Chemistry (17 page)

“Well, wait.” He stares at the ceiling a moment. “I do remember something. I heard a rumor she was holed up at the church, but I didn’t take it seriously. Everyone knows you’d never allow it.”

I bow my head and mutter, “But I have.”

He perks up at that. “You have? No kidding! You know, I thought maybe there was a chance Valentine would suggest something like that, but I didn’t see you giving an inch. At the very least, I was sure you’d never allow Djali.”

His obsession with that goat is beginning to annoy me. “It’s true. She’s hiding at the church. Normally, I wouldn’t have said yes, but… Remember when you told me some friends of Phoebus had sworn revenge?”

He nods.

“Well, they got it, or they tried to. They had her tied up in the greenhouse behind the church. I heard them talking about how they planned to kill her.”

“No.” He’s shocked, but he believes me. Good. I hope he believes everything I’m about to tell him.

“Yes. And I don’t doubt they would have done it. They’re stupid. They were certain they’d get away with it. They hate her, and I know they aren’t happy she’s still out there somewhere. Now, not only is she the girl who stabbed Phoebus, but she can go to the police about what they did to her. She can get them all into trouble.”

Peter shakes his head. “She would never go to the police. She’s terrified of them.”

“We know that, but they don’t.” I stand. I’m too nervous to stay seated. “The thing is, she can’t spend her whole life in a church. She needs to get out now and then. And I have it on good authority she’s planning to crash the prom. Who can blame her? It could be her last chance to see most of her friends. But as soon as she leaves the church, I know the team will try to finish what they started. Valentine is watching over her, but he’s only one person. And we can’t call the police. They’ll just deport her, right?”

“Right.” Peter nods. He has a huge problem trusting anyone in authority—always has. I almost feel guilty for playing to his weaknesses. It’s not fair that I know so much about him. But I have to diffuse this situation somehow, and Peter is my only hope.

“Even if she stays at the church, it’s only a matter of time until they get to her. You heard the rumor about where she’s hiding. Who’s to say they haven’t heard it, too?”

“What if we just asked the team to leave her alone?” Peter says. “I’m sure they’re not completely unreasonable.”

“You’re sure?”

“No.” He starts to pace and chew his lower lip. “Well, what if we could convince them to leave her alone for Phoebus’ sake? They’d do anything for him.”

“Obviously.”

“Hmm… We could let them find out about her pregnancy.”

It takes me a beat to fully understand what Peter is implying, and then I start to see spots on the already polka-dotted canvas in front of me. “Pregnant?” I think I’m going to be sick. “You said you never even kissed her! You swore it!”

Peter backs away from me, wide-eyed. “Whoa. Hang on. I meant with Phoebus’ baby, not mine.”

My hands curl into tight, bloodless fists.

Peter quickly clarifies. “She’s not pregnant, Claude! Jesus! I told you she’s never even been with a guy. I just thought the team might back off a little if they bought it. For Phoebus’ sake.”

Thank God and all the saints. My pulse slows, and I steady myself on the back of that odd bench. “No, they’d kill her twice as fast for that. They’d do as much just to keep him from having to pay child support.” Even to my ears, my calm sounds tenuous, but I can’t mess this up. I’m no good at anything that requires imagination. I never have been. I need Peter to think of a plan. I need to motivate him. “I’ve got it,” I say, hoping to God this works. “It’s unpleasant, but it’s the only way.”

Peter leans in, curious.

“She rescued you. Just keep that in mind and hear me out.” I stare at my hands like I’m afraid to tell him. “I think… I think you should turn yourself in for the assault on Phoebus.”

“What? Why me?”

“Because they’ll believe it if it’s you. You’re supposed to be her boyfriend. You can say it was a crime of passion. Just think about it.” I grab his arm, summoning to my own aid every dramatic muse Peter ever had. “You’d be saving her life and restoring her innocence. There’s a chance they’ll arrest you for it, sure, but don’t you owe her that, at least?”

Peter stares gloomily for a moment. “This may surprise you,” he says, “but I would never have thought to do such a thing for her.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t. That’s what I’m here for. So what do you think?”

His shoulders drop. “I think… No, I
know
I’ll be arrested for it.” He’s resisting, but I need more from him.

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes, it’s a fucking huge problem!” Peter’s voice echoes in the museum and a few people stop and stare.

I take him by the elbow and start walking him down those long corridors filled with the best efforts of mankind’s finest artists. “I agree, it’s a sacrifice,” I hiss. “But you owe her.”

“I owe lots of people.”

“But this is a debt you’ve got to repay. What will she do otherwise?”

“I don’t know.” His Nordic features are positively cherry with suppressed guilt and anger. “And I appreciate your concern for my pseudo-girlfriend. But I can’t understand why you’re so obsessed with the idea of me getting arrested in someone else’s place.”

“And I don’t see why you’re so obsessed with the idea of staying out of prison.” Good, Claude. Now take it to the next level. Shred his ego. “What have you got going for you, anyway? You’re homeless. You’ve got no job, no future planned. In prison, you’d have shelter and food, at least. How is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a bad thing because I’m not a bird.” He pauses. “Or I am a bird. Or something about freedom.” He can’t think straight. I almost have him. “I mean I have dreams for my future like anybody else. I want to do good things. I want to make my mark on the world. And I don’t go around stabbing people, so why should I be punished for it?”

I take my cue from him. This is getting easier as it goes along. “But just think about all the good you could do from prison. You are a bird in that the greatest gift you can give the world is your song, but who will hear it? That’s the point, isn’t it? That’s the most important thing. Do you know how the statistical likelihood of your work getting published skyrockets when you’re in prison? Compare that to the likelihood of you doing anything of value out here. You’re a nothing. You’re one voice in a cacophony. No one can hear you. And when you finally publish your memoir—”

“Biography,” Peter corrects. “I would ghostwrite it.”

“Biography then. Just think about how it will touch people’s hearts to learn that you took the fall for an innocent girl, that you saved her from a fate she didn’t deserve. A martyr for love. Like St. Peter, your namesake.”

“Like Jesus.” Peter stares up at invisible stars. “I can see it. You’re right. It’s like Kierkegaard said: ‘A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music.’”

My God, I love his vanity. On the one hand, I should feel guilty for manipulating him like this. On the other, I’ve always wanted to see just how far I could push him. He has an endless imagination and an enormous ego. He’ll go far if he just adds diligence to his collection of qualities. But while this has been amusing for me, it’s not what I need from him. I need him to fight this idea with another. I need to bring him back to reality.

“So you’ll do it?” I say. “You swear? I’ll go and tell the soccer team myself, and Esmeralda will be free in a matter of hours.”

“In a matter of hours,” he echoes. And I see the stars in his eyes go out.

“No time to waste.” I offer him my hand. “You’re a good person, Peter Gringoire—a better person than me.” When Peter doesn’t take my hand, I pat him on the shoulder and turn to walk away.

“Wait,” he says. And I pause to smile before turning back. He is so unbelievably easy. “I can’t go to prison. It’s just… It’s ridiculous. And if the team was going to kill her, just think what they’ll do to me.”

I do my best to look disappointed in him. “Fine. I’ll tell Esmeralda she has to choose between deportation or being murdered by her classmates. It’s too bad. I heard they’re holding this year’s prom on a cruise ship. She would have loved to see it.” I sigh. “After all she’s done for us. But I guess that’s what happens when you cast your pearls before swine.” Again, I feign walking away, count to five, and hope.

“Hold up!” Peter calls after me, and I say a quick prayer before turning around again. St. Jude, don’t abandon me now. “I mean I don’t think I need to go to prison in order to fix this. I’m sure there’s another way we can help Em. If we can just get Phoebus’ soccer thugs out of the picture…”

It’s working. Unbelievable. I can almost hear Peter’s thoughts whir in that brilliant, blond head of his. He’s coming up with a plan. And it’s going to be the most off-the-wall, unexpectedly perfect plan ever.

For a moment, his eyes glaze over, and then he grins. “It’s so simple,” he says. “It’s a wonder I hadn’t thought of it before.”

Yes. That’s my Peter. I knew he could do it. I knew it. “So…”

“The Court of Miracles. They’ve been there all along. The perfect resource I hadn’t even thought to use. They love Em. They’d do anything for her the same way the team would do anything for their captain. And in all the commotion…” He trails off and gazes at the wall as though it were another masterpiece.

“Peter!” I wave a hand in front of his face. “What’s the plan?”

He brushes me aside. “Just a second. I’m working this out.” Silence, and then, “Sure. Of course. It’s the only way, really.”

“Peter, for the love of God!”

“The team will be apprehended,” he says, beaming. “They’ll be out of the way for a while, at least. Watched constantly. And their credibility will be shot to hell.”

I’m grinding my teeth in anticipation. This is the method of my salvation he’s pondering, and he won’t even tell me what it is.

“There’s no way they’d be brave enough to murder anyone after that.” Peter starts to walk away, distracted with his own genius, and I follow, fully ready to both hug and punch him. “But then,” he says, “do you think they would still hurt Djali?”

He turns to me. As though I have an answer. As though I even want to give him one. I throw up my hands in frustration. “God damn it, Peter!”

He frowns. “They probably would. I heard Jack got bored last summer and killed a kitten. Honestly, what kind of person takes pleasure in torturing a helpless animal?”

“She’ll be dead before you’ve finished talking!”

“Okay. Okay.” He’s so proud. This is what he does best, and he knows it. “I’ll tell you my plan. But afterwards, you have to admit I’m awesome.”

II

I take the long way home to give myself time to think. Peter’s plan is indeed simple, but it has given me an idea of my own. When this idea first stirred in my mind, I brushed it aside. My primary focus was on getting Esmeralda safely out of my home, away from my sanctuary, and far from my reach. But now that I’m alone with my thoughts and that blip of an idea stands in the spotlight, I can see it for what it is: a way I could keep Esmeralda forever.

Ideally, I would arrive home, slip in unnoticed, and move through the darkness straight to my room. I want to peruse this new idea in solitude. I need to examine it from all sides to see whether there’s a crack, a flaw in what appears to be my perfect, final hope. But nothing is ever ideal.

When I step into the orange glow of the church’s outdoor lights, I see that someone is waiting for me. He’s busy spray-painting a portrait on the outer brick wall. As I approach, I can see that the portrait is meant to be a nasty caricature of me, and that the painter is Gene.

Normally, I’d chide him. I’d insist he be back in the morning to clean up the mess he’s made. I’d be furious, and then he’d crack a joke and smile and laugh, and I wouldn’t have the strength to stay angry. But this time, when I look at him, I can only see a stranger who stands in my way.

I reach into my pocket for my keys as Gene pushes between me and the door and starts his usual speech. He’s repenting, admitting his faults. He always does. And I always listen, but not tonight.

Tonight, I’m thinking about how Peter will convince Esmeralda to accompany him to the prom by dangling the prospect of winning back Phoebus; about how he’ll join the planning committee and request a masked-ball theme, so I can attend unnoticed; about how the Court of Miracles will join us there, our own personal, violent escort; and about the soccer team getting involved in a fight they can’t win, getting arrested when we return to port, getting out of my way for a long time.

Incarceration will be nothing to the members of the CoM. Many of them have already been through it before. But for the team, it will mean failure, and their parents will descend on them en masse. They’ll be watched, regulated, and put back in their places. As for me, I have nothing left to lose and everything in the world to gain. I have to seize this opportunity.

Gene pauses in his speech and waits for my response. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I know exactly how it will end. He’s going to ask me for money. “Go on,” I say.

“Well, I’ve just been thinking a lot about your advice and how you’re always right. I want to start over, you know? I want to…” Blah blah blah.

I’ll need money, that’s for sure. This is going to take a lot of money, which means I have none to give to Gene. And time. I have little more than a month to plan this, to research and make sure it’s possible, to get all the paperwork in order.

“I’ve been thinking about college, too,” Gene says with a grin. He knows what would normally please me. He’s pulling out everything he’s got for this. “I thought I could go into something practical. Maybe computer science. Or I could major in linguistics like you’ve always said I should.”

“And?” Any second now.

“And I was thinking I could get a head start on researching schools.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “So is that all?”