Inferno (6 page)

“Brutal, isn't it?”

I raise my eyebrows. “It's something, all right.”

She exhales a cloud of smoke into the darkness.

I look at her curiously. “How come you're here? I mean, my mom made me come, but your parents don't even make you go to school.”

“Yeah. I don't even live with them.”

“Seriously?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. I have my own place.”

“You do? Seriously?” I sound like an idiot but jeez. She's the same age as I am.

“Yeah. Well, with my boyfriend.”

Boyfriend
. It figures.

Parker holds her cigarette close to the webbed part of her fingers, so that her mouth is hidden by her hand every time she takes a drag. “I still see my parents every week though. We had this deal when I moved out—they help out with the rent and I have to keep seeing my counselor.” She wrinkles her nose. “And my counselor wanted me to do this group.”

I'm kind of surprised. I didn't think Parker let anyone tell her what to do. “I said I'd come twice,” I tell her. “But that's it.”

“It's not so bad. I mean, it's pretty lame, but, you know, whatever. Shelley's all right. She means well.”

“God, Parker. You sound like my mother.”

She laughs. Then she pulls a pen out of her pocket. “You have any paper? Give me your phone number. Jamie and I don't have a phone, but I'll call you.”

I check my pockets, but I didn't bring any paper either.

Parker hands me the pen and holds out her arm, palm up. “Here. Just write it on my arm.”

I steady her wrist with my left hand and write my phone number on the pale underside of her forearm. Her arm is thin and muscular, the blue veins visible
through the skin. “You know that thing we talked about? Stealing that sign?”

“Sure.”

“Have you done it yet? You know, with your friends?”

“No. We were talking about doing it Sunday night though.” She grins at me, the corners of her mouth lifting to make two neat creases. “Did you change your mind, Dante? You want to come along?”

I hold my breath for a second. I've never really done anything like this. Not even close. I mean, I've never even shoplifted a chocolate bar or scrawled graffiti on a bathroom wall. So this is a bit of a leap.

“Come with me.” Parker drops her cigarette butt on the ground. “Come on. It'll be fun.”

I nod slowly. “Okay. I'll come.”

“Awesome. I'll pick you up.” She high-fives me; then she laughs. “I always figured you would. That day I met you, you know, when we talked about your school being like something out of the movies...”

“I know. I felt like you'd been reading my journal, it was so exactly what I thought.”

She laughs again.

I feel all warm and relaxed, sitting here with her. I feel like Parker
gets
me, even more than Beth did. And the more I get to know her, the more I like her. “Hey, Parker?” I say. “I can't stand it at school. I mean, I've only been back there for a week, but it's hell. I feel like I'm wasting my life.”

Parker nods. “That's the problem with making education mandatory. If you could study and learn what you
wanted instead of what the state decides you should be programmed with...”

“Well, I'm sixteen. So technically it isn't mandatory, right? I could quit.”

“Sure. But you've had, what, eleven years of school where you've had no say at all. Don't you think that is part of how you feel now? Like, that resentment just builds?”

“Maybe. But what about you? Why'd you drop out?”

“I didn't want to support a system I didn't believe in,” she says.

“But...” I don't quite know what it is I need to ask. “What does it feel like, just to drop out?”

“I don't regret it,” Parker says slowly. “But...well, lately I've been wondering what to do.”

Shelley is calling us to come back in, but we ignore her.

“Are you thinking about going back to school?” I ask her.

Her face is pale in the dim glow of the streetlights. “Maybe. I don't see how I can, really.” She sighs. “Don't say anything to Jamie, okay? If you meet him Sunday night.”

“No. Course not. But...well, why would you go back?”

“I don't know. I probably won't anyway.”

Shelley calls us again. Parker gets up. “We'd better go in before she has a stroke.”

I follow her to the door and look down the stairs to the brightly lit room. “Another whole hour of this...”

“I hope she's brought more flowers. I'm still a little hungry.”

I laugh, but inside I feel all churned up and unsettled.
I can't imagine telling my parents that I want to drop out. I can just hear my mom.
Emily, don't be ridiculous. You don't mean that, do you
? No, Mom. Of course I don't.

Parker skips lightly down the steps, and I follow. I'm already trying to figure out how I'm going to get out of the house to meet her on Sunday.

Shelley writes across the
top of a sheet of flip-chart paper. All I can see is flowered fabric, because she is standing in the way, but I can smell the slightly dizzying fumes of permanent marker.

She stands back, points to her words and reads them aloud: “‘When I have healthy self-esteem, I...'”

Beside me, Claire's hand shoots up.

Shelley ignores her. “How about we do this in a round? Each of us contributing one statement that feels true to us. I'll start. When I have healthy self-esteem, I believe in myself and my capabilities.”

She writes down her own words and then she turns to me, and I make a mental note not to sit on her left-hand side next time. “Um. I feel good about myself?” Duh.

“Wonderful! Yes! When we have healthy self-esteem, we feel good about ourselves!” Shelley beams at me like
I'm a puppy who's just figured out how to shake a paw. I half expect her to hand me a dog cookie, but instead she just writes my words down and another wave of toxic fumes wafts in my direction.

Claire looks at me, and I can practically feel her resentment.

“Jasmine? Your turn.” Shelley leans forward encouragingly.

“Me?” Jasmine shifts her bulk forward in her chair and sniffles some more. I can't tell if she has a cold or is sort of crying all the time. I hand her a Kleenex from a box on the table.

“Thanks.” She keeps her eyes on the ground and picks at a scab on her arm.

The clock ticks. No one says anything. Jasmine just sits, breathing heavily. I'm feeling so anxious for her, it's crazy. I want to whisper the answers to her or tell her to just forget it. I can't stand it.

Finally she sighs. “Uh, I guess it's just like feeling good about yourself?”

Shelley purses her lips. “Well, yes. But that's what Dante said. Can you come up with something of your own?”

“It doesn't matter,” I say quickly. “I mean, if that's what's true for Jasmine, shouldn't you just write it down?”
And give her a goddamn dog cookie too
.

Jasmine's eyes flick toward me for about a millisecond. I smile but not fast enough for her to see.

“Oh. Well, I suppose so.” Shelley sounds irritated, but she writes it down a second time. “Nicki? You're next.”

Nicki grins. “When I have healthy self-esteem, I feel good about myself.”

Parker starts laughing, and Shelley lets out a long sigh from between tight lips. She looks at me, narrow-eyed, before she writes Nicki's response on the flip chart.

Great. I've instigated a rebellion. I'm already being seen as a troublemaker. Well, at least I'm used to it.

The flipchart is followed by another brainstorming exercise, then an art exercise and then a closing circle. Shelley reads a poem, which I stop listening to after the part about us all being children of God; then she says it's time for our closing circle.

“This is where we all join hands and sing ‘Kumbaya',” Parker tells me.

“Parker. Please.” Shelley's cheeks are flushed, and I can't help wondering what this group is doing for her own self-esteem. “What I want to do today is for you each to say one thing...just one thing...that gets in the way of having healthy self-esteem.”

This doesn't strike me as a very upbeat note to end on, but whatever. I'm feeling bad for her so I volunteer to go first. Shelley nods, looking grateful but wary.

“School,” I say. “Having teachers who don't respect me. I guess that'd be the main thing.” Actually, I think my self-esteem is fine. I have no doubt that I'm more intelligent than Mr. Lawson. But I have to say something,
and Mr. Lawson's presence in my life is a definite problem.

Shelley smiles at me. “Good, Dante. Thanks. Parker? How about you?”

Parker shrugs. “Um, I feel okay, actually. But I guess maybe some old stuff. You know. My parents.”

“Your parents,” Shelley echoes encouragingly.

“I don't want to get into it.”

I half expect Shelley to push her but she just nods. “Okay. That's fine. It's good that you're aware of it. Claire?”

“I think my own internal critic is a problem. My negative self-talk. I'm so hard on myself.” Claire smiles widely like this is a good thing. “But I'm working on changing all those unhelpful messages into more affirming ones.”

I catch Parker's eye and stifle a giggle.

“Jasmine?”

She shakes her head and whispers something. I didn't catch it, but Shelley thinks she did. “Being fat?” she asks. “Is that what you said?”

Jasmine flushes and shakes her head. “My dad, I said.”

There's an awkward silence now that Shelley has basically called Jasmine fat. A nice way to end a session on self-esteem. Shelley's cheeks turn a mottled red, and oddly, for the first time, she seems like a real person to me. I feel almost as bad for her as I do for Jasmine.

Jasmine stares at the ground. Shelley obviously wants to move on and doesn't ask Jasmine more about her dad. “Marna?” she says.

The head-gear girl just makes a face and gestures at her orthodontia. Enough said.

“Nicki?”

Nicki runs her fingers through her short dark hair. “Coming here every Friday night,” she says. “That'd be high on the list.”

Shelley ignores her. I think she just wants to wrap it up and go home. “Sylvie? Your turn.”

The redhead with the bandana. She's been pretty quiet all night, giving one-word answers. Now she looks up at Shelley, and I can see that she has tears streaking down her cheeks. “My mom,” she whispers. “She's such a bitch. She hates me.”

“Your mom...”

“We just had this huge fight after school because I asked if I could borrow the car to go see my boyfriend.” She gives a hiccupping sob. “She's always calling me a slut and a whore...shit like that.”

Christ. I can't imagine. The worst my mom ever does is try to persuade me to wear nail polish and take up scrapbooking.

Sylvie stays behind to talk to Shelley while the rest of us trickle out of the room. Parker catches my arm as we head up the stairs. “I'll call you, okay? To figure out when and where to pick you up?”

I nod. “Yeah. Call me.”

Parker hops into her Civic and waves. I stand there, watching her leave.

Mom's full of questions when she picks me up, but I don't feel like talking about the group.

“It's all supposed to be confidential,” I tell her. “You know. So people can talk about stuff that's private.”

“But it was okay?”

“Yeah. I guess.” I grin at her. “Don't worry so much, Mom.”

“It's my job.”

“And you're so good at it.”

She laughs. “Well, kiddo. I'm afraid you're stuck with me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She sticks a
CD
in, and a country song starts to play. I lean back against the headrest, close my eyes and picture my phone number written on Parker's arm.

I hope she calls.

Mom drives me home; then she and Dad go out to a movie together. They've done this every Friday for as long as I can remember. It's funny—they're total opposites but they are still pretty lovey-dovey sometimes. I spend the evening surfing the Net and hoping Parker will call.

No messages from Beth. I can't believe I still bother checking. I look at the photograph of the two us, still in a frame on my dresser. In it, I'm laughing, but she's serious,
concentrating on holding the camera too close to our faces. She's tanned and tall, pretty; nothing like Parker. God, I miss her.

I try to imagine what I'd talk to her about if she called. School, I guess, and how much I miss her. Blah blah blah. I couldn't tell her how I feel about Parker, even if I was clear about it myself. And when I think about describing the group at the church, I feel bad—it was so hokey but kind of sad too. I don't really want to make fun of anybody there, not even Shelley. And Beth would definitely not approve of what I'm planning to do Sunday night. She wouldn't see the point. It drove her crazy last year when I mouthed off in class. She was always asking me why.
Why do you do that, why create trouble for yourself, why make waves
? I didn't know why. I still don't know why.

I pick up the photo and drop it into my socks and underwear drawer, face down.
Good-bye, Beth
. Sometimes I almost hate her.

The phone rings and I jump on it. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Parker?”

“Yeah, it's me. So...are you still in?”

“Course.”

“Sunday night then. We'll pick you up.”

“Yeah,” I say. “No problem.”

All weekend I can't stop
thinking about Parker and her friends and what I've agreed to do. Half of me thinks I'm nuts, that I'll get caught and end up with a criminal record and be grounded for the rest of my life. The other half is just happy not to be thinking about Beth.