Chemistry (15 page)

For a moment, Phoebus and I are locked together in the mutual understanding that something miraculous has just occurred. Valentine has just opened up to someone he doesn’t trust, to someone he actually dislikes. He showed his weakness to Phoebus of all people. Phoebus looks almost ashamed, but then he snaps out of it and tells me I’d better go. I’m only too happy to oblige him.

Our drive home is a quiet one. Valentine and I are both lost in our own thoughts. I try not to feel betrayed by his sudden articulation to a practical stranger. The stronger he becomes, the prouder I should be of him. But right now, he doesn’t look strong at all. He’s hunched over in his seat, staring at his hands. I hear him mumble, “To throw that away…” Then he falls silent.

When we arrive home, Valentine goes straight to the organ loft. I wait in the sanctuary below, anxious to learn how Esmeralda receives the news. I hope she sees Phoebus for the arrogant fool he is.

“Did you see him?” Her voice is excited, breathless. “Is he coming?”

“He wasn’t home.” So Valentine has chosen to lie. He’s going to spare her feelings for now. He can’t bring himself to cause her pain, even though he’s just delaying the inevitable.

Her response, I can hardly believe. “Why didn’t you wait for him?” She’s angry. “You should have waited!”

“I’ll try again tomorrow if you like,” Valentine says, submissive as always.

“Go away.” Esmeralda’s voice breaks up like she’s trying not to cry. “Just leave me alone.”

I hope she’s upset because she knows Valentine is lying. I hope she’s smart enough to realize that Phoebus refused to see her, that he threw her note away like so much trash. I hope so because, even though it hurts her now, in the end she’ll suffer more if she continues to believe Phoebus could love her. I don’t believe Phoebus could ever love anyone. It’s true.
To throw that away…
To throw that away, a person would have to be made of stone.

VII

I expect Valentine to be depressed. I expect him to mope, shut himself away for a few days, and then get over it. I can only hope his affection for Esmeralda doesn’t cut as deeply as mine. But when I reach the kitchen, I hear him singing.

Here’s the thing: as musical as Valentine is, as much talent as I know he possesses for it, I have never heard him sing. Not only that, but he’s singing in French, which I taught him. And his voice is surprisingly good.

“La beauté n’aime que la beauté,” he sings.
Beauty loves only beauty.

He is filling two vases with water. One of them is a hideous green thing—pottery from the early nineteen seventies, no doubt. The other is crystal. He cuts the stems of two bundles of flowers: white roses and sunflowers. He puts the roses in the crystal vase, which has a large crack down one side.

I tap him on the shoulder and sign, “That one is leaking.”

“I know,” he signs back, and then he puts the sunflowers in the green vase. “But this one isn’t.”

I admit I’m confused. I tap him on the shoulder again. “Why not put both bouquets in the green vase?”

Valentine smiles at this, like he knows what he’s doing and someone as simple as me would never understand. He places the two vases in a deep baking dish and takes them to the sanctuary. And I suddenly get what he’s doing. He’s sending a message. He’s hoping Esmeralda will understand his subtle advice: sometimes the ugly vase is the one that will keep the flowers alive, and sometimes a beautiful exterior has a hollow and useless core.

I follow him into the sanctuary and watch him set his new message at the foot of the altar. He doesn’t wait for Esmeralda to notice them, but goes immediately back to his own room. And that’s when I realize Phoebus is not my only rival. Valentine doesn’t just want to befriend Esmeralda. Valentine has fallen in love with her. He wants her to choose him over Phoebus, and this floral message is his way of announcing his affections to her.

I can’t help but notice how subtle and sweet his confession is compared to mine. Couple that with the fact that Valentine saved Esmeralda’s life, while I was the one who endangered her in the first place, and I have to accept that if she ever does choose someone over Phoebus, she will choose Valentine long before she chooses me.

Valentine. The school Cyclops.

The reason for this is clear. Phoebus has an attractive exterior and Valentine has a beautiful core. They may each be only half of what she deserves, but they both have that much more to offer her than I do.

I can already feel my last fragment of sanity slipping away. I’m jealous of Valentine. Just thinking about him makes me sick. It’s so easy for him to befriend her, isn’t it? He’s the lumbering, gentle ogre. He’s the creature with a heart of gold. And she may be angry with him now, but she’ll see his little gift to her, and she’ll be charmed by his sincerity. How could she not? This is Valentine, after all, the kid who managed to worm his way into the coldest heart in the world: mine.

My situation is hopeless. My love is overpowering and unrequited. For the first time in my life, I kneel in the pews and attempt a prayer to Saint Jude. But my eloquence is as lost as my cause, and all I can manage is a repeated, choked plea. “Help me. Help me. Help me, please.” And I know, somehow… I know I’m going to die of this.

VIII

I spend my nights in the sanctuary. Esmeralda’s shadow playing on the dome above is something I wouldn’t miss for my own eternal salvation. She can’t know how much she tortures me. Her silhouette is powerful. My own imagination could not supply a better dream than this. The way her whole body seems to cover me, envelope me in the darkness. I’ve never felt so warm in all my life.

Valentine secluded himself the moment he discovered that Esmeralda, rather than comprehend the message he meant to send her, had taken the white roses from the crystal vase and hung them upside-down to dry right beside her pillow. The sunflowers, she ignored completely. I was there when he noticed it, and I saw all the hope drain from him, just as all the water had drained from that crystal vase. “So that’s it,” he signed without looking at me. “That’s all it really takes; you just have to be beautiful.” Then he hung his head and muttered, “I wish I were made of stone like you.” At first, I looked around to see which of the carved saints he might have been speaking to, but now, I believe he was speaking to me. He was lashing out at the nearest beating heart. And who am I to judge him? I more than deserve it.

Even now, I lie back on a pew in the holy sanctuary, surrounded by saints and the Virgin Mother, but all I see is that dancing shadow above me, pulling her shirt up over her head, brushing out her hair, readying herself for bed. She hums a song I don’t know, happy, oblivious to the devil that watches her from hell.

By the time she finally switches off her little light, by the time my only window to her world is closed, I am writhing on that cold, hard pew. I burn from the inside. My own heart deafens me. And my eyes are clouded with the smoky images of Esmeralda dancing in orange and red, Esmeralda enflamed by Phoebus’ touch, Esmeralda bound and gagged in the greenhouse.

I recall, trembling, the kiss I gave her while she lay half-conscious under Phoebus’ spell. How warm it was. How unbelievably soft and warm. And the taste of her. I can’t even describe it. I would never have guessed the most haunting part of my first kiss would be the taste. It’s unlike anything else. The flavor of excitement. The thrill of fear and promise. I’m still drunk on it.

With a shudder, I realize that no matter how fate pits us against each other, no matter how bound we are to destroy each other, I am determined to have one more taste of Esmeralda.

IX

I should feel ridiculous, tiptoeing up the stairs to the organ loft, barefoot in my pajamas with a keychain flashlight. At some point, reality should kick in and tell me how insane this is. But it never does. Even the sight of Valentine asleep on the staircase does not dissuade me. He doesn’t even stir as I pass him. And anyway, I’ve convinced myself I only want to look at her. I only want to watch her sleep for a while. Of course, deep down, some part of me knows that’s a lie. Especially when I begin to taste her on my tongue before I’ve even reached the loft.

I hear her quiet, measured breathing before I see her. She moans a little, but it’s a moan of pleasure, of sweet dreams. The idea that she may be dreaming of Phoebus crosses my mind and sends a spike of jealousy through me. I can’t bear the thought of him having her, even in her dreams.

I creep closer and shine my flashlight at the floor. The reflected light just barely reaches Esmeralda’s face, and she stirs but does not wake.

She’s an angel, and no one should touch her, not even you.
The thought flickers through my mind, but it goes out again the moment Esmeralda opens her eyes.

At first, she’s frozen. Whether it’s astonishment or just that her eyes have not yet adjusted to my flashlight, I can’t tell. Then she gasps. Before I can move to quiet her, she’s closed her eyes again. She’s hoping I didn’t notice. She hasn’t seen my expression, hasn’t seen that I’m staring right at her. I’m a silhouette to her, like she’s been to me the last couple weeks. Only my silhouette is not a pleasant sight. It terrifies her. She’s pretending she never woke up. She’s hoping, as I once did, that I only came here to watch. But sight is not enough. Touch is not enough. I need to taste her.

I need…

The split starts in my head, and then travels down my whole body until I’m not one person but two. I watch myself, horrified, as I crawl under Esmeralda’s blanket and run my fingers along her body. She tries to sit up, but I push her down again. She cries for help. I don’t bother to cover her mouth. No one can hear her.

I can’t stand myself like this, but I can’t stop either. I know the second I let her go she’ll run. And she can’t be allowed to run. She digs her nails into my arms, but I can barely feel it. My adrenaline is doing its job well. My whole body tingles with it, pulses with it. And suddenly, I know that this is who I am.

It’s as though someone else has driven me here, set me on this collision course, and then handed me the wheel to see whether I will steer away. I feel everything acutely. Esmeralda writhes as I pin her to the floor. We’re both soaked in the sweat of this struggle. Tears roll down her cheeks and drip into her hair, and I know I’m in control. She’s slowly giving up. She’s weak. She can do nothing to resist me, and I will not let her go. Because she will not let me go. She’s had me pinned since the moment I first saw her.

“You’re so cruel,” I say into her hair. I can feel her breath on my throat. “But I love you. You have no idea how much. If you knew how much I loved you, you wouldn’t throw me away.”

“Let go of me!” She screams and punches. It hurts, but I don’t care. “You’re disgusting and horrible and I hate you!” She spits at me and kicks her legs.

But I’m stronger, and I keep her in my arms. “Say whatever you want,” I tell her. “Hit me as hard as you want. But show me a little kindness. Please…” I hold her wrists with my hands and kiss her bare shoulder. “Just a little.” One taste. Right now, I need it more than air. “This can’t go on forever,” I say. Then I slide over her completely and press my mouth to hers.

Her lips are warmer than I remember. Burning hot even. And to my surprise, she doesn’t fight back. She allows this, and for the first time, I feel the shape of her breathing against me. For the first time, I can touch her and she knows it’s me who’s touching her.

“I love you.” I dare to say it again. I lift myself off her a bit because she’s panting and I don’t want to suffocate her. I don’t mean to hurt her.

But the second I give her room, she strikes back with a ferocity I’ve never seen in a human before. She’s an injured, cornered animal. She’s all nails and teeth. She punches and claws and bites me. She knees my groin and sends me spiraling into a world of pain. I double over and cry out. Before I can even get my eyes to work again, she’s ended the struggle, but the final blow is not meant for me. Instead, she has hit the organ pedal.

This tone is the sound of everything shattering around me, the sound of my only sanctuary crashing to the ground in a shower of carved stone and stained glass. The violence of it overwhelms me in waves. This tone is Valentine telling me what I am, showing me what he thinks of me now that he knows.

It’s all I can do to untangle myself from my own agony and take hold of Esmeralda before she gets to her feet. I pull her back into me until her shoulder blades are pressed against my ribcage. I pin her arms to her sides, while she pushes off the ground in an attempt to overpower me with all her weight. Her hair flies in my face, and she’s screaming and shoving my back into the organ bench.

“Stop it,” I say, covering her mouth with my hand. Even though no one else can hear her, I can’t stand any more. “Please, don’t do this.”

But it’s too late. The organ has sounded, and Valentine is here.

At first, I don’t see him at all. I just feel a hand grip my hair and yank me away from Esmeralda. Then I’m lifted by my shirt, dragged down the stairs to the sanctuary, and thrown to the floor. As soon as my body hits the ground I look up, bracing myself for the blow. But Valentine does not intend to merely give me a beating. He lifts what looks, in the dark, like a baseball bat over his head and prepares to bash in my skull with it.

There’s no use supplicating him. He can’t see my signs. He can’t hear my voice. To him, I’m a menacing rat, finally caught and ready for extermination. I should be happy I’m about to be put out of my misery by the only person in the world who loves me, but I’m not. I’m afraid. I don’t want Valentine to see me this way.

As though God Himself has heard my unvoiced fear, the lights buzz and blink to life. I stare up into Valentine’s face, expecting to see the merciless expression I deserve from him—the anger, the just fury. But I see no such thing. Instead, Valentine looks taken aback, like he’s just discovered the rat he was about to kill was really his beloved kitten. I can’t believe it.

“You?” he says, and trembling, he drops the bat.

I have no idea what to say to him. All this time, I thought he knew about me. I thought that every move he made was to guard Esmeralda from me, that he suspected I would endanger her before I myself suspected it. But his shock is not feigned. He truly believed me incapable of this. He thought well of me until he had proof to the contrary. This realization is enough to break my heart all over again. I push myself to my feet and attempt to hide my own shame.