Another Faust (29 page)

Victoria stood on the clubhouse terrace, by the railing, watching Valentin twist Charlotte around his finger. She rolled her eyes. Behind her came a voice: “You ready, or what?” It was Lucy Spencer, standing by the doorway with her arms crossed. The two of them were assigned in Student Council to decorate the clubhouse for the banquet after the tournament. Since Victoria was class president now, she couldn’t say no — though she certainly tried. Thankless chores were not Victoria’s strong suit. They’d be spending the entire afternoon hanging banners. Victoria turned around and walked back toward the all-purpose room, grabbing a step stool on the way. She said in a snarky voice, “Coming, Your Majesty.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow in disgust.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Victoria as she passed her.

“Dream of what?” said Lucy.

“Pulling the ladder out from under you. You must think I’m some kind of monster.”

“You have no idea what I think.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Victoria.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Mrs. Wirth,” said Belle. “Connor is starting at a different hole.” Belle was waiting with a large group of spectators at the hole where Thomas would be starting the match.

“Well, dear, I wouldn’t want to be one of those
overbearing
mothers, now, would I?” said Mrs. Wirth, adjusting the many items in her purse. “Besides, I have our maid, Martha, sending me updates on the walkie-talkie.”

“Hmm,” breathed Madame Vileroy. She was standing right beside them, but no one had noticed. Madame Vileroy had a way of going back and forth between being the center of a conversation and being almost invisible, lurking around a conversation without distracting any of the participants.

“Connor Wirth isn’t distracted by anything this afternoon as he gets ready to tee off on the second hole.” Valentin had twitched a couple times before the last few sentences. But Charlotte knew that love conquered all things. And she knew she was in love. And her mother knew a great speech pathologist.

“That’s right, Val, he took the first hole easily off of a strong player from Rhode Island.”

“And speaking of strong players, Christian Faust is also making a case for himself. Lucky for us, both of the Marlowe standouts are in the same four-man group.”

“And of course, we’ll be in the golf cart just behind them, bringing you the play-by-play.”

“Isn’t ‘play-by-play’ just for sports that
have
plays, Char?”

Charlotte pressed the stop button on her recorder.

“I dunno, I just thought it sounded good. But you’re not supposed to mention that kind of thing while we’re recording.”

“No problem, just go back and record over it,” said Valentin.

“All right, fine,” said Charlotte. She rewound a bit and pressed RECORD again. “And of course, we’ll be
on course
just behind the Marlowe supersquad.”

“‘Supersquad’? Really?”

Charlotte let out a sigh and clicked the stop button again.

“What, what’s wrong with
supersquad
?”

“Just sounds a bit
Cosmo Girl
is all,” said Valentin. “For a writer, I just thought you’d be better at, you know, talking.”

Charlotte looked like the air had been let out of her. “That’s mean,” she said, looking down. “I’m the best writer at Marlowe’ and I might win State. You’re just mean.”

“It’s not mean,” said Valentin, oblivious to the fact that Charlotte’s eyes were welling up. “I’d think you’d be used to criticism. Try it again.”

“I don’t want to. If you’re so good, you do it.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“That’s ridiculous. Just do it again. That’s why there’s a rewind button on the stupid thing. See?” He pointed to the digital recorder as if demonstrating to a four-year-old. “So you can do it again and again till you get it right. It’s not a big deal.”

“Hey,” said Christian, looking back from his ready position over a ball resting tentatively on his tee, “can you two keep it down?”

“Yeah,” said Connor, “this takes a little more concentration than recording yourself gab.”

“Shut the hell up, Connor.”

“What did you say, Valentin?”

Valentin didn’t even bother answering. He just slammed his foot on the gas pedal of his golf cart and started barreling toward Connor on the green. Christian yelled and dived out of the way. Charlotte screamed, but Valentin pushed her and sent her flying out of the cart. The look on Connor’s face froze just before he got pounded by the cart — the cart started going backward, Charlotte flew back in. Everything went back until Charlotte was saying, “. . . golf cart just behind them, bringing you the play-by-play.”

She looked at him with a big faux smile, as though the listeners could see her as well. Valentin had a distant look on his face, a thousand-mile gaze, as if he were depressed. He looked up at her, squeezed out a grin, and said, “Sure will, Charlotte! We’ll be here with real-time box scores.”

“That was great!” said Charlotte.

Valentin shrugged.
The best in the state. It’s almost depressing.

Christian swung the club and snapped the ball into the air. Valentin looked up into the blue sky — so bright it was hazy — to find it, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t track the course of the ball.

Mrs. Wirth tracked the entire course of Connor’s play, even though she wasn’t one of those overbearing mothers. Between bouts of yelling at Martha through her walkie-talkie, she quizzed Bicé about her plans for her future. “What are you planning to do with all those brains, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll translate all the garbage on the Internet for foreign countries.”

“Is that really a good use of your talent?” said Mrs. Wirth, in a very serious voice.

Bicé shrugged. “I’d say helping the Uzbeks get on Facebook is a noble cause. . . .” Bicé just trailed off, as if she were speaking to herself.

“Beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Wirth.

“. . . get those Papua New Guineans on the blogosphere . . .”

Mrs. Wirth just looked at her and started blinking. Faster and faster. As if she were trying to start the motor in her brain.

“. . . age-old question . . .” Bicé was saying.

Mrs. Wirth turned her attention to Thomas, who was joking with his opponent. Thomas’s dad was in the group, walking with Belle. He was in his forties and still handsome. With that salt-and-pepper hair and massive fortune, he was the most eligible bachelor in town. But despite Mrs. Wirth’s constant gossip-mongering, he wasn’t looking for anyone new. Behind that natural tan, he was a romantic, still married to his dead wife. And the way he said “sweetheart” to Belle made him seem like a much older man — like somebody’s grandpa or Santa Claus.

Thomas wasn’t so good at golf, but he knew how to charm people. His dad always said that it was smart of him to have taken up the sport. Future bank presidents don’t play golf to win. Thomas was letting his opponent take a practice swing with his favorite club. Mrs. Wirth said to Thomas’s dad, “He’s certainly friendly, isn’t he, Charles?” But he was too busy talking to Belle and inadvertently ignored her. Mrs. Wirth looked back at Bicé, who was still talking to herself. She shook her head and barked into her walkie-talkie, “Martha. Martha!
Dondé está
my son?”

“Thomas looks nervous, doesn’t he?” Thomas’s dad said to Belle. “I’ve told him it’s only a game. . . . Oh, there he goes. Off to the fifth.”

“Fifth what?”

“Fifth hole. You know why I think he’s nervous?”

“Why?” asked Belle.

“Because golf is one thing he’s not great at. His friend Connor, he’s the best. And Thomas isn’t used to that. He likes to play, though. He plays with me and my friends.”

Belle knew about Mr. Goodman-Brown’s friends. They were on the cover of
Fortune
every other week. Charles Goodman-Brown was the CEO of one of the largest private banks in New York. Everyone, especially Belle, knew who his friends were.

All this time, Belle could feel Madame Vileroy’s presence behind her.

Outside the cluster of buzzing parents, friends, and disqualified competitors, Madame Vileroy looked for a place to interject. She came to speak to a pair of mothers from another school, but they were busily conversing about the newest diet craze. She turned to Mrs. Wirth only to find that she was now engrossed in an attempt to wrangle a donation for Marlowe. Once again, Madame Vileroy found herself on the outside of every cluster, every conversation. And so she sat back and watched.