| 009. School Political |

  When she'd arrived at Blake's, Xenia had anticipated more of a challenge. The coursework itself posed no difficulty. Xenia had already covered most of the material privately, under tutors who valued efficiency over encouragement.

  What interested her was not the content but the structure: who excelled publicly, who worked quietly, who coasted on reputation. Malachai Vitto occupied the latter two categories with ease. She'd learnt that he answered when called upon. That he did not dominate discussions. That when he disagreed with a teacher, he did so respectfully — and was almost always correct.

  Her constant regret was that pool incident. Every other night she tossed and turned and cursed herself for being immature.

  It was compounded by his reaction. He was always so very reasonable. Malachai did not seek her out, but he did not avoid her either. When they disagreed, it was often not over ideology, but priorities. Malachai optimised for outcome. Xenia optimised for control. When they'd argued more explosively, he'd studied her, something like curiosity overtaking irritation. “You don’t lose often, do you?”

  She hated the way he saw right through her. Xenia always felt the instinctive urge to counter, and fought for self-mastery.

  If nothing had ever happened with Lily, she wondered if she would have changed. But in the end, Lily had been the worst thing that could have happened to them.

  Lily had always reasserted relevance through visibility — arriving early, laughing loudly, anchoring herself beside Neil and Malachi with practised ease. Her confidence was not feigned, but it was maintained.

  At Malachai's seventeenth birthday, everything erupted. Music masked tension. Alcohol accelerated it. Lily and Jung-hee had been at each other's throats. Xenia intervened, de-escalating, and the room quietened. Authority had a sound. Malachai watched her differently after that.

  Two things had happened that evening.

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  Lily and Neil had slept together.

  Xenia and Malachai had not.

  Alcohol had a lot to answer for.

  Xenia remembered Malachai had looked so compromised. His shirt had become partially unbuttoned, and he’d lost his belt somewhere. His hair stood up in all directions, and his eyes were glazed over. She eyed him up - more aware of her physical attraction to him than normal. He was a mess. An open book. Vulnerable, and she'd wanted to act on it. When she'd stood up, he had slid down the wall in a natural juxtaposition. She’d knelt down beside him. She remembered him staring at her face.

  “What are you doing?” he'd asked. She’d blushed.

  “You invited me. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “No.” He’d frowned, and tugged on her hair, making her wince. “I didn’t think you’d actually be here. You spend so much time managing people, managing yourself. And this game we're playing. Don't you think you’re confusing exposure with loss.” He'd pulled her forward, simultaneously dropping his head so that he was leaning against her shoulder and she was crouched over him, her arms out to support her and stop them toppling over.

  It would have been so easy to let go. To let drunkenness lead them to something. But she’d have regretted it.

  It wasn't a case of denying her feelings. From the moment she'd lost control and pushed him into the pool, she'd recognised them. He was right. It was the exposure she couldn't face. She didn't know how to be vulnerable.

  Neil confessed to Lily the next day, rather too publicly, and she'd laughed.

  So Xenia had made it her mission to force her out. She'd compromised herself and begged Malachai for help. Promised him endless favours. She'd been so protective of Neil, it had surprised her. They'd built a case for her expulsion. Reputational damage. Poor attendance. Her invasion of their privacy by continuing to expect admittance to the Flats. It had been easy.

  Jessica was right to blame Xenia for Lily's expulsion.

  Control, once claimed, invited consequence. Attention altered the atmosphere around Xenia. What had once been curiosity hardened into expectation. People waited for her reactions now — measured their own responses against them. Silence became read as judgement. Absence as strategy.

  The year had ended without spectacle. There were no decisive confrontations, no declarations that reorganised the social order. Exams concluded. Projects were submitted. Lockers emptied incrementally.

  Yet, there was an indefinable shift in Xenia's relationship with Malachai. A closeness, tempered by pride and rejection. He had never brought up their drunken what-if. But she was constantly aware of it. Constantly aware that she owed him a favour for helping her remove Lily from Neil's sight.

  When she'd thanked him, after it was done, she'd asked for a truce.

  "I am not your friend," he'd said, simply. She'd understood all the implications. But she wasn't ready for it yet. She worried she never would be.