Another Faust

by Daniel Nayeri

  Christian had to stop himself from throwing his club at Valentin. It was only one hole, one hole for the entire tournament so far, but he was fuming about it. For Christian, this tournament was a test. He had practiced with Buddy for a solid week, spent every night in his chamber recuperating. He had actually become better at golf. All that practice had paid off. Now he was sending drives double the distance he used to, sinking putts he never would have. All so he wouldn’t have to steal from Connor. Christian wanted to win on his own.

  Maybe the coffin was cheating, fine, but at least he wasn’t hurting people. That’s why Vileroy had given him the coffin in the first place the first time he told her about how awful it felt to steal — when she learned that he was not a natural thief. She had given him the coffin, so that he could have another tool. Something else to satisfy his need to win, to get the big contracts and endorsements. Something else to draw him in. Something to serve as a starting point for his hunger.

  So far, Connor had been a nice guy. He’d been more distant after the Lucy fiasco, but still nice. Even after Connor had been hurt by Belle and Thomas getting together, he hadn’t held it against Christian. He’d patted Christian on the back when he made a good drive. Christian had shied away. The contact made him hungry to use his gift. He felt tired, thirsty, clumsy. He could steal all of it. Just a little touch, Connor would barely feel it, and he’d be unstoppable. No, for Christian, this whole thing was to prove to himself that he didn’t need to. All the sports coming up — he didn’t have to leech from other kids to win them. That’s why he overreacted at one dropped hole. When he had such a delicious power at his disposal, Christian knew he’d have to work twice as hard as everyone else not to be tempted.

  “You should really have that facial tic checked out.”

  Valentin looked over at Charlotte. He had been looking over at Christian and grinning.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Valentin. He didn’t make sense sometimes. His moods were so erratic. He seemed antsy, cynical, like he didn’t ever care what happened. It was charming at first, as though he were carefree. Now he seemed careless, reckless, and maybe a little rude. For some reason, that made him even more appealing.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Charlotte.

  “What, the tic?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good, ’cause I’d take it back if I could.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something.”

  Charlotte was charmed. Almost nothing he said made any sense, but he said it all with such flair.

  “Are you entering the State creative writing thing?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” he said in a suddenly sullen voice.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, almost afraid.

  “I just feel a little torn that’s all. Not sure what to do —”

  Charlotte had no idea what it was, but it seemed like it was really hurting him. His eyebrows were brooding. He looks like he should be in a music video.

  “What is it, Valentin?”

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry —” He looked away at just the right moment.

  “You can tell me anything,” she said, really believing that he was struggling.

  “It’s just that, well, if I enter the writing contest, I’d have to enter against you. . . .”

  “You mean . . .”

  “I just . . . I don’t want anything to come between us.” It took Valentin three tries to make that comment with a straight face. The twitches just made Charlotte think he was nervous. She burst into a breathless, watery-eyed laugh.

  Does this girl cry for everything?

  She wrapped her arms around Valentin. (He tried desperately not to pull away.) He was so romantic. The idea of it was so romantic. This must be what it’s like, thought Charlotte, to be in love for real. He said everything that she’d ever wanted to hear.

  “I don’t have to enter,” she said, still holding him. “I won’t enter, and we can be together forever.” She was completely his.

  “You are completely hysterical, moron.”

  “No, I’m not!” yelled Lucy. “You just said something I was thinking. What do you have, some kind of wavelength reader or brain projector or something?”

  “I don’t have anything like that. Now, calm down,” said Victoria, looking around the banquet hall to make sure no one was around. “You’re just so predictable. I can read you like a book.”

  “Oh? You can read?”

  “Well, you’d be one of those cardboard books they use for idiots and three-year-olds. Like Goodnight Moon, except the pictures would be of ho-bags.”

  “I know you’re doing something. I’ve been reading about electromagnetic pulses. You’re doing something with my head. I can feel it.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not doing anything to your head. You must have some kind of syphilis-related brain damage or something.”

  “Why would I have syphilis?”

  “I don’t know, ’cause you’re paranoid. And you’re a skank.”

  Lucy just rolled her eyes and went back to the table settings. That was close. Victoria kicked herself for letting it go so far. Victoria just wanted to put Lucy in her place, but Lucy could tell when she was cheating in her mind. It felt like a sudden headache. Victoria knew she couldn’t read minds too deeply, not while they were awake. She went back to setting forks and knives around each plate. She’d need a way to cheat without the person finding out, especially with debate coming up.

  “It’s a good thing the State Debate Tournament is coming up, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Why is that, Valentin?”

  “Because we’ve just gotten word that young Goodman-Brown has been eliminated from the tournament, and I hear he’s much better at debate.”

  Thomas came off the field laughing it up with the guy who had just beaten him. His dad gave him a high five as if nothing mattered. Belle watched them interact. It was as if they actually loved each other. She wondered what Thomas would think of her if she’d just been the girl she once was. Would he still glance over at her every chance he got while he hugged his dad? Would he come over for dinner?

  “He’s a good kid,” said Bicé.

  “Yeah, I’m starting to notice that,” said Belle.

  “Let’s go,” said Mrs. Wirth. “Connor is up against the Faust boy for the last match.”

  “Coach K is already celebrating, now that the finals of the tournament are being played by two Marlowe boys, Wirth and Faust.”

  “That’s right, Valentin. Everyone is wondering who’s going to win — which one will be the new star of the team. Connor Wirth is a little more familiar with the course. And earlier, he hit a two-hundred-fifty-yard drive, which is the longest drive he’s ever had! But he has to come up big here on the twelfth hole if he wants to keep it neck and neck. He steadies his swing, hits, and that one is sailing . . . Wow, Valentin! Look at that! That has got to be two hundred eighty yards out, a personal best and record for the day’s competition!”

  Mrs. Wirth jumped up and down, patting Bicé on the head every time she landed.

  “Wow!” said Mr. Goodman-Brown. “That’s about two hundred seventy yards, I’d say.”

  “It’s two hundred eighty-three,” corrected Mrs. Wirth. She was pointing a laser measure at where the ball had landed in the distance.

  “It’s time for Christian Faust to see if he can match it,” said Valentin.

  Christian was nervous. He’d never lost before. Would this be the first time? He looked at the plush clubhouse and his classmates in their polo shirts and slacks. Then he glanced over at his sweat-soaked caddy, picking dirt from under his nails. He felt embarrassed for the poor guy. What a life. Spending your weekends picking up balls for more fortunate kids. And then he felt only one thing: that he wanted to win. Christian saw Connor approaching, making his way to the sidelines after his brilliant shot. He looked at his friend-turned-rival and s
miled.

  “Good job, man,” he said, and he patted Connor on the arm in a friendly gesture.

  Connor smiled back and said, “Thanks.” No one noticed Christian’s hand shaking as he touched Connor’s arm. Even Connor didn’t notice, because Christian was not stealing his energy, just a little hand-eye coordination.

  Christian approached the twelfth hole. He lifted his club and swung hard. The ball flew into the air and took off. Mrs. Wirth almost dropped her laser pointer trying to keep track of its distance. Valentin and Charlotte jumped up from the golf cart.

  “I’m having a hard time seeing the ball from here . . . but it looks like . . . it’s passed the three-hundred-yard mark . . . and the three hundred twenty . . . but it’s slowing down. . . . He’s made a three-hundred-seventy-yard drive!”

  “That breaks the tournament record, doesn’t it?”

  “Actually, it’s a new record for high-school golf overall.”

  “Well, I think we’ve got a pro on our hands,” said Mr. Goodman-Brown, patting Thomas on the back as he spoke.

  The moment the ball touched the ground, the crowd went wild. Connor made his way back to the green, while Christian, hanging his head lower than usual, walked into the collective embrace of the adoring crowd. Of course, Connor fumbled the next shot, and the one after that, and the one after that. The twelfth hole took him seven strokes to complete. It took Christian three.

  “What a debacle for Connor Wirth,” said Valentin. “It looks like he’s just lost his mental edge.”

  Over the next few holes, Connor didn’t just lose to Christian; he was humiliated. His balls caught every sand trap, hit every tree, fell into every puddle. Every putt took four or fives tries. On several occasions, he didn’t even finish a hole, since Christian had already won. Once, he actually missed the ball with his club, sending a huge chunk of grass and dirt into the air. In the end, Christian won the game with three holes left unplayed, and Connor was thankful to be done with the day.

  Mrs. Wirth was speechless. “What the hell just happened to my boy?” she said.

  “No big deal, Genevieve,” Mr. Goodman-Brown said. “You win some; you lose some.”

  “He was looking listless at practice,” said Madame Vileroy, appearing out of nowhere. “Maybe you should see a doctor after all.”

  “But he was doing so well! Why did he suddenly choke like that? I just can’t figure it out,” said Mrs. Wirth, in a rare moment without an explanation.

  “Now, don’t say that, Genevieve. The boy will feel bad.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” whispered Madame Vileroy as Christian walked off the green.

  “I feel bad,” said Christian.

  “Don’t,” said Vileroy. “You deserve it.”

  “I stole it.”

  “If you don’t get caught, you deserve everything you steal.”

  Though Christian had stolen the show at the Hampshire Club, the biggest surprise came when the crowd walked into the clubhouse, expecting a beautifully arranged banquet. Instead they found tables turned over with plates broken on the floor, streamers hanging sadly, tufts of hair, and what looked like a torn drape speckled with blood. It looked as if someone had taken a perfectly decorated room and blown it up. No one ever got a straight story out of the Student Council as to why the room had been destroyed. If anyone ever mentioned it, Lucy would just mumble something about brain surgery, and Victoria would only say “ho-bag.”

  A Governess’s Wish Fulfilled: A Soul Beyond Redemption New York, 2062

  “OK, we’re ready in New York. Is the president on the line?”

  “Everyone’s here, Jack. Let’s get started.”

  “Excellent. I’m here with the other executives of Kaffa Genetics Corporation. Also sitting in on this call is my assistant, Nicola. She will be taking notes.”

  (Just get to the point, Jack.)

  “Let me get right to the point. Mr. President. I’m proud to report that we’ve done it. We have developed a genetic agent so powerful, it can end decades of biological warfare. Not since 2035 has such an important discovery —”

  “What exactly are the capabilities of this weapon?”

  “Sir, it’s a pathogen that can discern subtle hereditary differences among ethnicities.”

  “So you’re telling me that we can release it in a population, and only certain people will be harmed?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Mr. President. The old profiling methods are obsolete now.”

  “How much will this cost?”

  (No more than half a billion, Jack.)

  “No more than half a billion, Mr. President.”

  “And you’re sure that it’s completely harmless to groups that aren’t its target?”

  (Only mention the short-term effects.)

  “Short-term effects only. Otherwise, no harm whatsoever.”

  Victoria practically power walked her way through the halls of Marlowe, carrying a pile of books, her backpack strapped tightly to her back.

  “Where are you going so fast, ghoul girl?” a random boy yelled out as some cheerleaders around him burst into laughter.

  Usually Victoria would have just walked on, too focused on her own plans to care. But today, she was in no mood. She whipped around and lunged at the boy, boring into his thoughts so deeply, cheating with such force and speed, that before she was two feet away from him, he turned and threw up all over his girlfriend.

  “Ugh . . .”

  “Yuck!”

  “Gross!”

  The girls started to scatter like a bunch of scared chickens, and the boy stood there, wiping his mouth and shrinking from Victoria’s gaze.

  “Well, you’re lucky they weren’t at your house two days ago, Scott. I’m sure this is nothing compared to that embarrassment.”

  Victoria turned and kept walking, even though half the school was looking at her as if she had just committed murder. Of course, she hadn’t touched Scott, so no one could say anything. But somehow everyone knew. Most of them had experienced it, Victoria’s cheating. They all knew she was strange. And she couldn’t care less.

  Just as she was making her way to the class officer meeting, Victoria spotted something dark moving in one of the side corridors. She stopped and peeked, half knowing what she would find. Madame Vileroy stepped out, tall and statuesque as always, walking with so much confidence you’d think she’d erected the school with one flip of her hair. Victoria wasn’t surprised. Lately, Madame Vileroy showed up to a lot of her activities, and Victoria liked it. It was as if she were the favorite now. It wasn’t Belle that got all the attention. It wasn’t Valentin that got all her love. It was Victoria, and that made her more than satisfied. Someday, Victoria would show Madame Vileroy what she was worth. Someday, she would prove herself the very best. And then maybe the governess would share all her secrets. When Victoria was powerful in the world’s eyes, she would be worthy of following in her governess’s footsteps.

  “Where to so fast, my dear?”

  “Officer meeting.”

  “Hmm . . .” said Vileroy in a bored, uninterested tone.

  “Well, I have to. I’m class president, remember?”

  “Yes, I suppose the reason one becomes a high-school class president is for all that unmitigated power. Now, tell me, dear, how goes the fight against vending machine price inflation?”

  “Hey, we all have to start somewhere.”

  “Yes, but the most you can get out of being president is already gotten. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good girl. Now, I have something far more important for you to do.”

  Victoria leaned in, ignoring all the gawking, eavesdropping students passing by. “OK.”

  “I heard Bicé whispering again last night.”

  Victoria shrugged.

  “When she hides . . . I need to know what she does. I need her to stop.”

  “What do you want me to do about that?”

  “Nothing much. Just talk to her. Find out a few th
ings.” Madame Vileroy seemed thoughtful, as if she were trying to puzzle out some annoying riddle.

  “Why not ask Belle?” Victoria tested. “Belle’s her sister.” She wanted to hear Madame Vileroy say that she was better, that Belle would screw it up. She wanted her to say that Belle was nothing to her. That Victoria was the most talented, that Victoria had the most potential, that Victoria would do great things.

  “Because Belle’s busy.”

  Victoria’s shoulders slumped.

  “And because you can handle more responsibility.”

  Victoria took the bait like a starved guppy. She was about to ask what she was to find out when Madame Vileroy spoke again.

  “Try to find out how many languages she can speak now.”

  “I thought you knew stuff like that.”

  “Just get me the number.”

  Sometimes Madame Vileroy would walk through the city alone. She would sit in dressing rooms and listen to the girls in the surrounding stalls, planting feelings of self-loathing and vanity into their heads. Sometimes she would walk through the dangerous city streets, leaving a stream of petty theft, violence, and resentment in her wake. Or she would linger in residential neighborhoods and send a handful of moths through every window, using them to plant suspicion between spouses, jealousy between sisters, hatred between siblings. One day, just after she had sent six moths into each of six different windows, she saw Mrs. Spencer walking out of the glitzy apartment building that dominated the street.

  “Nicola, is that you?”

  Vileroy smiled, and Mrs. Spencer gave her a cold embrace. Her daughter had regaled her with tales of Belle’s and Victoria’s wretchedness, and she was in no mood to befriend the woman she considered responsible for her daughter’s misery.

  “What are you doing in this neighborhood?”

  “Visiting a friend,” Madame Vileroy replied.

  “Anyone I know?”