Chemistry (13 page)

She appears to consider the possibilities with mounting dread.

I decide to seize the opportunity, ride the wave of horrified silence. “It’s called rape, Esmeralda.”

“Don’t you say my name!” she shouts and takes a step toward me. She’s angry; I can see that. But I can also see shock and disbelief in her. The person she loves is not who she thinks he is. That can’t be easy to accept, and she is reeling from the mere idea of it. “I consented,” she says, at last.

“You were barely conscious.”

“I led him on. I gave him the wrong idea.” She’s desperate. She’s scrambling to keep her peace of mind.

I’ve heard of this phenomenon. People blame the victim, even when the victim is themselves, because if the victim is at fault, a mistake has been made that can be avoided in the future. They can’t stand the idea that bad things happen and no matter how many precautions you take, sometimes, tragedy can’t be prevented. It’s the same reason conspiracy theories are so popular now that superstition has fallen out of fashion. But no matter how you try to reason it away, chaos reigns supreme in the end.

I understand Esmeralda’s need for this defense, but I can’t let her use it. “I was there, you know. I saw the whole thing. He thought he had you in the bag. When you passed out, he refused to give up his prize. It’s as simple as that. He’s a creep, can’t you see? He doesn’t deserve you.”

Just when I’m sure I’ve finally gotten through to her, just when everything seems to be repairing itself, she says, “He’s a creep?” and laughs that cruel laugh that rings like a thousand clashing cymbals in my ears. “Do you have any idea the kind of nightmares I have because of you? The way you stare at me, follow me. The way you convince your friends to assault me.”

“I was only trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t ask you to protect me.”

“I wasn’t doing it for you.” These unexpected words shock us both into silence. I have no idea where they’ve come from, but as soon as they leave my mouth, I know they’re more than true. My whole life, I’ve given all my resources to the people I loved and kept nothing for myself. But now there’s something I want, something I need, and I can’t stand the fact that it isn’t mine to take. So how am I any different than Phoebus? “Jesus.” I cup my forehead in one hand and groan. “I don’t even know who I am any more. I never used to be like this.”

Esmeralda seems to soften at that. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll hear you out. But as long as you’re keeping me here, will you at least let me get dressed?”

I nod, and she cautiously moves to pick up a neat bundle of clothes I hadn’t noticed before. They’re white, I see. She retreats into the shower stall and closes the curtain.

“You’ll stay where you are?” she says.

“I promise.”

I hear her scoff at my promise, but she must believe me because she hangs her towel over the curtain rod. I decide to talk to her. That way she can hear where I am, and maybe I can keep my mind from following her into that stall.

“I assume you’re here because you have nowhere else to go,” I say. “For whatever reason, you can’t go to the police.” Secretly, I have begun to believe Peter’s insinuation that she might be an illegal alien. “You need a place to hide, and Valentine invited you to stay here. But this church is my home, so it looks like you and I will be sharing a roof for a while.”

“Unfortunately,” she says.

Although most people would be insulted by her retort, I’m relieved. It proves that her fear is dwindling. Maybe we can have a normal relationship, after all. Start over. Move on. But then I remember how twisted our history is, how twisted our destiny. And I am ashamed.

“Does he know?” I ask, almost fearing her answer. “Does Valentine know what’s happened between us?” The sound of material sliding over her skin makes my knees go weak, and I lean back against the door. “Did you tell him what I did?”

“I haven’t said a word to him about you.”

Mercy.

She steps out of the shower stall, wearing what I now recognize as a white choir robe. So this is why I thought she was a ghost last night. “Is that all you have to wear?”

“I haven’t had time to go shopping,” she says. Sarcasm does not become her. White, on the other hand, does. She’s like an angel. Valentine must have given her this to wear when he found she had nothing else. He
is
a better person than me.

I want to tell Esmeralda she looks beautiful, but I know it would only creep her out. And who could blame her, really? I decide to come to the point instead. “Just so you know, you’ve stolen everything from me.” I fold my arms over my chest to keep my heart from escaping. “Whether you meant to or not. You crushed my identity, destroyed my concentration. You took Peter, my only friend. And now my brother’s an addict, thanks to your friends in the Court of Miracles.”

“That’s not fair,” she says.

She’s right, but I can’t stop now. “Valentine is all I have left. He’s my family, my sanctuary. If you take him away from me, you might as well kill me.”

“So?”

“So I’m offering a truce.”

She folds her arms, mirroring me, waiting on me.

I take a deep breath. “I’ll leave you your sanctuary if you leave me mine.”

She cocks her head, and I can see where her wet hair has soaked that choir robe, which is most likely ruined now. I try not to think about how I’ll probably keep it. “You mean you’ll let me hide in the church for a while if I don’t tell Valentine you’re a murderer.”

“I’m not a murderer, but yes.”

She pauses to consider it, though I can already tell what her answer will be. “It’s a deal,” she says.

And in a moment of sheer brain meltdown, I offer her my hand. She doesn’t take it. I don’t know why I expected her to. She just stares down and says, “Your hand is dirty.”

She’s right. My hands are still covered in mud, and it reminds me how I must look to her. I spent the night wallowing in filth, riding the bus, sweating and crying. I don’t even need to see myself in the small mirror hanging over the sink to know I probably look about as bad as I feel right now. Still I won’t take back my hand. I wont admit this mistake. I won’t be ashamed that I mourned her. Why should I be?

She reaches out two fingers and pinches the tips of mine in a pathetic compromise of a handshake. This is how she shows me what she thinks of me. I am dirty, wrong for her, a creep and a loser.

I grit my teeth and pull away. Then I grab her hand and hold it fast, before she can pull away from me. This is how I will show her what I think of her. She is mine. She has to be mine. It’s the only reality I will accept.

“Let go of me,” she murmurs, so low I almost think she’s afraid someone will hear.

I release her hand, but I know that’s not what she really meant. She wants me to let go of her for real. I won’t.

“Is that all?” she says, rubbing the filth from her hand.

“Yes… But no.” This may be a huge mistake. I just can’t bear the idea that she’ll go on thinking I’m a murderer. I’ve got to make one attempt to correct it. Even if it’s desperate. Even if it’s impossible. Even if it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. “Phoebus is alive.”

She barely tries to mask her joy. She glows with it.

I barely try to mask my disgust. “I thought you might like to know.”

“You wouldn’t lie about that, would you?”

I shake my head, already regretting my decision to tell her. “He’s barely even injured.” Were I anyone else, I swear this news would earn me a joyous hug and kiss. I’d be that friend who does anything for physical contact, the dependable one who allows himself to get strung along because of some seriously misguided hope. But I’m not that friend. I’m not any kind of a friend. And just to remind myself, I add, “I should have stabbed him deeper.”

The radiant smile disappears from her face, and the scowl that replaces it makes my skin crawl. “Can I go,” she says, “or are you planning to make me wait here while you shower?”

“I’ve said all I need to say to you,” I lie. There are a million more things I need to say to her. A million confessions and supplications.
I love you. I love you. I love you
. “You can go.”

She pushes past me, and then she’s gone. But alone in that room, I still feel like I’m drowning in her, and I never want it to stop.

V

I have been given a fresh start. I’m convinced of this. Some demon visited me, dragged me to hell with him, and then brought me back. Yesterday, Phoebus was dead by my hand, Esmeralda was killed for my crime, and I had lost my mind. Today, Phoebus is going about his usual unsavory business, and Esmeralda is living under my roof. I know she hates me, but that’s nothing new. If I make the right choices, she may get to know me while she’s living here. She may come to like me, maybe even love me. There’s still a chance if I can get this right.

Halfway to the kitchen I realize how hungry I am. I can’t remember the last time I ate. I don’t even know what day it is. I’ve probably been truant, but I don’t care. I’m going to re-evaluate my priorities, starting today.

Then the sound of the organ floods my world, deep and powerful and far from hollow. This is not Valentine’s usual practice. I drop the bread and butter knife and head for the sanctuary. My stomach can wait. I’ve got to see what’s creating this music in him, this overwhelmingly beautiful sound. Even though I already know. Even though it couldn’t possibly be anything else.

I can almost see Esmeralda’s laughter floating down from the organ loft like volcano ash after Valentine’s eruption of music. He’s playing a fugue, which can only mean one thing: Valentine is showing off. He’s trying to impress his guest. He’s putting everything he has into this performance for an audience of one.

It’s dark, but I know my way through the sanctuary well enough. The pews are the same cold benches I’ve used as my living-room furniture for over a year, but they’re different somehow. I lie back on one and stare up at the domed ceiling. It’s magnificent. When I first moved here, I imagined it was a planetarium filled with stars. I could almost see them glittering in the darkness. Now all I see are the shadows of Valentine and Esmeralda projected on the dome. The light he uses to read his music sends their images to me, like shadow puppets, telling me a story I was never meant to hear.

Valentine’s song comes to an immaculate end. I hear him sigh after the ringing of the last note finally dies. “You don’t have to watch me if it makes you uncomfortable,” he says to her. Aloud. He never talks to anyone. He’s never been able to get past his own accent. But now he’s speaking to Esmeralda like she’s an old friend, someone who knows him as well as I do. Or better. He chuckles. “My face takes a little while to get used to, I know.”

Like a bonfire, she’s warming him. I can almost hear the crackling sound of her, the snap of the pine, the sizzle of fire and water. I curl into a ball on the pew and imagine my hands and feet turning to ash.

“But I want to watch you play,” Esmeralda says.

So he’s told her he’s a lip-reader. He’s abandoned the ploy he usually uses to avoid talking to people.

“You’re amazing.” She’s breathless. She means what she says. “Your music is beautiful.”

“I play for Mass sometimes,” he says. “I like that no one can see me in the loft, but they still hear the music. Sometimes I feel…” He pauses, and I know he’s worried about opening up too much. He doesn’t connect well to people. They don’t understand him. The risks he’s taking with this girl, this stinging creature, are unprecedented for him. “Sometimes I feel like my body’s a mask I’m forced to wear, and the only way I can introduce my real self is through music.”

I would put money down that he’s blushing right now.

“That sounds stupid,” he says. “Sorry.”

“No.” Her voice is pleasant and sweet. “It’s not stupid. It’s so far from stupid. I think you’re brilliant. I think the church is lucky to have someone like you working here. And I’m lucky, too.” Silence, and then, “Why did you help me, Valentine?”

His shadow shifts. She sits beside him on the bench, way too close for his comfort. “I’m afraid to tell you,” he says. “I don’t want to remind you. But I was in trouble because of what happened after the dance. My foster parents were so angry. I was actually afraid of them. And then you came, even though I didn’t deserve it. Anyone who would do something like that for me, especially after I scared them so bad, is not someone I could abandon. Ever.”

Oh, Valentine. You were always loyal to a fault.

“Is that why you’ve been sneaking into my room to watch me sleep?” she says, and I have to fight myself to keep from leaping to my feet.

The silence between them is palpable, and I feel squeamish for Valentine. He has betrayed her, like I did, and now she won’t trust him. He’s a stalker, a looming shadow, like me.

His shoulders hunch more than usual. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I thought it would be harmless, just watching you. I know I make you uncomfortable, so I stayed away when you were awake. But I wanted to see you a little bit, at least.” He pauses and turns away from her. “I just think you’re beautiful.”

I sit up and grip the back of the pew in front of me far too tightly. Esmeralda does not recoil or tell him to leave her alone. No, she slowly wraps her arms around his huge shoulders and lays her head against his back. I want to scream. I can see that Valentine is too frightened to move a muscle. How does it feel to have her whole body pressed against your back, Valentine? How warm is her breath on your skin?

I’m shaking now and furious, though I know I have no right to be. Why is it so easy for him? Why can he get so close to her without getting burned?

When she releases him, he jumps to his feet. “Listen,” he says. “Sleep here at night, in the loft, and I won’t bother you ever again, I promise. I’ll set up a bed for you.” His voice is excited, rambling, nervous. “This is how you start the bellows.” He demonstrates for her. “Make sure this stop is pulled. Every night, keep it like this: bellows on, stop pulled.” He turns to see her nod. When she does, his shadow disappears. He sinks to the floor.

At first, I can’t figure out what he’s doing. Then the largest pipe sounds. The ground rumbles with the power of it. My insides quiver and turn to mush.