Chemistry (16 page)

“What the hell are you doing?” I sign.

He shakes his head, but does not pick up the bat.

I continue to sign, recalling earlier transgressions of his, trying desperately to turn the tables on him. “See, this is exactly what I’ve been talking about—this kind of knee-jerk violence. If you don’t get your temper under control someone’s going to get hurt, and then where will you be? Juvie, that’s where.” I fall easily back into my parental role. I’m only looking out for his best interest, after all.

Valentine won’t stop shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and I see a depth of sorrow in his eyes I’ve never seen before. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I can’t let you touch her again.” He kicks the bat toward me. “Not while I’m conscious.”

Why? Why couldn’t he have just played along? Why couldn’t he give me this one out? Why does he keep looking at me like that, like I’ve already injured him in the worst possible way? Why does he love her more than he loves me? My head is fogged with anger, betrayal, and self-disgust at what I know I’m about to do. I want to hit him. I want to wipe that expression off his face. I reach for the bat, but Esmeralda is quicker.

Now I know she is the one who turned on the lights. She is the one who exposed my ugliness. She’s been unraveling my identity from the beginning, so it’s kind of appropriate, really.

She stands in front of Valentine and grips that baseball bat like she means to kill me with it. “Come on!” She taunts me. “Come on, asshole! Let’s see what you’ve got! I dare you!” She bares her teeth, and I swear she’s just itching for the opportunity to break my bones. For the first time, I see real venom in her eyes. All the hatred I imagined I saw in her before is now so clearly a figment of my own paranoia. This is how Esmeralda looks when she hates you. This look is pure malice. I worked hard to get this from her. I fought and I struggled for it, and all along I thought I was fighting for love.

Valentine watches the two of us with a look both pained and proud. I have grieved him, but Esmeralda protects him. He must think she loves him. He doesn’t know it’s hatred that drives her, but I do. How can I not, when she’s still grinning at me, beckoning me with one hand and wielding a blunt weapon with the other?

I am lost and a coward. I turn my back on Esmeralda and Valentine, and I run.

When I’m alone in my room, my imagination torments me. Esmeralda is crying. Esmeralda is grateful. She’s tender with Valentine, kissing his cheek, throwing her arms around his enormous shoulders. I’m sick with these visions. I can’t stand them. Even though I doubt Esmeralda is in love with him now. Even though I know she never will be. She still cares for him and trusts him. He has that much, at least. And I know he thrills at every touch. I know he treasures her in a way I can’t even fathom. She’ll give him everything but her heart, and that will be enough for him. But it will never be enough for me. I need to possess her. I need to keep her. I need to live and dream and breathe her.

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.