.
Theodore takes a small, hesitant step forward. “Were you just on the floor?” he asks curiously. I relax my spine and manage to breathe out. “Yeah,” I say. “I felt a little…sick.” He frowns. “Are you okay?” “Fine!” I squeak a little too loud. He regards me for a moment longer and then strides over to the desk, dropping his work case onto the surface with a heavy thump. He turns slowly, looking at the ground, like he’s pondering something.
“I thought you’d be at the party,” he says, but it comes off more like a question. “Oh, no. Not me,” I say. He frowns deeper. “Why?” he asks. “Because I wasn’t invited,” I respond dryly. He looks slightly taken aback by this, so I quickly add, “I’m not singing tonight.” “Oh,” he says. I feel supremely awkward in the silence that ensues.
“It sounded like you were having fun down there,” I blurt, and then I almost slap my hand to my mouth. Almost, because then that would plainly admit that I just said something I did not mean to say. It just came out, born of bitterness that left a foul taste in my mouth as soon as I uttered the words. Because really, my tone is anything but light, and I hate being jealous. Theodore cranes his head slightly forward. “Come again?” he asks. I gesture to the door haphazardly. “I can hear you guys downstairs,” I mutter. Theodore pauses for a moment while he takes what I said in, and then he seems to realize the voices too. “Oh, yes. I can hear them too.”
“Are you having a good time so far?” I ask politely. Theodore doesn’t answer me, but turns and begins rummaging through his work case. “Actually,” he says, turning around. “I’m rather not dressed for the occasion, am I?” I smile a little. No, no he is not. He steps forward until he’s right I front of me. I tell all the sanguine fantasies in my head to beat it. Something tangy and pungent hits my nose. Yep, that’s oil on his shirt. I am about to ask exactly what he was doing to have amassed such a stain, but he cuts me off before I even open my mouth.
“Actually, I was hoping to find you.”
For the tiniest, tiniest second everything in me freezes. “Oh?” I ask, recovering at the speed of light. My dreams rise from the dark depths of my subconscious and start drifting forward into daylight. Don’t indulge don’t indulge don’t indulge. “I have something for you,” he announces. Oh. Okay, maybe indulge a little bit. He opens his palm and brings something to the light. A small silver metal chain gleams dully underneath the light of the study, an oval tiny enough to just fit around my wrist. At one particular section of the chain a red light blips quietly every few seconds. “Now it’s nothing fancy,” he says, offering his hand to me. I take it and he unfastens the chain and drapes it around my wrist. “It’s something that I picked up at the convention. Thought it suited you.” He spins the chain until he finds the clasp. “I thought you’d be in the ballroom, but I ran into Charlotte instead. She told me you were in the library.” I hate Charlotte. The clasp closes with a small click, and Theodore stands back with satisfactorily. “There,” he finishes.
I hold the chain up for inspection. It is not an expensive masterpiece, it’s true, and it would never hold up to the standards of Charlotte’s taste. But I’ve never been one for extravagance. “It’s perfect,” I say, a slow smile breaking out onto my face.
“Good,” Theodore says, beaming. He looks really satisfied with himself it’s adorable. “What does it do?” I ask. Theodore shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know,” he says, and then quickly backtracks when he sees my glare. “It’s not dangerous, I swear! It was from some unknown inventor who wanted to give it away. He told me himself it doesn’t do much but flash.” “Oh, okay,” I say, conceding. I’m suspicious; for some reason I feel like he’s not being completely honest with me. Theodore slides his eyes sideways, scratching the back of his neck like he’s uncomfortable.
“I guess I should go down now,” he mutters.
I try my best not to let my optimism drop and succeed. After all, he did bring me back something, which means he was thinking about me just a little bit. “Yup,” I say cheerfully. I give him the broadest smile imaginable. “Go have fun.” Theodore pauses, taking my grin in with widened eyes. Something, a spark, like disappointment, flashes in his eyes, and goes just as quickly. He gives me his signature smiles and disappears into his room. Fifteen minutes later he reappears just as I had imagined in my nightmare: tux, tails, the works. The only difference is the hair, which still flies around everywhere. I gape at him.
“Seriously?” I ask incredulously. Theodore stares at me. “What?” he asks, clearly confused. I glare at him, then roll my eyes. I dash in my room and am back in a split second. “Don’t move,” I warn, and with some sudden, serious bravado, I take some of the hair gel given to me on my first day and rub a fair amount between my palms. I attack his hair, winding strands between my fingers and pushing them back away from his face. Theodore is stunned; it’s the only reason he holds so still. His expression is petrified, bewildered. I slick back his hair into a reasonable, semi-formal style, and revel in the fact that I just ran my hands through it all. I step back and admire my handiwork, a dark mass on top of a still very frozen Theodore. One strand pops straight out and to the side like an airplane wing. “Stupid hair!” I growl, stalking forward again. I take the single piece and iron it to the side of his head, smoothing it down repeatedly with my hand. I’m concentrating so hard I didn’t realize that I had managed to get inches away from Theodore’s face until we were practically smashing noses. I blink a couple of times. Theodore says nothing.
“Sorry,” I apologize, stepping away. I fold my hands in front of me and look down at them, embarrassed. I just can’t help myself sometimes. The silence that stretches between us feels like ages.
“You should be down there,” he blurts.
I look up at him, surprised. He stutters and gesticulates wildly, a clear sign he has no idea what he’s trying to say. “Well…I mean…you should be down there, I don’t know why…the president…your singing…Charlotte…” He stops suddenly and breathes in once and holds it.
“I wish you were down there. I wish you could come with me,” he says in a rush of air. I’m so stunned I can’t think of a viable, appropriate response. Is there even such a thing? “Thank you,” I say politely, while everything is turmoil inside me. I’m surprised my knees didn’t stare to shake just from that. Theodore stares at me, hard, frowning slightly like he can’t figure something out. There better not be gel on my face. He keeps staring, and staring, and staring, and I feel the burn of his eyes stain my cheeks rogue. It’s such a strange look, and I don’t know what to do with myself. So I just stand there, watching him watch me. And then suddenly his eyes soften and he steps forward. “Well, I’ll be going then,” he says stiffly, walking brusquely towards the door. I believe he’s going to walk straight out, but then he pauses at the door frame, his hand on the handle.
“You would have looked beautiful,” he says, still not facing me. Then the door swings open and he’s gone. I close my eyes slowly and listen to the silence that follows, save the music still throbbing throughout the room. Oh, Theodore. The grin that spreads across my face cannot be helped. Ha. Take that Charlotte.
Theodore.
The name bounces everywhere in the room, and I follow its raucous path until it dives out the study. I miss him, but of course I have no reason, nor cause to miss him. Unless we’re counting professional motives. I shouldn’t miss him like I do, like I have him, like he’s mine. Because he’s made his feelings towards dear President Adelaide’s niece Charlotte very, very clear. I don’t think I like Charlotte. Not at all. But it can’t be helped: you can’t change people’s minds just because you feel the person who he’s interested in doesn’t give an ounce of genuine true affection. Charlotte’s like a slab of stone: tall and smooth and beautiful, but cold and unreceptive. Theodore, my great inventor, has too much heart for someone like her. And all the while I, the assistant, sits back and keeps her mouth shut, just like a cliché.
I give a slow survey of the room once again. I can’t exactly clean: the maids at Capital Hall are too thorough. There isn’t an ounce of dust in the bookshelves lining the walls, or a stain on the hardwood floor. The elegant throw rugs, the deep mahogany furniture, the red armchairs, all impeccable. For the fiftieth time I ponder why this room is considered fit for experiments. I close my eyes as his name makes another unwilling appearance. At least I get to work with him, to be close with him. And then as soon as I manage to make it big in my singing career I can pursue International Relations, putting me even closer to his work.
The only reason I’m here, right now, serving as an assistant to inventor Theodore Penn is because the President favors my signing. Now I’m just waiting for her beck and call so she can show me off like a new pet to everyone she knows. Hopefully, with the right popularity, I can strike it rich, rich enough that I’ll be able to take care of my parents like I promised. And then I can get the h*ll out of the politics of entertainment and pursue the kind of politics I like.
Thankfully I won’t be performing at tonight’s presidential ball. But that also means that I won’t be attending, period. Which also means that I won’t get to see Theodore until tomorrow, maybe. With the conferences he’s been attending and now this, I won’t have seen him in about a week. I sit back in one of the armchairs and sigh. If only I was the President’s niece…
There’s two sharp raps on the door to the study, and then it all but explodes in. The very person I loathe to see is standing not ten feet away. Charlotte. With automatic response I stand and give her a slight head bow.
“Miss Charlotte,” I say.
She stands there with her hands on her hips, over a corset too small to be called healthy. Her dress skirt shoots out on every side so that she looks like a red tinted mop. She doesn’t even bother with formalities.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she says, a scowl on her face. Before I can even open my mouth she’s speaking again. “I just wanted to remind you that you are not to attend, or even step foot, near the party tonight.”
“Yes ma’am,” I say.
I already know this, and so does she. She’s just coming to shove it in my face, and I know she also knows that I’m not heartbroken about attending some stupid ball.
“It’s going to be very exciting,” she says, her eyes lighting up with wicked humor. “I can’t imagine the people I’ll see there tonight.” She looks me up and down once, quickly, and smirks. “Too bad,” she says, and then she turns and strides from the room with all the speediness that her dress can afford her, and it’s not much. The door closes and I’ve heard and seen this kind of thing from her multiple times before, but for some reason, I want to cry. It’s not fair that she gets to be close to him all night, while I’m stuck here contemplating the meaning of life. I know everything about him, I’m fascinated with all of his work, and he just too busy looking at someone else. Well, it’s to be expected; it’s not like I’m the president’s niece.
I’m not sure how long I stay in that chair, but some amount of time later I hear the beginning of soft music from downstairs. The party has begun. Minutes pass and I hear the sound of several voices conversing. An hour later and there’s a whole rush of them, speaking and talking in that animated fashion that only being dressed up in something ridiculous and glorious can bring. I sit very still, leaning forward, trying to catch any snippets of conversation I can. Nothing sounds remotely close to the voice my ears are hunting for. I stay there, suspended for the longest moment, and suddenly I hear it. Even through the mess of voices I can pick out the soft baritone, the one that laughs nervously when it feels overcrowded. And then…and then another, a high pitched soprano, clear as a bell and effortless, laced with poison and deceit. The despair, the overwhelming jealousy eats at my insides with a searing burn. The silence feels too much in the large study, pressing down on me until I spring up without control. I look around for something to do, anything. Anything so I wouldn’t have to listen anymore to that stupid celebration. Funny how just moments before I was straining my ears to hear his voice.
For a moment I hate the maids for being so good. I feel like I want to dust for years, or maybe throw a book. I feel the tears brimming dangerously, and I swipe them away quickly. I always knew I would have a fat chance of gaining mutual affection from someone I’ve been in love with for years who, let’s face it, never ever ever knew who I was up until recently. I just never thought I would have to see it reserved for such a b****.
I walk over to the far right wall and pace along the bookshelves, letting my fingers trail along the spines. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think. A tinkle of laughter swells up throughout the Hall and reverberates in my ear like a horrible echo. Too late.
A low whimper escapes my throat. It’s so not fair. Anyone but her. I keep travelling until my fingertips catch on a book sticking out of place. I turn automatically to shove it back in place, and pause. It is nameless, but the worn brown leather cover and the thick gold band near the bottom of the spine is instantly recognizable. I trail my fingers up and down the spine, wistfully remembering how only a week ago Theodore had been filling these pages with all kinds of sketches and notes, notes that I had help him make. Another swirling, hateful chime trickles upwards from the ballroom and mocks me right in the face. Against my better judgment, I imagine Charlotte extending her hand towards Theodore, dark and handsome in some impeccable suit. He bows his head and presses his lips to the back of her hand, smiling wickedly at her in some promising manner. That’s it.
I bang my head against the shelving sharply, but the tears are still coming anyway, gushing over and streaking my face like a waterfall. I hate this, hate this so much. Just as I’m feeling my knees go weak I flip over and sag against the bookshelf all the way down to the floor. Burying my face in my knees, I pour out the frustration and longing that had been tormenting me for months.
Rapid footsteps sound right outside the study door, and nanoseconds later it bursts open with a loud bang. I shriek and bolt upright, standing ram-rod straight like I am one of the housemaids caught doing something she shouldn’t. My heart hammers against my ribcage, and then picks up even more.
My inventor stands in the open doorway, having burst in with an apparent notion that no one was here. I know this, because he took five hurried paces inward before freezing, his face masked in perfect surprise. I am similarly paralyzed, my hands at my heart. We stand there like that for what seems like forever.
“Oh,” I finally manage.
He gives me a short, not quite smile. That’s when I notice in fact that he is not wearing the suit and tails of my earlier fantasy, but his standard shirt, stretching slightly over his broad shoulders, and his black pants. Something shines near the collar of his shirt, and it looks like oil. His hair’s a mess, flying every which direction, and it still looks fantastic. And I still want to touch it.
Theodore takes a small, hesitant step forward. “Were you just on the floor?” he asks curiously. I relax my spine and manage to breathe out. “Yeah,” I say. “I felt a little…sick.” He frowns. “Are you okay?” “Fine!” I squeak a little too loud. He regards me for a moment longer and then strides over to the desk, dropping his work case onto the surface with a heavy thump. He turns slowly, looking at the ground, like he’s pondering something.
“I thought you’d be at the party,” he says, but it comes off more like a question. “Oh, no. Not me,” I say. He frowns deeper. “Why?” he asks. “Because I wasn’t invited,” I respond dryly. He looks slightly taken aback by this, so I quickly add, “I’m not singing tonight.” “Oh,” he says. I feel supremely awkward in the silence that ensues.
“It sounded like you were having fun down there,” I blurt, and then I almost slap my hand to my mouth. Almost, because then that would plainly admit that I just said something I did not mean to say. It just came out, born of bitterness that left a foul taste in my mouth as soon as I uttered the words. Because really, my tone is anything but light, and I hate being jealous. Theodore cranes his head slightly forward. “Come again?” he asks. I gesture to the door haphazardly. “I can hear you guys downstairs,” I mutter. Theodore pauses for a moment while he takes what I said in, and then he seems to realize the voices too. “Oh, yes. I can hear them too.”
“Are you having a good time so far?” I ask politely. Theodore doesn’t answer me, but turns and begins rummaging through his work case. “Actually,” he says, turning around. “I’m rather not dressed for the occasion, am I?” I smile a little. No, no he is not. He steps forward until he’s right I front of me. I tell all the sanguine fantasies in my head to beat it. Something tangy and pungent hits my nose. Yep, that’s oil on his shirt. I am about to ask exactly what he was doing to have amassed such a stain, but he cuts me off before I even open my mouth.
“Actually, I was hoping to find you.”
For the tiniest, tiniest second everything in me freezes. “Oh?” I ask, recovering at the speed of light. My dreams rise from the dark depths of my subconscious and start drifting forward into daylight. Don’t indulge don’t indulge don’t indulge. “I have something for you,” he announces. Oh. Okay, maybe indulge a little bit. He opens his palm and brings something to the light. A small silver metal chain gleams dully underneath the light of the study, an oval tiny enough to just fit around my wrist. At one particular section of the chain a red light blips quietly every few seconds. “Now it’s nothing fancy,” he says, offering his hand to me. I take it and he unfastens the chain and drapes it around my wrist. “It’s something that I picked up at the convention. Thought it suited you.” He spins the chain until he finds the clasp. “I thought you’d be in the ballroom, but I ran into Charlotte instead. She told me you were in the library.” I hate Charlotte. The clasp closes with a small click, and Theodore stands back with satisfactorily. “There,” he finishes.
I hold the chain up for inspection. It is not an expensive masterpiece, it’s true, and it would never hold up to the standards of Charlotte’s taste. But I’ve never been one for extravagance. “It’s perfect,” I say, a slow smile breaking out onto my face.
“Good,” Theodore says, beaming. He looks really satisfied with himself it’s adorable. “What does it do?” I ask. Theodore shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know,” he says, and then quickly backtracks when he sees my glare. “It’s not dangerous, I swear! It was from some unknown inventor who wanted to give it away. He told me himself it doesn’t do much but flash.” “Oh, okay,” I say, conceding. I’m suspicious; for some reason I feel like he’s not being completely honest with me. Theodore slides his eyes sideways, scratching the back of his neck like he’s uncomfortable.
“I guess I should go down now,” he mutters.
I try my best not to let my optimism drop and succeed. After all, he did bring me back something, which means he was thinking about me just a little bit. “Yup,” I say cheerfully. I give him the broadest smile imaginable. “Go have fun.” Theodore pauses, taking my grin in with widened eyes. Something, a spark, like disappointment, flashes in his eyes, and goes just as quickly. He gives me his signature smiles and disappears into his room. Fifteen minutes later he reappears just as I had imagined in my nightmare: tux, tails, the works. The only difference is the hair, which still flies around everywhere. I gape at him.
“Seriously?” I ask incredulously. Theodore stares at me. “What?” he asks, clearly confused. I glare at him, then roll my eyes. I dash in my room and am back in a split second. “Don’t move,” I warn, and with some sudden, serious bravado, I take some of the hair gel given to me on my first day and rub a fair amount between my palms. I attack his hair, winding strands between my fingers and pushing them back away from his face. Theodore is stunned; it’s the only reason he holds so still. His expression is petrified, bewildered. I slick back his hair into a reasonable, semi-formal style, and revel in the fact that I just ran my hands through it all. I step back and admire my handiwork, a dark mass on top of a still very frozen Theodore. One strand pops straight out and to the side like an airplane wing. “Stupid hair!” I growl, stalking forward again. I take the single piece and iron it to the side of his head, smoothing it down repeatedly with my hand. I’m concentrating so hard I didn’t realize that I had managed to get inches away from Theodore’s face until we were practically smashing noses. I blink a couple of times. Theodore says nothing.
“Sorry,” I apologize, stepping away. I fold my hands in front of me and look down at them, embarrassed. I just can’t help myself sometimes. The silence that stretches between us feels like ages.
“You should be down there,” he blurts.
I look up at him, surprised. He stutters and gesticulates wildly, a clear sign he has no idea what he’s trying to say. “Well…I mean…you should be down there, I don’t know why…the president…your singing…Charlotte…” He stops suddenly and breathes in once and holds it.
“I wish you were down there. I wish you could come with me,” he says in a rush of air. I’m so stunned I can’t think of a viable, appropriate response. Is there even such a thing? “Thank you,” I say politely, while everything is turmoil inside me. I’m surprised my knees didn’t stare to shake just from that. Theodore stares at me, hard, frowning slightly like he can’t figure something out. There better not be gel on my face. He keeps staring, and staring, and staring, and I feel the burn of his eyes stain my cheeks rogue. It’s such a strange look, and I don’t know what to do with myself. So I just stand there, watching him watch me. And then suddenly his eyes soften and he steps forward. “Well, I’ll be going then,” he says stiffly, walking brusquely towards the door. I believe he’s going to walk straight out, but then he pauses at the door frame, his hand on the handle.
“You would have looked beautiful,” he says, still not facing me. Then the door swings open and he’s gone. I close my eyes slowly and listen to the silence that follows, save the music still throbbing throughout the room. Oh, Theodore. The grin that spreads across my face cannot be helped. Ha. Take that Charlotte.
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