Inferno (10 page)

Then I notice that she's updated her profile. It now reads:
Beth is in love
.

Obviously she doesn't mean with me.

It's okay, I guess. I'm not in love with her either. Not really, not anymore. Still, I can't help wishing she could have told me herself. I wonder who she's met. A guy, obviously, or she wouldn't be talking about it on Facebook.

She sure didn't talk about us on Facebook. Not that I wanted her to. I mean, it's the twenty-first century, but people are still assholes about some things. Besides, I kind of liked the fact that our parents had no issues with us having sleepovers. Mom would've flipped if she knew.

Still, I'd have liked to at least know we were a couple, in Beth's mind as well as mine. But I wasn't ever sure. Beth wouldn't even talk about us when we were alone together. I tried a couple of times, and she basically told me that if I didn't drop it, it would all be over. She started crying, getting all shaky and freaked out.
I can't deal with this, Emily. I don't want to talk about it
.

I did, desperately. I wanted to talk about everything. I wanted to talk about what it all meant, about me and about us. I wanted to tell her how I felt about her, and to know if she felt the same way about me. But I didn't want to lose her, and I didn't want to go back to just being friends. So I dropped it.

I look at her picture on the screen for a few seconds longer, wondering if one of those guys in the photo is the one she's in love with. Then I close my laptop.

I think about Parker, and then about Leo and that kiss. I close my eyes. It'd be so much easier to go out with a guy, so much less complicated. And I like Leo. I do.

But it's Parker I can't stop thinking about.

I don't see Parker all week. I keep hoping she'll show up with another stack of crazy flyers. I pass the time in class by doodling new slogans for her.
Stop brainwashing kids. GRSS: Enforcing Conformity
.
Schools are Factories—Get off the Assembly Line
. And my personal fave:
GRSS: the Tenth Circle
. I love it, but no one else would get it.

By Friday, I find myself in the bizarre situation of almost looking forward to Social Skills 101. At least Parker will be there. I wonder if she and Leo and Jamie are planning anything else.

“You've got your group tonight,” Mom reminds me after school. Her eyes are on my face, sharply focused, as if she's watching for signs of resistance. I can see her getting primed to point out that I'd agreed to go to at least two sessions before making up my mind.

“I know,” I say, injecting a note of weariness into my voice. I don't want her to think I'm too keen, or god knows what else she'll sign me up for. “I haven't forgotten.”

“Good, good. I'm sure you'll make some new friends there. I have such a good feeling about it.” She smiles at me. “Someone to take Beth's place maybe.”

An image of Parker's face slides into my head.
Someone to take Beth's place
. My cheeks are warm. If Mom knew what she was saying...”Yeah, maybe,” I say; then I change the subject. “Did you get your teeth whitened or something?”

She covers her mouth with her hand and laughs.

“You did!”

Dad looks up from his food, which has been occupying his full attention. He has these weird eating habits. He cuts everything into little squares—tiny cubes of chicken, potato, zucchini. Stuff like rice that can't be cut up gets arranged into little piles. Mountain ranges, or miniature pyramids. If we have company, he eats like a normal person, but when it's just us, he won't take a bite until his plate looks like some bizarre food mosaic.

“Laser-whitening,” Mom says. She drops her hand and bares her bleached teeth at us. “They were getting yellow. Sort of horsey-looking, you know?”

“Looked fine to me,” Dad says and returns his attention to his plate.

“Honestly, sometimes I don't know why I bother.” Mom gives a little sigh and turns to me. “Emily, you should get yours done too. They're pretty white anyway, but there's always room for improvement.”

Dad's eyes flick back up for a second and catch mine. Sometimes I think we can read each other's minds.
NFW
, that's what I'm thinking. No fucking way. He gives me a tiny grin but says nothing. If Mom makes an appointment at the dentist for him, he won't argue. He'll just forget to go.

What kind of bird is it that ends up hatching the cuckoo's eggs? That's Mom, anyway. I'm her cuckoo child. She finds me utterly bewildering but she does her best to take care of me anyway.

After dinner I change into my favorite, soft, faded jeans and pull a black V-neck sweater over my white T-shirt. I debate whether to wear a baseball cap but decide against it. Instead I use a bit of Dad's extra-strength hair gel and run my fingers through my hair until it's spiky and messed up. Mom will hate this, but it actually looks pretty good.

The adrenaline from last Sunday's climb wore off days ago, but it's left me feeling restless and sort of hungry. I want something to happen. I open my bedroom window. At our old house, I could lean right out, but these ones only slide a few inches. Safety windows. I push my nose against the screen. It's getting dark and the driveway lights are all on, two glowing spheres at the end of every driveway, like radioactive bowling balls. A pair for each nuclear family, marking off the edges of the wide road. A 747 could land on Willow Terrace, no problem.

I slam the window closed, harder than I mean to, and head downstairs.

Parker isn't at the church when I arrive. I'm a few minutes early: Mom's a big believer in punctuality.

The circle of chairs is set up in the middle of the room, empty except for Shelley. I don't want to sit there waiting under the fluorescent lights, so I loiter by the doorway reading the Jesus posters.
Interested in Converting to
Catholicism
? one asks.
Join our class, Tuesday evenings, open to all
. Another has a candle and the words
You Are the Light of the World
.

Shelley clears her throat. I turn around and smile at her with this involuntary grin I get when I'm uncomfortable.

“Welcome back, Dante. I'm so glad you're here.” She pats the seat beside her.

At least she got my name right. I walk across the room and sit down, crossing my ankle over my knee and wishing I'd brought a book to read, or pretend to read, until the others arrive. Shelley is way too enthusiastic, I decide. It's not that she's phony—that would almost be easier—it's that she's depressingly, embarrassingly, sincere. I wonder what the rest of her life is like, if she has a boyfriend or a full-time job, whether she lives alone, why she does this kind of work. I wonder if she has any friends and what she tells them about us and about this group. It's weird to think about.

The others all drift in, one by one, and I try to remember their names. Sylvie, the redhead who cried. Nicki, the dark-haired mouthy one. The silent girl with braces, whose name I have forgotten again. The annoying Shelley wannabe, Claire. Jasmine.

But no Parker.

She has my phone number
, I think, remembering how I wrote it on her arm last week under the pale lights in the parking lot. She could have called me if she wasn't coming.

“Well,” Shelley says, beaming a hundred-watt smile at us all. “It is six-oh-five. That is past our start time. Let's begin.”

She lifts her fingers and makes these scratchy quote marks in the air when she says “start time.”
Start time
. I feel a flash of anger toward her, as if by starting the group she's closing off the possibility that Parker might still show up.

“We'll start with check-in,” she says. “I'd like to hear how you are all feeling this week, so let's see...” She taps her lower lip with her fingertip. “Tell me, if you were a weather system, what would you be and why?”

My heart sinks. If Parker were here, if I could exchange glances with her across the circle, this might be bearable. But without her...”Uh, Shelley? Can I just run to the bathroom? I mean, go ahead and start...”

She nods and sighs. “We'll wait.”

“No, no. Don't wait. Just go ahead with, you know, the weather thing.”

Shelley purses her lips for a moment before speaking. “Dante. Opening check-in is an important part of our
group process
. It helps us all bring our full selves here, to this moment, fully present and connected to each other.”

More scratchy quote marks for
group process
. I remember my conversation with Leo about how people don't really connect. I don't want to be fully present. I don't even want to be partially present.

Shelley smiles and her eyes flick from one girl to the next as if she can forge connections by the sheer power of her gaze. “We'll wait for you.”

I don't think genuine connection is something you can force like this, but I stand up and walk away from the circle without saying anything.

In the washroom, a framed pink poster reads
Have you made God smile today
? I splash cold water on my face and contemplate making a run for it, even though I know I won't really do it. No one is preventing me from walking out the door, but it still doesn't really feel possible.

The bathroom mirror is flecked with splashes of dried soap and gunk. I stare at my reflection. My eyes are bloodshot, and under the fluorescent lights, my skin has a weird grayish tinge. I head back to the circle, feeling trapped and miserable.

The door opens and Parker walks in. My heart leaps, and I can't help the huge grin that spreads across my face. It's like the lights in the room suddenly got brighter. Like the sun came out from behind a cloud.

“Sorry I'm late,” she says cheerfully. “Did I miss much?”

“Not at all.” Shelley claps her hands together like a little kid. “We're just about to begin.”

Parker drops into the seat beside me and bends close. “Nice going, Spider Girl,” she whispers.

I'm still grinning as Claire begins to explain exactly how and why she feels like a spring shower.

At break, Parker and I
head outside so she can have a smoke. It's dark and a cold rain is falling, puddles shining around the scattering of cars in the small parking lot. We stand by the doors, pushing our backs against the wall of the church and trying to shelter under the overhanging roof. Parker lights her cigarette, and a fat raindrop splats against my cheek.

“So what happened at your school?” she asks. “Sorry I never called.” She gestures at her arm. “I took a shower and then I realized I never wrote your number down anywhere else. All I could read was a three and an eight. Anyway, did the sign get people talking?”

I shake my head. “Not so much. Everyone is so wrapped up in their own little lives that they hardly seemed to notice. I swear, it'd take a bomb going off to get their attention.”

“We've talked about that,” Parker says. “It's not as easy as you'd think.”

“Jesus, Parker. I was kidding.”

She laughs. “Well, sure. Me too. You didn't think I was serious?”

I swallow. “No. Of course not.” Actually, for a second I'd wondered. There's something about Jamie that I don't quite trust. I don't know how far he'd go. “So, are you planning anything else?”

“Are you in?” I nod, and she grins at me. “Leo said you would be.”

“He did?”

“Yeah.” She looks at me like she might say something more, but then she just shakes her head.

My heart quickens. I wonder if he told her about the kiss. “Um, Parker?”

“What?”

“I don't know. Nothing.” Another raindrop splats on the top of my head and trickles down my forehead. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “What are you planning? Another sign or something? Or more flyers?”

“I don't know. Leo's been going on about your school, wanting to do something else there.” She gives me a sideways look. “He went to GRSS, you know.”

“Yeah. So he said.”

“He's never said much about school before. Not about his own experience, I mean.” Parker looks at me like she's waiting for me to fill in some blanks, but I doubt I know anything she doesn't.

“He didn't say much to me. Only that he had the same asshole teacher that I have now.”

“He quit two years ago. I was kind of surprised at how intense he still is about it.” She flicks her cigarette butt into a puddle. “And he's told Jamie, and now...well, you can imagine. Jamie's not so much into talking, but he's got a real hate on for your school. It's his new obsession. He's all, like, let's do something already.”

“Like what?”

She shrugs. “I don't know. Why don't you come round sometime? We can hang out. Plan something, maybe.”

Mom won't like the idea of me hanging out with someone who has her own place. She'll assume that Parker is trouble, just because she doesn't live at home. “Okay,” I say. I don't want to miss out on anything, and I want to see Parker again. So I guess I'll just have to figure out how to swing it.

The doors open beside us, and Shelley sticks her head out, tapping her watch. Parker and I follow her down the stairs and back into the group room, where Shelley has been busy. A giant sheet of paper is spread over a long table. Little pots of glue are carefully placed every couple of feet, and markers, scissors and pastels are laid out at one end. At the other end is a cardboard box filled with pictures cut from magazines. I pick up a picture of a running shoe and turn it over in my hand.

“We're going to make a group mural,” Shelley announces.

“Oh! Or maybe we could do a ‘zine,” Nicki says. “As a group, you know?” Her voice sounds different than usual, and I realize I've never heard her sound remotely enthusiastic about anything before.