Desdemona, Tag Cavello [classic literature list TXT] 📗

even happier than usual.

∞

The next day, Shaya Blum ate lunch with Maris and her friends. Jubilant laughter echoed from the table. Shaya’s back was straight, his chest thrust forth. As a knight holds his stature when nourished by nobility, so did Shaya hold his stature today. No longer did he appear a hopeless, hapless boy, lacking beauty in a forest which demanded nothing but. He had changed. The light of love was on him now.

“What have we done?” Sunny said with tearful eyes. “What have we done?”

Under the table, Dante could see that Maris and Shaya were holding hands.

∞

Sunny was grouchy for the rest of the week. Knowing her pain, Dante made what he felt were the necessary adjustments, such as carrying her books between classes, and complimenting with extra fervor the boots she wore on Wednesday. Also, her birthday was getting near. She would turn thirteen in less than a month. His mind spun over what gift to buy. As Brenton kept his daughter’s materialistic welfare richly cultivated, choices were limited to things rare, strange, colorful, meaningful, reflective, or some fortunate combination of the five, to which Dante, for the time being at least, could only hope to find clues.

On Thursday morning he asked her straight out if there was anything she wanted. “Surprise me,” she told him, slamming her locker closed.

Later that day he went to Stacey. Her answer made his jaw drop. “Cigarettes,” she said. “Buy her cigarettes. Virginia Slims. And maybe a cigarette holder.”

“Cigarette holder?”

“Yeah, you know, like the one Audrey Hepburn used in that old movie.”

“Get out of town,” Dante said. He honestly felt his ears were playing tricks.

But Stacey was adamant. “Sunny loves that kind of stuff. Classy ladies from the past.”

“She never told me that.”

Stacey gave him a light, playful punch on the shoulder. “We don’t tell our boyfriends everything, Dante. We expect them to do some detective work.”

“But how do I buy cigarettes?”

“How did you buy them for that prank you pulled on Maris?”

He shook his head. “That wasn’t me. Sunny got those.”

“Well, maybe just a holder then,” Stacey allowed. “Check the antique stores. Or those fancy glass kiosks at the mall.”

But Dante knew that no shopkeeper would sell such an item to a kid. At dinner that night he asked his mother what a thirteen year-old girl might want for her birthday.

She perked up from her salad. “When is it?” she asked.

“March fifteenth.”

“Dukey, that’s a good puppy! Yes you are! Yes you are!” Dante’s father had the puppy in his lap and was feeding him bits of chicken. He hadn’t noticed his son’s question at all.

“Plenty of time yet,” his mother said, relaxing. Her face turned thoughtful. “Let’s see… You could get her a leather jacket. Didn’t you once say she had kind of a spicy element to her?”

“That’s right. But she already has one of those.”

“When do we get to meet this girl anyway?”

Dante felt his chest tighten. Here was a question he’d been hoping to avoid, and until Dukey came along to brush with soft fur and a cold nose the mossy stones of number 54’s disposition, the task had been easy enough.

“Well?” his mother pressed. And was that the curl of a mischievous smile on her face? “I’m curious.”

“Gootchy-gootchy-goo!” Mr. Torn said, tickling Dukey’s tummy.

“I’ll talk to her,” Dante said. “Maybe she can have dinner with us.”

Mrs. Torn dropped her fork. “That’s brilliant! I’ll call her mom and we can arrange it!”

“We don’t have to do it right away—“ This Dante blurted as, in horror, he watched his mother rise from the table to make a dart at the phone.

“Of course we do!” she fairly gushed. “I’m dying to meet this girl!”

Yeah? Three weeks ago you could hardly care.

Dante looked at Dukey. The schi-tzu was still sitting in his master’s lap, a fluffy little ball of brown and black.

“Hi!” Dante said, unable to feel anything but joy at the puppy’s bright smile. Dukey barked and took another bite of chicken.

“Dante?” Mrs. Torn said. “What’s Sunny’s number?”

With great trepidation, Dante prattled off the Desdemona home’s ten digit number. What harm can it do? he kept telling himself.

His mother picked up the receiver from her kitchen’s white wall phone and dialed. The usual pause followed while she waited for someone on the other end to pick up. Then someone finally did, which caused Mrs. Torn to jump with a tiny yelp—Ah! Dante gave her a look, but by then she’d begun to speak, in stammers at first, with a number of uncertain finger strokes through her hair. In less than a minute, however, things seemed fine. His mother smiled. Some pleasant chit-chat followed, during which Dante was able to surmise that Sunny’s mom had been the one to answer the phone. Then Mrs. Torn asked if all three Desdemonas might come over for dinner on Sunday.

Dante spit a great gob of chewed chicken onto his plate. All three? Had the woman lost her mind?

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Torn went on. “What about just Sunny then? Yes, we’d love to have her. You should hear how Dante talks.” She turned to offer him a knowing wink.

“Mom,” he scowled.

Tinnily, he could hear Mrs. Desdemona saying something through the receiver.

“That sounds perfect,” Dante’s mom said. “Five-thirty. On the button. Ha-ha!”

Wow, Mom, now you’re quoting lame idioms.

Dukey stretched across the table and stole a piece of chicken from the serving plate.

“Now now,” Mr. Torn chided. “That’s got bones in it!”

The puppy looked up with the chicken still in his mouth. Dante’s mother said thank you into the phone. Suddenly her face turned red. Her eyes fluttered.

“Dante? Sunny says to tell you she loves you.”

His hand jerked, knocking over a glass of Coke. “Uh…really?”

“Yes,” she told him, in a tone that implied he’d best reciprocate, lest she be forced to unleash a painful and enduring wrath.

“I love you too, Sunny!” Dante sang out.

“Oh wow!” Mrs. Torn gushed into the phone. “Aren’t kids just the most precious things?”

More tinny talk on the line. Mrs. Torn nodded, nodded some more. The conversation ended not five minutes later. Dante’s mom took a seat at the table, proclaiming that on Sunday night they would have a guest for dinner.

“Cool,” Dante said. “I’m glad. Do we pick her up?”

“Aw, did you just give Daddy a kiss? Did you?”

Dante’s eyes shifted to his father. “Dad? Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“Dukey is my doctor,” Mr. Torn said.

It was hard to argue with that. Dante asked his mom again about picking Sunny up and she said yes.

“In Dad’s Bimmer?”

“Of course,” she replied, buttering a piece of bread. “Or did you want to rent a Dodge Aspen from Hertz?”

“Yuck, yuck, Mom. Pass the gravy, please.”

∞

Sunny’s locker slammed closed with as much fervor on Friday as it had all week. Dante was so used to it by now he didn’t even flinch.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked.

“Because I don’t like to lose.”

Her clothes were traditional this morning—tight, dark, risky. Black stockings rose from black boots along slender curves to the hem of a jeweled skirt. Over this she wore a red, sleeveless kitty blouse with black buttons undone past the dainty twig of her clavicle. But of course it was her eyes—flaring green as always—that commanded most of Dante’s attention. He gazed into them now, a little afraid of how to proceed.

“You haven’t lost,” was all he could think to say.

“What have I done then, Dante?”

“Um…”

She might have slapped him for this show of stupidity, except that something past Dante’s shoulder had suddenly caught her attention. Turning to find out what, Dante came almost face to face with Norwalk Middle School’s newest, hottest couple, Maris and Shaya.

They walked hand in hand down the hall, orbited by a smattering of friends. Maris wore a long white skirt with purple top; Shaya wore pressed blue jeans and a green dress shirt. Dante spared an extra few moments to consider the boy. How did he look today as compared to before he’d met Maris? His spirit seemed as the timeline of Egypt, written backward to that era before the warble of the world’s axis shifted, and the temples were verdant, and streams of clear water gurgled along the streets of that ancient, unknown city written of by Manetho. No longer did Shaya need dream of what might have been, or once was. His eyes were bright and clear. His gait was confident. He stood as tall as Dante, yet seemingly bereft of that misty ghost which idled in the halls of Dante’s own mind, the whisper of remorse, and of further difficulties yet to come. Hence in a way he was taller, though when Sunny’s poisonous question caused him to stop, their eyes were level.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sunny hissed. She wasn’t looking at Shaya, but Maris. And her green eyes demanded a response.

Maris stopped. “Hello, Sunny,” she said. “We’re just on our way to homeroom.”

“And did you have to pass by my locker?”

“I’m afraid so,” the other replied. Then, with an innocent smile: “Did you want us to pay a toll?”

Some of the other kids laughed. Shaya looked at Dante. To judge by his somewhat confused expression, Dante guessed he was still a trifle lost in the woods with what lay between these two girls. And who could blame him? Dante didn’t always feel certain of the terrain either.

Sunny took a step towards Maris. It shushed the hall in an instant. Dante took a step forward as well, but was careful to remain behind Sunny, lest he intervene with the females, who had somehow developed, over the past few moments, a boundary around them.

“I think what you should do,” Sunny told her, “is use the outside entrance from now on, rather than glide through here on your perfect little wings of divine joy.”

“Really?” Maris said. She had not backed away. Quite the reverse. The two girls stood almost nose to nose in the wheel of their shocked, silent friends. “Perhaps you’re right, Sunny. Perhaps your locker isn’t the best thing to see at the start of a new day.”

“And I could do without your blinding blonde hair and fluttery blue eyes starting mine off like crap.”

“But you forget that this is a public school, Miss. And even if it weren’t, I can still use any hallway I like to get to class.”

At Maris’ usage of the word Miss, Sunny began to show her teeth. Not only had the tone of its delivery been sarcastic, but Dante thought the appellation itself irritated Sunny. How much longer would that symbol of singularity rest before her name?

Narrowing her eyes, she spoke to Maris: “You are all the colors of the rainbow, girly. How nice. A pretty weapon laid down to declare peace from above. But you see, the war isn’t over.”

“No,” Maris agreed. “It goes on. Within you. And you know what the saddest part is?”

“Tell me.”

Maris looked at Dante, at Stacey, at Rajani. “You’re striking iron for all of these children. Children who might still be saved. And saved they will be. Because Sunny—“

“Shut up!”

“You’re not in charge. No matter what they think of you, you’re not in charge.”

“Get out of here!”

“Okay,” Maris said. “Shaya?” Her hand reached out. Shaya took it. “Don’t worry,” she told Sunny as they began to walk. “We won’t come back this way again. If you don’t want.”

“Good.”

Dante watched them all go—Maris and her friends. Their gaits were steady and calm. And despite the acquiescence to Sunny’s demand, no one looked defeated.

Sunny did. Her eyes had fallen to her boots; her shoulders were slumped. Knowing these things would never do, Dante put his arm around her. He put his hand under her chin and lifted it gently.

“Hey,” he said. “You all right?”

“Peachy,” she said.

“You look ready to burn the whole world.”

“Always, Dante. Always.”

The homeroom bell went off. Kids began to scatter in different directions, juggling their books. Dante and Sunny remained put. Sunny looked down the hall where Maris had disappeared until