Desdemona, Tag Cavello [classic literature list TXT] 📗

More pink. Then came a small troupe of different, less popular shades. Black, blue, green, silver.

“Black,” he muttered again. “It’s gotta be black for her.”

He reached for one of the bottles, but froze when his eye caught another shade. It was dark red. Dark as blood. Dante picked up the bottle. OPI Transylvania Cocktail, it read.

The name pleased him. Quite relieved to have this difficult treasure hunt finally end, he went to the counter. A plastic register waited to eat his money. No one stood at its keys, however. A box of charm bracelets rested on an otherwise empty counter. Dante looked over his shoulder in time to see the giggling girls leave. The saleslady who’d smiled earlier was nowhere to be seen.

“Hello!” he called. “Anyone here?”

Morrissey answered from speakers hidden in the ceiling. His girlfriend was in coma; he knew, he knew, it was serious.

But aren’t you gay? Dante thought.

Still no saleslady. He went to each aisle and peered down. Female accessories glimmered everywhere—hair scarves, fishnet gloves, bangle bracelets. All were devoid of human occupation.

No matter, the reasoning voice assured. You can wait. You have time.

Dante, Sunny answered, freckles flaring, my personal best is only about thirty seconds, remember?

“I do,” he said aloud. “And this time, girl, I’m going to take care of you.”

There were two CCTV cameras in the store. Minding them, Dante went back to the nail polish rack. The maneuver was a ruse. He pretended to put the Transylvania Cocktail back, then palmed it instead. When both cameras were turned the other way he dropped the bottle into his pocket and walked out. Mission accomplished.

That was stupid, came the reasoning voice’s disgusted response. I’m ashamed of you.

“Get over it,” Dante said. “Or…don’t. See if I care.”

He visited a few other shops before noon. The mall remained sleepy. Things around here never really picked up until after lunch. Dante went to a toy store, a gift store, a candy kiosk. In none of them did he buy—or steal. He had what he wanted.

On his way back to the fountain he passed a music store that sold CDs and cassette singles. It made him realize something about that reasoning voice, the voice which had, over the past couple hours, fallen utterly silent.

It belonged to Donati.

∞

The day seemed one for killing birds. Once home Dante went directly to his room, sat down, and knocked off the phony love letter to Maris. Only it wasn’t a letter. It was a poem instead. This because, at the last moment, Dante decided the project needed structure and romance. A piercing tip to slay the heart of its target. It came out far more easily than he ever would have dreamed. He’d expected it to take days, weeks even. Instead he got the bones of the thing set up in less than an hour. An hour after that, he had it polished as close to perfection as a young man could hope. All that remained was to run it past Sunny.

Next morning before homeroom he did that very thing.

“Missed you in school yesterday,” she said, slamming her locker door a little too hard.

“I had some shopping to do with my mom.”

“You could have called to tell me that. The girls kept asking me where you were. Like an idiot I had to tell them I didn’t know.”

“Sorry. There was something else that kept me busy,” he added with a smirk before showing her the poem.

She asked what it was at first, then froze, raising her hand to halt all replies. And like the memory of a bad dream which fades at dawn, the anger in her face retreated. Her green eyes widened for a moment; a gasp of air filled her chest. Was that what it looked like? she wanted to know. Was that the letter?

“It’s a poem,” Dante said. “Slight change of plans.”

She gave a whoop and leaped into his arms, bending her knees to let him take all of her weight, which he did with great eagerness, twirling her around before the red faces of a dozen other students.

A million thank-yous followed, all between a million kisses on the cheek. These kisses were soft, breathy, and smelled like cinnamon. Dante accepted them with a willingness for a million more.

“I am really sorry I got mad at you just now,” Sunny gushed after he put her down. “I was just worried. I didn’t know what happened.”

“If I miss school again I won’t be so boneheaded. I’ll call you.”

“Yes! Please, Dante, please.” She plucked the paper from his hand. “My gosh! So this is it!”

“That’s it. Don’t get too excited yet, honey. I need you to proofread.”

“I’m excited! I know it’ll be awesome! You didn’t have to do this, Dante. I said I would write the letter.”

“I actually couldn’t remember which one of us had that job. Just keep in mind when you read it that every word is actually how I feel about you. Otherwise I’d have been totally stumped.”

“Ooh,” she purred. “So this is going to get me excited tonight?”

He took a step closer, closing what little space was left between them. “You’re going to discover a few things, little girl.”

“In that case I won’t read it until I’m in my bedroom.”

“Cross your heart?”

She made as if to follow through, raising the sharp-nailed index finger of her right hand. At that moment Mr. Wolfe poked his head into the hallway. It was time for class, he told everyone, all chatter needed to cease, all locker doors needed to be closed. Sunny put the poem into her bag, with a second promise not to touch it until after dinner. She also told him not to worry about how they would engage the school. He’d done enough, she said, or almost enough. There was still the issue of copying the poem in Shaya’s handwriting.

At lunchtime they watched him—Shaya—eat alone again. He sat in his usual spot near the kitchen, hair unkempt, clothes shabby. His glasses were crooked. His torn blue sneakers were stained. No one talked to him, or even seemed to notice he was alive.

“Pathetic,” Sunny said, face shriveled with disgust. “I can’t wait to see the look on Maris’ face when we pull this thing off. I really can’t.” She looked at Dante. Her hands fluttered to the collar of his shirt, straightened it. She gave each of his sleeves a tug and a pat. “Where’s your jacket, honey? The leather one?”

“It’s in my locker,” Dante said.

“You should wear it. It’s cool.”

“Okay.”

She grinned. “Or let me wear it. Would that be okay?”

“Absolutely,” Dante said, liking the idea. “You can even take it home with you later if you want.”

“Oh, I want,” Sunny said, putting a French fry into his mouth. “I really, really want.”

∞

He sat up that night, unfocused on a book report coming due for Mr. Wolfe’s English class. The book he’d chosen was a mistake. The plot was bland, its characters weak. No one in the pages seemed to care about what Mr. Wolfe called The Main Idea. They hardly recognized its existence at all. Instead, the author sketched a colorless, tuneless narrative about family life with a precocious two year-old boy. The boy liked to throw food. He liked to scream and yell. There were no surprises, no twists. Even Dante’s phone, when it rang, couldn’t rouse him from the torpor the pages induced. Rather than answer it he waited for someone downstairs to do so. Then he flipped to the last chapter, frowned, and dumped the book into the wastebasket.

Minutes later his father came to the door. “Isn’t that a library book?” he asked, eyeing the discarded corpse.

At this hour of the night Mr. Torn was scarcely more than a silhouette, dark and lean. Dante could tell he didn’t really care about the book. Something in his posture (hands in pockets, shoulder to the frame) indicated an air of one feinting towards happenstance. If that were true he had missed, and badly. Dante knew his father never did things without a reason.

“Yes,” he told the silhouette, after a garbage pail glance. “You’re right. I forgot.”

“It’s not proper to throw literature away. Even if you think you’re doing the world a favor.”

Dante frowned. Here was a new opinion, and one he never would have expected from the no nonsense yachtsman. “I guess you’re right,” he said.

“I know I’m right,” the other pressed. “Someone else might actually enjoy that book. Someone else might even learn to read from that book.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.”

Wilted, Dante fished the book from the trash, put it on his desk. The cover art no longer looked mischievous, but reproachful. “I’ll return it tomorrow,” he said.

Mr. Torn’s posture continued to lean. What he had actually come here to say couldn’t be far off. “That was the hospital on the phone,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Your friend is sick. The old man who lives down the street.”

This piece of news caused Dante’s mouth to fall open. “What?” he stammered. “Mr. Donati?”

“That’s the one. Don’t worry. The nurse said he’s comfortable and fully alert.”

“What happened?”

“All I could get from the nurse was minor cardiac episode.” Mr. Torn moved off the frame. Message delivered, he could stand on his own again. “She also said that Mr. Donati would like you to visit him tomorrow. It’s Saturday so you won’t miss school.”

“I’ll go in the morning.”

“Good idea. You can return the book on your way.”

On that chiding note, Mr. Torn disappeared, leaving Dante to worry over the opera singer’s condition. Minor cardiac episode? So it was a heart attack then. He’d fallen ill with chest pains during the day. Had he called for an ambulance? Dante tried to remember hearing sirens at school. He couldn’t. But of course that didn’t mean anything.

Stop it. You’re being stupid.

Knowing he’d never get any work done now, Dante pushed the book report aside. He turned out the light and got in bed. It was a cold night. A layer of frost chilled the window, which shook with occasional gusts of northern wind. Between these came muffled chatter from his mom and dad in the next room. By midnight both—breezes and banter—fell silent. Dante continued to blink at the ceiling. He was at last beginning to drowse when the phone rang again.

Instantly his thoughts leaped to Donati. In one swift motion he was off the bed and snatching at the receiver.

“Hello!” he fairly gushed.

Silence from the other end. Then a smooth, soft, female voice said: “Dante. Sweetheart.”

Dante felt the tightness in his chest shift from anxiety to delight. “Sunny! Hi! You’re up late.”

“Oh I’m always up late, dear. And tonight I have some interesting literature on hand.”

Dante glanced at the library book. “Wish I could say the same here.”

“You’ll be okay. Just give a plot outline, then state your opinion. Your civil opinion.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Know what I mean before I can even tell you.”

She laughed. “Female intuition, Dante. Once you kiss a girl she can look right through you.”

“So I’m yours?”

“I’m afraid so. That’s okay I hope. It better be,” she added with a mischievous twist.

“It’s more than okay,” Dante said. He carried the phone to the bed, dragging its line. “Have you read my little missive yet?”

“That was the interesting literature I referred to.”

“Remember I wrote it about you, not Maris.”

“I remember,” Sunny purred. “I liked it, Dante. It’s going to work just fine for what we have in mind. Lie down in bed for me,” she told him next, with a gasp of quickened breath. Then: “Are you all alone there?”

“I think so,” Dante replied, stretching out on the mattress. “My mom and dad are quiet. Usually means they’re asleep.”

“Mine too. And my door is locked. I’m under the covers with all my clothes off.”

Dante tried to picture this as best he could. Imagination didn’t normally frustrate him, but tonight it did. He wanted more than just thoughts of the red-headed deviant lying naked before him. He wanted sight. He wanted touch. Scents and