Another Faust (15 page)

Christian perked up at the subject. “You’ve never mentioned that before,” he said.

“It just came to me,” said Valentin with pride.

As Valentin read his poem to him, Christian felt it washing over him. When Valentin finished, he looked up for Christian’s response.

“It’s really good. You’re really good,” he said with a faint smile. He rubbed the painful spot on his chest, the painful birthmark that Bicé had just noticed.

“Thanks,” said Valentin. “I’ve been working on it all day.”

A few hours later, long after Bicé and Valentin had left to change clothes, Christian woke from a nap. Buddy was conscious now, sitting in the corner, tossing a racquetball against the wall. In a few minutes, they would flip houses and Belle’s guest would arrive. Without warning anyone, she had invited some old man from the school play to their house. Christian turned around and noticed something sitting on the nightstand next to his bed. On a tray, next to a glass of orange juice, was a large plate of burgers with a note tucked underneath.

It was a nice gesture, and he was hungry. He lifted the bun from one of the burgers.
What’s this?
Instead of a hamburger patty, Belle had cut up hot dogs and spread out the pieces all across the bread. The hot dogs looked uncooked. It was as if she had thrown together scraps from the fridge and tossed it at him like he was a dog or some poor homeless mongrel orphan. He stared at the hot dog burgers for a while, feeling nothing at all. And then something inside him moved, and he felt anger rise up through his body and grab him by the throat.

At first, Christian pushed the feeling back, laughing at himself for reacting this way. After all, Belle was just trying to be nice. No one asked her to bring him a snack. So why criticize? Just throw it away and move on. But then, each time he looked at the plate, he felt his rage and sadness grow stronger and the plate began to look different. Like a last meal. Like a hopeless, homeless Sunday evening. Like the grief-stricken scavenging of a hungry boy who’s just buried his mother. Like a fall to a different life. If he took a bite, he would be a different person. He would be someone with no options.

As he sat there, heaving with unexplainable fury, he felt a burning in his eyes. He looked up and saw the blinding blue light take over his room and shoot past his eyes. He closed them, but nothing helped. A moment later, he was sitting on the unused bed in the fake bedroom that he supposedly shared with Valentin, complete with its pristine furniture and unwrapped hockey sticks.

Victoria and Belle were waiting in the magazine-cover living room with Madame Vileroy when there was a knock on the door. Victoria jumped up from the plush creamy couch.

“What’s the matter with
you
?” Belle asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Nothing. Just get the door.”

“Why are you even here, Victoria? This is
my
guest. Madame Vileroy, can you tell her to leave?”

“No, dear, Victoria can stay.”

“Then can you tell me why you made me invite this guy? I had to tell him I have a medical condition and I need him for a consultation. And he’s so” — Belle shuddered from head to toe at the thought — “sleazy.”

“Be patient, my dear,” said Madame Vileroy. “I hear it’s a virtue.”

“OK, then what do I have to do? Can you tell me that much?”

“Get the door.”

Belle opened the door to find the doctor she had met at the party, waiting with his hands behind his back. She let him in and invited him to sit down, all the while wondering what she was supposed to do, whether her first bath would work. After a few minutes of pleasantries, which grew more and more strange as the doctor became more accustomed to and infatuated with Belle’s tricks, there was another knock on the door.

“That’s her,” said Victoria.

“Who?” said Belle.

But Victoria was already up and answering the door. Belle turned to find Ms. LeMieux being led into the house by a very happy Victoria. Thirty seconds into the counselor’s arrival and Victoria was already chatting her up with the contents of her own mind. Belle heard Ms. LeMieux snort with delight. “What a self-assured girl you are.”

Victoria demurred. “Thanks. I’m trying my best. It’s just so hard, because even though I want to try for the Marlowe Prize, my grades will get killed in gym. I have a lot of . . . physical impairments.”

“Oh.” Ms. LeMieux put a hand to her mouth.

“I really shouldn’t have to take that class. But it’s a world ruled by jocks, you know.”

Ms. LeMieux knew. She knew all too well. And Victoria just stood back and listened as Ms. LeMieux remembered all her own teenage injustices. The counselor’s face grew softer as she thought of all that she had in common with this girl.
What ambition. What go-gettitude. Truly inspiring.
She allowed Victoria to lead her inside.

“My brother Christian’s a jock,” said Victoria. Then in a whisper, “I’m not saying ’roid rage, exactly, but carbo-loading doesn’t make you flip tables, you know?”

Ms. LeMieux put a hand on Victoria’s shoulder.

Madame Vileroy got up to greet the counselor, which was more than she had done for the doctor. Ms. LeMieux shook the governess’s icy hand. “I’m sorry to have to make this house call, Madame Vileroy. But some of the things Victoria said on the phone this morning were rather alarming — and quite difficult to believe. I can’t approve anything without seeing for myself.”

“Of course. We understand,” Madame Vileroy said smoothly.

At that moment, Christian burst into the room, red-faced, with tears knifing down his cheeks. He was screaming something incoherent, knocking over anything that would break. Madame Vileroy knew that even
he
couldn’t say why he’d become so enraged. Seeing the hot dog burgers was like an accusation, and he’d just gone off. Now he was blabbering out profanities, crying like a baby, and smashing like a beast. Finally, as the heaving in his chest subsided, he noticed the guests, wide-eyed on the couch. He didn’t say anything more, just turned and headed for the kitchen. From the living room, the stunned guests could hear Christian slamming doors and storming about.

“Girls, come with me, please,” Madame Vileroy said, standing up, as if she were going to handle the situation. She put a motherly arm around Belle, who looked confused, wholly unaware of what had been done. These were the moments the governess lived for — the first moments of a giant rift to come, seedlings of mistrust that were surely now planted between Belle and Christian. “If you’ll excuse us.”

The two guests sat silently for a few minutes. The doctor spoke first.

“Schizophrenic rage. Rare at this age, but rather interesting . . .” he mumbled.

“Are you familiar with the family?”

“No, I’m a child psychologist,” he said with contempt. “It’s really quite sad to see a broken family. I’m going to request a one-on-one consultation with each of them immediately, especially the daughters. They seem the most in need.”

“Really? A broken family?” asked Ms. LeMieux, taken back to her own damaged childhood and how hard she had had to work and how no one ever gave her a break.

“Absolutely. A classic case,” said the doctor, stroking his beard. “The very fact that they’re orphans makes them susceptible to all sorts of emotional scarring.”

“But Victoria seems so above average. So concerned with her schoolwork, going after the Marlowe Prize. . . . I just think —”

“An elaborate facade. In my
professional
opinion, she’s weeping on the inside,” he said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head at the shame of it all. “They all are,” he added.

“Poor dears,” said Ms. LeMieux, sitting back in her chair. She felt such an immediate sympathy for Victoria and her physical and emotional handicaps, all the obstacles pushing her down as she tried to pull herself out of her unfortunate circumstances.

The next day, Victoria received a messengered letter from the Marlowe School, informing her that in regard to the phone call about her phobias and “weak constitution,” she would be exempt from health and physical education classes from then on — and wishing her the best of luck in her pursuit of the Marlowe Prize at the end of the upcoming semester.