Inferno (2 page)

I don't know how I'm going to deal with school now that Beth's gone. I have a feeling I'll be spending a lot of time alone.

The day begins with double bad news. I pick up my schedule from the office and discover that Mr. Lawson, the English teacher who hated me in grade ten, is now teaching grade eleven English. We get to spend another year together. And to make it even worse, I have him for homeroom. The thought of me and Mr. Lawson beginning every day together depresses me.

The stupid thing is that I should like English. I love reading. I'm crazy for books. But that's half the problem, right there. Mr. Lawson can take a book I love and analyze it until it's as dead as the dissected rats in the biology lab.

He's a book-wrecker. I hate that.

I'm heading down the second-floor hallway to his classroom when someone steps right in front of me.

I step to one side. “Excuse
me
,” I say, kind of sarcastically. I've never seen her before. And I'd have noticed her: Her hair is so fair it's almost white, and she's ghost pale. Plus there's something odd about her face. I stare for a moment before I realize what it is: She has no eyebrows. She's not punk or Goth or anything; she's wearing no makeup at all and she's dressed in ordinary faded jeans and a sweater, which makes the eyebrow thing even odder and more unexpected. Even with eyebrows though, she wouldn't quite blend in. I can't put my finger on it, but she's definitely not your usual GRSS student.

She gives me this weird, no-eyebrow smile and hands me a piece of paper.

I shove it in my pocket like I couldn't care less what it's about, and I keep walking until I get around the corner. Then I pull it out and smooth the creases. It's neon pink, with big bold letters in all caps, and it says:
WOOF, WOOF. YOU ARE NOT A DOG. WHY ARE YOU GOING TO OBEDIENCE SCHOOL
?

I'm not sure whether to be insulted or amused.

Mr. Lawson doesn't look
particularly pleased to see me. He gives me a cool nod when I walk in. “Emily,” he says.

“Actually, I changed my name this summer,” I tell him. “Legally. It's Dante now.”

He gives a little snort, and my stomach starts to hurt.

Other kids drift in and take their seats. A couple of them nod at me; one asks how my summer was; most of them stare at my hair for a few seconds and then ignore me. One asks me, all phony innocence, where Beth is. Pretending to be friendly. It's not like I don't know about the rumors. I doodle an elaborate picture of Geryon, the monster of fraud, on the front cover of my binder. He's one of the creatures from Dante's
Inferno
, which is possibly my favorite book of all time. I draw Geryon scaled and hairy and give him a long serpent's tail with a venomous forked tip. Then I sit and wait for class to begin.

Mr. Lawson seems very pleased with himself. We are going to be doing a novel study, he tells us, and he's giving us three books to choose from. It's like he's doing us a huge favor: he is Giving Us A Choice. Granted, there aren't a lot of choices at GRSS, but still. Hardy, Dickens or Steinbeck. Three books by three dead white men. Three books I'd already read, or at least started to read. I have trouble conjuring up the expected gratitude.

When everyone puts up their hands to say which book they want, I just sit there and say nothing.

Mr. Lawson folds his arms across his chest. “What seems to be the problem, Emily?”

This is how he talks. Not
What's up
? or
What's wrong
? or even
What's the problem
? No.
What seems to be the problem
? Like without even asking, he can somehow tell it doesn't even qualify as a real problem. It only
seems
to be one.

On top of that, he's got my name wrong.

“It's Dante,” I remind him. “Not Emily.”

“Right,” he says. He kind of drags it out—
riiiiight
. Long, slow and dripping with sarcasm: He's totally mocking me in front of the whole class. “So...
Dante
...what seems to be the problem?”

“I've already read those books,” I say. “Can I pick something else? Um, please?”

He raises his eyebrows. “You've read all three? Even the Steinbeck? Somehow I doubt that.”

I don't say anything. It's hard to know what to say really. Last year, conversations with Mr. Lawson usually ended with me getting sent to the office.

“Well?” Lawson says. His eyebrows are twitching and hovering in the vicinity of his receding hairline.

“Well what?”

“Well...
Dante
...which book are you going to read?”

I shrug. “Well...
Mr. Lawson
...I guess if I'm re-reading something, I'll take the Thomas Hardy.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
.” I'd read it last spring, before Beth left and before I got all obsessed with Dante Alighieri. “At least it has some exciting moments. Dead babies and murder and a hanging, you know?”

I guess that's a bit of a spoiler, but I want Lawson to know I've really read it. A couple of kids snicker. Lawson gives me a narrow-eyed look but drops the topic. He rattles on about the assignment, but I can't concentrate. I feel like throwing something through the window and running from the room. Running as far away as possible. I don't know how I'll be able to stand a whole year of this.

Less than ten minutes later he calls me Emily again. I know he's got a lot of names to remember, but give me a break. Last year, two teachers at our school changed their names: Miss Creston became Mrs. Hicks, and Ms. Barkley became Ms. Johnson. Personally, I think it's weird that some women still change their names when they get
married—like, aren't we kind of beyond that whole deal? But the point is, I bet Mr. Lawson remembers
their
new names.

“It's Dante,” I say again. “Not Emily.”

Mr. Lawson leans back against his desk.

“Riiiiight.” He smoothes his mustache. He does that all the time. It's one of those perfectly trimmed,
TV
-cop mustaches. He puts his hands in his pockets and sighs. “I suppose you're going to tell me you've read Dante's
Inferno
too.”

Actually, I've read quite a lot of the
Divine Comedy
. The
Inferno
is the best part. I skipped over most of
Purgatorio
and a fair bit of
Paradiso
. Let's face it, hell is more interesting than heaven. It's kind of heavy reading, but I guess you'd expect that from a seven-hundred-year-old epic poem. It took me half the summer, and that was with the help of Cliff ‘s Notes. But Lawson's not going to believe me anyway, so I just shrug.

He raises his eyebrows. “So why Dante then?”

Like it's any of his business. “That's personal.”

“Riiiiight,” he says again.

I'm not telling him the real reason, not in front of the whole class. Not a chance. It'll sound hokey, and I don't want to be laughed at.

Lawson waits, arms folded across his chest. Some kids shift in their seats to stare at me.

Screw it
. If he wants an answer that bad, I'll make one up especially for him. “You really want to know?” I say quietly. “Fine. Dante's
Inferno
is about hell, right? And since
I apparently have to spend an eternity in school, which is basically hell on earth—”

“All right,” he snaps. “That's enough. I suggest you get to work...Emily.”

I lift my chin and meet his gaze straight on. “That's not my name,” I say. “I legally changed it. I won't answer to Emily.”

There is a hush in the class. No snickers. Everyone is waiting to see what's going to happen, hoping that Mr. Lawson will lose it and provide some entertainment, or at least waste a few more minutes of class time.

Mr. Lawson sighs. “Is this really the way you want to start a new year?”

“I haven't done anything,” I say. “It's not my fault you don't like my new name.”

“I had hoped that your attitude would have improved.” He glances at the clock. “Not even nine thirty and already you're causing trouble.”

I don't say anything.

“I think you better go and have a word with Mrs. Greenway,” he says.

I stand up and leave the room.

I am halfway to the office when I see the no-eyebrows girl again. She's standing outside the main doors, smoking. I am half tempted to push the door open and ask what her note meant, but Mrs. Greenway spots me and beckons.

“Dante. Already?”

Mrs. Greenway is fifty-ish and extremely fat, with masses of gray- and brown-streaked hair and bright pink lipstick. Despite this, she's all right. She's one of the more reasonable people at GRSS.

I step into her office. “Hi, Mrs. G. Mr. Lawson sent me.”

“Mm-hmm.” She waits.

“Well, the thing is, he wanted to know why I changed my name.”

She smiles. “I got your parents' letter. I've been wondering that myself.”

“I just liked the name.” I flop down in the big comfy chair that she's managed to cram into the corner of her office. “Emily was too...I don't know. It wasn't me.”

“Dante's a great name. Knowing you, I'm assuming there's a literary allusion. You know who Dante was?”

“Sure. Italian poet. One of the greatest writers ever.”

She smiles and squeezes herself into her desk chair. “Have you been reading the
Divine Comedy
?”

I nod. “I read a bunch of stuff this summer.”

“And what was it that impressed you so much that you chose his name?”

I hesitate. What I'd said to Mr. Lawson wasn't quite true. School was hell, but that wasn't the reason I chose the name. “I liked what he said,” I tell Mrs. G. “You know, about how we need to take responsibility for the world. As individuals, I mean. He said, ‘If the present world go astray, the cause is in you, in you it is to be sought.'”
I shrug. “It's just cool, that's all. I mean, he wrote that like seven hundred years ago, you know?”

“Ahh. I do know.” She smiles. “Yes, very cool indeed.”

The word
cool
sounds funny coming from her, like it isn't something she would normally say. We sit in silence for a moment. Then Mrs. G. sighs. “I take it that isn't what you said to Mr. Lawson.”

I squirm. It does seem a bit childish now. “No. I told him I picked it because of the
Inferno
. That school was hell, you know, and that since I was stuck here...”

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah.” There is a pause. For a second, I think she is going to ask me about Beth, but of course she doesn't. I don't imagine she pays too much attention to student gossip, and even if she had heard something, she probably wouldn't bring it up. It's weird, but I don't think I'd mind. I can almost imagine talking to her about Beth. Almost.

“Oh dear,” she says again. She looks at me thoughtfully. “You usually have more sense.”

“He kept calling me Emily. And he called me a liar.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

“I said I'd already read the books he assigned, and he didn't believe me.”

“Ahh.”

Even though she's never said it, I have a feeling she doesn't like Mr. Lawson either.

Finally she sighs. “You haven't written a paper on these books before though?”

“No.”

“So you can do the assignment.”

“I guess.”

She glances at her watch. “There's only ten minutes left of this period. Why don't you take a walk, then head on to your next class.”

“Okay.”

“And Dante...next time, maybe you could think before you speak. Some things are better kept to yourself.”

I nod and leave the office. A couple of pink squares of paper lie on the hallway floor. I pick them up and study them for a minute. Apparently I'm not the only one that got the weird
Woof, woof
note. I open the main doors, step out into the bright sunshine and look around. Smoke still lingers in the air, but the no-eyebrows girl is gone.

Mom and Dad usually
get home pretty soon after me. Mom is teaching full-time for the first time since I was born. The little kids adore her.

I run all the way home, go straight up to my room and turn on my computer to send Beth a message.
How was your first day back, mine sucked, blah blah blah
. It doesn't matter what I write, because I'm not going to send it.

When Beth told me she was moving, I hadn't kidded myself that we'd stay close. Two thousand miles is a long way, and while computers and phones are great, they're also pretty limited. Even when Beth was here, she wasn't a big talker. Still, I figured we'd at least stay in touch. Tell each other what we were up to, who we were hanging out with, what movies we'd seen, stuff like that.

For a few days after she left, I sent her long e-mails telling her how much I missed her and talking about how much GRSS was going to suck without her there.

She didn't reply. I figured she didn't have her computer set up yet, so I waited a couple of days. Then I noticed that she'd updated her Facebook profile. So she was back online. I poked her a couple of times and sent her some virtual fish for her virtual aquarium. But I didn't hear from her, and it gradually began to sink in.

She wasn't going to write back. Not ever.

I stare at the computer screen and hold down the backspace key, erasing my e-mail to Beth one letter at a time. I wonder if she even thinks about me anymore. I log in to Facebook. I keep expecting to find that she's deleted me from her Friends list, but she hasn't yet. Maybe she just hasn't got around to it. Or maybe it hasn't occurred to her that I'd be checking her profile to see what she's doing. She doesn't write much, but she changes her status every day or two. Right now, it reads:
Beth is listening to cool tunes
.