The Hourglass Door (8 page)

“You said to write down the first thing I thought of.” Dante looked down at the paper in front of him. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s fine. What about . . . Italy?” Surely that would spark a sentence or two.

Two words.

“Dream.”

Another pair of words.
Okay,
I thought.
Interesting.

I fired words at him faster and faster, some of the best ones I’d ever come up with for the game—
beauty, temptation, goal, wish, love, future, laughter, hope, heaven
—determined to get him to write a complete answer or sentence—something more than two words
.
But after each one, Dante wrote down just two simple words.

“Deadly.”

Dante flinched, the pen hovering over the page.

“Hesitation!” I said as though I was calling a penalty. “Remember, you have to write down the
first
thing you think of. And you promised to be totally honest.” I tapped the top of the paper.

The color drained from Dante’s face. He didn’t look at me. His hand trembled as he scrawled an answer across the page. Then he deliberately replaced the cap on the pen and folded the paper in half once, then in half again.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

Dante handed the pen to me. “I have revealed as much truth as I can. Perhaps we can finish this later.”

I reached for the paper. “Let’s see—”

Dante’s hand slapped down on the folded square. “The rules said nothing about having to show you my answers.” His voice had a hard edge to it that I hadn’t heard before. In an instant, his eyes had changed from light gray to the dark gray of storm clouds.

I slowly withdrew my hand as though he had struck me, even though his hands remained flat on the tabletop. Shaken, I wondered what had brought on this sudden change in his attitude. Was it the game? It was supposed to have been innocent and fun.

I could feel the tension building between us, and that was the last thing I wanted to have happen.

The waitress finally returned with our food, plunking down the plates in front of us.

The interruption broke the tension. I could feel it draining away as we both fiddled with our silverware. As the waitress strolled away, I opened my mouth to apologize to Dante. He beat me to it.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

“No, I’m sorry. You were a good sport to even play on such short notice.”

Dante’s storm-cloud eyes lightened a little. “Perhaps it’s my turn to get to know you.”

“Oh, I’m not that interesting,” I waved off his words.

“You’re the most interesting person I’ve met so far,” he said.

“How many people could you have met since Thursday?”

“You might be surprised.” Dante took a sip of water. “Leo has been a very good host.”

“So you
are
staying with Leo?” I asked. “I heard he was, like, your uncle or something?”

Dante smiled crookedly. “Something like that. He’s my . . . sponsor? Is that the right word?” He shook his head and tried again. “He’s the person watching over me while I’m here.”

“And how long will you be here?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“On how long you want me to stay,” he said lightly.

Then you might be here a long time,
I thought, a little surprised at my instant reaction. Before I could say anything, though, Dante nodded toward the waitress who was leaning against the door that opened into the back room.

“Is she the Helen of the Café?” Dante asked.

“Who, her?” I spread a thin coating of butter on my English muffin. “No, there is no Helen. It’s just a name.”

“Ah, but names are powerful. Telling,” Dante observed. “
Abby,
for example, means
one who gives joy.
”

I smiled at the compliment. “What does your name mean?”

“
Lasting,
” he said, a shadow crossing his features before he quickly segued with, “and Helen was the name of the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Helen of Troy.”

“Helen of Troy.” Dante nodded, taking a drink of water.

“Helen and Paris,” I said, sighing a little. “It’s kind of romantic, don’t you think? Running away with the man of your dreams?”

Dante snorted. “What are you talking about? Helen’s broken marriage vow was the downfall of the Trojans.”

I shrugged. “Maybe, but the Greeks were going to win that war. I mean, have you read the
Iliad?
The Trojans were destined to fall—”

“Have you read the
Aeneid?
” Dante asked with a raised eyebrow. “There’s always another side to the story. There’s always more going on than you might imagine.”

A slow smile crossed my face. How long had it been since I’d had a spirited discussion about something literary? About something other than Jason’s shop class or his truck?

“The
Aeneid?
Never read it. I doubt it’s as good as Homer, though.” I set down my fork and leaned my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my laced fingers. “Convince me otherwise,” I invited.

Dante glanced around at the empty café before regarding me with a bright light in his eyes.

“C’mon, Dante,” I teased a little. “Convince me that Helen was the true villain of the story.” Watching the smooth lines of his throat moving as he swallowed a mouthful of water, I felt my own mouth grow dry.

Dante wadded up his napkin and tossed it on the table. He bowed his head for a moment, the stillness I’d noticed about him more pronounced. He seemed to gather up the nearby space, drawing it around him like a hurricane around an eye. “Helen brought war to Troy and left nothing but devastation in her wake. Aeneas has had to watch his friends and family die, his homeland be ravaged by war, his home burn to the ground. And as he stumbles into the smoking ruin of the temple, who does he find?”

Dante’s countenance subtly shifted, his eyes growing distant and hard, his voice lowering in timbre and gaining in strength as the words poured out of him like smoky honey, like liquid fire.

That woman, terrified of the Trojans’ hate

For the city overthrown, terrified too

Of Danaan vengeance, her abandoned husband’s

Anger after years—Helen, that Fury

Both to her own homeland and Troy, had gone

To earth, a hated thing, before the altars.

He closed his eyes, sweeping his hands through his hair before continuing. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his chest rose and fell as he gulped in air.

Now fires blazed up in my own spirit—

A passion to avenge my fallen town

And punish Helen’s whorishness.

He leaned across the table. Heat seemed to radiate off him in waves.

“Shall this one,”
he hissed,

“Look untouched on Sparta and Mycenae

After her triumph, going like a queen,

And see her home and husband, kin and children,

With Trojan girls for escort, Phrygian slaves?

Must Priam perish by the sword for this?

Troy burn, for this? Dardania’s littoral

Be soaked in blood, so many times, for this?”

He looked at me from underneath lowered lids and his voice was deadly quiet.

“Not by my leave. I know

No glory comes of punishing a woman,

The feat can bring no honor. Still, I’ll be

Approved for snuffing out a monstrous life,

For a just sentence carried out. My heart

Will teem with joy in this avenging fire,

And the ashes of my kin will be appeased.”

He slumped back against the booth and drained his water glass in one swallow. When he placed the glass back on the table, it was like a switch had been flipped: he was back from being Aeneas to being Dante. The transformation was startling.

Chills walked up and down my spine. “I’m convinced,” I said. “Where did you learn to act like that? It was . . . incredible.”

Dante smiled wanly across the table.
“Grazie.”

“Does Dave know you can act?” I asked, then quickly shook my head. “Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t know. He’d want to recast
Much Ado about Nothing
and then there would be much ado about everything. It’s too bad you didn’t transfer back in December when we held auditions. You would have sewn up Benedick’s role, no doubt.”

“I’m happy just being an extra,” Dante said, toying with his toast.

“But to play Benedick? It’s the best role in the play. He has all that great verbal sparring with Beatrice.”

“I’m enjoying the verbal sparring with Abby at the moment,” he said with a smile.

I felt myself blush, and a twinge of guilt wormed its way into me. Seriously, what was I doing? Not twelve hours ago I had kissed my boyfriend for the first time, and now I was having breakfast—and flirting?—with someone else? But this wasn’t a date, I reminded myself. This was a
working
breakfast. Maybe it was time I started treating it as such before things got out of hand. At least more out of hand than they already were.

I cleared my throat and took a sip of my juice. “Speaking of the play . . .” I pulled open my backpack and fished out my tattered copy of
Much Ado about Nothing.
I set it on the table between us, a shield to deflect the growing attraction I knew we both felt. “I assume you’ve already read the play, but you can borrow my copy if you want to brush up on the story. You may be happy just being an extra, but Dave requires everyone to be familiar with the
entire
play. Even those of us without any lines.” I pointed at Dante. “Even those of us backstage.” I pointed at myself.

“Abby—”

“I think I’ve got a rehearsal schedule here somewhere.” I dug in my backpack again.

“Abby.” Dante cleared his throat.

I looked up. “Yes?”

“I . . . I’m sorry, but I’m not familiar with this play.” Dante touched a finger to the copy on the table.

I blinked. “Really? Oh, well, it’s one of Shakespeare’s easier plays to read—not like
Hamlet
or
Richard the Third
. . .”

Dante looked down and aligned the edge of his fork with the place mat on the table.

“You haven’t read
Hamlet,
either, have you?”

Dante moved his empty water glass a quarter of an inch to the left.

“Have you read any Shakespeare at all?”

Dante didn’t say anything, embarrassment staining his skin like a dark shadow.

“Right. O-kay.” I frowned, confused. “But you’ve read the
Aeneid
and Homer . . . how did you miss reading Shakespeare in your tour through the classics?”

Dante looked at his hands. “My education has been . . . uneven at times.”

I nodded. “Well, that’s easy enough to fix.” I dug in my backpack again, withdrawing my drama notebook and slapping it down over the copy of the play. “Borrow my notes as well. I had to outline the whole play for Dave, plus do character analyses and plot summaries and identify the predominant themes of the play along with ideas of how to communicate those themes on stage.” I grinned at Dante. “Dave can be a little
obsessive
about his plays.” I tapped the cover of the notebook. “If you have any questions, just ask.”

Dante gathered up the notebook and play. “
Grazie,
Abby. You are a good friend to help me.”

I shrugged. “It’s what friends do.”

“I’m glad we can be friends,” he said. He almost reached for my hand, but at the last minute he curled his fingers to his palm instead.

He kept his fist closed tight the entire drive home. We talked about school—I told him which teachers were the best and which days to avoid eating at the cafeteria. We talked about my family—Hannah’s obsession with Victorian romance novels, Mom’s latest cooking fiasco, Dad’s love of bad puns. We talked about my friends—Valerie, Natalie, and Jason.

It wasn’t until I had dropped Dante off at the Dungeon and watched him slip into the side door that led to what must be an upstairs apartment that I realized we had talked about everything—except him.