Another Faust (32 page)

Victoria practically power walked her way through the halls of Marlowe, carrying a pile of books, her backpack strapped tightly to her back.

“Where are you going so fast, ghoul girl?” a random boy yelled out as some cheerleaders around him burst into laughter.

Usually Victoria would have just walked on, too focused on her own plans to care. But today, she was in no mood. She whipped around and lunged at the boy, boring into his thoughts so deeply, cheating with such force and speed, that before she was two feet away from him, he turned and threw up all over his girlfriend.

“Ugh . . .”

“Yuck!”

“Gross!”

The girls started to scatter like a bunch of scared chickens, and the boy stood there, wiping his mouth and shrinking from Victoria’s gaze.

“Well, you’re lucky they weren’t at your house two days ago, Scott. I’m sure this is nothing compared to
that
embarrassment.”

Victoria turned and kept walking, even though half the school was looking at her as if she had just committed murder. Of course, she hadn’t touched Scott, so no one could say anything. But somehow everyone knew. Most of them had experienced it, Victoria’s cheating. They all knew she was strange. And she couldn’t care less.

Just as she was making her way to the class officer meeting, Victoria spotted something dark moving in one of the side corridors. She stopped and peeked, half knowing what she would find. Madame Vileroy stepped out, tall and statuesque as always, walking with so much confidence you’d think she’d erected the school with one flip of her hair. Victoria wasn’t surprised. Lately, Madame Vileroy showed up to a lot of her activities, and Victoria liked it. It was as if she were the favorite now. It wasn’t Belle that got all the attention. It wasn’t Valentin that got all her love. It was Victoria, and that made her more than satisfied. Someday, Victoria would show Madame Vileroy what she was worth. Someday, she would prove herself the very best. And then maybe the governess would share all her secrets. When Victoria was powerful in the world’s eyes, she would be worthy of following in her governess’s footsteps.

“Where to so fast, my dear?”

“Officer meeting.”

“Hmm . . .” said Vileroy in a bored, uninterested tone.

“Well, I have to. I’m class president, remember?”

“Yes, I suppose the reason one becomes a high-school class president is for all that unmitigated power. Now, tell me, dear, how goes the fight against vending machine price inflation?”

“Hey, we all have to start somewhere.”

“Yes, but the most you can get out of being president is already gotten. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl. Now, I have something far more important for you to do.”

Victoria leaned in, ignoring all the gawking, eavesdropping students passing by. “OK.”

“I heard Bicé whispering again last night.”

Victoria shrugged.

“When she hides . . . I need to know what she does. I need her to stop.”

“What do you want me to do about that?”

“Nothing much. Just talk to her. Find out a few things.” Madame Vileroy seemed thoughtful, as if she were trying to puzzle out some annoying riddle.

“Why not ask Belle?” Victoria tested. “Belle’s her sister.” She wanted to hear Madame Vileroy say that she was better, that Belle would screw it up. She wanted her to say that Belle was nothing to her. That Victoria was the most talented, that Victoria had the most potential, that Victoria would do great things.

“Because Belle’s busy.”

Victoria’s shoulders slumped.

“And because you can handle more responsibility.”

Victoria took the bait like a starved guppy. She was about to ask what she was to find out when Madame Vileroy spoke again.

“Try to find out how many languages she can speak now.”

“I thought you knew stuff like that.”

“Just get me the number.”

Sometimes Madame Vileroy would walk through the city alone. She would sit in dressing rooms and listen to the girls in the surrounding stalls, planting feelings of self-loathing and vanity into their heads. Sometimes she would walk through the dangerous city streets, leaving a stream of petty theft, violence, and resentment in her wake. Or she would linger in residential neighborhoods and send a handful of moths through every window, using them to plant suspicion between spouses, jealousy between sisters, hatred between siblings. One day, just after she had sent six moths into each of six different windows, she saw Mrs. Spencer walking out of the glitzy apartment building that dominated the street.

“Nicola, is that you?”

Vileroy smiled, and Mrs. Spencer gave her a cold embrace. Her daughter had regaled her with tales of Belle’s and Victoria’s wretchedness, and she was in no mood to befriend the woman she considered responsible for her daughter’s misery.

“What are you doing in this neighborhood?”

“Visiting a friend,” Madame Vileroy replied.

“Anyone I know?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, Nicola. I see you’re settling into life in the big city.” Mrs. Spencer gave a half smile. “Far cry from the French country, no?”

Madame Vileroy, who had no need to rise to this challenge, simply nodded.

“How are those daughters of yours? I hear Belle is dating our own Thomas Goodman-Brown.”

“Is she? I hardly keep track.”

“You don’t keep track of your own daughter?”

“Too much supervision is detrimental to a young woman’s development. I’m sure you know this.”

“Well, that’s not how I raise my daughter.”

“Perhaps if you let her have a bit of freedom . . .”

“To do what? Grow armpit hair and have sex with hooligans?”

“Hmm . . . No, but I understand that Thomas had asked her out first.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. Poor girl. So little experience. She let him slip right through her fingers.”

Mrs. Spencer let out a chortle. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Darling, I just think you should spend a bit more time on yourself. You look so very tired. And all this worrying and chasing after your daughter can’t be good for you. What she needs now is space. Lots of space to work out her own little high-school problems. You’ve taken care of the important things. She doesn’t date waiters now. She knows what she wants and how to get it. Any more attention from you and she will be a stifled, frustrated old maid all tied up in her mother’s skirts.”

Mrs. Spencer’s hand flew to her chest. “Well, I never!” she gasped.

“Oh, come on, darling,” said Madame Vileroy with a smirk, “we both know you have.”

Mrs. Spencer was shocked — partly from the fact that Madame Vileroy had the nerve to say such things, and partly from the image she had planted in her head. She was about to respond, but something about Nicola Vileroy made her stop, something about the way she looked at her, the bored and contemptuous look on her face that somehow still left room to desire her company. Something made Mrs. Spencer not want to retaliate. Instead, she cowered, said a quick good-bye, and ran off, holding Madame Vileroy’s words close to her, clinging to them tightly so that they could slither under her skin like microscopic bugs and corrupt and ruin her.

On Tuesday after the golf tournament, Belle took another painful bath. Madame Vileroy didn’t have many house rules. She could go out anytime she wanted. No curfew. No restrictions. That night, she was going out on a date with Thomas, who’d had to negotiate with his dad for an hour before
he
could get permission to go out on a weeknight. Thomas’s dad didn’t become the city’s top banker by losing negotiations to fifteen-year-olds. By the time it was over, Thomas had given up next summer to intern in his dad’s office, sat through a lecture on modern finance, and enrolled in a Japanese for Business class.

On her way out, Belle ran into Madame Vileroy, sitting in the center space of the house. “Be careful . . .” she said sweetly. “Don’t get too attached to the boy. And don’t forget Sunday.”

“Everything’s great with Thomas. He loves me.”

“No. He thinks you’re beautiful.”

“Right. Whatever.”

“But not really, since that’s not your face. He thinks
I’m
beautiful.”

“Yes, I know.” Belle was annoyed at the constant reminder.

Christian walked in with Bicé just in time to hear that. “Her own looks aren’t so bad. Belle and Bicé have a very nice-looking face.” Bicé smiled and patted Christian’s hand.

Madame Vileroy ignored her and said, “Maybe Christian’s on to something. How about we stop the treatments and see how Thomas likes the real Belle?”

Belle shuddered. She knew the others thought she was incredibly vain and that Bicé saw her reaction and was insulted, but she couldn’t help it. She needed Madame Vileroy. And she couldn’t give up now. Last time they were together, Thomas had stood so close. He had played with her hair and held her hand, as he always did. But why did he never try to kiss her? Could he still smell it? Was the bath not enough? Was he afraid to get close to her? He seemed to have passed all the usual phases. He seemed so addicted . . .