by Jodi Lamm
This is what happens when I fall in love. It’s poisonous. It’s deadly.
As the shadows drink away all the strength of will I have left, I finally understand. Esmeralda was right. I’m a murderer. I must be, deep down. But she belongs to me. The sound of our fate rings clearly in my ears. How unfortunate. Poor girl, tied to a demon like me. But I have no intention of freeing her, though I know by keeping her I’m dragging her to hell. Her presence is all that makes hell bearable.
BOOK TEN
For the first time in my life, I’m glad for Spring Break. I’m failing all my classes. You can imagine how my GPA has plummeted. School is the last thing I can handle right now.
Esmeralda and Valentine have both been truant for weeks, but she’s forged doctor’s notes, allowing them to make up their work from home. They’re unlikely study partners. How utterly cliché. I expect a bad eighties soundtrack to this film when it comes out.
My church is no longer a comfort to me, so I’ve taken to wandering through the city. I have no more ambitions, nothing to keep my mind from concocting plans I’d rather not admit to just yet. There are plans, though; you should know that. I have not been idle.
Today, I wandered into an art museum. My student pass got me in, free of charge, and I doubt I’ll see anyone I know here. This should be the perfect new hiding place for me. It’s clean and bright. There’s a café on the first floor where I can get food. I can spend the entire day here if I need to. Maybe tomorrow, too. Maybe every day. The last thing I ever want to do is go home.
I’m just beginning to love this place when I spot the first intruder, and in the space of a few seconds, my whole mess of a life comes flooding back. Peter is here. He’s standing in front of a sculpture taking notes. As though a sculpture could teach him anything. I should slink away and hope he doesn’t notice me. But I can’t, not when I see the shape he’s in. He’s wearing someone else’s old clothes: a god-awful red and yellow plaid shirt that’s fraying at the cuffs, and black pants that are far too short for him. He looks like he hasn’t showered or slept in days.
I tap him on the shoulder.
He starts when he sees me. “Claude, what are you doing here? I thought you were home sick like Val.” He looks me over, no doubt noticing the change in me.
“I am sick,” I say. It’s true.
He backs away. “If it’s contagious, don’t get close to me.”
“It isn’t.”
He seems to relax a little. “Well, good. I mean, not to be rude or anything, but I can’t afford to get sick right now. I have a new project to finish by the end of break. Extra credit, but I need it like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What are you failing?” I nudge him. “It can’t be Art.”
By the look he gives me, I know I have inadvertently guessed right. “Art History, to be more specific,” he says. “I have to do a research paper on a topic of my choosing. I chose sculpture.”
I suddenly feel remiss. I’m his tutor. It’s my responsibility to make sure he’s not slipping, but I barely thought of him this past month. And now he’s failing an elective. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” I say, though that hardly makes up for it. Peter is not at fault here. Peter has not betrayed me the way Valentine has. I shouldn’t have just abandoned him.
“Please. This is so not your problem.” His smile makes me wonder whether he’s even aware of the world around him. “Anyway, I’m absolutely loving this project. It’s perfect. I mean just look at this piece.” He tilts his head at the sculpture in front of him. A ring of dancing girls, all holding hands. Nothing special. But the way Peter looks at it, you would think it was the girls themselves and not just a lifeless representation. “Did you know this piece was carved from one block of marble?”
Now I’m paying attention.
“Just think about it,” he says. “Think about how huge and shapeless that block must have been. And then the artist started cutting away at it, chiseling pieces off. I mean what kind of person do you have to be to look at an enormous block of marble and see a circle of dancing girls inside?”
I shrug.
“Did you know that Michelangelo thought of sculpture as a way to free the true form of the marble? He looked at a block of stone and saw art trapped inside. Then he carved away the rock in order to set it free. Isn’t that amazing?”
“It is,” I say. “So you’re okay then?”
“I’m better than okay.” He grins. “I’m perfect.”
“Perfect,” I echo and stare at the dancing girls. I don’t understand him at all. I’m beginning to realize that I never really understood him or anyone else. It’s true the dancing girls are lovely. “But they’re not real,” I finish my thoughts aloud.
“Of course, they’re real. They’re as real as you and me. They just move so slowly, they appear to be made of stone.” He’s ridiculous as always. “I could fall in love with one of them and be happy for the rest of my life. People will break your heart. Even animals will eventually abandon you. But stone… Stone will never let you down.”
He can’t be serious.
“Just look at them.” He points with his notepad and pencil. “See the illusion of movement in their dresses and hair, and how fluid their limbs are? They look like they could just burst into life at any moment, don’t they?”
Peter has always been dramatic, but even for him, this is a little over the top. Now I really am worried about him. “Peter, is there anything you need?”
“Not a thing.”
I don’t believe him. “You’re not stressed at all?”
“Nope.”
“Even though you’re turning eighteen this year?”
His smile almost falters. Almost. “I haven’t forgotten about that. But don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”
“The universe unravels plans all the time,” I say, thinking of my own destroyed ambitions. “Without Esmeralda to help you, do you even know where you’ll live? Aren’t you even a little worried about it?”
He sighs like I’m the one who’s being irrational. “I’m giving up my connection to the physical world. Desire is the root of all unhappiness. I seek Nirvana, and to that end, I have relinquished everything.”
“So you’re homeless.”
“Yes.”
“And jobless.”
“As ever.”
“And you’ve adopted a useless philosophy in place of common sense.”
“I’ll be fine.” He grins. “The CoM says I can stay with them until I find another place.”
“The CoM?”
He shuffles his feet. “The Court of Miracles. It’s just for a while…” He goes on explaining, but I’m not listening any more. I should be. I should be outraged that he has anything to do with that group of irresponsible addicts. But I’ve become incurably distracted by a familiar voice behind me.
She laughs, and I turn to see Lily Darling standing arm-in-arm with Phoebus, who’s squinting at an Impressionist piece like he’s never seen such a mess in all his life. He’s wearing a suit, and he looks damn good in it. I can’t stop staring at him. In my head, I hear an imaginary Peter appraise him: “Just look at those lines, that form. Isn’t he exactly like his namesake? See the way he shines all on his own?”
The real Peter jabs me in the ribs. “You in there, Claude?”
I’m jolted from my daydream. “Isn’t that Phoebus?” I say, pretending I only just recognized him.
“Uh… Yeah,” Peter answers in a tone that indicates how stupid the question was.
“You don’t think it’s weird he’s here?”
“Naw. He’s failing the same class as me. He’s doing Impressionism.” He chuckles. “He should have chosen sculpture.”
I’m struck, suddenly, with a visual epiphany that has nothing whatsoever to do with art. I see Phoebus in all his expensive attire—smart-phone in one hand, girlfriend in the other, captain of the soccer team with a future that shines as bright as the sun. And standing right beside him is Peter—poor,
homeless, pale and gangly, with no family to speak of, but smiling despite it all. And it isn’t a false smile either. He’s worried, no doubt about it, but he still has joy. I can’t fathom where it comes from, but I need to know. If Peter can be this happy with no one and nothing on his side, maybe there’s a chance for me.
“Come on,” I say, tugging his arm. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
I pull him away from Phoebus, and he follows without a fight. When I’m sure we’re out of earshot, I sit down on a sculpture that doubles as a bench and lay both my hands on my knees. I try not to appear agitated. In truth, I’ve never admitted so much to anyone, and I’m terrified. “I’ve been wondering… I mean… Well, does it ever bother you that Phoebus is so attractive?”
Peter starts to answer, and then he pauses and scrunches up his face like he might have misheard me. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I mean he’s got everything, hasn’t he?”
“Not everything.”
I have no idea what he means. “He’s got money, a personality people flock to, talent in sports—which seems to be the only talent people want these days—and on top of that, he’s a damn pretty-boy. What in God’s name is he lacking?”
Peter shrugs. “Freedom. He’s a slave to everyone’s expectations. It’s not like he can just quit soccer and take up chess, or drop Lily and date a girl with a brain for a change. He’s chained to his success.”
I just stare at Peter. Sour grapes? That’s the secret of his happiness? “So you never feel jealous of guys like him?”
“Nope. I’m perfectly happy being dirt poor and free as a bird. No one can hold me down.”
“Interesting.” I don’t believe him. But he does have a point. If there’s nothing you want, then you’ll never be disappointed. Maybe there’s something to this whole Eastern philosophy kick he’s on. I wonder if I could ever achieve that kind of freedom.
As if in answer to my question, Phoebus passes by on his way to another painting, and I catch a glimpse of that persona Esmeralda longs after. Absently, I mutter, “Still it would be nice to have a good suit.” It’s not what I mean at all. What I mean is if only I had his skin to wear once in a while, his life to slip into every morning, the chains of his success to hold me down… If I had even one of these things, I might get the chance to fall in love and be loved in return. For that, I would give every ounce of freedom I have left.
I’m lost in my own thoughts. Phoebus has long since walked away, but I imagine I can still see him. Shining, bright, beautiful him. Like he ought to live in this art museum the way I live in the church. I am “the priest” and he is the golden god. Damn him. I decide, right then and there, to implement the only game piece I have left: Peter.
“Hey,” Peter says, nudging me. “When you’re done angsting, you should come see this other sculpture. It’s unbelievable.”
I ignore his invitation. “Peter, do you know where Esmeralda is?”
“No.” He looks taken aback. “Why would I?”
“Isn’t she your girlfriend?”
“Not exactly. I mean, according to everyone we know she is, but only as a favor to me—to get the homophobes off my back, you know?”
“So you don’t care where she is?”
“Of course, I care!” he says. “I’m not a complete asshole. I just heard she disappeared after the party. Between she and I, I think the whole school would gladly flay us alive, so I chose to stay out of it, for both our sakes.”
“That’s it?” It’s impossible for me to even imagine an existence in which Esmeralda is not the only thing that matters.
“Well, wait.” He stares at the ceiling a moment. “I do remember something. I heard a rumor she was holed up at the church, but I didn’t take it seriously. Everyone knows you’d never allow it.”
I bow my head and mutter, “But I have.”
He perks up at that. “You have? No kidding! You know, I thought maybe there was a chance Valentine would suggest something like that, but I didn’t see you giving an inch. At the very least, I was sure you’d never allow Djali.”
His obsession with that goat is beginning to annoy me. “It’s true. She’s hiding at the church. Normally, I wouldn’t have said yes, but… Remember when you told me some friends of Phoebus had sworn revenge?”
He nods.
“Well, they got it, or they tried to. They had her tied up in the greenhouse behind the church. I heard them talking about how they planned to kill her.”
“No.” He’s shocked, but he believes me. Good. I hope he believes everything I’m about to tell him.
“Yes. And I don’t doubt they would have done it. They’re stupid. They were certain they’d get away with it. They hate her, and I know they aren’t happy she’s still out there somewhere. Now, not only is she the girl who stabbed Phoebus, but she can go to the police about what they did to her. She can get them all into trouble.”
Peter shakes his head. “She would never go to the police. She’s terrified of them.”
“We know that, but they don’t.” I stand. I’m too nervous to stay seated. “The thing is, she can’t spend her whole life in a church. She needs to get out now and then. And I have it on good authority she’s planning to crash the prom. Who can blame her? It could be her last chance to see most of her friends. But as soon as she leaves the church, I know the team will try to finish what they started. Valentine is watching over her, but he’s only one person. And we can’t call the police. They’ll just deport her, right?”
“Right.” Peter nods. He has a huge problem trusting anyone in authority—always has. I almost feel guilty for playing to his weaknesses. It’s not fair that I know so much about him. But I have to diffuse this situation somehow, and Peter is my only hope.
“Even if she stays at the church, it’s only a matter of time until they get to her. You heard the rumor about where she’s hiding. Who’s to say they haven’t heard it, too?”
“What if we just asked the team to leave her alone?” Peter says. “I’m sure they’re not completely unreasonable.”
“You’re sure?”
“No.” He starts to pace and chew his lower lip. “Well, what if we could convince them to leave her alone for Phoebus’ sake? They’d do anything for him.”
“Obviously.”
“Hmm… We could let them find out about her pregnancy.”
It takes me a beat to fully understand what Peter is implying, and then I start to see spots on the already polka-dotted canvas in front of me. “Pregnant?” I think I’m going to be sick. “You said you never even kissed her! You swore it!”
Peter backs away from me, wide-eyed. “Whoa. Hang on. I meant with Phoebus’ baby, not mine.”
My hands curl into tight, bloodless fists.
Peter quickly clarifies. “She’s not pregnant, Claude! Jesus! I told you she’s never even been with a guy. I just thought the team might back off a little if they bought it. For Phoebus’ sake.”
Thank God and all the saints. My pulse slows, and I steady myself on the back of that odd bench. “No, they’d kill her twice as fast for that. They’d do as much just to keep him from having to pay child support.” Even to my ears, my calm sounds tenuous, but I can’t mess this up. I’m no good at anything that requires imagination. I never have been. I need Peter to think of a plan. I need to motivate him. “I’ve got it,” I say, hoping to God this works. “It’s unpleasant, but it’s the only way.”
Peter leans in, curious.
“She rescued you. Just keep that in mind and hear me out.” I stare at my hands like I’m afraid to tell him. “I think… I think you should turn yourself in for the assault on Phoebus.”
“What? Why me?”
“Because they’ll believe it if it’s you. You’re supposed to be her boyfriend. You can say it was a crime of passion. Just think about it.” I grab his arm, summoning to my own aid every dramatic muse Peter ever had. “You’d be saving her life and restoring her innocence. There’s a ch
ance they’ll arrest you for it, sure, but don’t you owe her that, at least?”
Peter stares gloomily for a moment. “This may surprise you,” he says, “but I would never have thought to do such a thing for her.”
“Of course, you wouldn’t. That’s what I’m here for. So what do you think?”
His shoulders drop. “I think… No, I know I’ll be arrested for it.” He’s resisting, but I need more from him.
“Is that a problem?”
“Yes, it’s a fucking huge problem!” Peter’s voice echoes in the museum and a few people stop and stare.
I take him by the elbow and start walking him down those long corridors filled with the best efforts of mankind’s finest artists. “I agree, it’s a sacrifice,” I hiss. “But you owe her.”
“I owe lots of people.”
“But this is a debt you’ve got to repay. What will she do otherwise?”
“I don’t know.” His Nordic features are positively cherry with suppressed guilt and anger. “And I appreciate your concern for my pseudo-girlfriend. But I can’t understand why you’re so obsessed with the idea of me getting arrested in someone else’s place.”
“And I don’t see why you’re so obsessed with the idea of staying out of prison.” Good, Claude. Now take it to the next level. Shred his ego. “What have you got going for you, anyway? You’re homeless. You’ve got no job, no future planned. In prison, you’d have shelter and food, at least. How is that a bad thing?”