by Mary Gray
Marcus shrugs again. “Says I study too much.”
“Teo doesn’t approve of you studying?”
“Well, the idea of it, yes. But the practice of it, not so much. Everything always came so naturally to him. The idea that it takes some of us a few extra hours to soak up the material is crazy to him.”
I nod, knowing what he means. I was the lucky one—had a knack for math—but my friend Josie didn’t have the same gift. She never did understand why I was in love with Teo. Josie, like Bee, you were so right.
“How about you?” Marcus asks, settling himself on the floor. His head smacks uncomfortably against the chair rail slicing through the center of the wall, so he slouches a little, and I decide to sit and do the same thing. Not that I’m as tall as him, but it feels good to slouch. No, this is awkward; we’re sitting side-by-side. So I move to the front of him and lie on the floor with my tummy down, cradling my chin with my hands. I kick my legs up.
“I really want to get into college,” I say, crossing my ankles, when a cry escapes my throat. There won’t be any college. The world is crawling with the Living Rot. If we escape, we’ll have to break into old college campuses to find our own books. I can see myself sneaking into the University of Texas wearing something like an astronaut’s suit and bungee cords, ducking in and around the Living Rot.
“The world is a pretty big place,” Marcus says with an extra spark of color in his eyes. “How many governments are out there? Hundreds? You’d think at least one of them would find a way to ward off the sickness.”
My mind reels, picturing more people wearing that astronaut’s suit. “But the coverage I watched took place in Austin. That must be the closest city. How could we get around them, if we could even get out?”
Marcus taps the vined wall behind him in thought. “The Gulf of Mexico is probably only a couple hundred miles south,” he offers. “We could get anywhere from there.”
I don’t respond. He has to know what a stretch that sounds like. Like catching a yacht to Florence, or Kiev—not to mention getting around the Living Rot. I’m picturing myself in those bungee cords again and foolishly seeing Marcus and myself using them as ropes in trees, swinging our way to the Gulf of Mexico like Tarzan and Jane. But Marc’s eyes are closed, like he’s thinking, with his head resting against the wall. I’d like to share my little picture with him, but don’t—he’d think it was dumb.
But I like what Marcus is thinking. Even if it makes me stupidly think of Tarzan and Jane. I always knew he was Teo’s playful little brother—I just never knew he’d subconsciously bring out that side of me, too.
“What I don’t get,” Marcus says, stretching his arms above him in the air, “is why my brother ‘rewards’ us with a vaccine when we live in a society that’s supposedly impenetrable.”
The question makes me stop. “You’re right. Maybe it’s his final defense. Like if the infected break through, we’re safe.”
Marcus’s forehead is wrinkling, but he nods like he’s not completely sure. I don’t know what Teo is thinking, and it looks like Marc doesn’t have a clue, either. But he’s trying, gripping the front of his long, dark hair again and scrunching up his face. When nothing seems to come, he shakes his head, letting his hand drop to his lap. “Do you know what you’re going to do for your party tomorrow?” he asks.
Part of me wishes I could announce this awesome plan. I’ve already sculpted a Hades and Persephone scene. But I don’t sculpt, dance, or sing. So I let my shoulders sag. “I don’t know. Bob for pomegranates?”
Marcus snorts this low-pitched sound, which is almost cute, when I notice a little box and wire peeking out from the bottom of his shirt. “What’s that?” I ask.
“What?” he looks down as if he’s spilled something down the front of his shirt.
“No, that,” I say, nearly touching the wire, but I don’t want to push his boundaries, so I don’t.
“Oh.” He leans his head back against the wall as if it’s nothing. “Insulin.”
Wait. “You’re diabetic?” I hadn’t had a clue.
“Since I was five.” Marcus shrugs. “In the scientific world they call it type one.” He taps the pump on his side. “I’m dependent on this stuff.”
A horrible thought occurs to me. What happens when he runs out? Does he think he has to be the expert on minimizing things? He should have brought this up way before now. I don’t know where to find more insulin, and I hate how helpless this makes me feel, so I slug his arm. “You should have said something!”
“It’s not like you can do anything.” Marcus rolls his eyes. “It is what it is.”
My mind is reeling. “How much do you have left?”
This is when the shrugging stops. Marcus winces. His eyes partially shut, and he turns his head away from me to the window. “About a week’s worth,” he says.
“But Teo has to have more,” I cry, suddenly on my feet. Where would Teo keep it?
“It’s possible,” Marcus frowns up at me, “but I don’t really know for sure. If you can’t tell, I try to do things without my brother.”
The air around us thickens as the air conditioning shuts off with a click. I must do something. I could run outside and make some sort of distraction so Marcus can steamroll Jonas, and then together we could search his house.
I’m pacing, just like I saw Marcus pacing before. But it doesn’t really work because the chairs he moved act like a barrier, blocking me in. I grit my teeth and walk to the window in the room. How are we going to earn the vaccine, escape, evade the monsters, and find a supply of insulin, all in a week? Part of me wants to disregard what Marcus just said, to ask Teo where he keeps Marc’s insulin—he has to have some. Teo thinks of everything.
But Marc’s sad eyes find my face. “Don’t worry, Cheyenne,” his sympathetic smile is so wonderful, and so horrific, my insides feel like slush, “we’ve got big things to look forward to here. Like throwing parties. And bobbing for pomegranates.”
At first I can’t respond, his last suggestion seeming to echo around the dining room—bobbing for pomegranates. An enormous tub, red fruit floating within. Seven men and seven women lining up to play the game. But the image shifts. In my head, Jonas dives in, frantic to win. And an absurd giggle escapes my throat. I crash to the floor.
It’s like Marcus is reading my mind, because he’s smiling, too, and before I know it we’re echoing each other, laughing back and forth, our knees knocking into each other. I feel like we’re chatting at the math meets again, but back then our conversations were always cut short. This is the longest we’ve ever had, and I don’t want it to stop.
“Chey-yi-yi-yenne,” Marcus sings softly, just like he did before, only it’s a reminiscence, a reminder that so much has changed. He’s sitting closer to me than he ever has before, his knee resting comfortably on my own. I want him to move closer, for the contact to spread. He’s warm and fun, like his arms are perpetually around me, holding me close, but allowing me to move. His hand brushes my leg, and I’m frantically clinging to this new idea of Marcus and Cheyenne, him and me.
My heart squeezes inside my chest, and embers of fire rush up my cheeks. He’s facing me, and his eyes are fluttering so close to mine. His lips are two or three inches away, and—
I look away. This line runs through my head where I say something stupid like, “I can’t.” Which means nothing, because of course I can, but it’s because he’s here and I’m here and it’s much too easy right now. I’m liking him, and I don’t know if I should like him. This is Teo’s brother and he’s warm and nice, but those are the exact things I thought Teo was. How do I know there isn’t something about Marcus that makes him the same?
Marcus leans back against the wall, the crown of his head hitting the sheetrock. He’s quiet for a moment—I can hear him scratching the back of his neck—when eventually he says, “So, assuming you’re Persephone and he’s Hades, how do you ‘prove your love’?”
This is exactly why I like Marcus. He knows how to veer
onto another topic when things start to get weird. I could hug him right now; he just might be for keeps.
I take a deep breath, trying to pretend nothing happened just now. “Propose.” I shoot off the obvious answer, because that’s what Romeo and Juliet did. And Teo loved that.
Marcus jumps to his feet. “Wait—you doodle!”
I look up at him, confused.
“At the math meets,” he says, smiling, “you always doodle on your pad.”
Ah. I look down at my lap. “So?”
“So, they’re pretty good.” He holds his hand out to me and pulls me to my feet. “Almost gothic.”
“Please, they’re pathetic.” My foot’s fallen asleep, so I shake it out. “You’re the one who goes to the artsy-fartsy school.”
But he’s not listening to me, looking toward the back of the house. “You present him with a gift. A drawing. Of you, Persephone, kneeling in subservience, as if to propose.”
My stomach lurches; Teo would love something like that. He’s the type of guy who makes only the women dress up. “But where would I find the paint?”
Marcus beams at me. Veering around the dining room chairs, he walks through the great room to the back door.
I watch him, lost. Does he have his own little stash? “Where are you—”
Opening the back door a few inches, Marcus leans over to pluck something from the ground. He turns around to hand me a strip of acrylic paints.
I stare at them. “You planned this all along?”
“Luckily for you,” he places the paint in my hands, “I have resources.”
“But from where?” Not only can Teo play me like a fiddle, but Marc can, too? I can’t possibly be that gullible. And dumb.
Marc knocks my shoulder, playfully. “Knew you’d be happy.”
If only happy were synonymous with mad. He’d planned this all along. “Where did you get them?”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he smiles. “Had them in my backpack. Like you said, from school.”
I try giving the paints back, but he won’t budge his hands from his pockets, and the set of paints knocks lightly into his chest.
“Nuh-uh,” he stares at the paints, “Teo could spot my style anywhere. Besides, my brother likes gifts that make an impression.” He turns to face the largest wall in the room. “I think you should paint your picture on that.”
I stare at the painted arches, the vines and the cracks—all reminders of Bee. Part of me wonders if painting over Bee’s story is disregarding her existence, but I don’t think so. Thisbe wasn’t even her real name. She had an entire life apart from this. Keeping this shrine untouched somehow soils her name. Even so, I hesitate. “You don’t think Teo will be mad?”
Marcus shrugs. “It’s possible.”
“Thanks a lot for your help,” I groan.
“No problem,” Marcus says, like he knew his answer would sweep me off my feet. He can be so overly confident, like he’s just fixed my entire life. Which he has, but I wish he didn’t know that.
“Paint brush?” I hold out my hand.
A funny expression creeps onto Marcus’s face. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he changes his mind, digs deeper into his pocket instead. “Here,” he says, handing me a brush before practically bolting for the door. “Good luck painting. I’d wait ‘til it’s light.” He means to walk away, but I stop him.
“Marc?”
He turns back.
“Do you really think we can beat Teo at his own game?”
Marcus chomps on his answer, and I imagine he’s construing how many ways he can say, “No.” I could make my own list, but I’d rather err on the hopeful side. With the tragedies we’ve already witnessed at Elysian Fields, I’m searching for the smallest hope, but I need Marcus to tell me, logically, that it will be okay.
“It all comes down to strategy,” Marcus says. “As I see it, we have two paths to explore: escape, or find a loophole inside. I’ll focus on the fence—you’re hosting the ‘soirée’ tomorrow night. But you can wine ‘n’ dine Teo the way he likes, earn the vaccine, and all the while be scheming how to best him.”
I’m not sure what he means. My confusion must be evident on my face, because Marcus adds, “Just watch for your moment. I think he cares for you too much to do away with you like he did Bee.”
Marc’s reminder of her sends shivers down my arms and legs as my mind keeps repeating the awful sound of her screams. The confusion. The fact that I helped Teo tell the story from the start. Teo “did away” with Bee, and I helped him. I helped him wipe her and Ramus from the earth.
Marcus steps forward and cups my elbow in his palm. I feel the rough callouses of his hands, and I would take this a million times over Teo’s seahorse grip. It’s comforting and steady. Teo doesn’t touch me without an agenda bubbling up somewhere in his mind.
“You know my brother’s smart, but you’re smart, too. Mix that with your conscience and there’s no stopping what you can do.” I giggle as he mumbles something indiscernible under his breath. “I sound like a frickin’ Dr. Seuss book.”
I laugh some more, and Marcus presses his finger to his lips, so I cover my mouth. He’s laughing silently, too, his blue eyes dancing in the darkness of the night.
I love the feeling between us, this layer of innocence and calm; every day I spent with Marcus would be like building sandcastles on the beach. Which is infinitely better than the fireflies I used to catch with his brother, who no doubt left them in the jar to die.
“Good night,” Marcus says, walking backward several steps, his eyes locked on my own until I can’t make out the familiar tidal wave of blue. Eventually he turns to walk straight ahead. I watch the faint outline of his back, how the moonlight catches snippets of his shirt, and I don’t look away until all I see is darkness. I start to close the door, sad that we’re apart, as Marc sings out my name in the breeze: “Chey-yi-yi-enne.”
It might just be four syllables, nothing to get excited about, but something like hope starts to burrow inside me, and while it’s terrifying, I don’t want it to leave.
13
At seven o’clock, I pull at my dress, wishing I had something else to wear, especially with the snags my uneven fingernails have made. Why does Cleo seem to have a closetful when I have one dress? Probably something to do with Cleopatra’s role as a queen.
I pass by the counter and straighten a plate layered with ham and bread. I wish my hands would steady themselves again. We’re having fondue for dinner—the ingredients arrived in a basket mid-afternoon—and I got it all ready, perfect, like Mom always did when she entertained her colleagues who also worked for the city. Don’t let them see the brushstrokes, she always said. And she didn’t. Her parties never had issues—that’s probably why Mayor Tydal liked her so much. That’s probably why they got back together all the time. They’d break up, Mom would host another one of her gatherings, then he’d fall for her all over again and I’d be stuck with him in my life.
I’m not sure yet how to beat Teo or if he can even be beaten, but I will do what Marcus told me to do: allow my sense of right and wrong to steer me toward ending his reign.
I walk through the living room, and while I didn’t rearrange the furniture—the two white benches make that L-shape, greeting visitors as they walk inside the house—I moved all the plants to my room. For my Persephone theme to work, I think I need to abolish the Thisbe and Pyramus story and start my own. I’m not hiding Bee’s memory, merely trying to move past it so we can escape. The lighting from a lamp I brought in from Bee’s bedroom is bright enough to display my painting but dark enough to match my artwork’s tone. The Underworld cast in the light of shadows. I pray Teo doesn’t make me flip on all the lights, because then hiding Thisbe’s tale will be nearly impossible. I didn’t get the chance to cover all the arched windows and leaves on the other walls, though I pushed a tall dresser from Bee’s bedroom in front of a large painted arch and lit candles on the floor under my painting to
highlight the main part of the room.
I steal one last glance at my work from this morning painted across the east wall. Persephone’s eyes, darker than my blue, fit the painting well. And Hades’s ebony stubble, on both his head and chin, mirrors Teo’s. Passing between them is that pomegranate. I hope I was right to make Persephone smile. Hades’s portrait works—the sallow, impassive expression almost perfectly mirrors Teo’s face.
I hid a secret in her and my hair—greenery from an olive tree, a symbol for victory—my hope that our confinement in Elysian Fields will not last. A hidden hope inspired by Marcus, the only reason I’m as calm as I am. My fingers may be twitching, my heart may be suffocating inside my chest, but like Marcus said, I can get through this. Just as long as Teo doesn’t freak out that I painted over Bee’s Babylonian theme.
Someone knocks at the door, and I wish I didn’t have to answer—the last thing I want to do is host a soirée. But Marcus and I have decided on a plan—besting Teo and earning the vaccine.
“My dear Persephone,” Teo says when I open the door. I feel much more like Pandora opening her box of chaos than like Persephone, goddess of spring’s bounty. He plucks my heavy hand and brings it to his lips. “Pray, tell me, what is in your hair?”
It’s unnerving how quickly he picked up on the one little rebellion I’d stashed away. I think how to answer him. It’s pretty, don’t you think? My mom always did fancy things to our hair when we invited guests over.
Good fortune arrives in the form of Eloise and Abe. Eloise hikes her pilgrim skirt up nearly a foot so she can waddle up the three steps. She grins at me once, revealing a large gap in her front teeth, then moves past the dresser I shoved in front of the painted arches and walks to the great room. Eloise is always smiling—she and Abe never seem to have a complaint about this place. I wonder if she doesn’t mind Teo so much because of something she told me last night—how she’s supposed to marry some old guy her dad picked out once she returns to Hong Kong. A traditionalist, she’d called him. It’s amazing the things you can pick up on at the latter end of parties when Teo leaves the room.