More than anything, Christian wanted to write. But Christian knew he wasn’t good enough to make any money as a writer. Valentin was. His heartbreaking prose was already getting him attention from publishers. In his journal, Christian described listening to Val’s readings like a cripple watching the Olympics. He’d be so jealous, he’d feel like his heart was gripping the bars of his rib cage, clutching so hard, wanting to get out and be in somebody else, almost tearing his chest apart. It was an Olympic amount of pain. So Christian wrote in secret and won every sport he tried, because actually there was one thing more important than writing — Christian could never be poor. He’d never sleep in a shanty or wear cast-off clothes. He’d never eat old stolen food. He didn’t know why these things seemed so scary. He had no memory of living that way. But somehow, the fear was inside him. He was born with it. He’d rather be bored to death while smacking homers in the World Series if he had to. But he wouldn’t ever worry about money. He didn’t want to buy generic cereal. He didn’t want to say no just because he couldn’t afford it. Christian didn’t want to be poor so bad that he had to be rich. That’s what he’d been brooding over — and how much he wished he could write a single poem as good as Val’s — when Bicé had walked in.
“What’s wrong, Christian?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ve got maple syrup on my shoe that says there is.”
“I’m just tired of Vic’s attitude, and Val — that idiot.”
“That’s it?” said Bicé, coming over and sitting down on the lip of the tank. Christian’s hair was still soaked with the liquid. Gobs of it stuck to his temples like hair gel.
“You ever wonder why a woman like Vileroy would adopt all five of us?” asked Christian. He was playing with the drawstrings of his trunks.
“That’s a pretty random question.”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I mean, why us five?”
“I know it’s hard to think about, Christian. Our real parents probably had some reason —”
“They didn’t want us.”
“Maybe they couldn’t keep a baby.”
“To hell with ’em if they couldn’t.”
“Christian.”
“But why would Vileroy want us?”
Bicé sighed. She was concerned for Christian, but didn’t have any answers to offer.
“Do you ever even think about how screwed up this is?” said Christian. “The things she does?”
“To be honest,” said Bicé, “all I ever think about is being alone.”
“You mean alone with your books,” said Christian.
“I just meant I don’t think about her all that much.”
“If I won the lottery, I’d buy a ton of land and never worry about anything again.”
“You’d get tired. You need goals, like that athletic award at Marlowe and then a Division One college.”
“You don’t have any goals,” said Christian.
“And I’m dead tired.”
Christian laughed at her dark humor. He lifted himself out of the tank and walked over to the sink. The thick liquid dropped on the floor and looked like beached jellyfish. Christian grabbed a towel and held it under the faucet. “Thanks, B. I’m sorry about breakfast.”
Bicé was about to say something, but she stopped when she saw Christian wipe his wet towel over his bare chest. A faint black mark blotted the skin over his heart. It was just dark enough to be visible. She wasn’t even sure it was there. Christian caught her stare.
“What?” he said.
“That spot,” she said, “on your chest.”
“It’s a birthmark,” he said.
“Yeah, I know. Belle has the same one, only much darker than that.”
Christian stopped wiping. He looked at Bicé, not knowing quite what this meant. “She has the same mark?”
“And it only shows up when she gets wet.”
“But we’re not — I mean, she’s not really my sister . . . you know, by blood.”
“That doesn’t matter. Birthmarks aren’t genetic.”
Just then the door to Christian’s room swung open and Valentin stepped in holding a sheet of paper. “Hey, Christian, I finished my poem. Wanna hear?”
“No,” said Christian, annoyed that his conversation with Bicé had been interrupted.
Valentin’s face made a sudden twitch; his hand reached in his pocket. His smile looked like it had been jerked by a fishing hook. “Thanks,” he said, “I’m really excited about this one.” He unfolded the piece of paper to begin.
“Wait, I didn’t say I wanted to hear it,” said Christian.
“Yeah, you did,” said Valentin. He was always confusing real memories with events that he had never allowed to happen. Memories only he would have. Sometimes, he got confused even when something had just happened or when he hadn’t yet changed something and it was only an imagined future.
“No, I didn’t,” said Christian.
“Oh,” said Valentin, and began to search for something that would interest Christian.
“But it’s about chi —” Valentin’s face twitched again. “Monst —” It twitched again. “Trains on a track, very poetic.”
Christian perked up at the subject. “You’ve never mentioned that before,” he said.
“It just came to me,” said Valentin with pride.
As Valentin read his poem to him, Christian felt it washing over him. When Valentin finished, he looked up for Christian’s response.
“It’s really good. You’re really good,” he said with a faint smile. He rubbed the painful spot on his chest, the painful birthmark that Bicé had just noticed.
“Thanks,” said Valentin. “I’ve been working on it all day.”
A few hours later, long after Bicé and Valentin had left to change clothes, Christian woke from a nap. Buddy was conscious now, sitting in the corner, tossing a racquetball against the wall. In a few minutes, they would flip houses and Belle’s guest would arrive. Without warning anyone, she had invited some old man from the school play to their house. Christian turned around and noticed something sitting on the nightstand next to his bed. On a tray, next to a glass of orange juice, was a large plate of burgers with a note tucked underneath.
Hey, Christian,
Thought you could use a snack.
Love, Belle
It was a nice gesture, and he was hungry. He lifted the bun from one of the burgers. What’s this? Instead of a hamburger patty, Belle had cut up hot dogs and spread out the pieces all across the bread. The hot dogs looked uncooked. It was as if she had thrown together scraps from the fridge and tossed it at him like he was a dog or some poor homeless mongrel orphan. He stared at the hot dog burgers for a while, feeling nothing at all. And then something inside him moved, and he felt anger rise up through his body and grab him by the throat.
At first, Christian pushed the feeling back, laughing at himself for reacting this way. After all, Belle was just trying to be nice. No one asked her to bring him a snack. So why criticize? Just throw it away and move on. But then, each time he looked at the plate, he felt his rage and sadness grow stronger and the plate began to look different. Like a last meal. Like a hopeless, homeless Sunday evening. Like the grief-stricken scavenging of a hungry boy who’s just buried his mother. Like a fall to a different life. If he took a bite, he would be a different person. He would be someone with no options.
As he sat there, heaving with unexplainable fury, he felt a burning in his eyes. He looked up and saw the blinding blue light take over his room and shoot past his eyes. He closed them, but nothing helped. A moment later, he was sitting on the unused bed in the fake bedroom that he supposedly shared with Valentin, complete with its pristine furniture and unwrapped hockey sticks.
Victoria and Belle were waiting in the magazine-cover living room with Madame Vileroy when there was a knock on the door. Victoria jumped up from the plush creamy couch.
“What’s the matter with you?” Belle asked with a raised eyeb
row.
“Nothing. Just get the door.”
“Why are you even here, Victoria? This is my guest. Madame Vileroy, can you tell her to leave?”
“No, dear, Victoria can stay.”
“Then can you tell me why you made me invite this guy? I had to tell him I have a medical condition and I need him for a consultation. And he’s so” — Belle shuddered from head to toe at the thought — “sleazy.”
“Be patient, my dear,” said Madame Vileroy. “I hear it’s a virtue.”
“OK, then what do I have to do? Can you tell me that much?”
“Get the door.”
Belle opened the door to find the doctor she had met at the party, waiting with his hands behind his back. She let him in and invited him to sit down, all the while wondering what she was supposed to do, whether her first bath would work. After a few minutes of pleasantries, which grew more and more strange as the doctor became more accustomed to and infatuated with Belle’s tricks, there was another knock on the door.
“That’s her,” said Victoria.
“Who?” said Belle.
But Victoria was already up and answering the door. Belle turned to find Ms. LeMieux being led into the house by a very happy Victoria. Thirty seconds into the counselor’s arrival and Victoria was already chatting her up with the contents of her own mind. Belle heard Ms. LeMieux snort with delight. “What a self-assured girl you are.”
Victoria demurred. “Thanks. I’m trying my best. It’s just so hard, because even though I want to try for the Marlowe Prize, my grades will get killed in gym. I have a lot of . . . physical impairments.”
“Oh.” Ms. LeMieux put a hand to her mouth.
“I really shouldn’t have to take that class. But it’s a world ruled by jocks, you know.”
Ms. LeMieux knew. She knew all too well. And Victoria just stood back and listened as Ms. LeMieux remembered all her own teenage injustices. The counselor’s face grew softer as she thought of all that she had in common with this girl. What ambition. What go-gettitude. Truly inspiring. She allowed Victoria to lead her inside.
“My brother Christian’s a jock,” said Victoria. Then in a whisper, “I’m not saying ’roid rage, exactly, but carbo-loading doesn’t make you flip tables, you know?”
Ms. LeMieux put a hand on Victoria’s shoulder.
Madame Vileroy got up to greet the counselor, which was more than she had done for the doctor. Ms. LeMieux shook the governess’s icy hand. “I’m sorry to have to make this house call, Madame Vileroy. But some of the things Victoria said on the phone this morning were rather alarming — and quite difficult to believe. I can’t approve anything without seeing for myself.”
“Of course. We understand,” Madame Vileroy said smoothly.
At that moment, Christian burst into the room, red-faced, with tears knifing down his cheeks. He was screaming something incoherent, knocking over anything that would break. Madame Vileroy knew that even he couldn’t say why he’d become so enraged. Seeing the hot dog burgers was like an accusation, and he’d just gone off. Now he was blabbering out profanities, crying like a baby, and smashing like a beast. Finally, as the heaving in his chest subsided, he noticed the guests, wide-eyed on the couch. He didn’t say anything more, just turned and headed for the kitchen. From the living room, the stunned guests could hear Christian slamming doors and storming about.
“Girls, come with me, please,” Madame Vileroy said, standing up, as if she were going to handle the situation. She put a motherly arm around Belle, who looked confused, wholly unaware of what had been done. These were the moments the governess lived for — the first moments of a giant rift to come, seedlings of mistrust that were surely now planted between Belle and Christian. “If you’ll excuse us.”
The two guests sat silently for a few minutes. The doctor spoke first.
“Schizophrenic rage. Rare at this age, but rather interesting . . .” he mumbled.
“Are you familiar with the family?”
“No, I’m a child psychologist,” he said with contempt. “It’s really quite sad to see a broken family. I’m going to request a one-on-one consultation with each of them immediately, especially the daughters. They seem the most in need.”
“Really? A broken family?” asked Ms. LeMieux, taken back to her own damaged childhood and how hard she had had to work and how no one ever gave her a break.
“Absolutely. A classic case,” said the doctor, stroking his beard. “The very fact that they’re orphans makes them susceptible to all sorts of emotional scarring.”
“But Victoria seems so above average. So concerned with her schoolwork, going after the Marlowe Prize. . . . I just think —”
“An elaborate facade. In my professional opinion, she’s weeping on the inside,” he said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head at the shame of it all. “They all are,” he added.
“Poor dears,” said Ms. LeMieux, sitting back in her chair. She felt such an immediate sympathy for Victoria and her physical and emotional handicaps, all the obstacles pushing her down as she tried to pull herself out of her unfortunate circumstances.
The next day, Victoria received a messengered letter from the Marlowe School, informing her that in regard to the phone call about her phobias and “weak constitution,” she would be exempt from health and physical education classes from then on — and wishing her the best of luck in her pursuit of the Marlowe Prize at the end of the upcoming semester.
“You have had much success, Nicola. More than any other in the legion.”
“I enjoy my work.”
“Princes, philosophers, men and women of power. Your influence is great.”
“I am a keen observer of the mark. I know when they are willing to bargain.”
“You track it at an astonishing rate. It’s as if you smell a weak soul.”
“My winged friends watch for me. They tell me when a heart calls for us.”
“You and your insects . . . I wonder if those little spies are the ones responsible for all your prosperity as a governess.”
“Or maybe I’m responsible for theirs. They’re everywhere. It’s hardly a challenge.”
“Are you bored, my friend?”
“I’ve exhausted my skills. I’m looking for an unattainable soul . . . a soul that’s not for sale. I want someone without the mark.”
“You know that’s not allowed, Nicola.”
“I think I’ve found a way.”
Victoria was happy — ever since Madame Vileroy had all but assured that her future would be as bright as a morning star. She would go down in history forever. Now that was a Christmas present.
Wrapped in towels, Victoria looked at herself in the mirror. She eyed the black spot, still visible on the moist skin of her chest. Suddenly she was startled by a noise in the room. Victoria whipped around to see Madame Vileroy sitting in the corner like a coiled snake, so silent you’d think she wasn’t paying attention — a smile on her face like a demon trying to be demure. She looked like the picture of the perfect mother.
Then she spoke: “Put some clothes on. I want to show you something.”
As they made their way down the hall, Victoria grew more excited and frightened. The candles had flickered out, and she was beginning to feel something crawling on her arms and face. She didn’t know what it was, but somehow she didn’t feel alone. Victoria heard a buzzing noise, growing louder as they moved down the cold, dark hall. It wasn’t like the buzzing of bees or hornets. It was light and fluttery, like millions of tiny wings flapping all over the place, enclosed in a tiny space. Victoria closed her eyes, scared to see what kind of horror Madame Vileroy had in store for her. They walked into a room. The buzzing had grown so loud that it was almost impossible to hear anything else. She felt Madame Vileroy’s icy hand on her shoulder, compelling her to take a look.
Victoria opened her eyes to a sight that left her breathless. Moths, hundreds and thousands and millions of them. They filled the tiny room like a massive cloud of
dust. They flew around in unison, flapping their wings in such harmony that the sound began to take on a sort of rhythm. In the thick fog of moths, Victoria was afraid to open her mouth to speak, since she might get a mouthful of bugs.
“Don’t worry,” Madame Vileroy read her mind. “You can talk. They won’t harm you . . . much.”
“W-what are they?” Victoria stammered.
“Meet your new family, Victoria. Your closest confidants. These creatures will become your eyes and ears throughout the city.”
“How?”
“Did you ever wish you could be a fly on the wall in other people’s lives?” Madame Vileroy smiled with malice.
“Well, yes, it’s like that when I . . . you know . . .”
“Yes, but there’s only one of you and thousands of them . . .”
Victoria was beginning to understand. These moths would spy for her. She wouldn’t have to do the work anymore. In fact, she didn’t even have to be in the room in order to do it.
“Take a few steps forward.”
“What?” Victoria was shocked and scared. “You want me to go in? They’re all over the place.”
Madame Vileroy didn’t respond. Victoria took a small step inside, then another, and soon she was standing in the middle of the cloud. She couldn’t see Madame Vileroy, or the door, or the walls — only moths flying around faster and faster. When they sensed her presence, they began to converge around her head, whipping around and around like flies drawn to a flame. Victoria had never been so scared in her life. She couldn’t see anything except the mist of insects; she couldn’t hear anything else either. All she could do was stand there and hope that they wouldn’t hurt her. She became aware of the unnerving feeling of wings against her face. Then she reached out her hand and allowed a few of them to hover above and below her outstretched arm. Their wings felt soft, like a giant feather boa, and Victoria’s fear began to subside. Still, she was far from comfortable. The moths were everywhere. Suddenly she wished she had put on more clothes.
Another Faust Page 10
