The Dollhouse Asylum (8 page)

Ana blushes, bits of red scampering across her cheeks. “It did take some quick maneuvering to get away from Sal.”

Sal doesn’t seem to be popular with anyone. Not that I blame Ana. He reminds me of a guy my mom used to date who kept a pair of tweezers in his back pocket to pluck random hairs from his nose and ears.

“‘Pale skin’?” Bee groans, staring at the list. “How about ‘radiant complexion’? Not a zit in sight.”

But Ana’s busy checking the rip in her dress, where a piece of duct tape now clings to the orange fabric on her leg—it doesn’t look like it will last.

Now Bee’s laughing, clutching her side. “
Love
your note for Cleo.”

I snatch the paper from Bee, eager to be in on the joke. Scanning the list, I find Cleo’s name, and next to it is only one word: “implants”.

Oh, yes. It looks like Ana, Bee, and I will get along just fine.

The three of us sit down on the curb at the end of Cleo’s pathway, and hover over Ana’s notes. She’s drawn two columns, the boys on one side, the girls on the other, so that it’s easy to see who is paired. And instead of immediately scanning the girls’ names, I read each of their names with their male partner’s. I know some of them: Sal, Ana, Ramus, Bee. I’m not too sure of some of the others, though, so I scan the list in my hands.

At first I can’t help noticing she’s labeled Marcus as “hot”—he isn’t
that
good-looking—but then my gaze snags on the last pair. I chuckle. “Romeo and Juliet.” I expect them to laugh, too, but they don’t. Their faces are hard, without a trace of a smile.

Ana’s voice is guarded. “We thought it was funny, too, until Teo warned us never to laugh about the names.” She shivers, reaching for a piece of celery in the folds of her skirt.

While I had figured our names are somehow tied to literature, I can see a pattern taking shape.
Lance, Gwen: Lancelot, Guinevere. Marc, Cleo: Marc Antony, Cleopatra
. We aren’t just classics; we’re some of the most famous, romantic stories ever known. I am not entirely sure about a few of the names, like Ramus and Bee, and Abe and Eloise.

I open my mouth to ask Bee and Ana what their real names are as it occurs to me that, if Teo chose these names, their former ones must be forbidden. He, no doubt, wants to start over in this world, obtain perfection by starting again as someone else.

Bee’s frowning at me like she wishes I’d share my thoughts, but I can’t tell them now, so I smile at the girls, desperate to express my thanks. Without them, I would be on my own. Bee’s willingness to help me meet the others, then Ana’s quick thinking in creating this list, has enabled me to accomplish my goal. Teo will be so impressed. And with the pairing, I think I can remember everyone well enough. Part of me wants to grab the girls and swallow them both in a hug.

Bee seems to accept my little offering, because she says, “You’d best be off.” She brushes her freckled fingers against the back of my hand. Keeping her voice low, she adds, “Be careful, lady.”

Bee…
Bee
! Pyramus and Thisbe! I’ve just figured her out. She’s from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. Ramus is Pyramus. I love this story! But there isn’t time; I need to get back to Teo, so I give her a look that says she has absolutely nothing to worry about. “Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I know Teo is nontraditional, but he cares for me in his way.”

Ana leans in, her shawl slipping. “And you, him?”

I shrug, keeping my eyes on the list stretched out in my hands. “I can’t help it. My feelings for Teo—they didn’t happen because I wanted them to. I just do.”

Both girls are silent for a moment before Bee finally speaks up, moving a stray curl behind my ear. “I hate that I sound like my mother, but just because you love someone doesn’t mean you should.”

There’s a soft crunch as Ana works her celery between her teeth. I can’t help thinking she must be wondering how I could care for someone who could treat others the way Teo treated her just now. I hope that, with time, Ana and Teo will come to love each other the way I am coming to love them all. Well, most of them, anyway.

Of course, I didn’t like the idea of Teo and me at first. Those first few weeks my second year at Khabela, when I noticed my irreversible, growing attraction to my teacher, I tried to stop my feelings. I even tried talking the secretary at the front office into switching me to another class, but seniors were supposed to take calculus at my school. I needed it for college, and no other teacher taught calc.

And the longer I stayed in that class, the less I was able to look away. I was sure Teo knew of my obsession; it would have been futile to try to hide it. And none of the other students ever said anything, not that I didn’t wonder why. Were they scared of Teo? Scared of me? Or maybe I really wasn’t that obvious. I guess I will never know. None of my classmates are with us now in Elysian Fields, and who knows how long there will be survivors on the outside?

Reaching for both Ana’s and Bee’s hands, I offer them my most sincere thanks: “Anytime you need anything, just ask. I’ll vouch for you with Teo.” A twinge inside of me says I shouldn’t have to vouch at all, but no one is perfect. That’s just how Teo is.

The girls nod their heads a bit too eagerly, like bobble heads in a moving car. But neither of them has anything to worry about. With Teo, things take time. They will grow to love him soon enough. And Teo will give them the vaccine. I know he will.

With these reassurances, I jump to my feet, so eager to meet my Teo I fail for words. So I shoot the girls my best grin before sprinting off to meet our “Director.” After all, I now know everyone’s names.

And that will make Teo proud.

My dress whips around me like Teo has installed secret fans in Elysian Fields, and when I look up, the sun winks over the horizon, saying goodnight.

I’m so blessed Teo chose me to share this life. The neighborhood is amazing with its immaculate homes, the couples connecting with literature, and our safety from the Living Rot. I could be subhuman, living on other people’s parts. But Teo saved me—all of us—from becoming that. He didn’t just pick us up and dump us out in some random field; he prepared this place. Like the houses. Cleo’s, for instance, is Egyptian-themed because she’s Cleopatra. Bee’s, or Thisbe’s, home has cracks because that’s how the girl talked to the man she loved. Everything,
everything
about this world makes sense.

Stalling on Teo’s porch, I catch my breath. Seven men, seven women. But why would we be the eighth? And what about Jonas? We might spend the evening discussing these names and their stories. I want to understand everything about Teo’s plans.

Lifting my hand up to his massive, wooden door, I knock. Boldly. Three times. A few seconds later, the door opens and Jonas stands aside to let me in. His chilling fingers scoop up my hand, and when he inspects my fingers, he frowns. “Your fingernails—” His clear gray eyes wind their way into mine.

I falter. I guess I sort of banged them up when I was digging up that survey stake. “Sorry about that,” I stammer, glancing around for Teo, but Jonas makes it hard to see around the doorway, so I add, “Guess I wasn’t really thinking.” I hope Jonas won’t always be the one to answer Teo’s door.

Jonas drops my hand, frowning, and says, “You may follow.” I watch the back of his white uniform as he strides away from me down the hall, and I can’t help wondering how Teo knows him at all. Jonas, who seems so uptight, couldn’t be more opposite from him.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt as I shadow Jonas’s steps, and when my heartbeats sprint inside my chest, I try slowing them with deep, even breaths. This is it. I have finally accomplished Teo’s second task. We can be alone—I glance at Jonas and his stiff strides—at least, I hope we can be.

Stopping outside a closed door, Jonas knocks twice on what I guess is the door to Teo’s room. Without waiting for Teo to arrive, Jonas spins away from me like a soldier moving out, and I find myself breathing out a huge sigh of relief.

Teo opens the door, and my knees buckle at the sight. One would think I would be used to facing him like this, but his olive-toned complexion combined with his slender, graceful form makes it hard to breathe—there’s never been anyone more attractive to me in my life.

“Persephone,” Teo says, holding his hands out for me.

I feel like frowning because I wish he would call me by my real name. “Miss Laurent,” at the very least. But Teo is here, urging me in, and I can’t think of a better arrangement where it’s just him and me, so I fall into his arms and breathe in his musky scent.

He slides his gentle fingers down my arms, leaving trails of fire across my goose-bumped skin. Drawing me to his sinewy body, he cups my face, and he looks down at me like we’re going to kiss. My heartbeats hammer, and the room’s spinning around my head. I stare at his mouth and he closes the gap, and just before our lips connect, I let my eyes flutter shut. Tremors of pleasure curl inside my chest—this is our second-ever kiss. I hold myself impeccably still, savoring the sensation of his tender mouth on my own, but it’s hard not to move because electricity crackles where we touch.

Seconds move much too fast, and too soon he drops his hands from my face and pulls away. I have to fight back the urge to grab him around the neck and kiss him again since he’s not even looking at me; he’s looking away. I want to be the lady he sees me to be—to be good and proper and check my behavior, because with Teo we can be so much more. He makes me more.

Slowly, he turns toward me, and I expect him to marvel about his world, but instead I find his black eyes probing inside my own. Not questioning or studying, but like he’s hungering for something. And it takes me a moment, but I know what he’s hungering after—me.

Warmth surges up and down my spine, and I reach out to touch the back of his hand.

That’s all that it takes. Because his eyes are washing over me, and drinking me in, and he’s gripping me by my hips, and slamming my body into his. My hips, my brain—everything’s crackling. His lips are on top of mine, mine are on top of his, and we’re dissolving into each other—nothing like a gentleman’s kiss. My body crushes into his lean, toned chest, and his hands grip my hips tighter as our legs press into each other, hard. My veins implode, snip; we’re two people, but not, and I can’t press into him hard enough.

When he weaves his fingers through my hair and trails them down my neck, my pulse pounds, so I grip the suit jacket on his back, yank it, and to my surprise, he rips it off and we’re white on white—my white dress bleeding into his white shirt. The thin fabric between us simultaneously feels like nothing and too much. I want to keep ripping layers off, but my hands are too busy searching the lines of his shoulders, the small of his back. His hands are soaring up and down the length of my shoulders, my waist, my ribs. And when he forces me against the wall and presses his lips to my neck, my head falls back, my mouth opens, and I let out a moan.

Did I really just moan?

Teo nuzzles his face into my neck as blood rushes over my cheeks. I can’t believe I messed up like that, but Teo’s chuckling darkly, like he’s never been happier. “You liked that?” he says.

He’s never said anything so simple to me before, so I guess my slip-up is okay. I look up at him and find the ebony of his eyes lighting into my own. My lips travel down the stubble on his jaw and neck, and to my delight, Teo groans. It looks like he doesn’t mind a little auditory feedback, after all. I guess it’s kind of fun. Searching for another sound from him, I kiss his nose, his eyes, his lips, and soon he’s crooning, “
Oh
, if you knew of the time I’ve wasted dreaming of this.”

Wasted
. Like he’d much prefer doing something else.

A bit of wall trim is suddenly digging into my back, and when I cast my eyes about his room, I find that it’s empty—white walls, except for a full-sized bed pushed to one side and floor to ceiling bookcases jam-packed with books. Does he really feel that the time he spends thinking of me is a waste? But that can’t be how he feels, because no one could fake a kiss like that. So maybe he meant that he’s spent a lot of time thinking about me. Which is actually a compliment. I shouldn’t get caught up in overanalyzing everything.

Teo holds the side of my face, and it becomes much easier to forget his earlier words. I close my eyes, savor his calm, soothing touch, and open them again to read the compassion I know he hides from the world. His bare shadow of hair mirrors his black, euphoric eyes, and I love how every time I look at him he looks different, but yet the same.

Cupping my face in his long, slender hands, Teo studies my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. And I study him back.

“Are you happy here?” Teo asks, his eyes pulsing into mine.

How could I not be? We’ve hit a few bumpy spots, like when he rebuked me in front of everybody else, but we’re together at last. “Of course,” I say.

Teo’s face is somber. “But why?”

And the answer is simple. “Because you are here.”

Teo smoothes his thumbs down the sides of my cheeks. “And that is enough for you?”

I swallow, and then I’m wondering about that swallow. Am I nervous? I suppose everything about Teo makes me shake. But that is love, isn’t it? When our hearts scream out in response to someone else. My heart doesn’t just
thump, thump
in my chest, but everywhere—the thumping pounds as an explosive force in my head, my feet, my shins. And through all this, I’ve somehow abandoned Teo’s question. Is his being here enough to make me happy? Of course it is.

To prove my answer, I place my mouth over his, choosing instead to show him how I feel. I move away from the wall, and he meets me halfway, then more than halfway, because he’s pressing me against the wall again and I’m welcoming the bit of trim jabbing into my back. He’s kissing me again as warm goose bumps erupt across my flesh.