Another Faust (10 page)

The Marlowe School was a tightly packed, gothic-style masterpiece of architecture, each building more opulent than the next. Behind the main building, past a short tree-lined walk, was an auditorium as lush and spacious as Lincoln Center. Each year, the vaulted ceilings of the theater would dazzle with holiday lights, as the various plays, musicals, and concerts of the Christmas season were performed. The wealthy parents, politicians, and power couples of New York would appear in full regalia, entering the hall with as many paparazzi as at the Oscars. Inside, the intermission hall looked like a masque royale. The mayor’s wife attended, dressed like a parade float. The mayor spent the intermission swooning over Madame Vileroy. The mayor’s girlfriend ran out abruptly when she looked into Vileroy’s branded eye.

Whenever they got the chance, the Faust children peeked into the various corners of the school, venturing outside the theater and onto the grounds. They had seen it before. They had spent weeks observing their future school, studying their future friends and rivals. Still, it felt newer, more exciting, tonight than it ever had before. Christian ran over to the athletics building and peered in at the pool through the windows. Bicé snuck off to the library and came back with heavy-lidded eyes.

Valentin spent most of the intermission looking at the plush carpets, glittering chandeliers, and decadent artwork that hung on the walls. This couldn’t be a school. Peering closely at the audience, now mingling in the lobby, he could pick out the faces he had seen at the Wirths’ party — smug faces, sitting atop tuxedos and ball gowns, wrapped in shawls and covered in jewels, as if they thought that their children were indeed opening on Broadway.

What tools,
he thought, and looked over at the governess with a sneer that said,
Wanna have a little fun?
She just nodded as they approached a nearby group. Valentin’s heart skipped. At times like this, when Vileroy was feeling generous with her attention, he could have all the fun in the world. He could spend what seemed like hours playing and replaying scenes, conversations. He could have her to himself for hours and hours without losing a second. She could teach him what to do and say, how to trap people and when to let them go.

She was the only one who could accompany him on his trips back and forth. Sometimes the two of them relived a scene fifty times. Sometimes just once. But she was always there. Always willing. Because how else would he learn? How else would he grow into a manipulator of great men, if not for these harmless games, these insignificant party tricks? Everyone has to start somewhere. Every great person needs a great teacher willing to tinker with the small stuff. Thanks to these journeys through time, Valentin might grow up to be a world-famous writer, a powerful politician, a modern-day Caesar. But for now, he needed to get rid of that pesky tic.

Valentin stood in the background, listening, waiting for the right moment to enter each conversation. Next to him stood the governess, undetected by anyone else, whispering things in his ear.

“Do it now,” she would say each time one of the Ivy-League dads made a witty comment. Then Valentin would rewind and snatch the comment right from under his nose.

“Go on,” she would goad as he said and resaid each line until it was perfect.

He was nervous, which was a change for Valentin, who was usually so confident you’d think he could walk over hot coals without a sweat. Vileroy never responded to his doubtful comments.

“You know,” Valentin said with a sigh, “a lot of famous writers weren’t that witty in public.” She raised an eyebrow, so he added with a smirk, “
You
could just tell me what to say.”

“Yes, I could,” said the ravishing governess with a playful wink that made Valentin catch his breath, “but this is
such
fun, isn’t it?”

And it was. In what seemed like fifteen minutes to the other partygoers, Valentin escorted the unsuspecting Charlotte Hill from mildly interested to desperately in love. Even though everyone wanted to talk to the girl who had written this play, she remained arm in arm with Valentin from the moment he looked into her eyes, with just the right expression of awe and melancholy, and told her that her play was “majestic.” Madame Vileroy stood behind them, watching.

Across the room, Belle had been trying to gather enough courage to approach Thomas Goodman-Brown, whom she had been seducing from a distance for twenty minutes now.

Belle turned and tilted her head toward him, and he smiled again. She looked away, her mouth going dry.
No,
she thought,
I don’t think I can do this.
Thomas said something to his friend. A few minutes later, the two boys were approaching Belle.

“Hi. I’m Thomas,” he said, extending his hand to Belle. “And this is Connor Wirth. Did you just move here?”

“Who’s that?” said Connor. He was craning his neck and looking past Belle, at Bicé, who was loitering near a plant and mumbling to herself. Belle made a face. Bicé looked skittish, as if she had done something wrong. She slowly walked over to her sister.

“I’m Bicé,” she said in a very soft voice.

Thomas took her hand graciously and smiled. “Are you two together?”

“We’re sisters,” said Bicé.

“You look nothing alike,” said Connor.

“Then I guess you won’t believe that we’re twins,” said Bicé, thinking back to a time when Belle had looked exactly like her.

“No way,” said Connor, thinking she was joking.

“And what’s your name?” Thomas turned back to the hot girl he had been eyeing all night.

“Belle,” she said, her stomach turning, knowing what was coming next.

For a painful moment, Thomas looked revolted. The air around them seemed to have grown heavy and putrid.

“What’s that smell?” Connor said before he could help it.

“What smell?” Thomas said politely, though he himself had gone white and was taking a step away from Belle. It was like lilacs and sulfur, he thought.

“It’s like something nasty covered with cheap perfume,” said Connor, oblivious that it might have been the beautiful girl in front of him.

“Oh, is your mom around?” Thomas joked.

Belle bit her lip.

“Shut up, Tom,” said Connor, punching him on the arm.

“I saw you at Connor’s party. Did you just move here?” Thomas spoke with slightly less enthusiasm, a change that made Belle’s stomach tie itself into a million little knots.

“We arrived last week,” said Belle, adding hopefully, “We’re going to Marlowe.” Despite her own instincts, she kept her answers short and stood a few paces back, afraid of driving him away. It was as if there were a line between them that she couldn’t cross — not yet.

“Oh, that’s right,” said Connor. “Your mom told my mom about you guys.”

“You mean Madame Vileroy?” Belle said vaguely.

“She’s not your mother?” said Connor.

“She’s our governess,” Belle responded, working hard to seem sexy and confident.

“Oh,” said Thomas, pretending to rub his eye, but really shielding his nose.
What a weird girl.
He didn’t know what to say. Part of him was disgusted by Belle — not just the smell but by her words too. She was socially repulsive, slowly tainting the air around her. And her sister did nothing to redeem her. Bicé seemed like a pariah, backing away when he looked at her, inching closer to the corner space between the plant and the wall.
Why is she so afraid? She looks normal. Cute, well dressed, nice eyes.
Another part of him, though, the part that saw how beautiful Belle was, felt intrigued and wanted to stay. Then Thomas spotted his friend Lucy Spencer practically running toward him.

“Hey, Luce. What’s up?”

Lucy, who had been grounded by her mother for a full week for her supposed taste in unsuitable boys (“Waiters are the
help,
dear. It’s like falling in love with a blender!” her mother had screamed), was more than happy to promise Mrs. Spencer that tonight she would talk to no boy other than “that adorable young Goodman-Brown.” “Thomas, I’ve been looking all over for you,” she said in her most dramatic voice. Then she spotted Belle and hooked her arm with Thomas’s, while he introduced her. Lucy cast Bicé a cursory smile, and Bicé looked down, ashamed and disappointed.

“What’s that
smell
?” said Lucy.

“Connor, tell them about the sports teams,” said Thomas, changing the subject. The air felt thick. It felt like the time last summer when he’d drunk too much with Lucy and sampled some random pills at a party. It felt cloudy and warm.
But still really gross.
Belle saw the intoxicated look on his face and moved closer. He backed away.
Too soon,
she thought. Connor, who loved to talk about sports and had spent way too much time in locker rooms to care about unpleasant smells, jumped right in.

“Well, let’s see. We have pretty much everything at Marlowe. Are you two into sports? The girls’ field hockey team is short this year. Wait. What about your brothers?”

“Christian plays a bunch of sports,” said Bicé. “Tennis, swimming, golf —”

Connor didn’t let her finish. “Thomas and I play golf on the varsity team! Marlowe’s the best. Does he have a handicap?”

“He’s competitive and moody sometimes,” said Bicé almost to herself, “but I wouldn’t call either of those —”

“He meant a handicap in golf,” said Lucy. “Where did you say you’re from? Turkmenistan?”

“They have golf in Turkmenistan,” said Bicé casually.

“How do you know?”

“I went . . . once,” said Bicé.

Bicé was pretty sure she had been there. She remembered traveling to so many places with Madame Vileroy. Maybe she had gone there when she was eight or nine. She wasn’t sure. It must have been around that time, because Belle looked just like her then. Bicé grouped her whole life into two periods: before Belle changed and after — when Bicé had a best friend and when that friend was gone. Within those two chunks of time, she didn’t keep track of days or months. It didn’t matter. Bicé cleared her throat and kept looking at the floor.

“Whatever,” said Lucy.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” asked Connor, trying to lighten the mood.

“Gregorian,” said Bicé lazily.

“Right.” Connor scratched his head. “I think I heard them play at the Elbow Room last week.”

A few minutes later, Thomas excused himself, casting only a sideways glance at Belle, who did her best to hide her disappointment. Lucy grabbed his hand. “I’ll go with you,” she said in a most girlfriendly tone. She looked triumphantly at Belle and said, “But let’s go somewhere more private. Something here smells rotten.” Belle seethed, hating Lucy and wanting to pull Thomas away from her.

As the pair walked away, Bicé immediately relaxed. “Well, sis, I think it’s safe to say that she won’t be inviting us to sit with her at lunch,” she said, popping a miniquiche from a passing tray into her mouth. Belle stood apart from the group. Everyone else had moved away from her. But everyone outside a certain distance was staring at her with jealousy. She pulled herself to her full height and caught a glance of herself in a window. She
was
beautiful, she reassured herself. But Thomas obviously hadn’t thought so. He’d jumped at the chance to take off.
Sometimes it takes more than one try,
she thought.
Next time.