Christian and Valentin were stuffing éclairs in their mouths at a table across the room when a girl in a light green dress and long curly red hair approached. She stood several feet away from them, casually looking away, until Christian and Valentin could do nothing but introduce themselves. Charlotte Hill was never at a loss for boyfriends, but for some reason, she was ignoring them all in favor of meeting the new kids. She was always dramatic like that. Maybe that’s why she was such a good writer at such a young age. After a few minutes, she fell into comfortable conversation with Christian, even though he was the less handsome of the two. Valentin’s debonair quips weren’t making much of an impression on Charlotte, not as much as Christian’s clumsy attempts at humor, which she’d decided after ten minutes was not an act. She kept giggling into her hand and touching his arm as he turned a deeper and deeper shade of crimson and Valentin rolled his eyes for the thousandth time. She seemed to be having a wonderful time, until all of a sudden from behind her, a door flung open as a troupe of waiters walked out with fresh canapés. The door slammed into the small of Charlotte’s back, sending her splaying forward. Just before she fell into the table, Christian caught her in his arms, so that she spilled only a few drops of her drink.
“Thanks,” said Charlotte with a laugh, and then, since they were already so close, gave him a little kiss on the cheek. Christian was fifteen and handsome, but he had never been this close to a girl before. Something inside him gave a lurch, and for a second, he didn’t know what to do next — and then it was too late. Charlotte’s body suddenly went limp in Christian’s arms. Like a rag doll, she collapsed to the ground. The music stopped. Everyone turned to see a stunned Christian standing over an unconscious Charlotte — and Valentin, chuckling nearby.
“Way to sweep her off her feet,” said Valentin as a group of women came rushing up to help Charlotte.
Christian was appalled at himself. “I didn’t mean to . . . she just . . . I was nervous and —”
“You put her in a coma,” said Valentin, not minding as people pushed past him to make a crowd. Christian had gotten so tense with Charlotte in his arms that for a second, he lost control. He had never done that before, lost control of his gift. A gift — that’s what Vileroy called it, because Christian was the most gifted of thieves. With the smallest touch, Christian could steal whatever he needed from anyone. He could take anything, and no one would know. Christian felt a rush of energy. Charlotte’s energy.
Mrs. Wirth made her way through the crowd. “I think she hit her head,” she shouted. “The door must have hit her head.”
“Help me!” said Christian, gritting his teeth at Valentin. “Just shut up and help.”
“You seem to be doing a fine job,” said Valentin.
Meanwhile, next to them, ladies were kneeling beside Charlotte, fanning her face. A man was frantically calling an ambulance on his phone.
“Just fix this, Val,” said Christian.
“But then you won’t remember that enchanted moment.”
“Do it.”
“Fine,” said Valentin, “but you owe me. Not that you’ll remember.” He closed his eyes and slipped a hand into his pocket. From Christian’s perspective, Valentin’s face froze, a quick nothingness fell over him, a blink, then he was standing again with Charlotte prattling on about her last short story. Christian blinked a few times. He remembered nothing. No one remembered anything. The crowd had never rushed over. Charlotte had never collapsed in Christian’s arms. The waiters had never slammed open the door. Valentin opened his eyes and smiled. Only he remembered.
To Charlotte and Christian, it was no more than a hiccup. Valentin was saying something, and then his speech jumped and he continued on. He quoted something from literature, and when Charlotte looked impressed he added, “It’s a fa-famous quote.” Just like that. He landed in the middle of his own sentence. Nothing unusual. Just a boy with a speech impediment. Valentin’s speech had skipped several times in this conversation. His face had twitched, like someone with Tourette’s syndrome. Usually, it happened just before he said something funny or witty or flirtatious. Just before he delivered his best lines. It must be nerves, thought Charlotte, her attention turning from Christian to Valentin.
Valentin listened to Charlotte talk about her play for a while, the one that would be held at Marlowe the day after Christmas. “Basically, it’s an ancient conspiracy story that Christopher Marlowe — that’s our school namesake — actually faked his own death and wrote under the assumed name ‘William Shakespeare,’” she said, her eyes widening. “And there’re a few musical numbers . . .”
But before Charlotte could finish her description, Valentin reached over and grabbed her hand. He pulled her away from Christian, just as the door swung open and the army of waiters filed out.
“Thanks,” Charlotte said, sidling closer to Valentin to let another waiter pass.
“My pleasure.” He winked at her. Charlotte pecked Valentin on the cheek this time.
“Nice save,” said Christian. He went back to the éclairs, hardly realizing what Valentin had done or that for a split second Charlotte had seemed to be someone he might like.
“Having fun?” said Madame Vileroy, suddenly appearing over Victoria’s shoulder as she watched Bicé surprise Lucy by getting them some off-menu treats with her perfect Japanese requests to the sushi chef.
“That Lucy girl is a liar.” Victoria sneered, remembering all the things Lucy hadn’t said.
“We should introduce her to Valentin,” said Madame Vileroy.
“There’s a counselor that plays favorites.”
“Oh? Is Lucy her favorite?”
“Not for long.”
“Why, Victoria, my dear, didn’t you know that cheaters never prosper?”
Victoria looked amused. She pulled aside a waiter holding a tray of crab puffs to whisper in his ear.
“You!” Victoria said to the waiter. “Do you know who Mrs. Spencer is?”
“No, miss,” said the waiter.
“She’s that crow in the peacock dress.”
The waiter looked uncomfortable, not knowing what to say.
“I’ll give you” — Victoria looked him in the eyes, listening to the excited numbers in his head, assessing his price — “a hundred dollars if you go over there and introduce yourself as Ethan — from the Devonshire Club.” She put the bills in his breast pocket without waiting for him to accept.
As the waiter nodded and walked away, Victoria said to Madame Vileroy, “Ethan’s the guy Lucy dated last year. Spencer never saw him in person, but Lucy told her that he was a trust-fund baby. And now she’ll think he’s really a waiter. That should make for” — Victoria looked at her watch — “a good five minutes of entertainment.”
Madame Vileroy gave a soft laugh.
Victoria turned and walked back toward Lucy and Bicé, to revel in what Lucy didn’t know was coming. Madame Vileroy kept pace, holding her position just over Victoria’s shoulder. Victoria approached Lucy and spoke without waiting for either girl to turn around.
“So you have a boyfriend?” she asked Lucy abruptly.
“What?” Lucy turned, shocked that Victoria was back, and still so graceless.
“Oh, Vic, please . . .” Bicé whispered, shocked at Victoria’s behavior. “There’s no need to do that . . .”
“Shut it, Bicé. I’m just getting to know our new friend.” Victoria smiled, listening to Lucy’s personal thoughts of Thomas Goodman-Brown, whom she called the smartest, nicest, hottest guy . . . ever. And then, as Victoria waited, Lucy thought, Is she after Thomas? Where is he? Lucy whipped around to scan the room for Thomas. She found him, and Victoria followed her eyes to see a young man with deep-set smiling eyes talking to his friend. Victoria noticed Belle hovering nearby, watching him closely. Lucy may have noticed as well. She turned back to Victoria.
“What?” she said again.
“Nothing,” said Victoria.
Lucy just shook her head and turned back to
Bicé. “So you were telling me what comes after arigato.”
Bicé was excited to talk about something she knew and was just about to answer when Victoria blurted out, “Gozaimasu.” She gave Bicé an unfriendly smile, as if she expected her to be amazed, but Bicé knew that Victoria spoke no Japanese. She just couldn’t stop cheating. Lucy was still looking at Bicé. She rolled her eyes, ignored Victoria, and started to ask Bicé another question.
Before she could, Victoria interrupted again. “Taking lessons from Bicé? I thought you were the smartest girl in school?”
Lucy forgot all about Bicé and turned to Victoria. Bicé sighed, finally giving up, and grabbed another cider from a passing waiter. So much for that, she said to herself.
“What are you, like, the Princeton Review?” Lucy said, warning Victoria with her eyes.
Victoria loved to make people angry, but she was too much of a coward to rise to most overt challenges. “No, I’m, like, not impressed,” she mumbled with arms crossed and eyes averted.
“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but —”
Just then, Lucy noticed her mother storming toward her, holding a crab puff as though it were evidence in a murder trial.
“Lucy!” she said, almost turning her ankle in her high heels.
Lucy spied a malicious grin on Victoria’s face. Victoria heard her think, Oh, please don’t let her do this here.
Waving the puff in her face, Mrs. Spencer repeated, “A waiter? A waiter?” over and over again, as if it were an unforgivable crime. She grabbed her daughter by the elbow and pulled her away. As Lucy followed, she turned back to glare at Victoria. She just knew Victoria had something to do with this — and maybe Bicé did too.
Bicé caught the look and tried to say something, anything, to distance herself from what was going on, to tell Lucy how much she appreciated the little friendliness she had shown, but no words came. And then Lucy was gone.
“Well, that worked,” said Victoria with a satisfied sigh. “Now, about that counselor woman.”
Victoria marched off, leaving Bicé friendless again, and alone with Madame Vileroy.
“There, there, Bicé, I’ll be your friend,” said Madame Vileroy.
Belle watched a group of kids her age from a distance. She was watching one boy in particular, her heart pounding hard, as she observed how nice he looked, the way he moved, the way he held his drink. She recited to herself all that Vileroy had told her about Thomas. He was the only son of Charles Goodman-Brown, an important banker, whose wife, Thomas’s mother, had died only a few years before. She smoothed her red dress as she remembered Thomas’s favorite color. Thomas was Belle’s prize, because being the most beautiful wasn’t anything without the most popular boy. And in Belle’s world, being desired was everything. But in that moment, as she watched Thomas with his friends, she forgot that for five years, she had been obsessed with this one thing — and that he was just a part of a larger scheme. In that moment, Belle only felt scared. She was not used to being so beautiful, and she had to remind herself not to feel so embarrassed, so inadequate.
Belle put down her glass, smoothed her dress for the fiftieth time, and headed toward the bar. She looked at the group of teenagers just in time to catch the eye of the tall, brown-haired boy named Thomas Goodman-Brown. She held his gaze for a second and smiled, her heart jumping into her throat when he smiled back. She turned back toward the bartender, who was moving away from her. She grew more nervous. Next to her, a tall crystal vase held a bouquet of winter flowers. She touched one of the flowers with the tip of her finger, watching as the water beneath it yellowed. She sighed. Everywhere she went, people ran. Those who stayed past the first few minutes were like addicts under her spell. And now she was steps away from the first person she would ever actually try to hold on to — the first addict she wouldn’t let break free. A few paces away, a young couple whispered to each other. As they walked past, the woman placed a pack of breath mints inches from Belle’s hand. Looking at the mints, Belle wanted to cry. Things like this happened all the time, and each time, she felt completely alone. This was Belle’s curse. She had given up all she had to be beautiful, to be loved, and in gaining beauty, she had become repugnant. Madame Vileroy said that it built character, because before anyone could fall under her spell, she had to hold them through this repulsive phase — the lonely phase.
Dinner was announced, and everyone began to work their way toward their assigned tables. Christian walked over to Bicé.
“How’s it going?” he asked her as they sat down at their table. Christian was the only person that made Bicé feel comfortable. She sighed. “Where do I start? Belle wants Thomas, but she makes everyone sick. And earlier, Victoria practically gave Lucy a nosebleed she cheated so much.”
“No way. She cheated, right in front of everyone?”
“Yeah. She’s probably going to start all that crap about needing special treatment again. . . .”
Christian waited for Bicé to say something more, but she remained silent.
“You were talking to that girl for a while,” said Christian.
“Lucy? She was nice to me.”
“Made friends?”
“Victoria ruined it . . . again.”
Bicé was folding and unfolding her napkin, trying not to look up.
Christian mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, did you meet Connor Wirth?” Bicé asked.
“Yeah, we talked about sports. He’s cool.”
“You know you’re probably going to want to steal from him.”
“Maybe not.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but he’s one of the best athletes, and you don’t like to lose.”
Christian groaned and plopped his head on Bicé’s shoulder. She patted him like a good mother.
They sat silently for a minute. A waiter came by to take their empty glasses.
“This is kinda nice,” said Christian.
“What’s nice?”
“Christmas. We’ve never had one before.” Madame Vileroy didn’t allow Christmas. It was one of her only rules.
“We’ve watched them.”
“It’s not the same.”
“We should be grateful,” said Bicé. “Who else would have taken in five abandoned babies?”
“Yeah, but she turned us into freaks,” said Christian.
“She was trying to protect us. And don’t tell me you don’t like it, Mr. Junior Olympics.”
“It has its moments.” He shrugged. “She kept you and Belle together.”
“And helped Belle become totally different from me.”
Christian knew that was a sore subject, so he didn’t push it. Bicé had watched Belle’s transformation over the past five years quietly. But Christian knew how it made her feel. For the first ten years of their lives, Belle and Bicé had been inseparable. Christian remembered that. He had foggy memories of living with the twins and Victoria and Valentin ever since they were toddlers. Belle and Bicé had been closer than any of the five. And then suddenly, five years ago, Belle decided that she had to be beautiful. And so she began to change. Christian couldn’t figure out why Madame Vileroy had just given her what she wanted — so easily, with no bargains or consequences. But she had — like so many of the gifts she gave — and Christian had never been very good at figuring out why Madame Vileroy did anything.
“Speak of the devil,” said Bicé. Christian looked up.
Madame Vileroy took a seat across the table and picked up a fork. Belle arrived and took a seat next to Madame Vileroy. Belle always sat next to Madame Vileroy. Belle’s other side was usually empty, except for the occasional poor soul who had spent too much time lurking around her — at first enduring out of politeness or curiosity, then forgetting and sucking in the tainted air, then following her everywhere to feed an addiction. Across the room, people were still staring at Belle. Staring and talking. And so Belle was content.
The table eventually filled with all five kids, Madame Vilero
y, a couple, each of whom was at least seventy years old, and a few others. For the lack of anyone else to talk to, Bicé had turned to the older couple next to her. They seemed to be able to amuse her, and they didn’t notice her awkwardness. The old man liked how this little girl laughed at his jokes, and so he kept talking about wars and droughts and everything that’s wrong with kids today. Once, Madame Vileroy said something to the old man — something benign, like “I remember that.” And he bristled and turned white, as if he knew her and she wanted something from him. Madame Vileroy just smiled her honey-sweet, molasses smile and whispered something to Belle.
Throughout, Christian concentrated on his meal while Valentin tried to pull him into conversation. “Did you meet anyone you liked? Did you see Victoria handle things with Lucy? Do you want my dinner roll?”
The only response Valentin got was when Christian snapped up the bread. Christian’s indifference was fine with Valentin. He was a self-amuser.
A pretty girl passed by the table.
“Wanna see something cool?” Valentin asked Christian.
“Sure,” he said. Then he waited a minute. Valentin had a massive grin on his face. A waiter tripped and fell. The girl gave the fallen waiter a strange look as she passed.
“Well? Show me something cool.”
“I just did. Trust me — you loved it.”
“You come to Rimini for Cornello the box maker, eh? I see it. Many people come, from the mountains, from Africa, from all over, to beg Cornello, but he say no. What can he do, eh? It take him forty — how you say? — anni, anni, years, forty years to make one. A little box like this, fit right in my hand, like this. But bellissimo e perfetto. Nothing more beautiful than Cornello’s box. The emperor come to see. He carves so delicate. But now he is old. He no make another. Of course, you want it, no? A pretty lady like you is looking for a pretty prize . . . but he no give. You have to kill him, he say. And you know . . . they say he make it with magic. Forty years, one magic box more beautiful than the world. He always say he will die with it in his hands. But you go see him, eh?”
Another Faust Page 4