Chemistry by Jodi Lamm Page B

drop.
    Peter smiles warily. “Don’t we all?”
    “And I do worry about you. I know I shouldn’t, but you, Gene, and Valentine are all the family I have. I mean we’ve always looked out for each other, haven’t we?”
    He nods. Though, if we were being honest, I’m sure Peter and I would agree that Gene looks out for no one but himself.
    “Anyway, I’ve just heard some things about that girl. The last thing I want is for you to end up with a broken heart.” Good, Claude. Turn it around. You’re only concerned with his well-being, as always. This is not your unhealthy obsession over a girl you barely know. Not at all.
    “You don’t have to worry about that.” Peter starts righting Phoebus’ trophies, which makes me cringe. I would rather break them all and leave them as evidence of this most likely unsanctioned party. “Em’s got her heart set on only one person, and it’s not me.”
    “She does?” I wish my heart would beat more discreetly. “Who?”
    Peter grins. “Oh, you’ll like this. If you really think she’s as awful as all that, you’ll say he more than deserves her.”
    “Peter.” I dig my fingernails into my palms in order to keep from screaming. “Who is it?”
    “It’s Phoebus.” He laughs like this is some sort of joke.
    “She likes Phoebus?” I think I hear my insides burst. “How do you know?”
    “Well,” he says, “whose name do you think we spent all last week teaching Djali to spell with her little tiles?” He sets up the last fallen trophy. Then he unlocks and opens the office door. “Funny, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed it. But who can tell what some girls will like, anyway?” And then he’s gone.
    Silently, I count to twenty as Peter walks away. Then I take the largest of Phoebus’ trophies, break its arms off, and throw it out the window.
    II
    I have always believed most of the world was mentally ill. Now that I’ve determined romantic love to be little more than a mental illness, I’m one hundred percent certain of my initial prognoses. We’re all raving mad, aren’t we? I was sane for a while, and I believed I might accomplish something one day. Now I’m convinced I will die before I’ve done a damn thing. I’ll go to meet my maker, and when He asks me what my successes were, I’ll say, “Successes? I fell in love. The day that happened, any chance I had for meaningful success flew out the window with my sanity and Phoebus’ stupid trophy.”
    Outside, the crowd has dispersed, and as soon as I see why, my heart starts to stutter. Esmeralda is gone. Her blanket still lies in the same spot on the lawn, but it’s conspicuously empty of both girl and goat. Once upon a time, this wouldn’t have bothered me. But I know the awful truth now, or anyway, I imagine I do. And in my imagination, Esmeralda is caught in Phoebus’ arms and in his trap. I can’t do anything but find her and untangle her, not because I want to free the poor hummingbird from that terrible web, but because I want to see her tangled in mine instead.
    I’m not all rotten inside. My motivations may not be pure as a mountain spring, but I’m no monster either. At least, I don’t think I am. Part of me would rather see her free and safe than entangled with either of us. There’s just this… infernal thing in me that won’t stop fighting to have her. But it’s all right just now because, just now, my goals are not conflicted. No matter what I choose to do after, I have to get her away from Phoebus first.
    I push through the crowd and head back into the house. They don’t even see me, which is fine by me. I’m nobody and I accept it, as long as I can, one day, be someone to her.
    On the way up the main staircase, I’m accosted by Lily Darling. I put up my hands to slow our collision. She doesn’t notice me. Her black mascara runs down her bright red cheeks, and she runs right into me. She looks up and sees me for perhaps the first time in her life. And for the first time in my