BOOK TWO

I

"I'm going to say it again, slowly." I squeeze the receiver and remind myself not to scream. This conversation is not going well. "I request that you put a stop to the kind of parties certain seniors in high school hold at your hotel several times each year."

The woman on the other end of the line sighs. "And I am telling you that unless they are minors and you are their parent or guardian, there's nothing I can do about it. Hotel policy—"

"Have you never heard of date rape?" I interrupt with what I hope will finally get her attention. "Underage drinking? Drug abuse? Laws are being broken here."

"Listen, kid." Kid? "If you know a crime has been committed, you need to call the police about it."

"I have. The police aren't interested in prevention. They think I've got a personal problem."

"I can see why they would."

That does it. "Fine." I hang up before my temper gets the better of me. I'll have to deal with this another way.

My open books lay abandoned on the lab's familiar, yellow countertops. It's useless. I know I won't be able to concentrate until I've dealt with this. I'm pacing, mumbling, angry—more angry with myself than the manager of Flourdel's. I don't know what to do. My mind won't quit spinning webs. I can't bear to stay in the lab a second longer.

I walk through the halls with my head down, thinking I'll ask Valentine what he would do about this. Valentine will be in the band room, playing the marimba far better than any hearing person could. I'll go see him, listen to whatever he's practicing. It always calms me to hear him practice.

Then a voice stops me cold.

"Hey," she says. She doesn't know my name. Of course, she doesn't know my name. I stop, but I don't dare look up. "I'm looking for the band room. I need a tambourine. They said I'd find one there, but I think I got turned around."

I look up. Bad, bad idea. Because she's standing in front of me with her arms folded across her chest and her hair falling over her shoulders and her dark eyes trained on me. She is a neutron star in our binary system, orbiting me, steadily sucking parts of me away until there isn't anything recognizable left. And how do I know this? What is my evidence? Easy. Right now, the only thought in my head is that this meeting must be fate.

Fate. How stupid. How ignorant is that? And I suppose next I'm going to decide that just because I've never felt this way about another human being, just because she and I were both headed to the band room at the same time, she must be my destiny. As though some sentient being were watching over the entire cosmos and determined that this girl and I were meant to be together at this moment. I absolutely hate myself for these thoughts. They aren't like me, not remotely.

Esmeralda arches a brow, and I realize I'm just staring at her like an idiot. Because that's what I am now, apparently. "It's this way," I say, and I lead her in the direction I was already headed. It is physically painful to turn my eyes away from her.

Valentine is right where I expected him to be, just rolling the instrument back into the storage closet. Jackie prods him to alert him to our presence, and he turns with a smile and a wave. His smile broadens enormously as soon as he sees who is standing behind me.

"She wants a tambourine," I sign, and Valentine is running to find one before I even finish getting the word out.

Esmeralda backs away from Valentine's overwhelming enthusiasm as he offers the tambourine to her. His entire crooked head turns as red as his hair when he sees he's frightened her. I want to be angry with her for upsetting him, but I can't. Especially not now that she's laughing at herself and taking the tambourine from him with her deft, little hands.

And here's the moment where my world catches fire because she doesn't say thank you to him; she signs it.

There are a number of reasonable reactions I could have to this exchange. This isn't one of them. I am bitter and sick. I would laugh at myself, at the very idea that I might be jealous of Valentine, but I can't. I can't laugh or do anything other than stare after Esmeralda in utter horror as she kisses him on the cheek and flits out of the band room like some elusive honeybee.

This now qualifies as an existential crisis.