Another Faust (13 page)

Christian went to his room. On the way, he walked past Madame Vileroy, leaning against the wall. He didn’t stop. “You are a good boy, Christian,” she said as he passed.

But Christian didn’t want anything to do with her right now. He ran to his room. When he opened the door, he saw that she’d changed things. “I have a present for you. You deserve a present.” He couldn’t feel her breath on his neck, but she was close enough that he should have. At the center of the room was an isolation tank. He had been lying down in that coffin for years now, staring up as the lid closed over him, letting the blood-thick water lap around his sides. The darkness would pour into every inch of space. The glittering liquid, teeming with tiny crystals, would press itself into the pores of his skin, knifing through the holes and into his bloodstream — little stones squeezing through every vein and capillary. His breath would quicken, every muscle contract, relax, and contract again. But then he would come out rejuvenated, stronger than an ox, supercharged like a dynamo. If he stayed in there long enough, Christian might have been able to leap tall buildings or stop a train.

And someday he would. That was the governess’s plan all along. He would become a hero. The next big thing. Olympic medals, World Cup trophies, Super Bowl rings, and all the worship of fans, all the money from endorsements. What loving mother wouldn’t want that? He would turn the world’s attention to what he could do athletically — famous forever, rich, and not hungry. Not hungry or poor. That was the ambition Vileroy had preyed upon. Though it wasn’t so much an ambition as a fear. And she would use it to make him a hero. Or maybe he’d be strong enough to crush a tall building or crash a train. He’d be powerful, able to shape public opinion with an iron fist — tyrannical, infamous, and starving for more.

In the corner of the room stood a young man, or that’s what Christian thought, because it was impossible to tell. His face was ageless, with no lines or expressions, no sign of having laughed or cried or lived beyond today. He was very strongly built and was wearing a pair of white pants, like Christian’s martial arts pants, and no shirt. He had a blank expression on his face and stood without moving, like a dummy or a toy soldier ready for his orders. That was what had caught Christian’s attention, because he’d never seen this stranger before.

“Who’s this?” Christian asked Madame Vileroy.

“Don’t you want more practice?” The look of alarm on Christian’s face seemed to amuse Madame Vileroy. “Even Valentin is improving. Your sisters are naturals at it. But you, you’ve been queasy.”

“The others don’t have to hurt people.”

“You don’t want to be weak, do you, Christian? Victoria cheats, because she has to. Bicé hides. Valentin lies. Belle tricks. They do what they do because that’s what’s best for them. Stealing is no different.”

She said everything in a dead tone, a plain, assured, terrifying tone. Christian looked like he was about to cry. He couldn’t ever seem to figure out what it would take to get him what he wanted. Quite frankly, Christian was starting to get distracted. His ravenous desire to be free from ever worrying about money was still there. But Vileroy knew he was spending more and more time writing instead of practicing. Now she’d make sure he got plenty of practice, in sports, in stealing, and most of all, in cruelty.

Suddenly, the dummy in the corner began to move. First its shoulder shrugged a bit. Then it looked up at Christian. It went into a fighting stance.

“He’s not real,” said Vileroy. “Trust me.”

The dummy hopped from one stance to another, closing the distance between it and Christian. Christian knew it was simulating a Thai kick boxer. It would attack soon.

“I’d rather spend a whole day in the chamber,” said Christian.

“It doesn’t take nearly as long as you’d think to recover. He’s very resilient.”

The dummy lunged at Christian with a rising knee. Christian evaded, but just barely. It turned and struck Christian with an elbow. It seemed like it was made of something hard that gave a little but hurt a lot. Still, somehow, it felt like human flesh.

“Go away. I’m not doing this.”

“Yes, you are,” said Vileroy. “It’s what you want.”

It grabbed Christian behind the head. Christian knew the match would be over soon if he didn’t do something.

“This is not what I want,” said Christian.

He tried to look at Vileroy as he said it, but before he could even finish his sentence, the dummy wrenched his head down and thrust its knee into Christian’s stomach. All the air left his body at once. The dummy had to hold him up. Christian tried to regain his breath to say something, but his chest and neck were getting battered by the dummy’s knees. Finally, it took one step back, pulled Christian’s head down farther, and rammed its knee into Christian’s nose. Christian felt a warm liquid beginning to pool behind his eyes. Another smash was coming. Then he heard, “I couldn’t do this if you didn’t want it, Christian.”

Christian reached out his hand and touched the dummy. A second later, it collapsed to the ground, and Christian stood up with a surge of energy running through his own body. Nothing felt worse than the guilt of how good it felt. He was perfectly fine now. His bloody nose was gone, his entire body recharged. Madame Vileroy didn’t bother to congratulate him.

“You should name him. How about Connor? Like your new friend.”

“No.”

She glanced at the dummy. “He’s a very useful toy, Christian. And you haven’t even thanked me.”

Madame Vileroy looked at the figure lying almost lifeless on the ground. Letters began to sear themselves across his forehead until the word
Buddy
was clearly visible.
Buddy.
The dummy rubbed his forehead as if it burned.

“There, now he has a name. He can be your buddy.” The letters disappeared. She laughed at her own joke. “He’ll begin making friends with you. After a while, he’ll anticipate your stealing and will try to fight back. After that, he’ll grovel. . . .”

Christian whispered, “No,” but no sound came out.

Madame Vileroy smiled. “You’re weak, Christian. That’s why you have to steal. These children around you are not your friends, and neither is Buddy. Learn this quickly.”

She walked out. Christian stood in the middle of the room with enough energy to run a marathon. His fists clenched and shook. He looked down at the dummy named Buddy and felt helpless and sorry for all the things he’d have to do.

“You think Christian had a breakdown or something?” asked Belle as they sat around the messed-up room, the table still overturned next to them. None of them really cared enough to clean anything up. They’d just leave when they were done, and the next time they came back, it would be clean. It could have been maids, robots, elves, or slaves — to be honest, they never really thought about it.

“He just snapped,” said Victoria.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” said Valentin, “the quiet ones with three black belts.”

“We should see if he’s all right,” said Bicé.

They sat together looking at strawberry jam slopping down a pancake, egg yolks torn open on a saltshaker. Victoria finally stood up. “I don’t have time to hang out with losers who can’t control themselves. I have to prep a debate and figure out how to get out of gym.”

“I’m working on a poem,” said Valentin. “Maybe I can use all this.”

“I’ll be in my room looking for a potion to remove this,” said Belle, fingering a tiny red mark on her shoulder.

“You don’t need a potion to remove that,” said Victoria, “just a zit cream.”

“I don’t want Thomas to see it . . .” Belle mused, her mind wandering again. “I should find out more about Lucy. How could he like her more than me?”

“Belle, no one will notice a dot,” said Bicé in her most maternal tone. “And you can’t spy on Lucy.”

“Not spy, sis. Just research. Besides, she’s probably spreading rumors already.”

“Childish ones like, ‘You smell,’” said Valentin.

“Cute, Valentin.”

“That Charlotte girl thinks I’m cute. I should probably spend some time with her. She could be useful.”

“Well, Miss Priss here might be above it, but I’m going to
spy
on Lucy,” said Victoria. “See what she’s up to for her Student Council campaign.”

They all nodded. These were important things to put on their agenda. They each had so much that they wanted. Madame Vileroy would help them keep track, letting them know what they could have if they just did this or that. She’d be there to help them if they ever really wanted something, but otherwise, the house was like a clubhouse, or an island, where they ruled themselves. They were left to their own ambition to get ahead. They could achieve as much or as little as they dared. Victoria, Belle, and Valentin then turned to Bicé, waiting to hear from her. Bicé looked back at them, not getting it.

“What are
you
going to do?” asked Victoria.

Bicé didn’t think it’d be hard to guess. “Me? I’m going to check on
Christian.
”

Then Valentin’s faced jerked. His hand flew out of his pocket. He had stuttered half a word. His face blushed, and he wouldn’t look in Bicé’s direction. She couldn’t tell whether she’d heard it in his stutter or just had a sense of it for some reason, but she knew the word he’d tried to keep himself from saying was “Why?”

That morning, like the morning before, Belle had woken up with parched lips and eyes sealed shut with dried tears. Since the Christmas party, Belle had felt the stench of herself more than ever. It was so much more palpable now that she had hope that it might go away, now that she had someone she wanted, someone who hadn’t stayed. That morning, the morning after the school play, she had stumbled to the bathroom, splashed scalding water on her face again and again until finally she could open her eyes. When she did, she saw her perfect eyes — two crystalline oceans, wracked from a storm, now silent and infinitely sad.