Aristotle and Dante Dive into the Waters of the World (Aristotle and Dante #2)(11)

“Aren’t all boys his age full of self-doubt?”

“Dante doesn’t seem to suffer from that.”

“It’s just that Dante’s a happy boy. He’s always been that way. He gets that from his father. But believe me, Lilly, he has his moments—just like every boy.”

There was another pause, and then I heard my mother’s voice again. “How’s Sam handling this?”

“With his usual optimism. He says all we have to do is love him.”

“Well, he’s right.”

“That’s about all we can do, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

And then there was a long silence and Mrs. Quintana asked my mother, “How’s Jaime handling it?”

“He surprises me. He said Ari’s stronger than he thinks. I think Jaime feels closer to Ari now. He’s carried a war inside him for a long time. And I think he identifies with Ari’s inner battles.”

“Maybe we all do.”

Then I heard them laughing. “You’re a smart lady, Soledad.”

I felt stupid standing there, listening in on a conversation that wasn’t meant for my ears. I felt like I was doing something very wrong. I didn’t know what to do, so I snuck back out of the house.

I decided to walk back to Dante’s house. Maybe he had calmed down. Maybe he wasn’t mad anymore.

I was thinking about my dad and my mom and Mrs. Quintana and Mr. Quintana and I felt bad because Dante and I were making them worry. We were making them suffer, and I hated that. But then I thought, it was really a beautiful thing that our mothers could talk about all this. They needed that.

As I was walking, a couple of guys passed me walking in the opposite direction. I knew them from school. And as they passed me, one of them said, “You beat up one of my friends, fucker. Defending some fag. What is he, your fucking boyfriend?”

Before I even knew what I was doing I was grabbing him by the collar and shoving him to the ground. “You wanna mess with me? That’s great. I’ll fuck you up. Try me. You won’t live to be eighteen.” I really, really wanted to spit on him. But I didn’t. I just kept walking. I was glad Dante wasn’t around to watch me behave like a close relation to Cro-Magnon man.

A block away from Dante’s house, I had to stop and sit on the curb. I was shaking. I sat there until the shaking stopped. I wondered about cigarettes. My dad said they helped calm his shaking. My mom said it was a myth. “And don’t get any ideas.” It was good to sit there and think about smoking. Better than thinking about the things I might have done to that kid.

When I got to Dante’s house, I knocked on the door. Mr. Quintana answered, a book in his hand. “Hi, Ari.”

“Hi, Mr. Quintana.”

“Why don’t you call me Sam? That’s my name.”

“I know that’s your name. But I could never call you that.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Too disrespectful.”

“Yup,” I said.

He smiled and shook his head.

“Dante’s mad at me,” I said.

“I know.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just shrugged my shoulders.

“I guess you didn’t know that the boy you liked so much had a temper.”

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t.”

“Go on up. I’m sure he’ll open the door if you knock.”

As I started up the stairs, I heard Mr. Quintana’s voice. “You’re allowed to get mad at each other.”

I turned around and looked at him—and nodded.



* * *



Dante’s door was open. He was holding a piece of charcoal and staring at his sketch pad. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he said.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Usually, I stay mad for a couple of days. Sometimes even longer. But you must be special—because I’m not mad anymore.”

“So I can talk now?”

“As long as you help me clean my room. And then kiss me.”

“Ah, I see. There are consequences for my actions.” I looked around his room. It really did look like there had been a storm in there. “How can you live in this room?”

“Not everybody lives like a monk, Ari.”

“What does that have to do with you being so messy?”

“I like messy.”

“I don’t. Your room looks like my brain.”

Dante smiled at me. “Maybe that’s why I love your brain.”

“I don’t think you love my brain.”

“How do you know?”

We spent the afternoon cleaning his room and listening to records of the Beatles. And when the room was clean, Dante threw himself on his bed and I sat on his big leather chair. And Dante asked me what I was thinking. And so I said, “Our parents, Dante. They really, really love us.”

“I know. But if we think about them too much, we’re never, ever going to have sex. Because our mothers will be right in the same room as we are. And that is really messed up. So let’s not bring our mothers into the bedroom—even though Freud says they’re there anyway.”

“Freud. I wrote a paper on him once. Thanks for reminding me.”