“Hey, Christian,” he said, a little too enthusiastically. Christian jumped. “Hey, I need a quick favor.”
“Sure. What?”
“Would you just listen to me read this poem? It’s the one I wrote for the tournament yesterday.”
“Now? Val, are you nuts?”
Valentin looked like he had no idea what Christian was talking about. “OK, read it yourself, then. Here.” He tried to force the page into Christian’s hand. But Christian just looked at him, shocked.
“Valentin.” Bicé jumped in with a suspicious look. “This is not the right time.”
“OK. Maybe later tonight, then?”
“Why does it have to be tonight?” said Christian. “We have a lot to deal with right now, Valentin.”
“OK, later tonight, then.” Valentin licked his lips nervously. “Later . . . when we’re home . . . when you’re not overwhelmed. It’ll only take a second.” Valentin quickly walked away before Christian could object.
Bicé shot a glance at Christian and then looked at Belle again. Christian looked mad. “Why is he always rubbing it in my face?”
“Oh, that’s not what he’s doing. You’re the only real friend he has.”
“B, he’s rubbing it in my face. Every chance he gets. I’m starting to get sick of it.”
“Can we just get back to the clues? We know Vic made a deal with Vileroy. Obviously she wants to get back at Belle. Obviously it’s got to have something to do with Thomas. She hates them both . . .” Christian nodded as Bicé counted on her fingers.
Belle laughed as Thomas whispered something in her ear. She seemed completely unaware of all the people around her, behaving more and more indifferently as they moved closer to her. She didn’t mind. That’s what she wanted, to be alone with Thomas. At first, when he had picked her up for the dance, it seemed that he was fighting with himself. Part of him wanted to be aloof. To ignore her. To act as if he didn’t care. Another part of him didn’t understand why he was acting that way. Hadn’t he sprinted to her door only five minutes before? That part of him wanted to tell her how wonderful she looked. And in the end, he did. Belle was ecstatic to see that even though he twitched and fought with himself a few times, he was basically attentive and very interested in everything she did and said. Maybe tonight, he would finally get over his shyness and make a move. She wasn’t hoping for much. Any kind of progress from his current comfort zone of cheeks and forehead would be welcome. What’s wrong here? Belle asked herself. Maybe he only likes to kiss at formal occasions. He kissed Lucy at the Christmas party. It was something to cling to.
From a distance, Victoria and Bicé were both watching Belle. But Belle didn’t notice. She was having too much fun. Thomas seemed so proud of her for helping him at the tournament. He had always found her charming and beautiful. But to have such a smart girlfriend seemed to make him inflate. He tried to approach some of his friends with Belle on his arm, but they all recoiled. The only one even remotely interested in them was Lucy, who was hanging on to Connor Wirth’s arm while never taking her eyes off Thomas. In the rare moments when Thomas looked over, she clung tighter to Connor and tried to pretend she was having the best time ever.
Across the room, Valentin was eyeing a group of girls sitting on one of the couches. He noticed the one in the middle — overweight, bad skin, tacky dress, and a mean look on her face as if she didn’t need friends anyway. Wow, she could use some help. She was probably the type of girl who had to be forced by her mother to come to the dance. Valentin stuffed his poem back into his pocket. As he walked toward her, he became more and more aware of his own body — sleek, handsome; designer shirt tucked in, golden hair brushed back. He felt perfect. Looking at the poor, pathetic girls in front of him made him feel a rush. And that was a bigger turn-on than all the spritely beauties who were casually glancing in his direction.
“Hey, ladies. Who wants to dance?” he said as he eyed the wallflowers with a hungry look. The fat one backed away. Valentin put on his saddest face.
“You’re turning me down? Not even a ‘maybe’?” He gave the sweetest look he could muster. Yes, that’s the one he wanted. That’s the one who would make him feel flawless. A girl like that would put up with anything. He wouldn’t have to lie; wouldn’t have to change anything. Like throwing a party in a crack house. No need to clean up afterward.
The girl looked at him with suspicion, but then smiled. There was a bit of fear in her smile. It made Valentin want to dance with her even more.
“Isn’t that sweet?” a pretty young girl nearby said to her friend. “He’s trying to make her feel better.”
“Yeah, he’s a really nice guy.”
The night flew by quickly for the Faust children. All except Bicé, who spent the entire night thinking and being afraid. She knew something was coming. She had heard the conversation between Victoria and Vileroy, the deal being hatched. It was enough to distract her from all thoughts of Christian’s childhood letter, his disappearing mark, or his plan to escape. For a moment, she looked at Belle. She saw the way Thomas looked at her. He laughed at something she said. But more than anything, he was mesmerized by her beauty. Suddenly Bicé felt a dreadful knowing feeling wash over her. She knew what was coming and dashed toward her sister.
“Belle. Belle, you have to listen to me.”
“Bicé! Can’t you see I’m busy? Sorry, Thomas, but my sister is in one of her moods.”
Bicé cowered for a minute and then gathered herself. “Belle, you have to listen. Vileroy and Victoria, they’re — well, I’m not sure what they’re doing. I think you should go home.”
“Oh, no. Not another insane conspiracy theory. I’ve had enough from Maggie.”
“Huh? No, listen. You should go home now.”
“OK, whatever. Can you please go away?”
Belle pushed her sister aside and walked with Thomas to another private corner.
Just as Bicé was about to follow them, she was overtaken by Maggie and Charlotte, who had just left Lucy’s side and were making their way back to Belle. They were hysterical.
“Bicé, Bicé — we have to stop Lucy!”
Bicé had no patience for them. “I have to go. Belle needs me.”
“Belle? Did you say Belle? Lucy did something, didn’t she? Did she steal Thomas?”
They sounded concerned, but the look in their eyes wasn’t a look of worry. They looked exhilarated and eager. Bicé tried to keep walking, all the while watching Belle from the corner of her eye, wanting desperately to get to her so she could take her away from here. Bicé made a beeline toward Belle, but before she could reach her — yet another distraction — she heard someone clearing her throat into the microphone.
“Welcome to the Marlowe School spring dance, everyone!”
Ms. LeMieux and Coach K were standing in the front of the room. Ms. LeMieux spoke first, looking at Coach K with big, condescending eyes every few minutes to make sure he was following.
“We hope you’ve had a lovely evening. As you all know, one of the biggest honors at Marlowe, the Scholar-Athlete Prize, is traditionally presented at the spring dance.”
She waited a moment for applause. When none came, she went on. “Coach K and I represent the two fields in which this phenomenal student has excelled: athletics” — she nodded to Coach K — “and scholarship” — she stretched to her full height. “In a short time, this student has shown that great things can be achieved by someone very young. This student has been a role model to the class —”
Before she could finish, Coach K stepped in. There was a mild applause that died down quickly when she gave them a dirty glance. “Without further ado, we present this year’s winner of the Marlowe Scholar-Athlete Prize . . .”
Christian couldn’t help himself. He was curious. Even though his heart wasn’t in it, he wanted to know if they had noticed him, if they thought he was the best. He still wanted to win, to get one step closer to an easy life, or rather one step further from a hard one.
>
“Connor Wirth.”
Christian looked at his shoes. The class erupted. Connor started to jog toward the front, while all his friends patted him on the back.
“In his years at Marlowe, Connor Wirth has led the school to numerous championships in golf, swimming, and basketball, all the while setting a positive example for his fellow classmates. His integrity, sportsmanlike attitude, persistence in the face of adversity, and competitive drive are admirable, and the reason that he is this year’s Scholar-Athlete.”
Ms. LeMieux yanked the mic away from the coach. “Connor, you have shown us that unflinching diligence can be a recipe for a successful life. Congratulations.”
Half the audience groaned at her sappy words. Christian tried to fight the feeling that was welling up in his chest. He tried to push it down deep inside his body. But a part of him still wanted to run up onto the podium and steal that happy smirk off Connor’s face.
“Jealous?” a cool voice said. He turned around to see Madame Vileroy standing next to him, her hair in her signature low bun, wearing a beautiful white gown that made her stand out as the most striking woman in the room.
“No,” Christian said flatly. “I’m happy for him.”
“What’s going on in there?” She tapped him gently on the chest. “Don’t you want to be a winner? Rich? Not even now that you’ve lost? Did your heart stop crying black tears?”
Christian didn’t answer.
“You know, it’s not too late. You can still have it all. Now that you know the whole story, you and I can make another deal, Christian. I’m giving you another chance to be happy, to be a winner.” She grabbed his arm and walked him away from the crowd cheering Connor. Christian was about to tell her where she could go when a lingering doubt overtook him. Was this the time to cash in? He had probably already sold his soul. What more could she ask for? Maybe this time he could focus on being a good writer. Forget about fame and fortune.
“Christian, dear.” She bent over to whisper into his ear. “Would you like to be a writer?”
His ears perked up. “I saw that you’re helping Buddy to remember.”
She waited for a response. “We’ll do great things. I promise,” she prodded.
The lingering doubt in Christian’s mind was gone. He pictured Buddy’s personal hell. What if that happened to him?
“No. You can’t make me stay. You obviously don’t have my soul, or you wouldn’t be trying to make deals.”
Madame Vileroy straightened up. She remained as composed as ever, but her devil eye flickered with rage. “Very well, my dear. Have it your way.”
Bicé looked over at Thomas and Belle, who were in their own world, oblivious to the excitement in front of them. Bicé started marching toward them. She was determined to take Belle home no matter what anyone said. After getting Belle safely home, she would have to figure out what’s going on with Valentin. It wasn’t entirely like him to rub his writing in Christian’s face. Why had he been in such a rush to have Christian read the poem? He had never even acknowledged what Bicé and Christian had found out the night Victoria cheated Thomas at their house. He never brought it up, as if he wasn’t sure it really happened. And they had never asked him about it, afraid of what he would say. But as soon as they got home tonight, Bicé would find out everything.
Bicé tried again to make her way through the crowd. She knew what was coming. And it was coming soon. She sped up to a run, bumping into couples along the way. “Belle,” she heard herself saying, a little louder. “Belle!” Suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed her by the arm. She spun around. She didn’t have time for this. It was Christian. He had finally worked up the courage to ask Charlotte to dance when Bicé had rushed past.
“What’s going on?” said Christian.
“Belle!” said Bicé. “We have to help her. Let me go!”
The urgency in Bicé’s voice made Christian let go. Bicé ran on. Christian grabbed Charlotte’s hand and followed.
They finally reached Belle, just as Thomas was making his move, his face inches away from Belle’s. Bicé reached her hand toward her sister. She could feel Madame Vileroy moving closer behind her. But in that instant, something made Bicé stop. Something made her step back. Something made Thomas stop in his tracks — his face barely touching Belle’s — yell out, and push Belle so hard she almost hit the floor.
“Thomas? Why did you do that?” Belle said, shocked and flustered.
A room full of people stood around with their mouths hanging open, quiet as ghosts. Victoria was elated, overjoyed by the bargain she had made. She had a Cheshire-cat smile on her face. Lucy was stunned and quickly made her way to Thomas’s side. In two seconds, she had pulled him away and was whispering consoling words in his ear, pretending she had known all along. Bicé was grabbing Belle’s arm and making for the door before Belle could see for herself. But Belle already knew. In a flash, everything had changed. Her beautiful face had suddenly transformed into something else. Not her old face, but something worse. She was truly, unforgivably, indescribably ugly.
Ladies and Gentlemen:
Tonight’s performance by the incomparable magician Scorpius has been canceled due to the unexpected disappearance of the artist. It is well known that this magnificent talent has risen to world renown while struggling with the debilitating effects of seizures and Tourette’s syndrome. As such, his exit from the world of magic is not wholly unexpected, as he often spoke of departing the stage to pursue a more substantial gift, one that would consume all of his time and effort. Let us wish him well, in whatever adventures await him and his lovely assistant, who is presumed to have gone with him.
Tickets will not be refunded.
— The Management
The tears rolling down her face were no help. The way the red-stained eyes, the bloated cheeks, and tousled hair of weeping starlets made them so irresistible — the way you’d want to comfort them, kiss the tears that cover them — that was not the way for Belle as she sat at her windowsill, crying ugly tears. She had gathered her crumpled dress around herself like a blanket, and now she had pressed her pimpled forehead against the glass, looking down to the street. She imagined her tears piercing the glass, falling to the curb like rain. It was as though the sky was sobbing for her. The clouds had retched in their anguish, the great unfairness of existence, the plague of consequences. She watched as Thomas Goodman-Brown — his collar unbuttoned, his flowers sagging — walked up to their door. From above, Belle scooted up, leaned even harder on the glass. Was it disappointment on his face? Rain?
Belle didn’t notice that Bicé had walked in, maybe just appeared on the other side of the door. She was staring straight down at the globe of the boy’s head. In the distance, she heard the doorbell ringing. It was muted by a thousand walls. Belle didn’t move to get it. She never could, not with her face like this. But the bell kept shouting for her. Maybe Thomas was a good man. Maybe he wasn’t disgusted with her. Maybe in the movie, she’d run out in the rain, fall into his open arms, and he’d say he loved her anyway — and the sky would be crying tears of joy. Maybe. But Belle couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stand it.
She imagined that after the happy ending, after the credits were finished, Thomas would put her down, breathe out, and do his best to look into her dull eyes. He’d be good enough to accept the promise he’d made. He’d take her home with people glancing at them. They could get married in a courthouse, and he wouldn’t ever tell her, but he’d always remember the way her hair had been as glossy as a magazine cover, her cheeks as smooth as melon flesh. She’d always know — in the unexcited way he’d take her to dinner, his secret requests to be seated in the corners — his self-sacrifice for a promise he made when he was just too young.
Belle caught a glimpse of her own profile in a shadow on the floor. She shuddered at the lumbering indelicacy of it, her nose growing bigger by the hour, her jaw losing its refined lines. After her face had changed for an instant at the dance, the rest of her had gra
dually gone back to what it should look like. Her height and stature were the same as Bicé’s now; she was no longer a tall and willowy statuette. Her face, on the other hand, was a far far cry from Bicé’s sweet face. Thomas probably didn’t even want her. Maybe he just wanted to see, out of curiosity, and then leave. After all, this was no movie, no fairy tale.
Belle cried harder, listening as Thomas kept ringing. He was so determined. Her skin was as pockmarked as a melon rind. She had been masked all this time with Madame Vileroy’s own face, that gorgeous face. And all that time she had been rotting on the inside, becoming rancid. She had imagined making the world addicted to her. In the end, she was the addict. She had imagined herself with an intoxicating presence, and even that was nothing more than the smell of the rotting Belle inside the mask. And now, with the mask removed, she was uglier than she had ever been. A perfect match to the heart she had made for herself. She’d never see him again.
“You should see him again.”
Belle turned around. Bicé was standing behind her. Belle hadn’t noticed Bicé’s hand on her shoulder. “He wants to see you,” she said.
“No.”
“He likes you for the real you.”
“This is the real me.”
“I know.”
Belle instinctively put her head on Bicé’s shoulder. Bicé cradled it like a baby. Belle hadn’t realized how much she missed her sister, ever since that night when Thomas had come over, and yesterday at the tournament, when Bicé had helped her. But now that Belle really needed her, Bicé wasn’t so mad. Belle wet her shirt with her tears. Bicé hummed gently and rocked her back and forth. She tried to make jokes to cheer her up, but nothing worked. She said, “Don’t worry, Belle. Vic and Lucy will get into another fight in a few days and everyone will forget this.” Belle laughed for a second. After another wave of tears, Belle calmed, whimpering with her face still on Bicé’s shoulder. Bicé said, “I know it seems important. I don’t want to play it down. But do you remember when we were little? When we looked the same?”
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