From then on, Christian spent his nights locked away in his restoration chamber. More and more, he was absent from meals — so often that the others wondered if he was becoming addicted to it, the way some athletes became addicted to painkillers. Though he never talked about it, it had become obvious that he spent a lot of time practicing and learning to break Buddy by stealing at the right times. Since his arrival over Christmas break, Buddy had started becoming more animated, at first smiling or reacting to pain while they practiced and then perking up with excitement every time Christian walked into his room. Though Christian still found it incredibly hard to use Buddy for practice, his desperation to win left him little choice. Instead, he looked for clever ways to avoid hurting Buddy when he didn’t have to.
Meanwhile, as the children adjusted to Marlowe, Madame Vileroy crept into the lives of Mrs. Wirth and her fellow Marlowe parents. Somehow, no matter what strange things happened, Mrs. Wirth was always ready with an explanation of her own. “The door hit her in the head — hard.” “The mothballs must be getting old.” “That boy just needs a good speech therapist.” None of the children mentioned to their new classmates that they had spent Christmas Day alone in their home. Victoria, Valentin, and Belle, who remembered once celebrating Christmas, were too focused to care. Bicé and Christian, the ones that didn’t remember . . . well, they didn’t remember.
One afternoon, only a few days after the start of school, Belle sat in the constant dark of Madame Vileroy’s living room, mixing several strange-looking liquids. She was lost in her own world, measuring, diluting, wiping, and stirring, oblivious to anyone around her. She was in the process of pouring a crackling, fizzing yellow substance into a wooden beaker when Victoria walked in.
“You’re not supposed to do that in here,” Victoria said.
“Needed a change of scenery,” said Belle.
Victoria was about to ask what Belle was smiling about when she felt a twitch in her nose. She wrinkled her face, not knowing where the itch was coming from. Then, as she sat down next to Belle, she felt a strange sensation washing over her.
“What are you —” She couldn’t describe what she was feeling.
“Yes?” said Belle.
“I don’t know . . . I . . . well . . .” Victoria stammered, her eyes darting back and forth. She looked around for a bit and then began hugging herself with both arms and lightly rocking back and forth. “D-d-do you hear something outside?”
“Yes,” said Belle, “I think I do. Like a scratching at the window.”
“Yeah, a scratching,” said Victoria. “It’s dark in here.”
“Very dark. Are you scared?” said Belle.
“What? Me? Don’t be ridiculous,” Victoria said with disdain. “But . . .” she hedged, and suddenly whipped her head around. “What was that?”
“I heard it too!” said Belle. “Oh, my gosh, look!” Belle suddenly leaped up and pointed at the window. Victoria raised her hands above her head and screamed like a startled chicken. She jumped up from her seat to run away, but then rethought the idea and came right back down. She missed the seat and crashed to the ground. She scrambled up, threw her arms around Belle’s neck, and buried her face in her shoulder. She didn’t notice that Belle was laughing softly. The bath was working like a charm. This morning, she had poured in a bottle of hallucination mixed with a little irrational fear. After a little while, Victoria looked up cautiously.
“What’s going on?” she said with a broken voice. “Why are you laughing?”
“I’m sorry, Vic. I didn’t mean to trick you. You were just the first person who came in, and I was testing out the bath. It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Belle couldn’t hide the ecstasy in her voice.
“What?” Victoria was very angry. “What did you do to me? Fix it, now!”
“Don’t worry. It won’t hurt you.” Belle tried to calm Victoria down. Victoria continued to whimper, but it was wonderful. Victoria obviously didn’t feel repulsed by her. She just felt scared. She felt exactly the way Belle wanted her to feel.
“So there’s nothing at the window?” Victoria asked.
Belle shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Here, take this. Just keep smelling it.” Belle gave Victoria a cup full of coffee beans. As soon as Victoria put her nose in the cup, she seemed to calm down. She realized that she was still clinging to Belle and immediately pushed her away.
Just then, Bicé walked past them as if they weren’t there. As usual, she was mumbling something. She looked weak and listless. She walked over to a cupboard and grabbed some cookies. As Victoria continued to sniff the coffee, Belle watched Bicé with interest. Was she sleepy? Was she stupid? She usually wasn’t so out of it to just walk by like that. Just then, Belle saw Bicé jump three inches to the right. It was as if she just disappeared and appeared to the right of where she was standing before. But Belle knew better. It hadn’t been just a split second at all. For all she knew, Bicé had stopped time for long enough to learn Navajo and Belle had been frozen for weeks. It was pretty impressive that Bicé managed to find her old spot within three inches.
Half an hour later, Belle was bathed (again), clothed in her trendiest designer outfit, and ready to head out. She had already taken several strolls around the city over the past few weeks. She knew where to go to find every type of New Yorker — burned-out twenty-something bankers, unwashed starving artists, models looking for father figures, and, of course, teen queens with their high-school entourages.
It was still early in the afternoon, so Belle made her way to a café near Marlowe. In the crowded streets, people stared at her because she was uncommonly beautiful. As she walked, she gazed at the frosty tree limbs in Central Park and the leftover Christmas decorations in the store windows. Patches of snow crunched under her feet, and she darted across town blithely, relishing the glances of the passersby. She passed a street lined with brownstones, warm lights spilling out of random windows, and she quickened her step, trying not to think of her own cold home.
The café was dark and decorated with big couches and pillows and a few tables here and there. Belle walked straight to one of the couches and sat down. She looked around. Teenagers were standing in groups, many of them wearing the gray-and-navy Marlowe School uniform. She recognized two of them right away: Charlotte Hill and Connor Wirth. They were standing with a third girl from Marlowe. They had just bought their drinks and were making their way to the empty couch next to Belle’s. Belle turned her back so they wouldn’t recognize her too soon.
The tiny blonde in the tennis outfit felt it first. Something sweet and fruity that made her think of spring and outdoor parties. It felt nice, like a tequila sunrise with lots of cherries. Instinctively, she turned around. There was Belle, sitting alone, reading a magazine, paying no attention to this girl or her group.
“Hi there,” the girl said to Belle. Charlotte and Connor exchanged confused glances. Connor recognized Belle but didn’t say anything, trying to play it cool. The girl turned to her friends with a big smile on her face and then bounced out of her seat and sat on the couch next to Belle. “I’m Maggie.”
Her friends followed her to the couch, half because they were curious and half because they too felt a bit happier than usual — somehow drawn to the next couch. Belle didn’t respond until all three of them were sitting next to her. She raised an eyebrow, as if annoyed by this unwelcome disturbance. In fact, she stayed silent throughout Maggie’s introduction and Connor’s and Charlotte’s confused hellos. This is working so well, she thought.
“Hi,” she finally said to Maggie, “I’m Belle.” They smiled, except for Charlotte, who looked a bit uncomfortable. She kept rubbing her arm and looking around.
“Do you go to Marlowe too?” asked Maggie.
“Um . . . yeah, she does . . .” Connor answered for Belle. He kept smiling but was fidgeting in his chair. There was something strange about the Faust girl. Stranger than last time. Something uncomfortable. She’s so pretty. Like a celebrity. But not
like the way they look on camera. She’s like a celebrity in those candid shots. There was something unhealthy about her. Sickly white, like a starlet without makeup. I like her, though, he thought. She’s so pretty.
An hour later, Belle had the unfortunate threesome in the palm of her hand. They had told her all the Marlowe gossip, all the best places to eat and shop and hang out, and they had even invited her to sit with them at lunch for the rest of the year. As soon as Charlotte found out she was talking to Valentin’s sister, she inched a bit closer, inhaling even more of Belle’s intoxicating air. She didn’t care that Lucy, her best friend, hated this girl and her upstart family. She just wanted to know more about her — and Valentin.
Connor, having completely forgotten his first impression of her at the party, asked Belle to the spring dance, but she laughed, saying that it was too early to pick a date.
“Connor?” she asked, still unsure of her own power. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure . . . yeah . . . definitely.” He stumbled over his words. He didn’t know the question, but he wanted to answer it more than anything.
“How many girls has Thomas Goodman-Brown dated?” she asked shyly.
Connor thought for a second. Then he said, “If I find out for you, will you let me take you out?” He didn’t bother to think too much about why Belle wanted to know about Thomas. He just wanted to be with her and make her happy.
“I promise to think about it.”
“OK, I’ll find out tonight.”
“Hey, I know about one girl,” Maggie said cheerfully as she played with her ponytail.
“Oh?” Belle said approvingly. “Tell me.”
“Lucy Spencer. I’ve heard some talk about them.”
A tiny pang of guilt kept Charlotte from saying anything for a split second. For a moment, she sat there fidgeting, trying to decide if she should betray her friend. But she quashed that feeling and volunteered everything she knew, saying, “They kissed at the party.”
Belle flared with jealousy at the thought. A bead of sweat appeared on her forehead, and with it the smell of sewage. The stench passed quickly, making the others flinch. Belle smiled and wiped her brow, and the three went back to their half-witted admiration.
“She kissed him or he kissed her? Find out for me?” Belle asked sweetly.
“OK,” Maggie said. She took out a pen and put it on her to-do list.
Belle now had her own throng of followers, as obedient as Victoria’s insects, ready to do whatever she wanted.
“Charlotte, you wouldn’t mind finding out all the places Lucy might see Thomas in the next couple of weeks, would you? You know, activities, parents’ parties, stuff like that.”
“Um . . . sure, Belle.” Charlotte reasoned that the information was easily available to anyone. It wasn’t best friend information. Besides, she really liked Belle.
That night, the Faust home was silent. Victoria was sealed away, all alone in a sea of moths. Valentin spent the evening memorizing each errant tick of a rusty old watch. Christian was locked in a coffin, making his body and his habit stronger with each passing hour. Bicé slept. And Belle had dinner alone with Madame Vileroy.
Despite everything, Belle still didn’t feel right. She had noticed that throughout the afternoon, her new friends were fidgety, sometimes hanging on her every word, telling her everything she wanted to know, and other times writhing around in their seats like tortured animals. When they were around her, it seemed that something happened to their adrenaline. It ebbed and flowed, starting and stopping, like soft whimpers after hard sobs. She didn’t like this side effect. And she wasn’t sure how long she could hold them.
She and Vileroy ate in silence, except for the sound of Belle’s phone every few minutes, signaling the arrival of a text message.
Connor: T only dated 2 grlz. Neither @ Mrlo. Never sees
them.
Belle: Sure?
Connor: Ya, both dating other guys.
Belle: Kewl, thx.
Connor: Dinner?
Before Belle had a chance to respond, Madame Vileroy looked up from her plate and said, “Becoming quite the queen bee, aren’t you?”
“So?”
“So, you’re wasting it.” The governess ran her long fingers through her shiny hair.
“What do you mean?”
“Always dig deeper, Belle. Always look for the weak points. For instance, you could ask Connor to do so much more. He’ll do it. Men always do. Look carefully and you’ll see much more than just what’s at the surface. Like the fact that Lucy and Connor aren’t that close. You should be able to observe things like that by now.”
Belle thought about that for a minute, then picked up her phone.
“And sending written messages seems a bit foolish,” said the governess.
“What do you mean?” asked Belle.
“How can you read what he’s thinking? How can you charm anyone using that hideous shorthand? It’s so . . . frank. A waste, in my opinion . . .”
Belle shrugged and dialed Connor’s number.
When he picked up, she got right to the point. “Know any good gossip about Lucy?” she asked.
“Like?” said Connor, obviously excited that she had called. Vileroy had been right — again.
“Like what?” Belle asked Madame Vileroy, putting her hand over the phone.
The governess waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Indiscretions, cheating, embarrassing medical conditions . . . whatever you like.”
Belle said to Connor, “Like stuff she’s done. Embarrassing things.”
“I could find out.”
“If you do, tell Thomas.”
“What if there’s nothing to find out?”
“It doesn’t have to be true. You think she’s not doing the same thing to me right now? Besides, she called you a dumb jock at your parents’ party.”
Just as they were finishing dinner, Belle heard the sound of a text message from Maggie.
Maggie: Tru about kiss. Lucy has big crush. Been wrkng on
him 4 dance.
Belle: Tell T that. Tell him L’s dying 2 go out w/ him.
Maggie: Y?
Belle: Looks desperate.
Just then, Madame Vileroy approached her from behind, whispering as usual. “It would be a lot more effective if you turn them against each other.”
“Why?”
“Because then they would cling to you more.” Creating a gulf between people — that was Madame Vileroy’s favorite pastime. Every cold moment between Christian and Belle Madame Vileroy prized as her own recent accomplishment.
“Good idea,” said Belle, feeling a bit stupid for not having thought of this herself.
“If you practice,” said Vileroy as she slinked away, “you can come up with your own good ideas.”
Belle: Thx Mags. UR sweet. CW is just being a jerk btw.
Maggie: Huh?
Belle: He said UR really nasty to freshmen and hobos.
Just then, Belle’s phone rang. It was Maggie, tired of texting. Without saying hello, she screamed, “It was April Fool’s! And he’s done way worse!”
“I know. Will you just do that one thing for me, then? Please?”
“OK, sure.”
Belle giggled at the extent of her own power. This stuff isn’t even because of the bath! I did that on my own. For some reason, that made her proud. It had been so long since anything she’d done was her own work. And after what happened with Christian, after that talk with Madame Vileroy when the governess had told her how much she could do without the help of any baths or potions, after that, something about manipulating a bunch of unsuspecting classmates made her feel good. Each time she used some tidbit of information to predict exactly how they would react, a small part of her rejoiced.
As if she was learning.
As if she could do so much on her own.
Just like a daughter.
Later that night, when Belle was working on her laptop, she got an instant m
essage from Charlotte.
CharChizzle: They have debate together every day. Spencers are friends with G-Bs. They go to his golf games. Oh, and they hang out when Connor is around. C & T are friends.
Bellissima62: Thx, babe.
CharChizzle: No biggie. It’s all public info anyway.
Bellissima62: Will you do me one more little favor?
CharChizzle: Sure. What is it?
Bellissima62: Just keep watching her for me. Connor says she’s a crazy witch. You never know what she’ll do next.
CharChizzle: She’s not that bad.
Bellissima62: Do it for me?
CharChizzle: OK, but there isn’t that much to tell.
Bellissima62: You’re a doll. Maggie was completely wrong about you.
Belle turned around in her chair just in time to see Bicé standing there, her arms crossed, having just read Belle’s conversation over her shoulder.
“Belle, how can you be so nasty to them?”
Belle blanched and shrugged. “Just trying to find out more. . . .”
Bicé sat down next to Belle and looked her in the eyes, trying to find something of the old Belle, the one who looked like her, deep inside this beautiful girl. “You . . . the old Belle never would’ve played these games.”
“They’re not games. You don’t understand, Bicé. You don’t know how I feel about Thomas.”
“Maybe not. But it’s not worth losing your soul to win a guy.”
Belle gasped at the word “soul.” Did Bicé know? But the soft, sweet expression on Bicé’s face suggested that she was only using it rhetorically. And so Belle kissed her sister good night — her heart pounding hard — and promised to be good.
Another Faust Page 12
