Chemistry Page 2

  Only these two aren’t talking about Lily at all.

  “The new girl is going, too. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Who told you?”

  “No one. I just know. Phoebus is tired of hearing ‘no.’ He’s going for an easy kill this year.”

  “She’s not gonna be so easy.”

  “I’m betting she is. Pour a little Southern Comfort down her throat, and she’ll open right up. He can’t lose.”

  “You willing to put money on that?”

  I can’t listen to any more. I’m standing up and grabbing the cheapest suit I can find. I’m charging into the dressing rooms to try it on. I’m looking for a shirt to go with it. Because, God damn it, they aren’t going to do that to her—not if I can stop it.

  Valentine emerges in his ridiculous tux and sees in my face what I can only feel in my stomach. He questions me, but I have no answer for him. Even I think I’m crazy for doing this. Who is this girl to me? I’ve only seen her once. I’ve never even spoken to her. For all I know, she’s just like all the rest of them.

  And then I start to rationalize. This isn’t my unhealthy obsession. I haven’t really been thinking about Esmeralda for the last two days—dreaming about her. Nope. I’ve been imagining a symbol, a non-existent representation of the ideal girl. In fact, if I saw the flesh and blood Esmeralda again, I bet it’d break the spell completely. And then I could finally focus on chemistry again. Because I haven’t been able to focus at all. I just have to see her one more time. No problem.

  “I’m going to the dance, too,” I sign with a slight smile. I hope Valentine doesn’t notice my shaking hands.

  He grins and nods. “Thanks,” he signs.

  I can see he means it. He thinks I’m doing this for him, and I should be. He deserves so much more than what he has. And now he wants to go to a dance. You know what? Good for him. He should go. I’ll go along to pick up the pieces after they tear him apart. I’ll be there for him like I always have because that’s the kind of person I am. That’s the kind of person I want to be.

  But my thoughts return to Esmeralda, and I fantasize about protecting her. I want to be there for her, too. I want to be the one she turns to. I want to be the one she can depend on. I want to lift her so high guys like Phoebus and Robin can’t ever touch her. Because I know she wouldn’t want anything to do with them if she knew what they were really like, if she could hear the way they talk about her. She’s not like other girls. She’s smarter than that. She’s… Stop it, Claude. The image you have of Esmeralda is just a personification of your ideals, because you’re finally having a biological reaction to another human being. She’s not even real. Right?

  Still it’s time someone alerted Flourdel’s to the kinds of activities that regularly take place at their fine establishment.

  BOOK TWO

  “I’m going to say it again, slowly.” I squeeze the receiver and remind myself not to scream. This conversation is not going well. “I request you put a stop to the kind of parties certain seniors in high school hold at your hotel several times each year.”

  The woman on the other end of the line sighs. “And I am telling you that unless they are minors and you are their parent or guardian, there’s nothing I can do about it. Hotel policy—”

  “Have you never heard of date rape?” I interrupt with what I hope will finally get her attention. “Underage drinking? Drug abuse? Laws are being broken here.”

  “Listen, kid.” Kid? “If you know a crime has been committed, you need to call the police about it.”

  “I have. The police aren’t interested in prevention. They think I’ve got a personal problem.”

  “I can see why they would.”

  That does it. “Fine.” I hang up before my temper gets the better of me.

  My open books lay abandoned on the lab’s familiar, yellow countertops. It’s useless. I know I won’t be able to concentrate until I’ve dealt with this. I’m pacing, mumbling, angry—more angry with myself than the manager of Flourdel’s. I don’t know what to do. My mind won’t quit spinning webs. I can’t bear to stay in the lab a second longer.

  I walk through the halls with my head down, thinking I’ll ask Valentine what he would do about this. Valentine will be in the band room, playing the marimba far better than any hearing person could. I’ll go see him, listen to whatever he’s practicing. It always calms me to hear him practice.

  Then a voice stops me cold.

  “Hey,” she says. She doesn’t know my name. Of course, she doesn’t know my name. I stop, but I don’t dare look up. “I’m looking for the band room. I need a tambourine. They said I’d find one there, but I think I got turned around.”

  I look up. Bad, bad idea. Because she’s standing in front of me with her arms folded across her chest and her hair falling over her shoulders and her dark eyes trained on me. She is a neutron star in our binary system, orbiting me, steadily sucking parts of me away until there isn’t anything recognizable left. And how do I know this? What is my evidence? Easy. Right now, the only thought in my head is that this meeting must be fate.

  Fate. How stupid. How ignorant is that? And I suppose next I’m going to decide that just because I’ve never felt this way about another human being, just because she and I were both headed to the band room at the same time, she must be my destiny. As though some sentient being were watching over the entire cosmos and determined that this girl and I were meant to be together at this moment. I absolutely hate myself for these thoughts. They aren’t like me, not remotely.

  Esmeralda arches a brow, and I realize I’m just staring at her like an idiot. Because that’s what I am now, apparently. “It’s this way,” I say, and I lead her in the direction I was already headed. It is physically painful to turn my eyes away from her.

  Valentine is right where I expected him to be, just rolling the instrument back into the storage closet. Jackie prods him to alert him to our presence, and he turns with a smile and a wave. His smile broadens enormously as soon as he sees who is standing behind me.

  “She wants a tambourine,” I sign, and Valentine is running to find one before I finish getting the word out.

  Esmeralda backs away from Valentine’s overwhelming enthusiasm as he offers the tambourine to her. His entire crooked head turns as red as his hair when he sees he’s frightened her. I want to be angry with her for upsetting him, but I can’t. Especially not now that she’s laughing at herself and taking the tambourine from him with her deft, little hands.

  And here’s the moment where my world catches fire because she doesn’t say thank you to him; she signs it.

  There are a number of reasonable reactions I could have to this exchange. This isn’t one of them. I am bitter and sick. I would laugh at myself, at the very idea that I might be jealous of Valentine, but I can’t. I can’t laugh or do anything other than stare after Esmeralda in utter horror as she kisses him on the cheek and flits out of the band room like some elusive honeybee.

  This now qualifies as an existential crisis.

  II

  Like the idiot I am, I followed Esmerada. But I convinced myself I was only following Valentine, who was following her. Now I’m watching her perform on stage for the Drama Club. It isn’t high drama she’s performing. It’s more like a carnival show with what looks at first glance like a small dog, but upon closer inspection turns out to be a white pygmy goat.

  “Djali,” she calls it. She asks it the time, and it answers by tapping the tambourine with its hoof. I fold my arms and try to appear disinterested.

  Peter is exasperated. “She interrupted our rehearsal,” he whispers to me, apparently too dignified to disrupt any show, regardless of whether the show in question has just overrun his own.

  “So tell her to leave.” I shrug as though it were just that simple, when I know damn well it’s not.

  “I can’t. I mean look at her. They all love her.”

  “It’s the goat they love.” I’m such a liar.

&
nbsp; He shakes his head.

  Well, I’ll just have to prove it to him, won’t I? I’ll just have to prove it to us both, so I don’t go insane with jealously knowing half the school is in love with my destiny. I stare past Esmeralda—I can’t look directly at her—, clear my throat, and say, “You know you can’t have a goat in the building.”

  The hush that follows is like sulfuric acid on my skin. I know everyone is watching me, glaring at me, ready to pounce because I’ve taken their small pleasure from them. Fine. I’m used to their contempt. What I can’t stand is thinking she might be burning me with her eyes, just like everyone else. Because she isn’t supposed to be just like anyone. She’s supposed to be different. I have to know, but when I finally look up and see the way she’s staring down at me, I swear my heart stops. She isn’t different. Not at all. In fact, I suspected she hated me long before this wonderfully affirming moment, didn’t I? But I can’t accept it. I can’t. She’s just misunderstood me. She would never be so cruel.

  Then her expression softens. “What harm can it do?” She pouts to the whole audience as though my interruption were only part of her act. “Your friend has a dog in the building.”

  Valentine grins stupidly when he sees her finger pointed at Jackie. He pats the dog’s great, black head with pride.

  “That’s a service animal,” I answer back. The weakness in my voice astonishes me.

  “No kidding!” She slaps her knees and laughs. “Djali is a service animal, too. Aren’t you, Djali?” She turns to the goat, holds the tambourine flat at Djali’s level, and says, “Service, s’il vous plaît!”

  And the goat does the most confounding thing I’ve ever seen. It stands up on its hind legs, balances the tambourine like a waiter’s tray on its foreleg, and takes a few steps forward before toppling over again. Esmeralda catches the tambourine, and the crowd, now double the size it was when I came in, roars with laughter.

  I have never seen a school play with an audience this attentive. Peter must be seething underneath that delighted smile of his. I know I am.

  III

  The first sensation I have upon my arrival at the Valentine’s Day Dance, besides nausea, is an unbearable chill. The importance of the cold in this place is something I can’t possibly exaggerate. I’m standing in the darkest corner I can find, wearing a suit I likely can’t afford, with Valentine, who’s wearing a specially-tailored tux I most certainly can’t afford. Still I bought it for him. Remember that, as this story progresses. Remember I loved him better than I loved myself.

  Every guy in black and white. Every girl in pale blue or pink, dark mauve or evergreen. The colors in this place are chilling. Even the little white lights strung everywhere, which I guess are supposed to resemble stars, are more reminiscent of snowflakes to me. I can’t stand the cold. I hunch over in my corner and shiver.

  Then I see a fire.

  It’s Esmeralda. She’s dressed in orange and red and gold. She’s burning with color and warmth. It’s the warmth that draws me from my corner and forces me closer to her. I can’t help it. She’s dancing alone, and it’s unlike any dance I’ve ever seen. While every other couple clings to each other, bouncing or swaying together depending on the music, she twirls alone. Her arms are in the air. Her hands move like birds over her head. She’s spinning and laughing, and after a while, everyone stops to watch. The guys let go of their dates and stare at her. Even the girls can’t help watching. And I feel myself tense at the sight of that many eyes on her.

  She’s so warm. I know I’m drawing closer to her than anyone else dares. I know it, but I can’t stop myself. Valentine tugs on my sleeve, but God help me, I brush him aside. I can hear Peter behind me, calling my name. All I can do is mutter, “Just… Just let me…” though I doubt he can hear me over the pounding music. I don’t care. I want, just once in my life, to know what it’s like to tremble with something other than cold.

  And that’s when I see Phoebus staring at her from across the dance floor. He’s a lion watching a gazelle: determined, planning, hungry. He’s spotted his prey, and soon he’ll move in for the kill. I’m sick with worry and useless anger. I can’t stand it. How dare anyone watch her they way he does, the way all of them are watching her, the way I am… I shake the thought from my head.

  This won’t do. She probably doesn’t even realize she’s attracting this kind of attention. She wouldn’t continue dancing if she did. So, thinking I will give her a quick word of caution, I reach out and touch her. And that is the first of many, many mistakes. If I were to choose a point at which everything begins to fall apart, this would be it. Because, as everyone knows, touching a fire only gets you burned.

  Esmeralda stops dancing, which is exactly what I want, right? Only she’s giving me a look that makes me shrink back from her. She folds her arms and waits to hear what I have to say. Good, I tell myself. Talk to her. Explain yourself, so she doesn’t think you’re just some pervert who wanted to touch her.

  “I… I…” I’m such a fool. “You should just… stop.” Idiot. “People are staring at you.” What people? People like you, Claude? Is that what you mean? You’re staring at her, and you don’t like how that makes you look? Or maybe you don’t like how that makes you feel. That must be it, Claude. You don’t like knowing you’re no better than Phoebus. He’s the lion and you’re the jackal, just waiting for a taste of his kill.

  Her response to my intrusion is kinder than my own. “Leave me alone,” she says. But it scorches me far worse than any of the terrible things I said to myself.

  IV

  I spend the rest of the evening in a pathetic daze. I don’t even notice when Valentine gets called to the floor to be recognized as king. I do see the moment Esmeralda is crowned, though, and I see Phoebus asking her to dance right after. And I see her blush as he does.

  My hands curl into fists, and I hide them in my pockets. I have never been one to lose my temper, but I can make no promises tonight. I wish there were some way for me to tear this entire building, this whole event, this vast social structure to the ground; drag Esmeralda from the rubble; and show her the blue sky instead. I would give her wings, raise her up, watch her fly.

  Phoebus lifts her in his arms, tosses her just a little, and catches her again. She’s such a tiny thing it’s no feat for him. She keeps laughing as he mutters in her ear, spinning her around like the charismatic hero in some black-and-white romance. I look for Lily Darling, but she’s not here. I wonder how Phoebus convinced her not to attend the dance. Was she sick? Did he make her sick? I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Man, I wish I could dance half that well.” Peter is at my shoulder, smiling as though all is right in the world, and—who am I kidding?—for him, it probably is. The only person with a problem here is me. Even Valentine is smiling, shuffling from the dance floor back to me with a face that practically glows. The students have not been so cruel as I predicted, and Valentine’s ability to laugh at himself has only endeared him to them. Now he’s less of a loner. Now he’s less dependent on me.

  I wonder why this bothers me. Maybe because we’re taught from our infancy that it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Looks don’t matter, which is an outright lie. But I can see some truth in the idea now. Valentine could be loved, even though he’s ugly, because his heart is high quality. His heart, as I saw the moment I met him, is made of indestructible stuff. Bury it in slop and you can dig it out later, shine it, and watch it sparkle just as it had before you abused it. Mine, on the other hand, is far more organic than his and far, far older. It’s been rotting for years. Moldy, putrid, disgusting. If anyone ever managed to touch it, it would disintegrate.

  And Esmeralda has come dangerously close.

  V

  I’m considering leaving this next part out, if only to spare myself the everlasting humiliation, to postpone the point in the story where I actually snap. But I can’t. If this is my honest confession, I have to reveal everything. So I will.

  The night passes l
ike a dream. It whirls and sparkles and pounds in my head. The downbeat of every song drives my heart like a sick hypnosis. I can feel my hands sweating in my pockets as my foot taps nervously on the floor. My mind is contemplating something it won’t even share with me.

  Two of Phoebus’ friends laugh with Esmeralda and tug her toward the exit. “Come with us,” I imagine them saying. “We’ll take you to a real party. Phoebus will be there, waiting for you.” Waiting with a cup of poison and a hard-on. Waiting with that idiotic smirk on his stupid face.

  I shake Valentine by the shoulder to get his attention and then sign so fast he can barely read me. “Esmeralda. We can’t let her go with them.”

  He cocks his head at me.

  “I overheard them while we were shopping. They’re planning something with Phoebus.” A half-lie that hurries an angel to someone who needs him is more than forgivable. I’ll come clean later. “They’re going to hurt her, Valentine. I heard them. You have to stop them. I’m not strong enough.” He looks angry now. Good. I give him one more push. This time, I do something I swore I would never do, though I’ve always known I could: I order him. “Valentine. Do not let her get into their car!”

  He snaps to attention, like a soldier, like a well-trained dog. And then he’s gone.

  I can hardly believe my power over him, though part of me suspected it months ago. I am all he has. And he will do anything for me.

  The walls spin, and I cower in the corner. I’m so wrapped up in myself, in what it means to have betrayed my only friend, I don’t notice the emptying of the room until I’m completely alone. It’s still dark. The disco ball is ever-turning. The automatic DJ still plays that atrocious music. I’m left to wonder whether the sirens I hear are real or just part of a song. Please, let them be part of a song. Please. But they aren’t, and I know it. My knees go weak, and I sink to the floor. I don’t want to go outside and confirm my suspicions. I’m close to tears, imagining what I’ve done. Knowing what I may lose for this.