Desdemona, Tag Cavello [classic literature list TXT] 📗

his decision, and the score has been tallied. I will act as a tie-breaker should the need arise. Please nod if you understand.”

For the third time, Dante nodded. Never once did his eyes leave Sunny.

“Very well,” Miss Cross said.

She left the room and returned with two plates, each with a chocolate chip cookie on it, cut into four equal pieces. They were indeed big. Each quarter looked to be slightly larger than Dante’s palm. Miss Cross put a glass of water in between the two plates.

“You may begin,” she said.

Dante looked at the cookie on the right, reached for it, then chose the left one. It felt warm and moist. His fingers sank delicately into the crust. Lifting his mask, he put the piece into his mouth. Its taste worried him. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it. The chocolate chips, lightly melted, were bathed in warm, sweet dough. The whole mouthful practically dissolved on his tongue. What if the other cookie tasted just as good? How would he decide?

“Water,” Miss Cross told him.

Dante drank, rinsing the last residue of perfection away. He reached for a piece on his right. Its texture did not respond quite as willingly as the first. Moving his thumb and index finger, Dante could feel small, tantalizing flecks of crust trace the grooves of his skin. He raised the piece to his lips, hesitated, and ate.

It was crunchy, but only just so. The flecks broke willingly between his teeth like minute pieces of candy, while the chocolate chips melted just as perfectly as the first. Dante nodded at Miss Cross, then drank some water. Now each girl’s plate had three quarters left.

“Do you wish to taste?” Miss Cross asked.

Dante nodded.

“From which plate?”

Here the first real dilemma of the game presented itself. The cookie Dante chose would cost the girl who baked it ten points. Of course he could always eat again from the other plate, costing that girl ten points…

Which would only delay the inevitable.

Helplessly cornered, Dante chose left. He chewed, swallowed. Everything melted like hot butter. The cookie was delicious. Perhaps, he thought, I should eat all from both plates. But later on Sunny would doubtless chide him for being inept. For escaping danger through an easy passage.

“Do you wish to taste?” Miss Cross asked yet again.

Dante set the water glass down and nodded.

“From which plate?”

This time he went directly to the right. The crunchy little flecks tempted him all over again, melting into the chocolate with soft little sighs of sweet surrender. The cookie was delicious.

Almost reluctantly, Dante followed it with a drink of water.

And of course, from Miss Cross: “Do you wish to taste?”

Dante looked at both plates. He had made up his mind. Yet one final decision remained: Should he eat one more bite from the losing cookie?

“Do you wish to taste?” Miss Cross repeated.

Grinning beneath his mask, Dante nodded, chose the losing plate, and tasted. When Miss Cross asked her question again, he shook his head.

“Very well,” the home ec teacher said. “Please point to the winning cookie.”

Dante did. He felt almost certain he had chosen Sunny’s.

“Very well.”

A look of disappointment fell over Miss Cross’ face. Frowning, she led Dante back to the closet, where he waited with Shaya until the end of the period. He—Shaya—asked Dante about the cookies. Were they hard to judge? Didn’t he find both perfect? Dante refused to answer. He stood as close to the door as he could, waiting for the school bell to ring.

They were allowed to leave only when all the other girls had gone. But Sunny was waiting in the hall. She gave Dante a hug, kissed him on the cheek. Later that day he found out two things:

That the winner of the contest would not be announced until Monday.

That Shaya had taken only one bite from each cookie.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Win On The Road

A chase through history, a final duel, snatches the breath from a lover cruel.

 

The end of the day found Dante dumping books in his locker, his arms the shovel of a truck, the books, trash. Wearing a demonic scowl, he took a moment to regard them before slamming the door. They lay in a heap—math, science, history, health. All had homework assignments due on Monday. Dante refused their entreaties. He had different plans for the weekend.

Someone grabbed his shoulder just as the door slammed shut.

“What is it?” Dante asked, noticing the rigid look on Sunny’s face.

“Trouble,” she said. “Follow me.”

She led him down the hall, ignoring a number knowing grins from various female imps. They went to the front walk, where Mr. Desdemona’s Jaguar sat purring with a very similar grin. Sunny opened the door and leaned inside.

“Hi Daddy!” Dante heard her say. “I’m staying after school today. Detention.”

“What did you do this time?” Brenton asked.

“Spiked Mr. Hogan’s coffee with estrogen. I think he’s gay now.”

“Bad girl!”

“I’ll have Dante walk me home. Bye!”

The Jaguar purred off. Dante watched it go without knowing what to think. Once it was out of the parking lot Sunny took him to the bike racks. Here she revealed, briefly and without ceremony, the true source of her trouble.

“My ring,” she said.

“What about it?”

Her hand shot into the air. The fingers were empty.

“Stolen,” she explained, before Dante could react. “By Maris.”

“No,” Dante said. “That’s crazy. How?”

Sunny’s freckles disappeared under a flare of red. “Never you mind how, Mister. She has it and I’m going to get it back.”

“So she just pulled it off your finger?” he asked, daring the coals of her rage.

She wouldn’t answer. Clutching Dante’s hand, she pulled him up a wide gravel path. Other students, sensing her determination, cleared the way. The path led through a line of tall, naked trees, and then to a series of backstreets. More students, all on their way home, walked here. Clean, modest houses with short driveways seemed to smile cheerfully as they passed. Dante’s eye jumped from one student’s back to the next. He could pick out no one as Shaya, or Maris.

“How do you know she stole your ring?” he asked Sunny.

Her own gaze was fixed on the end of the street, where Dante could see a handful of other kids turning left toward Stoutenburg Park on Norwood Avenue. None of them looked familiar.

Dante stopped. His hand tightened around Sunny’s. It was an easy business to make her stop too. As music is scratched from a vinyl surface by inelegant fingers, so the rhythm of Sunny’s walk became broken. Her head snapped round, green eyes flaring.

“Answer me right now,” Dante said.

The eyes cooled slightly. Nevertheless she tried to yank herself free from Dante’s grip. When that failed, she took hold Dante’s hand with her other arm and doubled down. Still it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

“Let go!” she cried.

“Tell me why you think Maris has your ring.”

Sunny replied by balling her fist and beating Dante’s hand as hard as she could. He barely felt it, but did notice her nails, which would likely cut well if she decided to scratch.

“Please, Dante! We’re going to lose them!”

By now a number of other kids had noticed their antics. Curious stares came from every direction. Dante didn’t care. “So tell me,” he said, maintaining his grip.

The beating stopped. Blinking away tears, Sunny said: “I saw her in the restroom. At the sinks.” Her whimpering rose to an infuriated scream. “I took off my ring for five seconds to wash my hands! And she snatched it, Dante! She snatched it and ran!”

Dante let her go. Though still not convinced, he’d heard enough for the time being. He followed Sunny to the end of the street. Here a large park they both knew well enough opened all the way to a much wider, much busier Norwood Avenue. Norwood would eventually lead them to Benedict Avenue, and Benedict Avenue to downtown Norwalk.

Toddlers, with parents hovering close by, played on the swings and slides. This in spite of the gray March weather. Dante remembered once wrecking his bicycle here. His elbow had been torn open. Gushing blood, he’d cried all the way home.

“I still don’t see her,” he told Sunny, who had gone back to leading him by the hand.

“I do,” she replied, without turning her head. “They’re down by West Elm.”

“You’ve got some sharp eyes.”

“Yeah. But Maris also shines really bright.”

She dropped this last comment like a burdensome bag of bricks. Dante could almost see it spilling on the park grass, polluting it, making it ugly. Stepping over them, he let Sunny soldier him on.

West Elm Street was about half way to Benedict. Here Sunny turned left. The street was wide and newly tarred. Elm trees towered over homes older and larger than the ones behind Stoutenburg. At the end of the street was a harsh curve that bent left onto South Pleasant Street. South Pleasant dipped into a valley where another park appeared. At the bottom of the valley the street bent right, then up the hill to West Main. Dante caught a glimpse of Donati’s mansion before they reached it. Then they were in the valley.

“They’re at the top of the hill,” Sunny said.

“If you say so,” Dante told her. “I still don’t see them.”

She looked left into a wooded area that divided Pleasant Street from Norwood. “There’s a path back there. It leads to the school.”

“I know. I’ve used it.”

“Too dirty for Mr. and Mrs. Blue Sky Baby.”

“Probably.”

They went up the hill. An elementary school stood at the top. Beyond that, at the corner of West Main, was number 114. Dante glanced at it, wondering if he’d see the old man in one of the windows. His eyes were stopped short by a sign on the front walk. It swung from its post on a light, chill breeze.

 

FOR SALE

 

“What’s the matter?” Sunny asked, when Dante’s stride hesitated.

He couldn’t answer right away. The sign was from a local, well-known realtor. It looked weathered, as if years had passed since its pounding. The hooks were rusted. Now they began to squeak, as if in acknowledgment of Dante’s presence.

“Nothing,” he said at last.

“Then let’s go.”

And as she led Dante off he didn’t see the old man in any of the windows. There weren’t even curtains.

About a quarter mile down West Main they arrived at a humongous church. Methodist. By this time Dante had spotted Maris and Shaya. Her coat was white, his black. Upon seeing them Dante had offered to go and get the ring. Sunny refused. They were being baited, she told him. Strung along. To where exactly? She didn’t know yet. But she wanted to. She wanted to show Maris that she could play any of her silly games and win them all.

So they continued their pursuit from a distance. Maris and Shaya didn’t go into the church, but turned left on State Street (right next to Dante’s own house), where nothing happened for another quarter mile. Then they came to second church, this one Catholic. Like the one they’d just passed, it was old and huge. Its mighty steeple acted as a lightning rod in bad weather. This happened about once every other year, blasting roof shingles onto the street below.

A wide, ornate entrance of marble and oak wood beckoned worshippers inside. Maris and Shaya went to it and stopped. Sunny motioned for Dante to move behind a tree. He saw Maris point to the church, then back up State Street. Shaya nodded. They went up a flight of curved stairs. At the top was the entrance. Shaya held the door for Maris. They stepped inside and were gone.

“Right,” Sunny said, frowning. “I can’t go into the nave.”

“Why not?” Dante asked.

“We’ll go around back instead. They won’t be expecting that.”

The skies had been gray throughout their entire journey. Now a light rain began to fall, pattering the streets. Dante followed Sunny to the back of the church, where it became an elementary school. Crayon-colored drawings decorated clean windows all aglow with warm, sheltered lives. With them came a different kind