Chemistry (8 page)

He’s giving a performance. Even I can see that. But Esmeralda falters. “Oh… I do love you. I do! Please, believe me. I’m just… shy.”

I want to scream at her from my hiding place. He’s lying! He’s lying! He’s lying! Don’t give in to him! Don’t let him manipulate you! But she does.

She drops both her shirt and her knife and throws herself into his arms. “I’m yours, Phoebus, number fourteen. I’ll do anything for you, I swear. I’ll live with you, and I’ll forget my mother. Who needs a mother, anyway? Not me. Not as long as I have you. I’ll love you forever. I’ll stay with you until we’re old. I’ll forgive all your stupid affairs. And I’ll take care of you. I’ll do anything for you.”

Dear God, she’s making herself into his doormat.

He’s won, and he knows it. He pulls her into his arms and kisses her. He unhooks her bra like an old pro and drops it to the floor alongside her shirt and knife. He carries her to his parents’ bed and climbs over her with the look of a lion about to devour its favorite meal.

I can’t take any more. I can’t hear anything over the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in time with the music downstairs. The room rocks and blurs. I don’t even realize I’ve left the closet until I stoop down to pick up Esmeralda’s little knife…

I wonder whether you have ever experienced anything like this. I watch myself cross the room and stand over Phoebus like some demonic shadow, but I swear I haven’t moved. I swear I’m still standing in the center of the room holding Esmeralda’s knife. I swear. But my shadow sees too much. Phoebus, in his drunken clumsiness, struggles to slide Esmeralda’s jeans past her knees. And that’s when I notice she’s passed out. And he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care. I’m not standing in the middle of the room any more. I have become my own shadow. All the hatred I ever had for Phoebus flows through my right arm and into Esmeralda’s knife.

And I stab him.

I admit that. Were you anyone else, I might tell you how I slip here, how I stumble and lose track of the knife. But you are you, and I don’t slip. It’s no accident. I stab Phoebus in the back, and I push him until he slides sideways off the bed. His head hits the nightstand with a sickening crack.

I crawl toward Esmeralda, who is still unconscious on the bed. I’m horrified. I straddle her and shake her shoulders. “Esmeralda. Esmeralda, wake up.” I bend over her and listen at her chest. Her heart beats too slowly. Oh God, she’s so soft. “Please, just tell me you’re okay. Esmeralda.”

She opens her eyes, and I can see the warmth of them despite the darkness. She moans and calls for Phoebus, but I don’t mind. She’s awake, and it’s my neck she’s wrapping her arms around. When she laughs, I smell liquor on her breath. Thank God, she’s only drunk. I wouldn’t have imagined it of her, but never mind. Right now, she’s pulling herself close to me, laughing. Right now, she wants me to touch her. She wants me to kiss her. She wants to be loved. And I love her.

I can’t tell whether she kisses me, or maybe I’m the one who first presses my lips to hers. She feels like fire. And the liquor on her breath must be intoxicating me, too, because I don’t stop kissing her. I almost believe she’s thanking me, even though she thinks I’m Phoebus. Deep down, she must know that I saved her from an invasion much worse than this kiss, that I am not her attacker. Deep down, I’ve got to convince myself this is true.

I let her go, and I take my hand from her breast. I lay her down, and she laughs and wriggles into the pillows before falling asleep again. I pull her jeans back over her hips and button them for her. I drape her shirt over her and sit down beside her. She moans in her sleep and mutters something I cannot understand.

“Esmeralda,” I say. She can’t hear me, but I don’t care. I’ve never needed to confess anything so much in my life. “You don’t know me, but I love you.” I trace her lips with my thumb. I need to kiss her again, but I won’t. I’m better than that. I know I am. I lean close to her and whisper in her ear, hoping my words find their way into her dreams. “You’ve changed me, somehow. I’ll never be the way I was, and I can’t forgive you for that. But I promise I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe. Always.”

III

At first, I walk away from the party unaware of the monster I’ve become. I have left a human being bleeding on the floor of his parents’ bedroom, without calling 911, without saying a word to anyone, but I feel high, euphoric. My adrenaline is spinning me so far beyond reality I don’t even notice I’ve come home until I hear Valentine playing the organ.

That’s when I run to the bathroom and throw up.

My hands are shaking. My whole body feels like pudding. I can barely stand. I lie down on the cold tile floor in one of the bathroom stalls. I don’t even care whether it’s clean or not. I just need to feel the solid ground beneath me. I need to trust in something because I can’t even trust myself any more. Events have been set in motion, and I know I’m powerless to stop them. I make no choices. This is the path the universe will take. This is my fate. I’ve already eaten the forbidden fruit. I’ve already tasted blood. I’ve already flushed my soul down the toilet. I have given everything for one girl. And she doesn’t even know who I am.

BOOK EIGHT

The hand on my forehead is rough but gentle. It’s Valentine’s hand. I know this without even opening my eyes. I feel like something ripped me to pieces, and then a kid came along with some Elmer’s and stuck everything back together again. Even my eyelids and mouth are glued shut.

The last thing I remember is pressing my cheek against the cool bathroom floor to stop the dizziness. Now I’m shivering in a cold sweat.

Valentine turns my head to the side and puts an electric thermometer in my ear. I can’t stop shaking. I feel the wet cloth he uses to mop the sweat from my face. I hear the thermometer chirp, and Valentine pulls it from my ear. “One-oh-four,” he says. His monotone voice is music to me. And I know that he is speaking aloud, though it’s not his preference, in order to keep me from having to read his signs. “You stay here.” And he’s gone.

I stare at the ceiling from my mattress on the floor. Valentine must have carried me here from the bathroom. I can’t imagine how he reacted when he found me there. I’m supposed to be the one caring for him.

If only he knew… He wouldn’t be doing this if he knew.

He returns with a bottle of medicine, shakes it, measures it, and makes me drink it down. It’s the kind of sweet that burns, and I can’t help but be reminded of Lily Darling’s mascara-stained face. Which reminds me of Phoebus. Which makes me want to throw up again.

What if he’s dead? Oh God, what if he’s dead?

I can’t let Valentine see my panic. If he ever found out what I’d done, I don’t think I’d want to go on living. Valentine is all I have. I don’t even have Gene any more. I don’t even have myself.

“Sleep,” Valentine says. He speaks as little as possible, but I know what he’s really trying to say. He’s seen how awful I look, and he’s begging me to let go of whatever is troubling me, just until I’m healthy enough to deal with it. He’s like somebody’s mother, honestly. But the truth is I half believe this fever was brought on by my own nearness to hell. This situation. This fate. I’ve already been condemned. Maybe because I never really believed in God. Maybe because I only wanted to, and so I pretended I did.

I shake my head to rattle my own thoughts into obedience. I can’t dwell on this now. Valentine will see.

“The medicine will make you sleep.” He stares down at me with his one good eye, and I know it’s useless trying to hide anything from him. He can tell something else is wrong, but he won’t pry. He’ll keep acting like things are normal. He’ll practice his scales and pretend not to notice my terrible descent. He’ll do whatever he thinks I want him to do. That’s what Valentine always does. Only this time, I wish he wouldn’t.

I don’t want to fight the drugs, so I stare up at the ceiling again and wait for them to work. The last thing I crave right now is consciousness. Who knows what I’ll face tomorrow? I don’t want to think of it.

II

I’ve decided to fight one obsession with another. There’s got to be some task I can pour myself into, some ridiculous, impossible brand of alchemy I can take on. If I try to weave a web big enough to capture the sun, maybe I’ll forget what I’ve already netted. I can spare Esmeralda by distracting myself. I can save her with chemistry.

But my calculations are all wrong. My measurements are careless. Every time I open a book, I have to squint to see the words in it. A brilliant star dances on every page, and I know it’s not just my fever causing the hallucination. I can’t focus on anything. All I can think about is her kiss, how much it seemed to burn. Her hands around my neck, her tongue in my mouth.

I close my book and start cleaning up the lab. It was useless coming here. I’ve already lost. I slip the book back onto its shelf and sink to the floor. Where is my cynicism, my distance, my strength? Where is the cool loathing that kept me sane all these years? Where is my armor and shield? She must have stolen them.

I wrap my arms around my shoulders to stop my own trembling. I touch my forehead to the floor like I’m praying to a god, but it isn’t any god on my mind. If there is a devil, if he truly watches us and influences us, then he’s already taken me completely. All I can do is beg him to give me some relief. Give me Esmeralda. Just for one night, let her love me.

The drumbeat of Phoebus’ party still throbs in my ears as though I never left. It’s so loud I can’t hear anything else. The light from that full moon still glows through my eyelids, red like slow-burning coals. I can’t shut it out. So it doesn’t surprise me at all when I catch the sound of Peter’s voice and realize he’s been talking to me all this time, though I haven’t heard or even seen him. It’s all a jumble, whatever he’s saying, but I catch the word
Esmeralda
and I’m snapped out of my hellish daze.

I lift my head and blink. “What?”

“Claude, are you okay?”

I’ve been wallowing on the floor, so of course he would ask. “Just had a weird stomach cramp,” I say. “It’s better now. What were you saying?”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t believe me, but whatever he’s about to say takes precedence, so he gives me the benefit of the doubt. “Esmeralda is missing.”

Those three words are a flood; they wash me away. I never saw them coming, and I don’t know how to deal with them now that they’re here. “Don’t joke around, Peter.”

“I’m not joking. She and Djali have been gone three nights in a row.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Yes!” He’s overwrought. “She always comes home by midnight every night. I live with her, so I know. She wouldn’t just stay away like this. Djali needs routine or she starts to shed.”

I have no idea how to respond to this. In the first place, I’m horrified that Esmeralda is missing. In the second, I’m beginning to suspect Peter’s primary concern is for the goat. “Have you reported her missing?” I say.

“How can I?” He throws up his hands, dramatic as always. “Who am I to her?”

“Well, who’s taking care of her? Why haven’t they reported it?”

“I don’t think anyone takes care of her. She’s always been by herself. The truth is I kind of suspect she’s in the country illegally, but I don’t know. It’s never been a problem until now. Damn that Phoebus. I swear this is all his fault.”

I cock my head. “Phoebus?”

He leans in. “You know he was stabbed at that party.”

“Was he?” I hope my feigned ignorance is convincing.

“Jesus, Claude, where have you been?” Peter reaches down and helps me to my feet. “Everyone’s talking about it. He was stabbed in the back with Esmeralda’s knife. The whole school thinks she did it, and the fact that no one has seen her since only confirms their suspicions. But I’m telling you it wasn’t her. She’s not like that. She just isn’t. Someone’s done something to her, Claude. I heard some of the guys on the soccer team swearing revenge. They say Phoebus is paralyzed for life; he got hit in the spinal cord, and he’ll never play again. They say she’s not going to get away with it. I think they took her, but I have no idea what to do. I mean I haven’t got any evidence, have I?”

I can’t breathe any more. You know how in really campy films, one of the characters will realize he’s destroyed something precious, fall to his knees, and scream, “What have I done?” while pounding a fist into the ground? Yeah, I always laugh at that scene, too. But just now, I think I could do with a good, long, what-have-I-done moment. It would be far better than what I’m really feeling. It’s like my heart has stopped and every limb has fallen asleep. I’m afraid if I try to take a step, I might fall down. If I try to speak, I might scream. And if I blink, the tears gathering in the corners of my eyes will fall. Once the dam breaks…

“We have to do something.” I flinch when my voice cracks.

“I know,” Peter says. “But what? We don’t even know where they’ve taken her.”

III

It’s a long shot, but I’m desperate. If this doesn’t work, I’ll just start walking and I won’t stop until I find her. It’s either that or go mad. Those are my options.

I stand poised to knock at the front door of my brother’s foster home, but I hesitate. This place is so perfect, so close to the home I once dreamed would be mine. I’m grateful my brother found a family that loves him as though he were one of their own. They’re genuinely kind people, and they always welcome me when I visit. But right now, I would give anything to be standing on a different doorstep. I feel like an outsider, a stranger, unworthy to cross the threshold. I take a deep breath and knock.

The woman who answers is so tired I almost don’t recognize her. This is what comes of looking after my brother. “Oh, Claude.” She sounds as relieved as a fighter who is finally able to tag out. “Thank God you’re here. I’m just… I don’t know what to do.” She invites me in, under the apparent impression that I have a clue what she’s talking about. “Eugene is upstairs. He won’t talk to me. Maybe he’ll talk to you.”

She doesn’t lead me upstairs or call to Gene like she usually does. She just retreats to the kitchen and sinks down over a cup of tea. I watch her stare into that teacup as though it holds all the answers in the universe, and then I head upstairs on my own.