Another Faust Page 3

  At the annual Wirth family Christmas Eve dinner, three hundred overdressed partygoers were mingling in a room decorated with fresh flowers and a forest of candles. Around the room stood several Christmas trees hung with decorations and banked by heavy presents.

  Adorned in lush shades of green and gold and illuminated by sparkling tables covered with winter flowers, the ballroom was one of New York’s finest. On one side of the room, windows reached from floor to ceiling, and through a rich layer of silk, the partygoers could gaze at the New York skyline, almost obscured by a soft, thick dusting of snow. New in town but already on every guest list, Nicola Vileroy slid across the room, seemingly everywhere at once.

  She had arrived at the party with her pack of five teenagers — all striking and strange. When they stood at the entrance, every conversation had halted, replaced by craning necks and fascinated whispers. Mrs. Wirth, the hostess, and Mrs. Spencer, her best friend, stared from across several tables. Mrs. Spencer, the taller of the two, had to lean down to whisper to her friend, the slightly portly, bottle-blond maven of New York society. Though she was several years younger (and far prettier), Mrs. Spencer instructed Mrs. Wirth like a child. Once directed toward the newcomers, the hostess squinted her over-lined eyes until her pupils disappeared behind a curtain of green eye shadow. Mrs. Spencer tucked a shiny brown curl into her elegant twist and grabbed Mrs. Wirth’s pudgy arm. The five teenagers stood around Madame Vileroy, surveying the room.

  “Who’s that?” asked Mrs. Spencer, eyeing the beautiful governess.

  “Oh, that’s Madame Vileroy,” Mrs. Wirth replied. “I met her last week. She’s French.” Mrs. Wirth was impressed with all things French.

  “And the kids?” Particularly interesting was the tall, gorgeous blonde, standing by Vileroy’s side, wearing a shimmery red dress that changed shades in every light. She was the most beautiful girl in the room, even among the adults — and the semi-adult trophy wives of certain bankers.

  “They’re hers,” Mrs. Wirth replied. “All fifteen years old. I assume they’re adopted.”

  “And you met her last week?”

  “She was with her daughter. The tall, blond one.” Mrs. Wirth took another sip of her champagne.

  Lurking behind the beautiful one was another young girl, with raven hair and a mole on her upper lip. She was much shorter, which seemed fitting, since she seemed to be looking for a place to hide. She wore a tiny old-fashioned clip in her hair but looked younger than the others. The only bit of resemblance between any of the children was the way this girl’s blue-green eyes matched those of the blonde. Despite their other differences in appearance, their eyes were identical.

  “But you finalized your invitation list months ago,” objected Mrs. Spencer.

  “Oh, yes, it was the strangest thing.”

  Mrs. Spencer squinted at her friend. “You never give out last-minute invitations. Last year you wouldn’t give an invitation to that woman who donated a wing to Marlowe.”

  “Yes, well, I was out to lunch with a few friends, and we sort of collided with her, I suppose. I felt . . . compelled to invite her.”

  “But you refused to invite my sister when she was visiting for cancer treatment.”

  “I know,” Mrs. Wirth mused. “I just like her.”

  “And you didn’t invite your sister-in-law.”

  “I thought I made it clear that I happen to like this person.”

  Mrs. Spencer laughed, and then abruptly stopped laughing.

  “Well, she must be their nanny or something. It can’t be adoption. Who adopts five teenagers?”

  “Honestly, does it really matter?”

  “You must be curious. They are your friends now,” said Mrs. Spencer with a hint of sarcasm. Mrs. Wirth decided to ignore her jealous friend.

  “I do know one thing. They’re going to Marlowe.”

  “What?”

  “Is that important?” Mrs. Wirth asked with that ever-clueless expression that annoyed Mrs. Spencer so much.

  “Yes! Five kids moving here with their nanny in the middle of the year, suddenly gaining spots at the most selective school in the city — they must be special, or astronomically wealthy, or prodigies. They’re competition, Genevieve. I swear, you’re so naive.”

  “You’re so paranoid.”

  “Well, I’m going to find out more,” said Mrs. Spencer.

  “Nicola! Welcome,” said Mrs. Wirth as she held out her hands to Madame Vileroy, who nodded as she removed her gloves. Mrs. Spencer glanced curiously over Madame Vileroy’s shoulder toward the children but was afraid to speak since the governess had not yet made a sound. Vileroy’s quartered eye, though smiling and a tranquilizing blue, made them shrink back and squint, then lean in to look closer, wondering if this was some new trend in contact lenses.

  “Would you like to meet my children?” offered Madame Vileroy. The two ladies nodded like pups. Mrs. Spencer made a motion to move toward the blonde, but something kept her back. It was a sickly sweet smell, like vomit and honeysuckle. When she looked up, Madame Vileroy was introducing a muscular boy with a thick jaw and reddish hair. He looked shy and stood with his head down. He had a dull, melancholy look on his face, and he stayed close to his nervous sister, the shorter one with the mole and raven hair, as if he were her protector and she were his pet.

  “This is Christian,” said Madame Vileroy, waving the athletic redhead forward.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the boy. Without smiling, he extended his hand.

  “Christian Vileroy,” said Mrs. Spencer as she took his hand after Mrs. Wirth.

  “Faust, actually,” said Christian blankly, never really making eye contact. “Christian Faust.” He repeated his new name, the name Madame Vileroy had given them.

  Mrs. Wirth and Mrs. Spencer glanced at each other. Nanny, then. She must be the nanny.

  Madame Vileroy then looked over at a serious-looking brunette with a head full of tidy, brown waves and a calculating face. The girl stepped forward enthusiastically. She was wearing a long-sleeved velvety dress, glasses, and a gold necklace with the letter V at the center. Somehow, she gave the impression that she was vying to position herself close to Madame Vileroy.

  “Victoria Faust,” said the girl while scanning everything and everyone in sight. Mrs. Spencer was about to make a comment when another one of the children stepped forward. He was thin with high cheekbones and long eyelashes as black as ink and feathered like a quill. His blond hair was curled in tight couplets, and he had deep dimples in both cheeks. He had a smile on his face that was both sweet and probing, the kind of smile that would have been disconcerting if he were older, or less handsome.

  “I’m Valentin. Thank you for inviting us,” he said, smiling his charming, dimpled smile.

  Mrs. Wirth suddenly felt guilty for gossiping about them. Then, as Valentin’s smile changed, becoming more intense and less childlike, she felt a bit exposed. He cast a glance at her dress, with the confidence of a fully grown man, and suddenly she felt a little naked.

  “You’re very welcome, dear . . . and your . . . um . . . sister?” She figured that this was a safe assumption at this point. Valentin grabbed the hand of his raven-haired sister, who was still hiding behind Christian, and said, “This is Bicé.”

  When he saw that his sister’s eyes seemed to be glazing over, he gave her a small nudge in the ribs. She gave an eerie nervous laugh and extended her hand.

  “And of course, the lovely Belle,” said Mrs. Wirth, eyeing the tall blonde she had met at the restaurant.

  The girl stepped forward, nodded at Mrs. Wirth, and shook Mrs. Spencer’s hand. Mrs. Spencer suddenly felt the contents of her stomach rising in her throat. She swallowed hard.

  “H-hello,” she said with a short smile before taking an unnaturally large step backward. Feeling rather dizzy and revolted, she glanced back at Belle, who was now staring at the floor and had taken a step back too. Was that smell coming from her? Mrs. Spencer was curious, but not curious enoug
h to step any closer. It was the strangest smell, like something dirty bathed in citrus air freshener. Meanwhile, Mrs. Wirth seemed not to notice at all. She was chatting with Madame Vileroy and trying to get more information about the family. As they moved farther inside and gave their coats to one of the doormen, Mrs. Spencer regained her composure and brought up the subject of school.

  “I understand the children are starting at Marlowe after the holidays.”

  “Yes,” answered Madame Vileroy.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone being admitted midyear. . . .”

  “These children are quite exceptional.”

  “Really? Well, I’m sure you know that most students at Marlowe are exceptional.”

  “I’m sure,” said Madame Vileroy.

  “Then how are yours different?”

  “To start, Bicé speaks twenty-three languages.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Would you like a demonstration?”

  Bicé emerged from nowhere and opened her mouth to speak when Mrs. Wirth, shaking off her stunned silence, jumped in.

  “Oh, let’s not get into school discussions now, ladies. We’d all rather enjoy the party.”

  She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and gave it to Madame Vileroy.

  “Merci,” said Madame Vileroy with a satisfied smile.

  After Mrs. Wirth and Mrs. Spencer had gone to greet more guests, Madame Vileroy pulled her children close to her. They gathered around as she looked at them proudly. “My precious children,” she said, “I want you to have fun tonight. I have a surprise for you when we get home.”

  She gave each of them an unnerving saccharine smile. From across the room, she looked the very picture of innocence, a loving mother. In fact, Madame Vileroy wasn’t so unlike other mothers. Like them, she had big plans for her children. She wanted to give them the things they desired. She wanted them to be successful and to remain heedful of the lessons she had taught them. But she wanted so much more from these five children. She had chosen them for their potential, for their willingness, and most of all, for their weaknesses. In this, she was very unlike most mothers, who love their children even for their flaws and frailties, because Madame Vileroy loved only the weaknesses themselves. She loved Belle’s hatred of her own true self. She loved Victoria’s blind hunger for power and Valentin’s quest for importance. She even loved Christian’s dual nature, with ever-competing desires that left him always fighting with himself. And Bicé, well . . . perhaps with time, the governess would uncover some frailty to love. After all, Madame Vileroy was an extremely skilled governess, and she specialized in these very weaknesses.

  The kids turned and dispersed into the party. Christian and Valentin trotted up to a table of food, cracking jokes with each other. Belle, who already had a few admirers staring at her from various corners of the room, sauntered casually to the bar. Victoria glanced at the mingling circles of young people, wondering which ones would be the most useful. As they scattered, Bicé’s eyes followed them, though her feet didn’t move. She stood alone in the entranceway, like a turtle without its shell, avoiding the eyes of any of the teenagers looking her way. Gone was the confident Bicé of Rome, even the happy Bicé in the cabin. This Bicé was only scared — and mad at Belle for leaving her here. She fidgeted a bit, chewing her nails and glancing at her feet. More than anything, this Bicé was scared of new people — so unlike the way she had been only five years before. As more and more groups took notice of her, her hands folded in front, her shoulders drooping, Bicé began to sway back and forth, as if she were trying to create enough momentum to run out of there.

  A group of trendy-looking sixteen-year-olds stood close by, whispering to one another in hushed tones and glancing over their shoulders. Once in a while, one would say something to make them all laugh out loud. Bicé shrank into herself. The entranceway felt like a stadium, a huge open space, with no protection in sight. She turned to leave, only to run straight into a coat checker, who dropped an armful of coats and hangers. The teenagers cackled as Bicé tried to apologize and help the young man, who brushed her away. She stood there, on the verge of tears, when a confident-looking brunette shushed her friends, broke from the crowd, and walked over, all the while trying to stifle her laughter.

  “Here, take this.” The girl handed Bicé a champagne glass filled with sparkling cider. Bicé turned around just in time to grab the glass.

  “I’m Lucy Spencer,” the girl said while casting backward glances to her friends.

  “Hi, Lucy,” said Bicé, confused and thankful. Her eyes darted back to the group of teenagers, afraid that this was some kind of prank. Meanwhile, Lucy was already walking toward the center of the room, almost expecting Bicé to follow.

  “Bicé, is it? Wanna go sample the sushi bar? It’s from Nobu.”

  Bicé nodded. “What’s Nobu?” she asked, and Lucy thought how naive and uncultured this poor girl must be, while Bicé tried to pinpoint Nobu among the dozen Japanese cities she had visited. It must be near Hakone, she thought.

  “I’ll introduce you to my best friend, Charlotte,” Lucy said almost distractedly, and then she moved on to the main point: wheedling information. “Do you go to Marlowe?”

  Bicé nodded again. She didn’t quite remember.

  “Are you going to the school play?”

  Bicé shrugged. “I guess so. . . .”

  “Then you might meet her,” said Lucy. “She wrote it, you know.”

  Just then, Victoria came pouncing toward them, both eyes strictly fixed on Lucy.

  Bicé blanched. Victoria could always be counted on to say something embarrassing.

  “So you’re that girl that’s been top of the class for three years?” said Victoria with her arms crossed. When a confused look appeared on Lucy’s face, Victoria added, “There was a list on the Internet.”

  Bicé sighed.

  “Yeah, so?” Lucy said, almost defensively. Bicé stood by, trying the sushi and not saying a word. Unlike Victoria, Bicé hated conflict, and it wasn’t as if she wanted a new friend all that much. She just wanted to get through the party.

  “And what does it take? To be the best at Marlowe,” asked Victoria.

  “Just the best GPA, I guess. Same as everywhere else,” said Lucy.

  “What’s your GPA?”

  “What?” Lucy almost choked on her drink.

  “Victoria! Don’t start, OK?” Bicé begged. It was hard to remember the last time anyone outside the family had shown any interest in her — and now Vic was wrecking it.

  “That’s OK. You don’t have to tell me. I just want to know how it all works,” said Victoria.

  “Oh, well, it’s just the standard five-point system. You can get up to five points for advanced classes and up to four points for regular.”

  “Right . . . OK, then . . . we know how it works,” said Bicé, hoping Victoria would go away.

  “I bet there’re a lot of people with a solid five, then,” said Victoria.

  Lucy took another sip of her drink. “Oh, no. It’s not possible to get a five on average. Even people who win the Marlowe Prize never get that high. Everyone has to take a health class and phys. ed., and both of those are only worth four.”

  “Tragic . . .” Bicé mumbled.

  “Huh,” Victoria said, pretending she found it all to be very much beneath her. “What about college?”

  “What about college?” Lucy was obviously starting to get annoyed with all the questions.

  “At my last school,” said Victoria, “most of the kids went to Harvard, except for the ones that went abroad.”

  “Marlowe is the best school in the country,” Lucy said. “The kids go wherever they want.”

  “See, Vic? People go wherever . . .” Bicé jumped in. “Lucy, I’m sure Vic appreciates all this help. Now, moving on . . .”

  “Hush, Bicé.” Victoria didn’t even bother to look at Bicé as she spoke. She gave Lucy a challenging look. “I bet I can get a perfec
t 5.0.”

  “Then I hope you have lupus, because otherwise you’re not getting out of gym,” said Lucy. “And even Michael Jordan wouldn’t get more than 4.0 in gym.”

  “At my last school,” said Victoria, “there was this one adviser that you had to know to have any kind of a shot at the best colleges.”

  “It’s not like that here,” said Lucy, growing a bit hostile. “Everyone gets a good counselor. They’re assigned. Look, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “Excuse you? I don’t care where you go. I was just making conversation,” Victoria said, her arms still crossed.

  Victoria was never very good at keeping people in a conversation. She could be sweet when she tried. But when she wanted information, she had a way of making people feel more guarded, violated — and not just because she asked the most prying questions. She didn’t mind if they thought her rude and didn’t answer. It was enough for her just to ask. She kept Lucy talking for five minutes more, and she found out a lot more than Lucy suspected. She found out that Lucy was a very unhappy girl, pushing herself almost as hard as Victoria, not because she wanted to but because her mother, Mrs. Spencer, didn’t think her daughter was worth much without a name-brand résumé. Lucy and Victoria were a lot alike. She found out that Lucy was running for class president and that she was working on a big paper to impress Ms. LeMieux, one of the college counselors at Marlowe — because at Marlowe, it really was like that.

  Ms. LeMieux had gone to Yale and had been in the Yale admissions office. Everyone thought a letter from her was a ticket into the Ivy League. Ms. LeMieux knew this and used it to her advantage. She was a boastful and unkind woman who showed blatant favoritism and used her students to boost her social position. Most of the students at Marlowe hated her, but everyone pretended they were close to her. For that reason, this unfashionable, unlikable woman’s favor had become a must-have for the overachieving kids at Marlowe.

  Victoria knew all this not because Lucy had told her any of it. In fact, Lucy had gone out of her way to hide most of it. But that didn’t matter, because Victoria knew how to cheat. Or that’s what Madame Vileroy called it. Cheating. Whenever Lucy would look away or into her drink, wondering how to answer, Victoria would peer deeper, boring into Lucy’s mind for her inner dialogue — one that Victoria could hear just as well as any spoken exchange.