Chemistry (3 page)

And the goat does the most confounding thing I’ve ever seen. It stands up on its hind legs, balances the tambourine like a waiter’s tray on its foreleg, and takes a few steps forward before toppling over again. Esmeralda catches the tambourine, and the crowd, now double the size it was when I came in, roars with laughter.

I have never seen a school play with an audience this attentive. Peter must be seething underneath that delighted smile of his. I know I am.

III

The first sensation I have upon my arrival at the Valentine’s Day Dance, besides nausea, is an unbearable chill. The importance of the cold in this place is something I can’t possibly exaggerate. I’m standing in the darkest corner I can find, wearing a suit I likely can’t afford, with Valentine, who’s wearing a specially-tailored tux I most certainly can’t afford. Still I bought it for him. Remember that, as this story progresses. Remember I loved him better than I loved myself.

Every guy in black and white. Every girl in pale blue or pink, dark mauve or evergreen. The colors in this place are chilling. Even the little white lights strung everywhere, which I guess are supposed to resemble stars, are more reminiscent of snowflakes to me. I can’t stand the cold. I hunch over in my corner and shiver.

Then I see a fire.

It’s Esmeralda. She’s dressed in orange and red and gold. She’s burning with color and warmth. It’s the warmth that draws me from my corner and forces me closer to her. I can’t help it. She’s dancing alone, and it’s unlike any dance I’ve ever seen. While every other couple clings to each other, bouncing or swaying together depending on the music, she twirls alone. Her arms are in the air. Her hands move like birds over her head. She’s spinning and laughing, and after a while, everyone stops to watch. The guys let go of their dates and stare at her. Even the girls can’t help watching. And I feel myself tense at the sight of that many eyes on her.

She’s so warm. I know I’m drawing closer to her than anyone else dares. I know it, but I can’t stop myself. Valentine tugs on my sleeve, but God help me, I brush him aside. I can hear Peter behind me, calling my name. All I can do is mutter, “Just… Just let me…” though I doubt he can hear me over the pounding music. I don’t care. I want, just once in my life, to know what it’s like to tremble with something other than cold.

And that’s when I see Phoebus staring at her from across the dance floor. He’s a lion watching a gazelle: determined, planning, hungry. He’s spotted his prey, and soon he’ll move in for the kill. I’m sick with worry and useless anger. I can’t stand it. How dare anyone watch her they way he does, the way all of them are watching her, the way I am… I shake the thought from my head.

This won’t do. She probably doesn’t even realize she’s attracting this kind of attention. She wouldn’t continue dancing if she did. So, thinking I will give her a quick word of caution, I reach out and touch her. And that is the first of many, many mistakes. If I were to choose a point at which everything begins to fall apart, this would be it. Because, as everyone knows, touching a fire only gets you burned.

Esmeralda stops dancing, which is exactly what I want, right? Only she’s giving me a look that makes me shrink back from her. She folds her arms and waits to hear what I have to say. Good, I tell myself. Talk to her. Explain yourself, so she doesn’t think you’re just some pervert who wanted to touch her.

“I… I…” I’m such a fool. “You should just… stop.” Idiot. “People are staring at you.” What people? People like you, Claude? Is that what you mean? You’re staring at her, and you don’t like how that makes you look? Or maybe you don’t like how that makes you feel. That must be it, Claude. You don’t like knowing you’re no better than Phoebus. He’s the lion and you’re the jackal, just waiting for a taste of his kill.

Her response to my intrusion is kinder than my own. “Leave me alone,” she says. But it scorches me far worse than any of the terrible things I said to myself.

IV

I spend the rest of the evening in a pathetic daze. I don’t even notice when Valentine gets called to the floor to be recognized as king. I do see the moment Esmeralda is crowned, though, and I see Phoebus asking her to dance right after. And I see her blush as he does.

My hands curl into fists, and I hide them in my pockets. I have never been one to lose my temper, but I can make no promises tonight. I wish there were some way for me to tear this entire building, this whole event, this vast social structure to the ground; drag Esmeralda from the rubble; and show her the blue sky instead. I would give her wings, raise her up, watch her fly.

Phoebus lifts her in his arms, tosses her just a little, and catches her again. She’s such a tiny thing it’s no feat for him. She keeps laughing as he mutters in her ear, spinning her around like the charismatic hero in some black-and-white romance. I look for Lily Darling, but she’s not here. I wonder how Phoebus convinced her not to attend the dance. Was she sick? Did he make her sick? I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Man, I wish I could dance half that well.” Peter is at my shoulder, smiling as though all is right in the world, and—who am I kidding?—for him, it probably is. The only person with a problem here is me. Even Valentine is smiling, shuffling from the dance floor back to me with a face that practically glows. The students have not been so cruel as I predicted, and Valentine’s ability to laugh at himself has only endeared him to them. Now he’s less of a loner. Now he’s less dependent on me.

I wonder why this bothers me. Maybe because we’re taught from our infancy that it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Looks don’t matter, which is an outright lie. But I can see some truth in the idea now. Valentine could be loved, even though he’s ugly, because his heart is high quality. His heart, as I saw the moment I met him, is made of indestructible stuff. Bury it in slop and you can dig it out later, shine it, and watch it sparkle just as it had before you abused it. Mine, on the other hand, is far more organic than his and far, far older. It’s been rotting for years. Moldy, putrid, disgusting. If anyone ever managed to touch it, it would disintegrate.

And Esmeralda has come dangerously close.

V

I’m considering leaving this next part out, if only to spare myself the everlasting humiliation, to postpone the point in the story where I actually snap. But I can’t. If this is my honest confession, I have to reveal everything. So I will.

The night passes like a dream. It whirls and sparkles and pounds in my head. The downbeat of every song drives my heart like a sick hypnosis. I can feel my hands sweating in my pockets as my foot taps nervously on the floor. My mind is contemplating something it won’t even share with me.

Two of Phoebus’ friends laugh with Esmeralda and tug her toward the exit. “Come with us,” I imagine them saying. “We’ll take you to a
real
party. Phoebus will be there, waiting for you.” Waiting with a cup of poison and a hard-on. Waiting with that idiotic smirk on his stupid face.

I shake Valentine by the shoulder to get his attention and then sign so fast he can barely read me. “Esmeralda. We can’t let her go with them.”

He cocks his head at me.

“I overheard them while we were shopping. They’re planning something with Phoebus.” A half-lie that hurries an angel to someone who needs him is more than forgivable. I’ll come clean later. “They’re going to hurt her, Valentine. I heard them. You have to stop them. I’m not strong enough.” He looks angry now. Good. I give him one more push. This time, I do something I swore I would never do, though I’ve always known I could: I order him. “Valentine. Do not let her get into their car!”

He snaps to attention, like a soldier, like a well-trained dog. And then he’s gone.

I can hardly believe my power over him, though part of me suspected it months ago. I am all he has. And he will do anything for me.

The walls spin, and I cower in the corner. I’m so wrapped up in myself, in what it means to have betrayed my only friend, I don’t notice the emptying of the room until I’m completely alone. It’s still dark. The disco ball is ever-turning. The automatic DJ still plays that atrocious music. I’m left to wonder whether the sirens I hear are real or just part of a song. Please, let them be part of a song. Please. But they aren’t, and I know it. My knees go weak, and I sink to the floor. I don’t want to go outside and confirm my suspicions. I’m close to tears, imagining what I’ve done. Knowing what I may lose for this.

“Claude! Claude!” Peter calls to me. He’s running toward me. I can barely hear him over the sound of my own self-loathing. “They’ve arrested him for assault,” he says, and for a moment, I think maybe he’s talking about Phoebus. “You should have seen it. He took on three guys, sent Robin flying… again.” Nope. It’s Valentine all right. Valentine went off on my errand, and now he’s sitting in the back of a cop car for it.

Even so, all I can think of is… “Esmeralda.”

“What?”

“Is she okay?”

BOOK THREE

Shall I twist the knife a little before I go on? You might like to know a few more things about me, about Valentine and Peter, about some of us who have or are soon to “age out” of the foster care system. Eighteen is the final buzzer in my state. They call it emancipation, like they’re setting us free or something. But really, they’re just letting us go, and depending on the height of the cliff we’re dangling from at the time, it can be exhilarating or downright terrifying. Regardless, once eighteen happens, we have nothing left to do but walk our tightrope lives without a safety net.

It usually makes more sense to drop out of school and focus on survival. But I had a brother, and I knew I had to be there for him, to give him a path to follow. So, even after I turned eighteen and they dropped me off at the homeless shelter with a trash bag full of everything I owned, I stayed in school. I used all my free time to study. When I found out Peter was struggling in his math and science classes, I poured my energy into helping him. When I met Valentine, I used every resource I had to give him a decent life. All these things, if you can believe it, I did for Gene. I thought if my little brother could see what I was capable of accomplishing, he might fight for himself, too, instead of just giving up.

Now I think I probably should have done it all for Valentine.

We discovered each other, Valentine and I, because he used the eaves of my home for shelter one night. My home, which I am fast approaching with my hands shoved so deep in my pockets it’s as if I am willing them to disappear, is a local church. That’s right. I live with the Holy Father, the Blessed Virgin, and her angelic child. And they’re the most dysfunctional family in the world. They don’t even talk to each other, honestly. They never talk to me, that’s for sure, though I sometimes think they talk to Valentine. It’s the way he looks at them, like he’s listening intently to something only he can hear. I’m not trying to make him sound crazy, but he seems to take a comfort in these iconic statues that I can only try to understand. I hate them. I feel like they’re watching me, judging me without even telling me what their judgments are.

It’s all nonsense, I know, and I never used to be a religious person. But living in a church this beautiful does something to you. You suddenly want to believe in its purpose, in the purpose of the people kind enough to let you stay. You want to fight for the sanctity of the only home you have.

It’s night, but I can still see the tagging on the outer walls of my church. Certain groups want to own the place, so they mark it like dogs. It’s close enough to the school to be a target, it has enough vegetation on its grounds to provide privacy for those who don’t want to be seen, and it’s usually pretty quiet. I love it here. Aside from the occasional miscreant, it’s a paradise to me. I mean who could ask for a better house? It has beautiful stained glass windows, priceless artwork on the walls, and all the amenities a person needs to be comfortable. As long as I make myself scarce every Sunday and Wednesday, I can stay. In fact, they want me to stay. I act as a sentinel, calling the police whenever there’s a disturbance on the grounds. I keep the place clean, and they pay me for it. There are good people here, and I owe them—Valentine and I both do.

I pass by the grand entrance, the one for guests and worshipers, and follow the walls around toward the back. There’s a small door for those of us who work behind the scenes. I shiver, turn my key, and enter. It’s cold inside, but it always is and I usually like it that way. The chill keeps me awake while I study. Tonight, though, I wish it were warm. I wish I could wrap myself in the arms of the church and feel safe for once. I wish the Virgin Mary didn’t stare at me with those stony eyes that keep asking for Valentine: “Where is he, Claude? You promised you’d look out for him. Why has he not come home?”

Though the sanctuary is dark, I find my way easily. I’ve only been living here a year or so, but already I feel like this is where I took my first steps, spoke my first words, spent every day of my life.

I stretch myself out on a pew without even bothering to change out of my suit. I want to see the little light in the organ loft flicker to life—the one that means Valentine is going over his music, silently tapping the keys with his fingers, memorizing a piece. I want to know that he’s okay, that his foster parents won’t give him too much grief about having to bail him out.

Ah, who am I kidding? They’re the only people in the world who ever manage to make him cry.

BOOK FOUR

A distant city clock strikes midnight, and each hollow toll fills my memories with dismal music. It is officially Valentine’s Day.

I’m not a fan of holidays, and Valentine’s Day is second only to Christmas in a long list of celebrations that rub salt in my wounds, but not for the reasons you think. I’m not a person who wears all black every fourteenth of February and mopes around because I have no date and no one’s paying attention to my pain. Why would I? Love and I have never gotten along, so I’ve never wanted anything to do with it. I do just fine on my own, thank you.