CHAPTER SEVEN: Maris
October arrived on a Thursday. The weather remained warm, tempting town thrushes for further stay.
Walking to and from school Dante noticed many of these birds. He did not think they were fooled. Their wings were restless, their eyes adrift. They could live in the cold but would choose not to remain.
Dante could only wonder what would happen before their return. Since the spider incident at locker sixteen, news of his and Sunny’s relationship had become the chief topic of student gossip. Nor did the drama of that scene provide the only fuel for its combustion. Sunny ranked among the most popular girls of the school; she was also, undisputedly, the most feared. A new boyfriend for her was news. Dante arrived at school the Monday after Donati’s mermaid story to find he had become a celebrity. It started at the bike rack, where a number of boys stared as he walked past to find Sunny waiting for him near the front door. Hey handsome, she’d greeted, to the myriad giggles of her entourage. Girls, this is the boy who gets to carry my books from now on. His name’s Dante. Be nice to him. And nice to him they were, though they always kept a respectful distance, especially when their queen was present. The seventh grade boys were even more respectful. There were no shy, knowing smiles from them in the halls. They did not laugh, or whisper behind their hands. They only stared, with eyes like toddlers through the gates of a forbidden palace. He had become an enigma to them. Someone to admire without movement of the feet in eagerness to approach.
Also on that Monday, Sunny had asked him, with perfect innocence in her green eyes, whether it would be okay for him to eat lunch at her table, rather than the other way around. “That’s fine,” Dante had replied (knowing the weight of her obeisance upon his conceit), “no problem.”
Her eyebrow had shot up. “Sure?”
“Yes.”
“It would just be kind of hectic to have all the girls who eat with me move to a different table.”
“Understood,” Dante said, deepening his voice, and taking care not to drop his eyes.
“Thank you, baby,” she’d smiled. Then, after a quick check to make sure no one was looking, she’d stood on tip-toe to give him a kiss. “Seeya at lunch!”
He’d been eating at her table ever since. The first time had been awkward. A hundred blushing smiles from the entourage. Evaluating eyes. But by the second day he was more comfortable. Willing to adapt to their scrutiny. Sunny helped by eating with her hip lightly pressed against his own, or leaning on his shoulder when one of the other girls talked. Her touch was her requisition. Talk, it allowed, but talk carefully.
The morning of October first began in the new normal way. Sunny waited for him by the front door, peering through the darkening foliage of a tulip tree. Her red hair resembled the truant autumn, her black clothing the sober regard of that fourth season which often begins with a gentle push of its arrow before unleashing the deluge of an honest freeze. She asked Dante to carry her bags. Again, fresh routine. Then she began to chatter about her previous afternoon, scarcely pausing for breath, as they walked the crowded halls. Several girls waved to Sunny.
“Thirty problems of long division,” she said, after nodding towards one of their blurred faces. “What a drag! I couldn’t focus on anything! Did Krieger give that one to your class, too?”
“Of course,” Dante said. “I must have wasted five sheets of paper on it.”
“Five sheets of paper and now I’ve got tendinitis in my wrist!”
“Sunny!” a dark-haired girl called. “Hello!”
“Hello, Stacey. See you in science.”
They came to her locker. She opened it on the first try. A mirror with a pink frame hung on the door. A bottle of Adagio perfume stood on the shelf. Lady Speed-Stick. Maybelline cosmetics. Sunny took the bags from Dante, placed them next to a pair of gym shoes. She unzipped the zipper. Here Dante assumed she would reach for some necessary tool for class—a pencil, an eraser. But no. Her hand popped out of the bag with a small red and white box. Quickly, the hand went to Dante’s coat pocket. He felt it being shoved down deep. When it re-emerged, the box was gone.
“What was that?” he asked Sunny’s pair of devious, unblinking green eyes.
“Later,” she said. “Don’t touch it now. Just follow me.”
And without hesitation she struck off. Dante followed her up a ramp to the eighth grade wing. Three classrooms—Health, English, Science—stood amidst a flurry of students preparing for their day. Most of the students, though older, were shorter than Dante. Sunny cut through them with ease, bringing them to a foyer decorated for Halloween. From one corner a scarecrow gazed with burlap bag eyes. In another was a cutout of a green-skinned witch. Growing more curious by the moment, Dante followed Sunny into the cafeteria, and then outside, where grassy smells from the football field tantalized many boys into contact play. Sunny marched towards it without once looking back to check if Dante were there. A few other girls saw her and waved. She did not wave back. She rounded the corner of the building, and for one crazy moment Dante really did think the football field was her destination.
She wants me to try out for the team, oh great.
The football field was not her destination. Instead, she stopped rather abruptly midway down the wall, her boots stamping the grass. Dante joined her.
“Sunny, we only have about ten minutes to get the homeroom—“
“Look,” she commanded.
Her eyes were on the tennis courts. Following them, Dante could find nothing of merit. There were kids hanging out at the gate. A few of them carried racket bags. Dante reached into his pocket, touched the little box Sunny had given him. It felt like cardboard wrapped in cellophane.
“What is this?” he asked her again, not quite daring to bring it out.
“See that girl with the blonde hair? Gold blouse, white skirt. The one who looks perfect.”
“Um…”
Sunny’s tone became impatient. “Dante she’s standing like twenty yards off.”
“I see her.”
He did indeed see her. The blonde tumble of her hair was hard to miss. She stood near a single white lily. Two other girls stood with her. They were talking and laughing. This went on for about a minute before one of the girls pointed to the building. The other two nodded. Then they all walked off together.
Dante looked at Sunny. She was watching the trio with eyes narrow as that goddess of warfare who burst from her father’s head. He looked at the trio again, until they reached the building’s corner and disappeared.
“I believe her name’s Maris,” he spoke.
The narrow eyes seized him. “Do you? And where did you come by that information?”
“She’s in my gym class,” Dante said innocently. “Old man Hogan always ogles the poor girl. He’s a weirdo.”
“Poor girl, huh? Straight A student and every teacher’s pet. She’s more popular than me. She’s prettier than me. I hate her.”
Sunny’s face had become nearly red as her hair. Her teeth gnashed. Dante reached to take her hand, only to find both closed into tiny, wrathful fists.
“Stop that,” he said. “I don’t know about the pet and popularity stuff, but to say she’s prettier is nonsense.” His fingers closed over one of the fists. “Sunny? Are you hearing me?”
She wasn’t. Her gaze found the corner where Maris had disappeared, as if to see a mocking ghost of that girl still there. “Take the package out of your coat,” she said tonelessly. “Not all the way. The teachers will see it.”
More than a little displeased with what that implied, Dante once again reached into his coat, found the box Sunny had given him, and took a peek. It was cigarettes. A packet of Marlboro Reds, freshly sealed.
“Got it?” Sunny asked, still transfixed by the corner.
“I’ve got it,” Dante said weakly. “But what the hell, Sunny? These will get us both kicked out of school.”
At last she deigned to look at him. An evil smile stretched the sides of her mouth. “No, Dante. They’re going to get Maris kicked out of school.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Do you follow? Understand? Get the picture?”
“Not quite.”
“Then listen further. I want you to slip that little present into her bag—“
“Sunny—“
“I don’t care how. Figure it out. Then figure out how to draw a teacher’s attention to that bag. Not Hogan’s. You’re right, I think he has a weird crush on her.”
“Sunny.”
“Or if you don’t want to use her bag, try something else. Maybe her coat. So long as she gets busted, I don’t care.”
“Sunny, you have absolutely no reason to hate Maris Dubois. She’s—“
Sunny made a snarl, silencing his talk. A look of pure rage fumed at him like volcanic fire. “Maris who? Who?”
“Mr. Hogan does a roll call every day. The students hear each others’ names.”
“Super,” she hissed. “So tell me, Dante, the names of all the other kids in that class.”
“That’s thirty kids, Sunny.”
“Do it!”
Dante swallowed. He was in deep water here. Perhaps too deep. “Well,” he began, “there’s Robert Roach—“
“Not that dork! Everybody knows him!”
“Casey Lyons. Sam Bean.” A smeary blur of faces stained his thought. Furiously, Dante tried to sort them out, to get them straight. He tried even harder to make sure none of them were girls. “Jackson Gray. Theodore Zucker. Uh…”
Sunny rolled her eyes. “Okay, shut up. Just shut up. Her last name is Dubois. I knew that, but then I hear gossip from girls all day long. You knew it because I guess you”—she pulled a disgusted face—“remembered. Nice.”
Chancing to take a step nearer, Dante said in the most compassionate tone he had: “I promise to forget it from this day forth.”
“Don’t bother,” she pouted, refusing to look at him. “Just make sure those cigarettes do their dirty work for us.”
“Okay,” he said. “I will.”
“Good.”
∞
Dante spent the rest of that day in a kind of fever, plotting his girlfriend’s devious attack. The possibility for success was not strong. He could see only two chances to do her bidding—the gym class basement locker room, after everyone changed and went upstairs, or lunchtime, when Maris often hung her coat on a row off hooks just off the girls’ bathroom. He decided on the former, reasoning that with the locker room empty he would stand less chance of getting burned.
Friday morning he sat in homeroom with the cigarettes in the pocket of his leather jacket. Sunny had remained pouty all day yesterday, but now seemed returned to her usual self. She kept close to Dante in the hall, leaning her head on his shoulder while Stacey complimented her ear-rings. She then asked Dante if they could go to the girls’ room for one final touch-up before classes. He told them yes. But as homeroom came to a close his confidence slipped. Gym was third period—just ninety minutes away. In ninety minutes he would be sneaking into the girls’ changing area to plant cigarettes in Maris Dubois’ bag.
And even if you’re able to pull that off, Wonder Boy, how are you going to make sure she gets caught with the stupid things?
“Dante?” Sunny said. Homeroom was over. They were off to first period—study hall for her, math for him. “Everything okay?” The familiar sneer was back on her face, twisted as snakes that once turned foolish heroes to stone. “It’s going to be today, right?” she went on, before he could answer the first question.
“Today,” he said.
The sneer writhed. “You don’t sound too sure of yourself.”
“Today,” he repeated, locking on with her eyes.
“Good boy.” She patted his back. “Go to it.”
The long division assignment she had already groaned about was due today. Rather than collect it though, Mr. Krieger decided to have his class grade it out loud. It killed time and gave him an excuse not to work. Dante scored a 26 out of 30, good for 87%. He wondered what Sunny would score later that day. By then, of course, he would either be her champion, or locked in detention hall with the usual band of delinquent gorillas who spent time there. Dangerous kids like Casey Didion and Lamar Taylor, who wouldn’t just beat you up if they decided not to like you, they would put you in the hospital.
After Krieger’s class he went directly to science, where that teacher, a tufty-haired man named Mr. Sitz, gave a lecture on the eruption of Mount Saint Helens.
“On May 18, 1980,” he intoned, “all hell broke loose in Washington State. It did not happen without warning. Two months earlier, volcanologists speculated that magma had begun to move beneath the mountain. A magnitude 4.2 earthquake indicated as much. Somewhere deep under all that rock, pressure was building. One hundred and twenty-five years of dormancy had come to a close.” Mr. Sitz raised his eyebrows. “What does that tell us about nature? Anyone?”
A few tentative hands went up. Mr. Sitz called on a tall, thin girl named Jennifer.
“It’s unpredictable,” she said. Then: “At least until…you know, certain indicators appear. And by then it’s almost always too late.”
“Almost,” the science teacher agreed. “But it does leave us time—usually—to get out of the way. If we so choose. Not all of us do. Not all of us have a choice, for love typically fails to provide one. Love of the land, or of the work.” He paused. “Or of the very thing that threatens to destroy you. In the case of one Harry Randall Truman, that thing was the mountain, at the foot of which he lived for fifty-two years. He loved Saint Helens and refused to leave her, even after it became clear she was by no means stable. She was beautiful and he loved her. And in the end that love killed him.”
The end of period bell sounded off. Everyone jumped from their seats. Or nearly so.
Dante did not jump. He rose to his feet like a sick elephant. His science book fell to the floor—flop! He stooped, grabbed it, rose again. In the process of doing so the package of cigarettes fell out of his jacket. They were now next to his boot.
“Dante!” called Mr. Sitz, approaching his desk. “Your essay on the Challenger disaster was pretty good. Of course you know that already. I put a B plus on it.”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Sitz took a step closer. Dante swallowed hard and, surreptitiously as he knew how, placed his boot over top of the cigarettes.
“Now you’ve got me looking forward to your oral report next spring,” Sitz said.
“Thank you, sir.”
The science teacher’s nostrils twitched. “Say, what’s that smell? Something burning?”
“I hope not, sir,” Dante replied, pretending to look around the room.
“I hope not either. My word, the last thing we need in a school building is…” Sitz’s words trailed off. His eyes had dropped to the floor. “What…on earth…are those?”
Now Dante had to look down, too. Not that he wished to do so. His mind began to flicker with a million different pictures. Him sitting in the principal’s office, him sitting in detention hall, him sitting alone at home. In all he was shame-faced. Humiliated. Laid low.
Slowly, Mr. Sitz bent down. “Move your foot, please,” he said.
Dante moved his foot—the other foot. Nothing happened for a few seconds. Then the science teacher was standing again. In his hand he held, of all things, three dead black beetles.
“Gross,” he said, grinning. “Left over from somebody’s biology assignment. Sorry you had to sit next to them today. You should have spoken up.”
“I…didn’t notice them, sir.”
“I’m surprised none of the girls screamed,” the other moaned. “Oh well.” He shrugged and walked to the trash can, where he pitched the bugs away. While his back was turned, Dante quickly knelt, grabbed the cigarettes, and pocketed them. “Better get on to your next class,” Sitz said with a wink. “Can’t keep dear old Mr. Hogan waiting with his badminton racquets.”
Shaky and sweaty, Dante left the science room. A large number of kids were still in the hall, snatching books from their lockers, talking about basketball, talking about cheerleading. Jokes were swapped, bubble-gum popped. The girls giggled and the boys haw-hawed. Dante walked past his own locker, not needing any books for gym. He was getting close to the foyer ramp when a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Boo!”
He spun around so fast his jacket fanned like a skirt. Two girls—Sunny and Stacey—were smiling up at him. Sunny’s smile, however, weakened at the sight of his skittishness.
“What are you so jumpy about?” she demanded to know.
Summoning all of his strength, Dante said: “Oh, you just caught me in a daydream. Where are you ladies headed?”
“Back to Mr. Wolfe’s room for English.” Sunny’s green eyes began to glitter shrewdly. “And you’re going to see Mr. Hogan. Right?”
“That’s right. Badminton day.”
“Let me know how it turns out,” Sunny told him. The shrewdness had found its way to her smile, and into her voice. “I’ll be waiting, Dante.”
∞
“Okayyyyy,” Mr. Hogan told the boys. His voice oozed through the locker room like cold pancake syrup. He wore a blue tracksuit every day, though Dante was quite certain he was too old (most kids put him in the late fifties) to do any running. A whistle hung around his neck. “Okayyyy. Todayyyy we’ll be playyyyying badminton. Please be careful with the equipment. And go easy on the girls.”
With that, he left the room so the boys could get changed. Dante hung his jacket in a locker whose number identified with the ancient Christian belief of leisure for witches. He put on his track pants. Then, when no one was looking, he slipped the cigarettes into the pocket of the pants and hung back, waiting to be the last one out.
One by one the boys went upstairs. Dante pretended to tie his shoes. He adjusted the string on his track pants. The locker room grew quieter, quieter. Soon he was all alone.
Knowing he had at best two minutes to plant the evidence before Mr. Hogan noticed him missing, Dante moved quickly. He left the boys’ locker room, checked the stairs to make sure no one was watching, then slipped across to the arch-way marked GIRLS. Here he found a hard left that dumped him into an alien room the male body had absolutely no right to trespass. Like the boys’ room, it was dark, though far brighter clothing hung in the lockers. A flowery scent of perfume beckoned. Odysseus to its Siren call, Dante followed. With every step he felt more and more strange, as well as more certain he was about to be caught. His eyes fluttered across the lockers. The blouse Maris had on earlier did not seem present. He took six more steps into the room. Basement shadows loomed closer. A torn poster on one wall read: WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? Beneath was a picture of a girl, deep in thought, staring a package of cigarettes. SMOKING IS A DIRTY HABIT! the poster went on to inform.
There’s somebody in here, Dante’s mind gibbered, somebody can see you, you’re going to get caught!
He was about to run when he saw it. Maris’ blouse. It hung in locker 33, gold as the peaceful flame of the goddess by that name. By this time, however, he would be missed upstairs. Doubtless Mr. Hogan was already taking roll call. Had he come to Dante’s name yet on his little white sheet of notepaper? Deciding to risk it, Dante walked quickly to the blouse. Beneath it was a pink book-bag. Again, Maris’. All he needed to do now was unzip it and stuff the cigarettes inside. He reached into his pocket; his hand closed around the box. Three seconds was all would take. One…two…three. Then he could get out of here.
“Okayyyyy!” came Mr. Hogan’s voice from upstairs. “Where’s Dantayyyyy? Can someone go downstairs and check on him please?”
With trembling hands Dante pulled the cigarettes free and dropped them onto Maris’ bag. No good. She would be caught with them, certainly, but no one would believe they were actually hers. At best he could later brag to Sunny that he’d messed up five minutes of the perfect princess’ day. Not good enough—not nearly good enough.
“Okayyyyy!” Mr. Hogan croaked again.
“Shut up already!” Dante hissed.
He picked up the cigarettes and ran. His foot caught on a bench. He flew through the air like a shot bird, hitting the floor hard enough to cut his elbow open on a chipped tile. Blood splattered the bench, the other lockers. Some of the girls’ clothes were stained.
Oh no! Oh no, oh no, oh no!
He sat up slowly, assessing the damage. The cigarettes were gone. At some point they had escaped his fingers and disappeared. Meanwhile his blood continued to drip. The cut was sizeable—maybe an inch long. A red mess pooled on the floor, growing larger every second.
“What the HELL are you doing in the girls’ locker room?”
Wide-eyed, Dante looked up to see an incredulous Mr. Hogan gaping with utter disgust. Clearly his eyes could not believe what they were seeing, because they couldn’t open any wider, lest they fall out as marbles would from an old saddle bag.
“It was a rat,” Dante gibbered, desperate to grasp any branch available from this humiliating quicksand.
“Get up, boy.”
“A rat!”
“I said get up.” As he spoke Mr. Hogan seized Dante’s arm and pulled. The wound opened wider, spilling more blood. “You are despicable, young man. Despicable. Shame on you.”
The gym teacher’s hateful face looked ready to spit fire. Blood dripped onto his tracksuit but he didn’t seem to care, or even notice. His grip tightened on Dante’s arm.
“The only rat in here,” he said, “is the one going to the principal’s office. From there you’ll probably be expelled. You need discipline, boy. Hard, heavy discipline.”
Mr. Hogan might gone on with this litany, except that in the very next moment he was bitten by a rat. Dante had no idea at first. The gym teacher’s mouth fell open again. He let go Dante’s arm and began to scream like a woman.
“EEEEEE! EEEEEE! EEEEEE!”
“Mr. Hogan? What’s wrong?”
“EEEEEE!”
He started hopping on one foot. That was when Dante looked down to see a large, gray rat scuttling under the bench. He gasped. He looked again at Mr. Hogan’s foot. Disbelief flooded his senses. It couldn’t be real, it just couldn’t be. No way.
It was real all right. Mr. Hogan took a seat on the bench. Breathing heavily, he looked at Dante, and then at the rat. It was half the length of a man’s arm. It stopped, turned, grinned at both of them for a moment. Then it ran to the wall and disappeared.
“How in the world,” Mr. Hogan heaved, “did a rat get in here? Phew! We need traps. Lots of traps.”
“Mr. Hogan—“
“And I need a doctor. I guess you do, too. Let’s tell the class what happened and get to the clinic.”
***
Minutes later, while waiting in the nurse’s clinic to get his arm taped, Dante happened to look out the window. Standing near the bike racks was a girl with red hair. Sunny. This was odd because classes were still ongoing. And even though the racks were clear on the other side of the parking lot, Sunny’s eyes were fixed directly on him. Her hair danced in the wind, a bonfire.
“Dante Torn?” the nurse called, distracting his gaze. “Please come in.”
And when he looked out the window again Sunny had gone.