The Dollhouse Asylum (18 page)

While this one look should be able to melt down ore, Cleo bats her mile-long eyelashes innocently as she turns toward me. “Need a tissue, honey?”

There’s no way in hell Cleo and I might be friends, not unless I can pin those batty eyelashes of hers to her head.

Unsteadily, I move past Marc and Cleo, flounder through the great room and out the front door. It’s raining—God’s crying for me tonight. It’s fitting, really, because both of us need our teardrops to fall. For Him, to save these coarse, dry trees. I need a certain person to stop affecting me.

Staring across the subdivision as the porch lights flicker on each of the men’s homes, a wave of self-pity washes over me as I remember what Cleo said.
She has such a vulnerable shell
. I hate that there’s truth to what she says. Teo likes me because I’ve
always
had this vulnerability. I suppose he’s my Achilles’ heel. I used to pride myself on not letting others change me, but Teo knows how to burrow inside my heart and squeeze. Around him, I’m this pathetic, whimpering child. Fragile. Breakable. Like I’m obsessed with what he thinks. Not because our lives are on the line, but because seeking Teo’s approval has become this sick goal. And I’ve lived this way for so many months, it’s like I need to be rewired. The problem is that I don’t know if I can be. Teo was always there for me, even at the worst. Like when I was stuck riding the city bus to school.

Oh, how I hated riding the city bus to school.

Especially because I had to cover those last few blocks on foot, even when the sky opened up and tried to drown me. And the road, how it smelled—rubber, trash, mud. I used to clutch my bag closed because the zipper had broken, and walk on the shoulder of the road since there were no sidewalks.

One morning, there was this convertible, then a BMW; both swerved around me, spraying puddles on my shirt. I could have turned around to change at home, but that would’ve meant waiting around for the bus, and I couldn’t afford to be late to school again.

Slogging on, I noted the tins of tobacco, condoms, and liquor bottles littering the shoulder of the road. The rain drizzled harder, and I remember wishing I had a friend to wave down, or at least an umbrella.

My bag felt light. Checking inside, I found a gaping hole. While my textbooks clung to the sides, I was missing three of my favorite paperbacks—
Dracula
, an Edgar Allen Poe compilation, and
Jane Eyre
. Heart racing with the rain, I retraced my steps.

By then, the rain wasn’t drizzling, but pelting my pounding head. My hair stuck to my face, my skirt was glued to my legs, and water pooled into my sneakers as I sloshed back to the stop. By the time I found my books strewn across the side of the road, they looked like they’d been dropped into a tub. Retrieving them, I tried wiping them on my skirt, which made
Jane Eyre’s
cover rip.

Blearily, I made my way back to the school, pulled those heavy doors open, and slipped inside. It was clear class had long since begun; the entryway was clean, silent. I tried tiptoeing down the hall, my sneakers
screech-scrunching
against the checkered tile.

I was veering around the corner, aiming for my biology class, when I nearly ran into the school secretary. She had a walking stick and gripped it like she was Moses or Gandalf, wielding the greatest power on Earth. She looked me up and down. “What are you doing out of class?” she asked.

I was obviously soaked and hadn’t even
been
to class, but she didn’t look like she cared. Shifting my books in my hands, I tried stating that I needed to get to my class. But she held out her hands. “Give me this.”

But I didn’t want to give them to her. They were my own copies, and they might tear again while wet.

The secretary tapped her walking stick. “Why are you late?”

I tried making the books disappear into the crook of my arm. “The bus was behind schedule,” I lied, glancing around her to biology, only a few paces past.

“Sorry, but policy is policy,” she said.

I paused, unsure what to do.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to confiscate those until I know you can be on time.”

“What?”

“Your paperbacks.” She pointed. “It’s obvious you care about them, so I would like to hold onto them until you can prove to us that you can be punctual to school.”

What sort of a school
was
this, where even the secretaries were allowed to confiscate items?

I don’t think of myself as a trembly sort of person—my entire school experience prior to this had never given me a reason to shake—but it must have been the anger combined with the rain, because my hands started trembling. I didn’t want to hand them over, I couldn’t hand them over; those books were how I got through lunch, through free time at school.

The secretary ambled closer, reaching out her ancient, chalky, veined hand, when a voice sang out like an instrument, “Why, Miss Laurent, you remembered my books!”

Dazed, I turned. I knew it was my trig teacher’s voice, and when I saw his fluid walk, I knew I was right. The suit coat he normally wore was gone, and his cornflower blue tie flapped up while he walked. Opening up his palms, Teo smiled warmly at me, and thinking of the CD he had made for me, I flung the paperbacks into his hands.

The secretary huffed. “You could have told me they were his books.” I wasn’t watching, but it was only a few seconds before her cane
tap tapped
away from us down the hall.

Feeling like a vulnerable, wet dog, I scrounged around for a “thanks,” but found myself worrying whether or not mascara had run down my face.

But Teo was studying the title of the ripped book. I expected him to frown at the condition of
Jane Eyre
, but instead he said, “I hear Mr. Rochester is more mouthwatering than words.”

“Y-yes,” I laughed, appreciating that he didn’t chastise me for ripping it.

Teo tapped his lean fingers thoughtfully on Mr. Rochester’s book. “I have an affinity for the classics. It pains me to see them wet. Would it be too much for me to ask to air them out?” He glanced down at
Jane Eyre
. “And get this one fixed?”

It’s impossible to say what it was—the rain, the bus, or the secretary snatching at my books—but the way Teo pled, like
I
was the one helping him out, made the tears I was holding back tremor frantically inside my eyelids.

Turning away before he could see, I mumbled a “thank you” before scurrying toward class.

Teo called after me, “Anything to make you happy, Miss Laurent.”

With my hand on the doorknob, I move to step into Bee’s house when footsteps slap the wet pavement and a voice I always recognize calls out.

“Miss Laurent—Persephone!” Teo’s double naming stills my hand. It’s so nice to hear my real name again, I have to turn.

He’s running toward me, fresh rainwater running down his cheeks. The drizzle of God’s teardrops soaks his white shirt through, and I’m left staring at that lean body I’ve come to know so well—those square shoulders and powerfully built legs, like he’s actually a runner but takes too much pleasure in his reading to use them much.

I shouldn’t look.

But it’s impossible to turn away; he’s like a vision from God—tall and shining. Even his white shirt seems to glow beneath the raindrops, and his lips are turning up slightly, like the only thing that can make him this happy is seeing me.

Moving across the porch in two powerful strides, he reaches out his dripping wet arms and wraps them around me. His warm wet shirt bleeds into my dry white dress, and it’s like he’s melting into me. Gently, he weaves his fingers up and down my back, runs his fingers down the side of my face, and even with all this touching, I can barely feel a thing.

But then he’s holding me closer, pressing his leg into my own, and my thigh feels like it’s next to a torch. He’s brushing my hair away from my face, tendrils of fire groping for my eyes, my cheek. He’s whispering to me, “You are my everything.”

My shoulders twitch, and my breath rushes from my chest. I’m tingling inside—I feel like someone’s sprinkled faerie dust inside me. These words—they’re just words. I can’t let them affect me.

I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly running my hand down the length of his face, trying to read those death-black eyes. Does he mean it? He’s further unveiling his feelings. My heart hiccups, my fingers twitch, and I flounder for some way to not care what he thinks.

“You’re trembling!” Teo laughs and pulls me closer into his warm, wet chest; he’s right, because my hands, my lips, my legs—everything’s shaking.

He rubs his hands up and down my arms, lighting little coals within me, and I hate how, in this instant, I too easily remember how I’ve always loved him, how he so frequently saved me from everything.

No
. I back away. No, no, no. This is wrong. I shouldn’t allow myself to be alone with him. He
kills
people. He is the enemy.

But Teo follows me, backs me into the cool wood grain of the front door. Running those slender fingers over my arms, those coals I felt before burn, begin to glow. So I open my mouth, trying to think of a reason why we should go back inside, but he cups the side of my face, and he’s just
looking
at me.

Eyes never more gentle, soft and round, he tells me, “You didn’t tell me you could paint. No one has ever done something like that for me.”

His fingers trail down my jaw, and my stupid girl feelings are cheering.
He likes it! He loves it!
But I tell myself not to be happy. Because this is Teo. I shouldn’t care how he feels. I should be glad that I’ve passed the test, that I’ve earned the vaccine. But then he’s kissing me, and those soft lips are melting into my own, and I’m reminded of those times he looked at me in class, and, when no one was around, how he brushed the hair out of my face.

His mouth is on top of mine, and it’s impossible not to shrink back because his kisses are gentle and slow, like he’s singing to me. His lips gently nudge my own, and when I nudge back, he opens his mouth so I follow him, unable to stop. Ripples of pleasure tear through me, and I may be cast out to the farthest reaches of hell for reveling in everything. I shouldn’t be kissing him; I don’t want to stop kissing him, so I touch his arm, and his strong hand grips me on the back.

It’s like his hand lights me on fire. I’m glowing, breathing shallowly. I shouldn’t be out here with him; I don’t want to be out here with him, but my heart is exploding like it’s been dipped in gasoline. We’re so close; he pushes me against the front door, and I can’t stop feeling his mouth moving over my own. His lips move so tenderly, and then they’re skimming the length of my neck, and when he finds the base of my throat, a gasp rips through me.

I pull away. He’s smiling, but my head is pitched at an odd angle against the front door. I shouldn’t be enjoying it. Not like this.

I think how I can explain. How the way he’s kissing me is both everything I ever wanted and the most horrible thing I have ever experienced. How he’s both much too appealing and poison. That I’m supposed to pretend to love him,
and
learn not to love him. None of this is easy.

I’ve never been very good at lying, so I let one word follow the other. Tell him truths without letting him know all the lies. “You’re fire,” I choke out, unable to deny the forest fire raging within me. “You are ice,” I say because I’m visibly shaking. “You’re smooth and dark and so much more than I can express. Teo,” my voice cracks, “you are destroying me.”

Teo’s somber eyes watch my lips quake, and an emotion I’ve never seen in him before wakes; his eyes are still dark, but soft around the edges, sad but smiling. I know that expression—Teo Richardson is empathizing with me. Reaching for me, he again cups the side of my face. “Let’s get you inside,” he murmurs, smiling. “There’s something I need to tell you,” and I haven’t a clue what that means.

Tucking my hand into the crook of his arm, he steers me through the door, and though there’s a party, Teo silently leads me past the couples, the hardwood floors sprinkled with their shifting feet. Keeping my eyes fastened on the chocolate-colored floor, I don’t look up at any of them. Because I know Teo’s kisses are painted on my face, and Marcus, Izzy, Ana, and everyone else will see the brushstrokes across my cheeks.

I’ve just reached the hall when Izzy, eyes wide, plants herself right in front of me. “Take some of these!” She beams at me, handing me a couple of plates of ham, bread, and cheese. “The fondue is delicious, and you haven’t gotten any,” she adds, smiling.

I take the plates from Izzy, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. Surely she will detect the traitorous kisses on me.

But Izzy’s smile doesn’t falter, and Teo takes the plates from me. “Thank you, Izzy,” he says, almost gallantly.

I don’t believe I’ve ever heard Teo thank someone without being ironic. Forcing my breaths to even out, I let him steer me down the hall to my bedroom, barely acknowledging the painted vines and cracks on Bee’s walls, or the fact that I still like him touching me.

Once inside my bedroom, Teo releases my arm, gesturing ahead. “Jonas brought these for you.”

Feeling my skin cool where he just removed his hand, I spot the stacks of dresses perched neatly on my bed. No,
Bee’s
bed. Teo has forced every single one of us to come here, and this moment when he is gracious and kind is merely a precursor to something else.

“Well, what do you think?” Teo asks, holding the plates of food. There isn’t anywhere to put them since I moved Bee’s dresser by the front door to block the painted vines on the walls. What do I think? I think I need to find a guillotine. Because what I’ve just done outside means I’m beyond repair. There’s no rewiring me.

But Teo’s expecting a response, so I give him some words. “It’s too much.” I try to smile but I don’t. He’s lathering me up with too many dresses, and I shouldn’t be finding the gesture sweet. I stalk over to the nearest stack, pick up the first dress and hold it up to me. It’s blue with long strips of ribbon that make up the skirt and shimmers in the light. I think it’s pretty, naturally.