The Dollhouse Asylum (17 page)

I stare at the painted arches, the vines and the cracks—all reminders of Bee. Part of me wonders if painting over Bee’s story is disregarding her existence, but I don’t think so. Thisbe wasn’t even her real name. She had an entire life apart from this. Keeping this shrine untouched somehow soils her name. Even so, I hesitate. “You don’t think Teo will be mad?”

Marcus shrugs. “It’s possible.”

“Thanks a lot for your help,” I groan.

“No problem,” Marcus says, like he knew his answer would sweep me off my feet. He can be so overly confident, like he’s just fixed my entire life. Which he has, but I wish he didn’t know that.

“Paint brush?” I hold out my hand.

A funny expression creeps onto Marcus’s face. He looks like he’s about to say something, but he changes his mind, digs deeper into his pocket instead. “Here,” he says, handing me a brush before practically bolting for the door. “Good luck painting. I’d wait ‘til it’s light.” He means to walk away, but I stop him.

“Marc?”

He turns back.

“Do you really think we can beat Teo at his own game?”

Marcus chomps on his answer, and I imagine he’s construing how many ways he can say, “No.” I could make my own list, but I’d rather err on the hopeful side. With the tragedies we’ve already witnessed at Elysian Fields, I’m searching for the smallest hope, but I need Marcus to tell me, logically, that it will be okay.

“It all comes down to strategy,” Marcus says. “As I see it, we have two paths to explore: escape, or find a loophole inside. I’ll focus on the fence—you’re hosting the ‘soirée’ tomorrow night. But you can wine ‘n’ dine Teo the way he likes, earn the vaccine, and all the while be scheming how to best him.”

I’m not sure what he means. My confusion must be evident on my face, because Marcus adds, “Just watch for your moment. I think he cares for you too much to do away with you like he did Bee.”

Marc’s reminder of her sends shivers down my arms and legs as my mind keeps repeating the awful sound of her screams. The confusion. The fact that I helped Teo tell the story from the start. Teo “did away” with Bee, and I helped him. I helped him wipe her and Ramus from the earth.

Marcus steps forward and cups my elbow in his palm. I feel the rough callouses of his hands, and I would take this a million times over Teo’s seahorse grip. It’s comforting and steady. Teo doesn’t touch me without an agenda bubbling up somewhere in his mind.

“You know my brother’s smart, but you’re smart, too. Mix that with your conscience and there’s no stopping what you can do.” I giggle as he mumbles something indiscernible under his breath. “I sound like a frickin’ Dr. Seuss book.”

I laugh some more, and Marcus presses his finger to his lips, so I cover my mouth. He’s laughing silently, too, his blue eyes dancing in the darkness of the night.

I love the feeling between us, this layer of innocence and calm; every day I spent with Marcus would be like building sandcastles on the beach. Which is infinitely better than the fireflies I used to catch with his brother, who no doubt left them in the jar to die.

“Good night,” Marcus says, walking backward several steps, his eyes locked on my own until I can’t make out the familiar tidal wave of blue. Eventually he turns to walk straight ahead. I watch the faint outline of his back, how the moonlight catches snippets of his shirt, and I don’t look away until all I see is darkness. I start to close the door, sad that we’re apart, as Marc sings out my name in the breeze: “Chey-yi-yi-enne.”

It might just be four syllables, nothing to get excited about, but something like hope starts to burrow inside me, and while it’s terrifying, I don’t want it to leave.

At seven o’clock, I pull at my dress, wishing I had something else to wear, especially with the snags my uneven fingernails have made. Why does Cleo seem to have a closetful when I have one dress? Probably something to do with Cleopatra’s role as a queen.

I pass by the counter and straighten a plate layered with ham and bread. I wish my hands would steady themselves again. We’re having fondue for dinner—the ingredients arrived in a basket mid-afternoon—and I got it all ready, perfect, like Mom always did when she entertained her colleagues who also worked for the city.
Don’t let them see the brushstrokes
, she always said. And she didn’t. Her parties never had issues—that’s probably why Mayor Tydal liked her so much. That’s probably why they got back together all the time. They’d break up, Mom would host another one of her gatherings, then he’d fall for her all over again and I’d be stuck with him in my life.

I’m not sure yet how to beat Teo or if he can even be beaten, but I will do what Marcus told me to do: allow my sense of right and wrong to steer me toward ending his reign.

I walk through the living room, and while I didn’t rearrange the furniture—the two white benches make that L-shape, greeting visitors as they walk inside the house—I moved all the plants to my room. For my Persephone theme to work, I think I need to abolish the Thisbe and Pyramus story and start my own. I’m not hiding Bee’s memory, merely trying to move past it so we can escape. The lighting from a lamp I brought in from Bee’s bedroom is bright enough to display my painting but dark enough to match my artwork’s tone. The Underworld cast in the light of shadows. I pray Teo doesn’t make me flip on all the lights, because then hiding Thisbe’s tale will be nearly impossible. I didn’t get the chance to cover all the arched windows and leaves on the other walls, though I pushed a tall dresser from Bee’s bedroom in front of a large painted arch and lit candles on the floor under my painting to highlight the main part of the room.

I steal one last glance at my work from this morning painted across the east wall. Persephone’s eyes, darker than my blue, fit the painting well. And Hades’s ebony stubble, on both his head and chin, mirrors Teo’s. Passing between them is that pomegranate. I hope I was right to make Persephone smile. Hades’s portrait works—the sallow, impassive expression almost perfectly mirrors Teo’s face.

I hid a secret in her and my hair—greenery from an olive tree, a symbol for victory—my hope that our confinement in Elysian Fields will not last. A hidden hope inspired by Marcus, the only reason I’m as calm as I am. My fingers may be twitching, my heart may be suffocating inside my chest, but like Marcus said, I can get through this. Just as long as Teo doesn’t freak out that I painted over Bee’s Babylonian theme.

Someone knocks at the door, and I wish I didn’t have to answer—the last thing I want to do is host a soirée. But Marcus and I have decided on a plan—besting Teo and earning the vaccine.

“My dear Persephone,” Teo says when I open the door. I feel much more like Pandora opening her box of chaos than like Persephone, goddess of spring’s bounty. He plucks my heavy hand and brings it to his lips. “Pray, tell me, what is in your hair?”

It’s unnerving how quickly he picked up on the one little rebellion I’d stashed away. I think how to answer him.
It’s pretty, don’t you think? My mom always did fancy things to our hair when we invited guests over
.

Good fortune arrives in the form of Eloise and Abe. Eloise hikes her pilgrim skirt up nearly a foot so she can waddle up the three steps. She grins at me once, revealing a large gap in her front teeth, then moves past the dresser I shoved in front of the painted arches and walks to the great room. Eloise is always smiling—she and Abe never seem to have a complaint about this place. I wonder if she doesn’t mind Teo so much because of something she told me last night—how she’s supposed to marry some old guy her dad picked out once she returns to Hong Kong.
A traditionalist
, she’d called him. It’s amazing the things you can pick up on at the latter end of parties when Teo leaves the room.

I tap Abe on the arm as he passes by Teo and me hovering by the front door. “Thanks for coming,” I tell Abe, then, remembering a comment he made after Eloise and I talked about loving to run, I add, “Have you tried running around the neighborhood? At least on the boys’ half?”

Abe opens his large mouth to answer my question, but Eloise squealing loudly from the great room interrupts him—no doubt she’s found my painted wall.

I usher in the other couples—trying not to stare too obviously at Marc’s arm around Cleo’s waist—before trailing after them to see Eloise, who’s oohing and ahhing over my work.

“Well, what do we have here?” Abe asks from the center of the room, now standing by Eloise, who’s moved on to quietly clapping her hands. I should take this as a compliment, but I remember Eloise only attended Griffin because, as a foreign exchange student, that’s where Bee’s family sent them both.

The other couples drift to their various parts of the room, and I realize they’re beginning a pattern: Ana and Sal drift over to the windows like where they stood at Juliet’s, and Marc and Cleo take over one of the benches instead of the chaise lounge. Luckily for Izzy, there’s another bench for her and Tristan, and the remaining three couples hover together by the food.

The broad smile stretching over Gwen’s face looks like a carbon copy of Juliet’s, like she’s trying to prove to Teo that she loves his world through her grin alone. I picture holding that expression for longer than three seconds and imagine it hurting my face.

Hovering by the staircase again, I feel Teo’s presence beside me—how his breathing is labored and has deepened, almost like the room’s suffocating him and he needs to sit down.

I turn to see why. He’s studying my painting; my breaths quicken. There’s no way my painting can measure up. Artwork takes
years
to perfect; how could I think I could impress him with a few brushstrokes completed in a single morning?

Tilting his head to the side, Teo studies my picture as if considering a piece of art in a museum. He can’t possibly like it. He probably thinks Hades is too much like him—or not enough.

And my technique. He has to know about painting. I’ve never taken an art lesson in my life; how could I have had the audacity to paint his wall? Maybe I should run away while I can, into the still, hot Texan night. But I can’t; when Teo is near me I am cemented to the ground. I hate myself for the fear I feel, that despite all this, I still want to please him. Why isn’t he saying anything? He must hate what I’ve done.

Teo leans in to whisper in my ear, his warm breath tickling my skin. “We shall talk about this tonight.” He spins, his suit tails slapping my hands, and strides out the front door.

Everyone in the room falls silent.

Tears sting my eyes; I won’t let them loose again. Blinking them away, I think of my mother—her strength, how she never cried when Mayor Tydal left, no matter how rejected she felt.

“Thank you for coming, everyone,” I say, mimicking her happy voice, though everyone’s a washed-out blur around the room. “I made fondue,” I force myself to say. “Please, help yourselves in the kitchen. Otherwise, I will eat it all myself.”

Someone chuckles. Abe, I think. What a pleasant boy. He knows how to diffuse tension in a group.

Drifting over to my painting, I crouch down and start rearranging the candles to give my twitching fingers something to do. I try placing them two by two, but that doesn’t work. Two by three by two by three? A varying pattern might be what the room needs. Because the tears stinging in my eyes make me realize I’m not like my mom at all. I still care what Teo thinks.

I glare at the chocolate-colored hardwood floor, forcing the water in my eyes back. I need to suck it up and act more like my mom. A pair of Doc Martens blocks my line of vision and I wish they’d move on, but when the person clears his throat, I look up and find Marcus smiling down on me. Funny, I didn’t know those are the shoes Marcus wears. For some reason I pictured sneakers. I love that he wears this kind.

“Hey, Doodler,” he says with half a smile twitching his upper lip.

I don’t know what it is, but there’s something light about his tone. A lilt, a caress, like he’s wiping the hair out of my eyes after a storm; it makes my face twitch.
No
. It’s so simple for him to call me that and act like we’re normal and safe. He’s so unchanging, confident in all this, and I don’t know what I’m doing. My face twitches again, and the rivers I’ve been holding back flood right over; I have to concentrate not to sob. The last thing I need is a scene.

“Cheyenne?” Marcus’s concern washes over me as he crouches next to me on the floor. Discreetly, he touches my waist. “What’s wrong?” He lowers his voice. “I mean, is he worse than usual tonight?”

I stare at the flickering candles and try to force my hands not to shake, my chest heaving in and out. I had better get a grip on myself before everyone sees. Marcus is right—Teo affects me like salt on ice. I shouldn’t let him bother me—I don’t know
why
I let him bother me—but he does and I can’t help it, and I want that stupid part of me to leave.

I stammer over my words. “I…it’s stupid.” What can I say? There’s something about your brother? I can’t push him out?

Marcus leans into my ear. “It’s perfect, Cheyenne,” and his voice is so soothing and warm. “You just took him by surprise. I don’t think he realized you could paint.”

I’m desperate to believe him, but how does Marcus know that’s how Teo feels? He’s seen his brother’s erratic mood swings, where he can love something one moment then hate it the very next. There’s no telling if or when I will earn the vaccine. I may have sealed my death tonight.

I start to speak again, but Cleo knows just when to step in. Her beads brush Marcus’s face as she worms her arm around his waist. I rub my palms into my eyes and heave in a breath. I don’t need her to see me like this.

“Oh, Marc,” she says. She traces the line of his jaw with her manicured fingernail, and I wish she’d keep her grubby paws to herself, “it’s so nice of you to be there for Number Eight. She has such a vulnerable shell.” I blink back the tears, because no one actually says things like this in real life.

I scramble for something brilliant to spit back in her face, but Marc’s eyes lash out like Teo’s do when he’s mad, only there’s this righteous indignation that flickers along his jaw. I could wrap my arms around Marcus right now.