by Joanna Wiebe
“I will put you in pairs—don’t complain—and you will take turns experiencing the faces of each other,” Weinchler explains. “Next class, you’ll start sculpting busts. I am certain you will disappoint me, but, nonetheless, we must put ourselves through the exercise.” He pulls a list out of a binder and peers at it from the bottom of his eyes. “I’ve divided you into pairs alphabetically.”
As long as I don’t get stuck with Harper, I can survive this assignment. All afternoon, I’ve been walking around with the scrapbook I stole from the girls’ dorm in my backpack, and I have a feeling she’s going to suspect something’s up. I mentally work through the students with last names close to mine: Tallulah Josey, me, Mark Norbussman, Harper Otto. So either Tallulah (ugh) or Mark (cool) will be my partner.
Weinchler reaches my part of the list. “Angela, you’re with Tallulah. Anne, you’re with Mark.”
Yes!
Ben leans into Weinchler and whispers in his ear.
“Yes, good, excellent,” Weinchler replies to Ben before turning to me. “Anne, Mr. Zin has just pointed out that Mark is at a meeting with his Guardian.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. The next on the list is Harper.
“But Mr. Zin is willing to stand in as your partner.”
Surprised at the turn of events, I nod, but a wave of dread comes over me so powerfully I think I might be sick. Paired with Ben? Seriously? Sure, there are good parts to this. Now I can ask Ben why he stole into my room. That, and I can, like, touch his face for half of the class. But let’s not forget the bad stuff! One, his sordid affair. Two, my crooked tooth. The exposure! The vulnerability! I have to put myself in his hands, literally, knowing every one of my flaws will come shining through. Ev-er-y one of them. And I’ve seen his work, so I know how eidetic he can be.
I swallow down my anxiety.
The chair next to Ben squeals like a cat with its tail caught as I pull it in. Around us, the rest of the students shuffle noisily as Weinchler tells us to sit down, stop talking.
Ben doesn’t seem to know that I know what’s up with him and Garnet. He’s as casual as I’ve seen him, as casual as a decidedly formal guy like Ben can get.
“I figured I’d go first,” he says. “Sound okay?”
I nod, but I feel awkward. I crane my neck to move my face closer to his hands. I’m reminded, looking at him this close, of my comment the other night on the mountain, when I told him he was perfect. And his response—his cold response. It helps me build a virtual wall now, a wall that will keep him out and keep me safely in. I tell myself Ben has an amazing capacity to be a complete jerk when I’m at my most vulnerable. Forget him.
With a sigh, he braces my face—his hands are warm—and looks into my eyes. “Will you relax? I’ve done this before. Let me lead.”
“We’ll see how comfortable you are when I’m squishing my hands against your face.”
He grins. That grin threatens the structural integrity of the wall I’m trying to build. “Your skin feels very malleable, if it’s any consolation.”
“Thanks. I think.”
I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of his hands—Wonderful! No, wait. I’m not allowed to think that way. I need to take a chill pill and convince myself Ben is…I dunno, some sort of gremlin or serial killer or something else I should run far, far away from. But it’s like my skin is one of those blue plasma balls you see in science shops: the moment his fingers touch me, cell-sized explosions go off under my flesh and sensations like tiny, bright electric currents race all over me. His fingertips trace my face—the cheekbones I’m finally growing into, the lips I hope steal attention from my crooked tooth—before running under my hair, where his touch becomes firmer, like a massage. He’s done this before. And I’m eating it up. Which I must put an immediate stop to. Build that wall.
“So I have a question for you,” I say, my eyes still closed. I feel his fingertips hesitate on my skin before proceeding.
“Are you sure you want to ask here? If I recall correctly, you tend to jump right to the hardest questions.”
“Why would Molly choose death over attending Cania?”
“Like I was saying.”
My eyes flit open. He’s staring at me, unimpressed, with an eyebrow arched. For a moment, we just eye each other. And then he deliberately slides his thumbs over my eyelids, and I’m in darkness once again.
“Nothing relaxes me like sculpting,” he says, keeping his voice low so no one can hear. “From exploring my muse just like this to shaping the clay. It’s the only way to forget everything.”
“What’s to forget?”
“Exactly what I just said. Everything.”
Weinchler shouts something at a pair of students who are arguing loudly.
“So,” Ben continues, “did you get the book?”
“You mean the one you left on my bed? After breaking in?” I roll my eyes, but they’re closed, so the effect is lost.
“You broke into my place first.” His fingers rest on my lips now. “Did you read it?”
He pulls his hands back. I open my eyes.
“Not yet. I’ve been slightly preoccupied by the recent death of my friend.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Surely you’ve wondered why Villicus let you stay, Anne,” he says.
“Do you wish he’d expelled me?”
His palms are pressed against my cheeks. “I think you know I’d like to be your friend.”
I scoff. I certainly did not know that.
“I’ve tried not to be, of course,” he concedes. “I’ve been warned not to be. But you are surprisingly hard to stay away from.”
“Because I’m your neighbor?”
“Sure. That’s why.”
I press my lips firmly together to keep from smiling. After all, moments of happiness with Ben inevitably lead to a typhoon-speed downward spiral of uncertainty and self-loathing. No use getting my hopes up, even if he’s suggesting what he seems to be.
“Because I remind you of your sister,” I offer as an alternative to the more exciting reason. “I’m sorry she passed away. And your mom, too. They looked like really nice people in the photos I saw. You guys looked happy.”
I can’t help but wonder—pulling on my Psych 101 hat—if our mutual losses aren’t part of what draws us together. Certainly I’m drawn to Ben because he’s gorgeous, untouchable, and artistic, but there’s more connecting us, something deeper. Something I felt from the moment I saw him outside Villicus’s office. Something I may have felt long before I ever met him—as if we knew each other in another life. For God knows why, Ben just makes sense when he rides his Ducati around the island by himself or stands forlorn in a window. Even his relationship with a teacher, something doomed from day one, makes a small bit of sense. The same thing that separates me from everyone else here—a life lived in the shadows, darkened by an unhealthy familiarity with death—separates him, too.
“If you don’t mind, how long ago did they pass on?”
It couldn’t have been more than a year ago, given how old he and his sister looked in their Christmas photos. Though why she was smiling over a Taylor Swift CD from years ago, I can’t figure out. His hands move to my neck, his fingers tracing my jawline and sending shivers over my body.
“A little over five years ago,” he answers.
Bit by bit, ever so gradually, as if any movement might disturb us, I open my eyes only to find Ben’s closed. As he looks now—peaceful, with his distractingly gorgeous eyes closed—he reminds me of someone I can’t quite place.
“But, Ben,” I say, “she looked nearly fifteen in the photo. And you looked like you do now. How could she have passed away five years ago? She would have been ten.”
Ben opens his eyes. He says nothing but pulls his hands from my face and looks at them as if they’re different now. Running them through his precisely tousled hair, he breathes deeply.
; “She was actually thirteen in that photo. And thirteen when she died.”
“Five years ago? But weren’t you older than she was?”
“Yes. I was sixteen in that photo.”
A clap at the back of the room startles us both.
“You are all terrible, horrible sculptors!” Weinchler shouts, storming to the front of the room. His outburst is made uglier by the fact that no one has even started sculpting yet, so how could he know? Ornery old bat. “You need additional reading assignments, so everybody back to your desks and open your text to chapter four.”
I pull away from Ben—but, in a flash, he reaches for my hands. I don’t know why. To try to explain?
“I don’t understand, Ben,” I say. “It doesn’t add up. How old are you?”
He hushes me by fixing his intense gaze on me. As I think he’s about to share something, he slides his hands over my wrists, stopping just under my cardigan sleeve. His eyes, pained, hold mine as he gently strokes the tender undersides of my wrists, where my pulse races, giving me away to him but to no one else—no one in the room could even see him holding me from this angle. His fingertips stay just at the edges of my cuff, just far enough under my sweater to be…more than familiar.
My smile vanishes. I scan his face as he lifts my hand to caress his cheek.
“Is it coming back to you?” he asks.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I stammer.
“Me,” he says. “I thought you might have recognized the drawing I showed you the other night, when we were standing at the window. But you still don’t know, do you?”
And then he pulls away, looking bashful, and Weinchler shoos me back to my desk, where I try to catch my breath.
Wintery winds blast my face, still tingling from Ben’s touch, when I shove open the building door after class to head to yet another Social Committee meeting. My heart is racing so fast that my head can’t keep up. Class today was the first time I’ve talked with Ben without the whole thing ending in intense frustration for me. If I didn’t already know about Garnet, I might even believe that Ben was starting to feel something for me. But he’s not. So I’ll settle for friendship, which doesn’t really feel like settling.
As I hurriedly button my coat as high as it will go and bury my smile in my collar, I zero in on Pilot crossing the field with the girl with the bobbed hair. Noticing me, he waves her good-bye and heads straight for me, his grin brightening his face. I watch him jog my way. He’s all boy, through and through. Not complicated whatsoever.
“It’s cold.” The white of my breath puffs in front of me until the fog consumes it.
“Not a fan of winter?”
“It’s barely fall. Who’s that girl you were talking to? I’ve seen her around.”
“Who, Hiltop?”
“Hill-top? That’s her name?”
He chuckles. “She’s Austrian. She can’t help what her parents named her.”
As we walk to our meeting, I find myself lost in thought—Ben thoughts—while Pilot chatters idly. I laugh with him every so often, nod, say “Uh-huh” and “Oh, really?” and other meaningless phrases that are enough to feign engagement—to cover the obsession my brain and body have with Ben—until finally we’re at Goethe Hall and Pilot’s opening the door.
“Another thrilling Social Committee meeting, m’lady.” He adds a flourish of his hand.
Curtsying, I smile up at him. “Why, thank you,” I offer in my best Southern accent.
“Wait—wow.” He suddenly pushes his hand against my chest so he can look at me better. But he’s keeping me in the blustery winds.
“Pilot, what the hell? It’s freezing out.” I swat him and walk into the foyer, watching his face, expecting a joke. “What?”
“You.”
I flinch. “Me? Nice. Thanks.”
“No, really.” He’s pointing at my mouth.
Backing away on instinct, I raise my hands in defense. “What are you doing? You’re freaking me out.”
“You’re freaking me out.” He really looks freaked out, too. His fingers stretch toward my face.
“What’s wrong? Stop it,” I demand.
“It looks fantastic. You look really great,” he breathes, peering closer. “I knew there was something different about you.”
“What are you talking about?” I smack at his hand as his fingers brush my lips. “Stop touching my mouth.”
“Smile for me.”
“What? No.”
“Smile, Annie. You’ll like it.”
“Are you crazy?” Now I’m starting to get freaked. “Is there something wrong?”
Panicked, I run my tongue along my teeth, fearing I’ve lost one. That would be even worse than having a crooked tooth—having a big gaping hole in my smile like some sort of backwoods yokel.
Then I run my tongue over my teeth again.
“What on earth?” I breathe.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt one bump when my tongue moves over my teeth. One bump that represents my jagged tooth, my most nagging imperfection.
That bump is gone. My teeth are smoothly, perfectly aligned.
A smile lights Pilot’s face. “Do you feel different?”
With my mind racing, I just shake my head.
“Well, something’s changed. What happened to you?”
That’s a great question: What did happen? How did it happen?
“What classes did you have today?” he asks.
“Why? What does that matter?”
“Did you touch anybody? Did you pass out again?”
I frown. “And, what, smash my tooth on the floor? Knock it straight?”
“I just—”
“Stop talking!” I exclaim and press my hands to my ears, squeezing my eyes shut. “I need to think.” I hear my voice inside my head. I hear a million things inside my head. Then, opening my eyes, I lower my hands from my ears. Pilot is still smiling. “I had sculpting class,” I whisper. “I was paired with Ben.”
“Well, Ben is a remarkable sculptor.”
Could that be it? Pilot’s joking, but could there be some truth to it? Could Ben have resculpted my teeth? Impossible.
“I’m serious,” I say.
Panic sets in. Is Ben some sort of witch dentist? No, it can’t be. This must just be another hallucination—but then why is Pilot seeing it, too? It’s real. This actually happened. Does that mean what happened with Molly the other night is real, too? I stumble back against the wall; the foyer is spinning. To keep from passing out in front of Pilot, in front of the few others now walking by, I shove through the doors and break into a sprint.
“Wait!” he calls after me.
“I’m not going to that stupid club today,” I shout back. The idea of taking orders from Harper for the rest of the afternoon is unbearable.
He quickly catches up. “That’s cool. I won’t go either.”
“You’ll get in trouble.”
“Hello? I don’t care about that, Anne,” he says. “I’m going wherever you’re going.”
The problem is that I don’t know where I’m going. My mind is in tatters. My tongue has been stroking my tooth repeatedly, and I’m finding myself torn between loving the idea of having a flawless new smile and hating the idea that Ben simply took the liberty of fixing me. How he managed to do it is another question entirely. That he did it at all, that’s what’s plaguing me as I race Pilot away from campus.
“I need a doctor or a dentist,” I say, panting. “Do you know any?”
“Dr. Zin,” he says. I glower at him. “Anne, the village is empty. No one here ever seems to get sick.” He shakes his head and throws his hands in the air. “There’s no one that can help you. I’m sorry.”
The skies open above us as we stand on the road to the village. I’d be a fool to go back there anyway, considering what happened to Molly when we broke the rule.
“I just want answers,” I say, a sob escaping my lips.
Softly, Pilot nods and pull
s me to him. I’m surprised at how quickly I cling to his warm, muscular body and how tightly I hold him. I can’t help but wonder why—why!—just when things were going well with Ben did he have to prove, once and for all, that I’m not good enough for him, that I’ll never be good enough for him? Pilot would never do that to me.
“Sometimes there are no answers,” Pilot offers as a consolation. “What if you stopped torturing yourself with so much looking? What if you just accepted that, although things don’t make sense in a traditional way, everything’s fine and your life here can be wonderful?”
Nodding, I back away and take Pilot’s hands in mine, smiling at him through the rain. “It could be wonderful,” I agree, sniffling. “You’re right.”
If I’d accept Pilot’s affections instead of resisting and seeking something that truly moves me, I’m sure life here would be a breeze.
As I work to convince myself of this, I glance down at our hands in the rain and notice they seem melded somehow. Meshed. But not in that romantic way you read about in romances. The edges of his hands are plainly blurred around mine, like the lightness surrounding blotches of paint in a watercolor. I squint and he notices.
Grimacing, he pulls his hands away and stuffs them into his pockets.
sixteen
THE MANY LIVES OF THE GIRLS OF CANIA CHRISTY
WITH THE NUMBER OF CANDLES BURNING IN MY ROOM, you’d think I was holding a séance or re-creating the Festival of Fire and Life. But I am doing neither. It’s been a long, hard day—wait, who am I kidding? It’s been an endless, anguish-filled couple of weeks, with new homes, new schools, friends made and lost, more punishments than I’ve ever received in my life, and the cruelest sort of kindness from a boy I should never have looked at twice. It’d be traumatic for anyone.
So I’ve done what any warm-blooded American girl would do. I’ve gathered every candle I could find, put a depressing CD on a stereo I’ve hauled up from the living room, replaced my school uniform with comfy sweats, and curled up in bed with a book. Not just any book. The scrapbook I swiped from the dorms earlier.
I trace my fingertips over its title: The Many Lives of the Girls of Cania Christy.