Forbidden (21 page)

Dante is shaking his head at me. I regard them both like I’m choosing between prom dresses. I consider, make my selection, and smile with sugar.

“Okay, Michael. You’re right. Let’s go.” I acquiesce with a wave, allowing him to lead the way. He swells with male ego and starts for the library. I turn on my heel and march in the opposite direction, and hear Dante bursting with devilish laughter.

Chapter 20

Stupid in a Shot Glass with a Chaser of Hot Chocolate

The girls and I are sitting in the bleachers and shivering like we’re hopped on the bean. Bailey is firing Jujubes down at the cheerleaders, well, mostly at Lizzanne, while our sophomore quarterback gets his head handed to him. Our team is reliably pathetic.

Stadium lights illuminate the rectangle of green where players are slamming and falling and huddling, and slamming and falling and huddling. Not unlike life, I think, when God shakes the chessboard.

I’ve spent nearly the entire first quarter replaying Dante’s conversation in the park, dissecting his odd philosophy on death and love, and my odd reaction to it. There were times that he seemed to crawl inside my head and read my desires off the graffitied walls. It felt exhilarating but utterly taboo, like testing how much horror you can take in a movie before you have to look away. All that remains is the nagging thought that surfaced the moment I saw Dante. He is different, and I haven’t decided if it’s
good
different or
bad
different.

When the crowd cheers at a much-needed first down, my daydream snaps like a dry twig. Bailey spots Milvi in the crowd below and hollers down, “Hey,
chica bonita
!” Milvi waves and starts up the steps. I grab my camera and squeeze into the aisle.

“You taking pictures?” Rachel asks, and I groan in affirmation. I hate standing on the sidelines. It’s always so cold. “Want me to come with?” she asks as Milvi arrives.

“Naw, you’ll be warmer here. Thanks anyway.”

Milvi is wearing a red cloche hat and looks adorable even cold. She slides into my seat and says, “Don’t go, Soph.” She squirms to make room but I explain I have to take photos for work and the newsletter. She bites her lip, contemplating a way to keep me here. We stare for an awkward moment, and then the crowd cheers again, and I look out at the field. I’m missing opportunities and would just rather get it over with.

“We’ll be down for hot chocolate at halftime,” Rachel says.

“Or pear cider,” Bailey corrects and wiggles her eyebrows. Apparently, the pear cider around here is made with something akin to moonshine and strictly for adults. But
Bailey seems to have ways of getting what she wants. She elbows Milvi, who doesn’t appear to have heard but has been staring at me. I turn away, wondering what’s up with Milvi. We haven’t spoken about the night at the mud pit or what I thought happened with Michael or how she refused to help me understand it. It’s been kind of awkward but she doesn’t seem mad at me, just … I don’t know, watchful?

I look for Dad among the bulky winter coats and knitted pom-pom hats. I practically insisted he get out of the house and come to the game tonight. He’s been looking more gaunt and sallow than usual. I’m worried. He hasn’t slept much in the last few days and I thought the cold air might do him good. It’s times like this that I wish we had family around, grandparents or aunts or uncles. Anyone. But we don’t, and it sucks to go through life with a leaky life preserver.

When I spot him among the town council members, something occurs to me. Dad and I are experiencing a role reversal. Weird. I don’t want to have to be the practical one when most of the time I feel like I’m ripping at the seams.

The crowd along the sidelines is thick with players and parents, everybody anxious for a win against our Danbury rivals. I slide between a couple of wool coats with mufflers and gloves and snap a few shots of the field. The teams move to the thirty-yard line as progress continues. I clasp my camera and wait for the next play. Far to my right, Michael and Raph are standing among the players and coaches. They’re the only ones in jeans and T-shirts, seemingly unaffected by the cold night air. When I asked Bailey why the Patronus brothers don’t play football, she said they claimed to be too busy, much to the coaches’ frustration, since they seem built for contact sports.

I’m shivering in my Disneyland sweatshirt when two arms wrap around me from behind.

“Ciao, cara mia.”
The voice is deep and warm in my ear, and I’m startled by Dante’s intimateness. “I can’t bear to see you so cold. You’re trembling.” He rubs my arms and turns me to face him. He is wearing a black turtleneck with a black leather jacket, very attractive against his olive skin and light eyes.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say, teeth chattering.

“Hmm?”

“Football?”

“Ah, yes, well, you are right. I don’t have much interest in sports. But I thought you might be here.”

I toss him a doubtful look and snap a quick shot of the next play. I check the screen and delete it.

“Oh, so you became a photographer,” he says like we’re old friends who haven’t
kept up in years.

I cock my head, suspicious. “What did you say?”

Dante becomes very still. Something odd flickers across his eyes, and then he gives me an innocent smile. “This is right, no?
Fotografia?
”

He thinks he misspoke? Okay, but I’m starting to think Dante’s English comes and goes as he pleases.

He is giving me a playful look, so I grin and snap a shot of him without aiming. He blushes, pushing the camera aside, and I laugh at his shyness.

“I’m not really any good,” I confess. “The old photographer graduated and I got stuck with the job.”

We look at his picture on the screen and laugh at his funny expression.

“Will you take my jacket, please? You are shivering.” He starts to undress.

“No, really, I’m fine,” I lie, forcing myself to stop shaking. I scope out my next shot. It’s hard to get a clean look of the field when I can’t hold still. I squint one eye behind the camera and pan left and right. “So, anyway, that was a pretty intense conversation today.”

“Yes, and I wanted to ask you something before we were interrupted.”

“Yeah? Well, I want to ask you something, too.” I click another shot and lower the camera. “You go first.”

“No, no. You first,
cara
.” He seems overly pleased that I have a question for him.

“Well, I just want to know what’s up with you and Michael’s family. I mean, why don’t you guys like each other?”

“What is there to like?” He smirks.

“You know what I mean.”

He considers my question with a heavy sigh. “I detest his glorifying, self-righteous arrogance. His presumptive superiority.”

“Wow. And you determined this in one day?”

“I’ve known plenty of his kind. Sanctimonious
banda di idioti
.” There is an ancient tone in his voice that goes beyond bitterness and is laced with the brutal reality of experience. “I just did not expect …” he changes his mind in mid-thought and levels a penetrating stare at me. “There is only one person here I am interested in,
cara
.” His point is clear, and I’m unnerved by his open admission.

“My turn,” he murmurs, stepping closer. He rubs my arms to warm me as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “May I take you to the dance on Saturday?”

I blink at the unexpected invitation. “You want to take me to the Harvest Festival dance?”

He nods.

“
You
 … want to take … 
me
?”

“Sì.”

“You want to
take
me?”

He sighs in frustration. “Why do you keep saying that?”

I refuse to voice the real reason, that I would have Beyoncé copying my dance moves before I would have a gorgeous guy like Dante asking me out. I default to a less self-deprecating excuse.

“You do know I can
see
the dance from my house?”

He chuckles. “Ah, you mean this small-town thing. I forgot. But yes, Sophia St. James, I would like to drive to your home, knock on your door, meet your father, and escort you to the dance.” He recites his intentions in a formal antiquated tone.
Must be a European thing
.

I chew my lip, uncertain. I hadn’t planned on dating anyone so soon. Actually, I hadn’t thought it would be an issue. And Dante is moving so fast. I don’t even know him.

He shifts his weight. “Too soon?” he asks in a pouty voice that I find rather adorable.

I give a half-shiver, half-shrug. “Well …”

“I will not apologize, Sophia. When I see something I want, I do not waste time playing games.” His hands are in his pockets and he is staring at the ground, shy. “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen and—”

I scoff so loudly he looks up. “Have you
seen
Lizzanne?” I ask. When he frowns, I point her out in the flock of shimmering blue-and-gold pom-poms.

“You are referring to that
bionda impostora
?” he says in mock horror. I give him my
Oh, please!
look, and he laughs. “Yes, well, she is attractive but you did not let me finish. I was saying you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen
and
the most interesting by far. I would go mad from boredom here, if not for you.”

Wow, I’ve never been so flattered. But I pride myself on possessing a sensitive BS detector and all alarms are going off. Dante must be up to something. I can’t believe a word he is saying. Can I?

When I don’t answer, he says, “Sophia, I would like to stop your shivering with a cup of hot chocolate. When I return, you will have an answer for me, no?”

“That’s not necessary, really.”

“But I am happy to please you,
cara
.” His voice is gentle and so sincere that I feel obligated to give him anything he asks. When I agree, he smiles like he’s placed me in checkmate and then walks to the concession stand. He has a peculiar formal air about him
that pulls at a vague memory, almost like déjà vu that
hasn’t
happened before. I know that makes no sense, but everything he does is so familiar, kind of like I wouldn’t expect anything else from him.

I’m struck by a strange notion to tread carefully around Dante. He’s been so nice, it’ll be hard to say no about the dance. But I feel I should.

Our team is miraculously closing in on the end zone. Players on the sideline are shuffling in my direction so I step behind the chain gang officials. The ball is snapped, and I track the quarterback, clicking rapid shots in succession. He throws the ball to the wide receiver. With the bright stadium lights and my flash, I’m able to get a series of action shots, three frames per second.
Jeeze, I love this freaking camera!

When the play is over, I check the screen for my brilliant handiwork. My second heartbeat thingy flares up, and I grimace and squirm inside my bra.

Someone is standing at my elbow and I look up to find Michael. Not so surprising anymore but still freaky as hell.

A breeze ruffles his blond hair, and the field lights sparkle in his eyes. His flawless skin is flushed red with anger and reminds me that I want to apologize for tricking him earlier today. I want to ease the tension around his eyes. I want to make him smile and laugh so I can feel that warm, safe blanket unfurl inside me. I want—

“So what’s your fascination with him?” Michael’s hard edge cuts off my foolish romanticism, and I bristle.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His eyes narrow as he holds his temper in check.

I hate to see his beautiful features marred with irritation. I hate to think I caused it. But mostly, I hate his domineering tone.

“What’s the matter
now
?” I grind out in a low voice so bystanders won’t hear. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I can’t keep up with your moods.”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t have to. In fact, I don’t have to answer to you at all.”

“I know you don’t. But why
can’t
you answer the question?”

My mind is racing for a sensible response but I have my own questions: Why does he even care what I think of Dante? Is he aware that he sounds jealous? And why in the world does he hate Dante so much?

I raise my chin, smugly. “Well, in the words of the lovely Hannibal Lecter, quid pro quo, Michael.”

“No.”

I deflate. It’s not supposed to work that way. “But I thought you wanted—”

“I guess I don’t care
why
you’re fascinated.” He leans in my face with a controlled rage that I’ve never seen before, and growls, “Just that it ends!” He stalks off, leaving me shaking so hard my teeth rattle.

My eyes bore into his back as he pushes through the crowd. He tries to leave but Raph snags his arm. They argue, and then Michael jerks free and marches out of the stadium. Raph gives me an accusing look and then follows Michael out.

My mouth falls open; I am dumbfounded.

What just happened?
I can’t get my head around anything today.

Dante thrusts a Styrofoam cup at me, and I jump, like always, by his sudden appearance. I’m thinking of tying a cowbell around his neck. He stares like he’s waiting for a pot to boil over, so I do.

“Yes! I’ll go to the dance with you!” I blurt out, and immediately regret it. Michael is provoking me beyond my common sense.

Dante smiles profusely, and I think the whole thing is rather suspect.

Chapter 21

Michael

There was a century-old barn at the edge of the Patronus property among the wild grass and sweet gum trees. It had a black roof and faded red-clapboard siding that time and weather were returning to its natural state. Two stories rose cautiously aboveground while several hid below like coveted secrets. There were no windows to break the monotony of Douglas fir planks, just the single door entry. To the human eye, it was an ordinary barn that told of hard work and early mornings of past generations. Rusty farm implements leaned against it like tired heads on an old shoulder.