III

The cafeteria is a hyperactive swarm of students. They've just gotten out of the assembly, and none of them can go to class until they've thoroughly discussed all the goings-on I'm so glad I missed. Peter and I pick a spot on the wall for his banner—somewhere far away from Phoebus' red and pink monstrosity, so Peter doesn't have to compete, not that there would be any competition. Then we sit down at one end of a long, blue table.

And here come the usual empty-headed girls who have a fetish for "seducing the priest." Hint: I'm the priest. It's true I've never had an interest in dating, so I guess Peter wasn't entirely off base about me. I just wish he'd keep quiet about it because a certain class of female sees my indifference as a personal challenge. After all, if they can get my attention, who won't want them, right? And they do get my attention, sometimes. I don't deny they're aesthetically pleasing. But the second they open their mouths, I would give anything to make them disappear.

"What's up, Claude?" A department-store blonde sits across from me and leans on her elbows until I can see right down her shirt to her lacey, pink bra. I am one hundred percent certain she's doing this on purpose. "Did you hear the news?"

Her far more sultry friend squeezes in next to me, although the entire table is free. "Hey, are you still doing the Chem. thing after classes?"

"Yes," I say. Another name on the list is fine with me. She won't show up, and that's exactly how I want it.

Peter looks up and then down again. He's busy rambling on paper and can't be bothered with my minor annoyances. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn't have more in common with me than he's letting on. On the other hand, I think he just doesn't want to put effort into anything other than his art, and that includes a potential relationship. I have no doubt if these two gossips were to ask him what he was writing, he would burn with passion as he explained it to them, most likely using words far bigger than the poor things are capable of understanding. But he's not the priest, so they don't care about him.

The blonde isn't about to let her friend get all my highly valued derision. "I mean have you seen Valentine yet?" she says.

Everyone calls him Valentine now. And everyone knows who he is, although few people ever talk to him. I shake my head, and the girl giggles.

"He got voted in!" she says, like it's the punch line to a joke she's been setting up all this time.

Her friend's leg brushes against mine. I wish she would back off. She smells like fake strawberries, and I'm trying not to gag. "Chelsea nominated him," she says, half proud, half accusing. She's leaving herself open to respond to my reaction, depending on what that is.

Now I'm curious. "Nominated him?"

"For the Valentine's Dance King," the blonde says. "Appropriate, don't you think?"

I'm sure I look dog-sick all of a sudden because the sultry girl backs away a little. The Valentine's Day Dance has become a kind of prom for non-seniors. Students are allowed to vote on a king and queen of the dance. It's our school's version of a Junior Prom, merged with the Valentine's Day Dance for the budget's sake. The idea is to discourage non-seniors from crashing the Senior Prom by giving them their own private dance. It doesn't work.

Valentine is a sophomore, but I can't believe they nominated him, and even more than that, I can't believe they voted for him. It's not that I don't want him to have any fun. It's just… Well, it's Valentine. And I don't know how to say this without sounding like a dick, but he's ugly. Real ugly. And I don't mean your usual, run-of-the-mill, unattractive guy. His face is so disfigured he can't see out one eye, his mouth is huge, his teeth stick out, his spine is more than a little messed up, and his legs are shaped like an open pair of scissors. He looks like a Picasso portrait, I'm telling you. And he doesn't talk. Ever. All last year I worked with him on his speech because he begged me to help him improve his accent. But the first time he tried to talk to someone, they asked him whether he rode the short bus in grade school, and he just gave up. He hasn't spoken to a soul since. So you see why I don't believe they actually voted him in.

Peter looks up from his newest epic. "Who got queen?"

Before either girl can answer, we're drowned in the noise of the procession. Yes, procession. And I can't believe what I see when I turn around because there, perched on the shoulders of two enormous football players, is Valentine. He's got this confused look in his eye that doesn't quite go with the half-smile he's wearing on his face and the ridiculous paper crown he's wearing on his head.

Damn them to hell. They're mocking him. He doesn't know it yet, but they're mocking him, and I'm going to have to be the one to tell him. I wonder whether it would be a good idea to buy him a copy of Carrie. Probably not.

I stand up, stunned that an entire group of people would be this cruel to someone who'd done nothing to provoke them, and I'm about to have words with the whole school, when my attention is taken completely by the appearance of the queen. I hear her name murmured by everyone around me.

"Esmeralda," they whisper, like it's a holy word or a prayer, like it's a secret so precious, no one could say it louder even if they wanted to. When I see her face, I've got to admit I get it. And I hear my own voice mutter her name before I can stop myself.

She is perfect, like the angel on top of a Christmas tree. She has long, black hair; a coy, pouting expression; and a lithe, little body that looks every bit as dangerous as it is fragile. To top it off, she's livid. Unlike Valentine, she gets the joke and she hates it. She pulls the stupid crown from her head, crumples it into a ball, and throws it over her shoulder while everyone cheers.

I try to snap out of it, free myself from this spell, notice something other than her. But I can't. She's perfect. Absolutely perfect.

One of the gossips behind me taps my shoulder, but I don't turn around. I don't do anything but stare at Esmeralda, who notices how I'm watching her. And still I can't stop. Even as the corners of her perfect mouth turn down, even as her eyes narrow in suspicion and anger, I can only watch. She hates me. I don't know why she hates me, but she does, without a doubt. And suddenly I realize how insane it is that this actually bothers me.

It isn't until Esmeralda leaves the vicinity that I notice Valentine has been waving his big, ugly hand back and forth in my field of vision. When I finally acknowledge him, he signs something that basically means, "What the hell?"

I shrug and sign, "Sorry."

But he's already forgiven me. "I guess I have to go to the dance now," he signs, and he pats his thigh to call Jackie, his certified hearing ear dog, back to his side. Jackie is a great, slobbering, tangle of fur, and she was worth every penny I spent on her. No one else could have done as much to renew Valentine's sense of self worth.

"You don't have to go anywhere," I remind him. "Don't let them push you around."

"I can't dance," he signs.

"Neither can I."

"But they voted for me, so I have to go."

"No."

"If I don't go, Esmeralda will be alone."

So here's the crux of the matter. I want to explain to him that this is not how these things work. She is not his date. She doesn't care about him. More than likely, she's disturbed by him and afraid of him, but I can't bring myself to tell him these things in public. It isn't that I'm worried others might read my signs. Valentine and I don't use your everyday ASL. What we use is a kind of sign-slang that we developed between us. No one else can read it. That's the beauty of Valentine and I: we are an island in the crowd. But I don't want him to react in front of his peers. I don't want them to see the disappointment in his face or the humiliation he'll no doubt suffer. No, I'll tell him everything when we get home today. Then he can cry and sleep it off and face the world with a little more dignity tomorrow, when he will undoubtedly refuse the crown of thorns they've offered him.