Another Faust (31 page)

“You are completely hysterical, moron.”

“No, I’m not!” yelled Lucy. “You just said something I was thinking. What do you have, some kind of wavelength reader or brain projector or something?”

“I don’t have anything like that. Now, calm down,” said Victoria, looking around the banquet hall to make sure no one was around. “You’re just so predictable. I can read you like a book.”

“Oh? You can read?”

“Well, you’d be one of those cardboard books they use for idiots and three-year-olds. Like
Goodnight Moon,
except the pictures would be of ho-bags.”

“I know you’re doing something. I’ve been reading about electromagnetic pulses. You’re doing something with my head. I can feel it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not doing anything to your head. You must have some kind of syphilis-related brain damage or something.”

“Why would I have syphilis?”

“I don’t know, ’cause you’re paranoid. And you’re a skank.”

Lucy just rolled her eyes and went back to the table settings. That was close. Victoria kicked herself for letting it go so far. Victoria just wanted to put Lucy in her place, but Lucy could tell when she was cheating in her mind. It felt like a sudden headache. Victoria knew she couldn’t read minds too deeply, not while they were awake. She went back to setting forks and knives around each plate. She’d need a way to cheat without the person finding out, especially with debate coming up.

“It’s a good thing the State Debate Tournament is coming up, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Why is that, Valentin?”

“Because we’ve just gotten word that young Goodman-Brown has been eliminated from the tournament, and I hear he’s much better at debate.”

Thomas came off the field laughing it up with the guy who had just beaten him. His dad gave him a high five as if nothing mattered. Belle watched them interact. It was as if they actually loved each other. She wondered what Thomas would think of her if she’d just been the girl she once was. Would he still glance over at her every chance he got while he hugged his dad? Would he come over for dinner?

“He’s a good kid,” said Bicé.

“Yeah, I’m starting to notice that,” said Belle.

“Let’s go,” said Mrs. Wirth. “Connor is up against the Faust boy for the last match.”

“Coach K is already celebrating, now that the finals of the tournament are being played by two Marlowe boys, Wirth and Faust.”

“That’s right, Valentin. Everyone is wondering who’s going to win — which one will be the new star of the team. Connor Wirth is a little more familiar with the course. And earlier, he hit a two-hundred-fifty-yard drive, which is the longest drive he’s ever had! But he has to come up big here on the twelfth hole if he wants to keep it neck and neck. He steadies his swing, hits, and that one is sailing . . . Wow, Valentin! Look at that! That has got to be two hundred eighty yards out, a personal best and record for the day’s competition!”

Mrs. Wirth jumped up and down, patting Bicé on the head every time she landed.

“Wow!” said Mr. Goodman-Brown. “That’s about two hundred seventy yards, I’d say.”

“It’s two hundred eighty-three,” corrected Mrs. Wirth. She was pointing a laser measure at where the ball had landed in the distance.

“It’s time for Christian Faust to see if he can match it,” said Valentin.

Christian was nervous. He’d never lost before. Would this be the first time? He looked at the plush clubhouse and his classmates in their polo shirts and slacks. Then he glanced over at his sweat-soaked caddy, picking dirt from under his nails. He felt embarrassed for the poor guy. What a life. Spending your weekends picking up balls for more fortunate kids. And then he felt only one thing: that he wanted to win. Christian saw Connor approaching, making his way to the sidelines after his brilliant shot. He looked at his friend-turned-rival and smiled.

“Good job, man,” he said, and he patted Connor on the arm in a friendly gesture.

Connor smiled back and said, “Thanks.” No one noticed Christian’s hand shaking as he touched Connor’s arm. Even Connor didn’t notice, because Christian was not stealing his energy, just a little hand-eye coordination.

Christian approached the twelfth hole. He lifted his club and swung hard. The ball flew into the air and took off. Mrs. Wirth almost dropped her laser pointer trying to keep track of its distance. Valentin and Charlotte jumped up from the golf cart.

“I’m having a hard time seeing the ball from here . . . but it looks like . . . it’s passed the three-hundred-yard mark . . . and the three hundred twenty . . . but it’s slowing down. . . . He’s made a three-hundred-seventy-yard drive!”

“That breaks the tournament record, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, it’s a new record for high-school golf overall.”

“Well, I think we’ve got a pro on our hands,” said Mr. Goodman-Brown, patting Thomas on the back as he spoke.

The moment the ball touched the ground, the crowd went wild. Connor made his way back to the green, while Christian, hanging his head lower than usual, walked into the collective embrace of the adoring crowd. Of course, Connor fumbled the next shot, and the one after that, and the one after that. The twelfth hole took him seven strokes to complete. It took Christian three.

“What a debacle for Connor Wirth,” said Valentin. “It looks like he’s just lost his mental edge.”

Over the next few holes, Connor didn’t just lose to Christian; he was humiliated. His balls caught every sand trap, hit every tree, fell into every puddle. Every putt took four or fives tries. On several occasions, he didn’t even finish a hole, since Christian had already won. Once, he actually missed the ball with his club, sending a huge chunk of grass and dirt into the air. In the end, Christian won the game with three holes left unplayed, and Connor was thankful to be done with the day.

Mrs. Wirth was speechless. “What the hell just happened to my boy?” she said.

“No big deal, Genevieve,” Mr. Goodman-Brown said. “You win some; you lose some.”

“He
was
looking listless at practice,” said Madame Vileroy, appearing out of nowhere. “Maybe you should see a doctor after all.”

“But he was doing so well! Why did he suddenly choke like that? I just can’t figure it out,” said Mrs. Wirth, in a rare moment without an explanation.

“Now, don’t say that, Genevieve. The boy will feel bad.”

“Don’t feel bad,” whispered Madame Vileroy as Christian walked off the green.

“I feel bad,” said Christian.

“Don’t,” said Vileroy. “You deserve it.”

“I stole it.”

“If you don’t get caught, you deserve everything you steal.”

Though Christian had stolen the show at the Hampshire Club, the biggest surprise came when the crowd walked into the clubhouse, expecting a beautifully arranged banquet. Instead they found tables turned over with plates broken on the floor, streamers hanging sadly, tufts of hair, and what looked like a torn drape speckled with blood. It looked as if someone had taken a perfectly decorated room and blown it up. No one ever got a straight story out of the Student Council as to why the room had been destroyed. If anyone ever mentioned it, Lucy would just mumble something about brain surgery, and Victoria would only say “ho-bag.”