Inferno

by Robin Stevenson

  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.

  THIRTEEN

  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.

  Shelley shakes her head. “Not a ‘zine. A mural. Something that represents our shared struggles and our combined strength.”

  Nicki ignores her. “Sylvie’s poems, Jasmine’s artwork, Parker’s weird conspiracy theories, my...I don’t know. I’ll write something. We could all write stuff. It could be called, um...”

  “Of course I’m in favor of young women finding their voices...” Shelley sticks the capped end of a marker in her mouth and sucks on it thoughtfully; then she shakes her head. “But I wouldn’t want some...project...to distract from the therapeutic focus of this group.”

  Parker sighs audibly and rolls her eyes. “It’d be good for our self-esteem, Shelley,” she says, straight-faced. “It’d be empowering.”

  I start to laugh. “Yes, Shelley. It’d be so empowering.”

  “Well.” Shelley looks around like she’s suspects she’s being made fun of. “I’ll think about it, okay? But for now...a group mural. Painting. Collage.”

  “I am so not into art,” Nicki says sullenly.

  “At least we don’t have to talk,” I whisper to Parker.

  She rolls her eyes. “Want to bet?”

  Shelley smiles at Nicki as if she hasn’t just totally squashed her creativity. “So not into art,” she echoes, looking meaningfully from one of us to the next as if she is distributing Nicki’s words around the group. “Does anyone else share Nicki’s feelings? Let’s hear from each of you.”

  Parker calls me later that night. A lot later. I run for the phone, toothbrush in hand.

  Dad steps into the hallway, frowning, and shakes his head at me.

  “Can you come round tomorrow?”

  I think for a moment. Saturday. “What time?”

  “Leo says he could pick you up after dinner. We’re going to meet at my place.”

  My parents aren’t going to be too thrilled with the idea of some skinny, long-haired, older guy picking me up in his beater station wagon. “Umm, I don’t know.”

  “Come on. You said your mom made you go to that group tonight because she wants you to make friends.” She laughs. “So tell her you made some friends.”

  “Maybe.” I bite my lip, thinking. “Okay. But tell Leo he doesn’t have to pick me up. I’ll figure out a way to get there.”

  I spend half the night strategizing and finally decide to take Parker’s advice. At breakfast, I tell Mom that I’m going to meet a friend at the mall to catch a movie. A new friend.

  “Really? A new friend?” Her eyes are thoughtful.

  “From the group,” I say. “You know, the social skills group?”

  “Well.” She stares at me. I think she is torn between her suspicions that it is too good to be true and her hopes that I might not be a complete loner forever. “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yeah, I guess you were right.” I know this is overkill, but I can’t seem to stop. I’m not a good liar. When I’m nervous, I talk too much.

  “What movie are you going to see?”

  I have no idea what’s playing. “Um, some comedy.”

  “And your new friend...a girl?”

  I nod.

  “What’s her name?”

  At least I can answer one question honestly. “Parker.”

  “Parker. That’s unusual.” She sips her coffee, still watching me, her face serious. “Emily...”

  I tense. “What?”

  “Would you like me to try to get an appointment for you with my hairdresser? It’s short notice, but maybe she could squeeze you in this afternoon. So you’d look nice for tonight.”

  I blow out a short breath of relief. “It’s not a date, Mom.”

  “Well, obviously not.” She looks horrified, or maybe just startled. Apparently that possibility hasn’t occurred to her yet. “But still. If you’re going out...”

  “No thanks. I think it’d be better to let it grow some more first.”

  “Well, you might be right,” she concedes, studying my hair thoughtfully.

  Enough about my hair. “So, do you think I could get a ride to the mall after dinner? The one downtown?”

  “Of course, honey. No problem.” She smiles at me. “I’m so glad the group has worked out so well. I had such a good feeling about it.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I try not to feel guilty.

  I go for a long run; then I spend the rest of the day re-reading Tess of the D’Urbervilles and making notes. I’m finding the book infuriating this time around. I want Tess to forget about the guy she’s so hung up on and get herself a life. Obviously I can’t write that, so instead I’m just writing about how Hardy uses the character of Tess to show his view that we are basically all pawns of fate. Cheery stuff.

  Lawson’s making us write an outline which counts for ten percent of the course grade. It sucks, because outlines totally don’t work for me. Usually I don’t figure out exactly what I want to say until I start writing. So I pretty much have to write at least a draft of the paper before I can write the outline. Which means I have to do the whole thing this weekend.

  On the other hand, it’s not like I have much else to do. At least I’m not thinking about Beth or checking her Facebook profile every hour.

  After dinner, Mom drops me off at the mall. I duck inside, wait a couple of minutes and then head back out to walk the few blocks to Parker’s place.

  The pizza place downstairs is packed. A neon sign flashes PIZZA PALACE in lurid green, and the huge sign below reads We Have 2 for 1 “slices!” The word slices is in quotation mark
s. Like they’re not really slices at all. Pseudo-slices. It reminds me of Shelley with her “start time” and “group process.”

  I push the door open and trek up the stairs. The voices and laughter from the pizza place fade. I knock hard on Parker’s door and wait. No one answers. I’m about to knock again when the door swings open.

  It is obvious from the look on Jamie’s face that something is wrong. He stares at me hard, his eyes flat gray and his mouth twisted thin as barbed wire. He swears under his breath, and with a jab of one hand, gestures for me to go into the living room.

  Parker is sitting on the gray carpet—they don’t have much furniture—with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her face is red and blotchy and her eyes are pink-rimmed and bloodshot.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and glares past me at Jamie. “No. No, I’m not fucking okay.”

  “Don’t drag your friend into our business.” Jamie walks into the kitchen, takes a beer out of the fridge and cracks it open.

  I ignore him and drop to my knees beside Parker. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh...Jamie quit his job at the Golden Griddle.” She wipes her nose on the back of her hand like a little kid and looks up at me, wet-eyed. “So now somehow I’m supposed to pay the rent and buy food and—”

  “Shut up, Parker,” Jamie yells from the kitchen doorway.

  “You shut up. Asshole.” Parker sniffs a few times and looks like she might start crying again. She turns back to me. “I’d sell my car but I don’t think I’d get fifty bucks for it. We’re going to end up getting evicted. I just know it. My parents help out but not that much.”

  “Why did he quit?” I ask, looking from Parker to Jamie.

  “He says he doesn’t want to participate in that whole system. You know, money and stuff.” She raises her voice. “He wants to eat though. He wants somewhere to fucking live.”

  “Shut up, Parker.” Jamie walks over to us, his face tight and angry.

  “What are you going to do, Jamie? Are you going to hit me again? In front of Dante? That’d be real nice.” She spits the words out. “He’s just jealous because I have a friend. You don’t like me to have friends, do you, Jamie?”