Inferno

by Robin Stevenson

  EIGHT

  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 de
finitely 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.”

  NINE

  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.

  The plan is that Parker and her friends will pick me up at the corner of my street at eleven Sunday night. I’ll wait until Mom and Dad are in bed; then I’ll sneak out. I haven’t done this before. I actually haven’t lied to them much at all, but then again, I haven’t had to. I’ve never been all that interested in partying, and my parents never objected to me going to Beth’s. Hell, I could even sleep over there, and Mom just thought it was sweet that we were such good friends. I don’t really want to lie to them now, but I can hardly tell them the truth about what I’m planning to do.

  I feel pretty guilty about sneaking out, although not guilty enough to change my mind. Not as guilty as I probably should feel.

  Dante Alighieri saved the ninth circle—the worst place of all, at the bottom of a great pit at the center of hell—for those who had betrayed people they were bound to, like their relatives. Okay, the examples in the poem are a bit more extreme than just lying to your parents one night, but still, his point was that betraying someone who trusts you is pretty much the worst thing you can do. That’s as bad as it gets. The betrayers are forever imprisoned in Cocytus, which is basically a lake of ice frozen by the flapping of Satan’s wings.

  I shudder involuntarily. It’s a good thing I’m not a believer.

  Sunday night finally arrives. My parents stay up later than usual, and I start to get nervous. Ten o’clock. Only an hour until Parker and her friends will be at the corner of my street. I’m debating whether to go down and try to subtly remind them that it’s bedtime when I hear Mom’s footsteps on the stairs.

  She knocks and opens my door almost simultaneously. “Hi, sweetie. Doing homework?”

  “Mmm. Novel study.” I hold up a book. “I’m doing Tess of the D’Urbervilles.”

  “Didn’t you already read that one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Well, great. That should be easy then.”

  “Uh-huh.” And depressing. I’m already wishing I hadn’t chosen this book.

  “Well, I just wanted to say good night.”

  “Night, Mom,” I say. “Sleep well.” Really, really well. And don’t wake up until after I’ve snuck back in.

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too.” I blow her a kiss and close the door behind her.

  Mom and Dad are both snoring by ten thirty. I change into black jeans and a gray hoodie and stare at myself in the mirror. The buzzed hair makes my head look too small compared with the rest of me. When you’re five foot eleven and broad-shouldered, you need hair. I bare my teeth at my reflection. There isn’t much I can do about it other than wait for my hair to grow. I cram a navy hat over my fuzz, which helps a bit; then I brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face. Done.

  I tiptoe down the carpeted stairs, pull on my jacket, lace my boots and slip out the front door with my heart racing.

  Outside, the air is cool and damp. A heavy fog hangs low over the rooftops, and the streetlights are surrounded by fuzzy yellow halos. I jog to the street corner and wait there, checking my watch every few minutes. I hope no one looks out a window and sees me standing here. I can just imagine one of the neighbors reporting back to Mom. My hands are sweating and a small part of me hopes Parker and her friends won’t show up. Then I hear a car, and a pair of headlights appears in the misty air. My heart speeds up, and I know there’s no way I’m going to back out now.

  “Dante!” A guy leans out the passenger window of a station wagon and gestures to me.

  His head is half-shaved, leaving only a stripe of floppy dark hair a few inches wide. Like a Mohawk but not spiked up. I should fit right in with this crowd with my new do.

  Someone opens the back door and I slide in.

  Parker is sitting on the backseat beside me, her skinny face split by a huge grin.

  “Hey, glad you could make it,” she drawls.

  “Hey,” I say. “Good to see you again. I wasn’t sure if you’d really show up.”

  “Are you kidding? This is a big occasion.”

  “What, stealing a sign?”

  She shakes her head. “You. Our new member.” The car pulls away from the curb, and Parker kicks the back of the driver seat. “Hey, assholes. How rude can you be? Aren’t you guys going to introduce yourselves?”

  “Maybe, if we could ever get a word in,” the driver says.

  His voice is slow and sort of smoky, both soft and rough at the same time. I look at him, curious, but all I can see from the backseat is long hair and one skinny shoulder.

  “Ha ha. Very funny, Leo.” Parker puts her arm around me. “Dante, meet Leo and Jamie. Guys, this is Dante.”

  Leo peers out the window and slows to a stop. He twists around to look at me. “Man, Dante. Nice to meet you. I thought I knew this area pretty well, but you live in a fucking maze, you know that? Look at this. Oak Place and Beech Crescent and Willow Terrace...What’s that joke about the burbs? You know...where they...”

  “Cut down the trees and name the streets after them,” I say. “Yeah, yeah. I didn’t choose to live here, okay?”

  Floppy-Mohawk guy—Jamie—turns and looks at me too. “You choose to stay,” he says.

  “Like I have a choice,” I say.

  There is a long pause and everyone is very quiet. Apparently I just said the wrong thing. Jamie shrugs and turns away, as if he’s already decided I’m not worth bothering with. Leo studies my face for a long moment, his eyes locked on mine. “You have more choices than you think,” he says at last. All serious, like he’s Yoda or something.

  I don’t say anything. My heart is beating so loud I think maybe everyone else can hear it too.

  Finally Leo clears his throat. “Uh, Dante? Help me out here. How do I get back to the highway?”

  I swallow and give him directions in a voice that sounds too fast and too uncertain. You know how some people end of all their sentences like they’re asking a question? I hate that. But for some reason, that’s what I’m doing.

  Jamie turns on the radio; then he twists around in the passenger seat and grins at Parker and me. The mood in the car suddenly lightens. “So Parker talked you into coming along, hey?”

  I shrug, pushing my thoughts aside. “She told me what you guys were planning and I said I’d help out.”

  “Uh-huh. You go to GRSS, right? What grade?”

  “Eleven. You?”

  He laughs. “Nah. I went to a school in the north end but I quit two years ago. The day I turned sixteen, I was out of there.”

  He’s cute, despite the half-shaved hair thing, but not my type. Whatever that is. So far I’ve had precisely three relationships that could possibly be called romantic, and that’s if you counted a week of note-passing and hand-holding with freckle-faced Mark Cole in the fifth grade. In grade nine, I went out briefly with a very intense grade-eleven guy called Lukas. He had these beautiful, long-lashed, dark eyes, and he wrote angst-filled poems for me and we talked on the phone until we fell asleep. Then he dumped me for no apparent reason, and I was both crushed a
nd relieved.

  And then there was Beth.

  I watch the driveways flashing past outside and the yellow rectangles of illuminated house numbers glowing in the darkness: 3245, 3247, 3249, 3251. I sigh and turn my attention back to Jamie. “So, no regrets? About leaving school, I mean?”

  “None.”

  “What do you do? You have a job?”

  “Sure. Waiter at the Golden Griddle.” He shrugs. “The tips are okay.”

  “That’s how I met him,” Parker says, bumping me with her shoulder as Leo takes a corner too fast. “I got a part-time job there last year, after school, and we started hanging out.”

  Jamie winks. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “I left my parents’ place a few weeks later.” She makes a face. “It was about time.”

  I’d like to ask her about it, but this doesn’t seem like the time or place. I remember what she said in the church basement, something about old stuff with her family and not wanting to get into it. A picture of that other girl’s tear-streaked face slides into my mind. Sylvie, the redhead with the bandana. The girl whose mom called her a slut.

  Leo turns onto the highway and steps on the gas. Parker lights a cigarette and holds it out her open window. The wind whips her pale hair straight back. “And then we met Leo at an anti-poverty demonstration and...”

  “Started our little group,” Jamie says, finishing her sentence. “Decided to do some stuff to fuck shit up.”

  Parker frowns at Jamie; then she turns and looks at me intently. “We never do anything without a good reason. I mean, we’ve talked a lot about what we believe and how we want to make some real changes in the world, you know? Right, Leo?”

  Leo just nods.

  I watch Parker’s face as she talks and imagine the three of them sitting in coffee shops or driving around, talking late into the night. I’ve never known anyone I could have those kinds of conversations with. Mom’s a big believer in not rocking the boat. And Dad—well, mostly he avoids talking. He doesn’t spend much time with me, and when he does, he’d rather be doing other things at the same time. Raking leaves or painting his little soldiers. Besides, he hates conflict too much to disagree with Mom, let alone the government. Even Beth always thought that I should just accept things more and that trying to change things was pointless. Quit banging your head against brick walls, she used to say.