The Shape of Desire (26 page)

“Shape-shifters,” Gary repeated. “You mean, like werewolves?”

“Sort of,” Dante said. “Except not just at the full moon and not true werewolves. Normal wolves, sometimes. Other animals, lots of times.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Janine said. “People can’t turn into animals.”

Gary shrugged. “Lots of legends about it, going way back in history.”

“Selkies,” I said helpfully. “Seals that turn into people.”

“Oh, and polar bears!” Rochelle said. When Gary and I looked at her doubtfully, she defended herself. “In my class on the histories of native people, we studied Inuit tribes. And some of them believe they can turn into bears and—and other animals. I mean, they
believe
it.”

“But that doesn’t mean they
can
,” Janine said.

“I can,” Dante said. “I do. Two or three days a month.”

“Show us,” Janine commanded.

Dante shook his head. “I can’t do it at will. It’s just something that comes over me and I can’t stop it.”

“What kind of animals?” I asked.

“Dogs. Deer. Foxes. Cougars. Mostly animals native to the Midwest.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s
made up
, that’s what it’s like,” Janine said.

Rochelle gave her a frosty look. “Did any of us say we didn’t believe
you
when you said you stole money from your dad?”

“This is hardly the same thing!”

“Yeah, this is a lot more interesting,” Rochelle muttered. It was the first time I had seen the dainty blond girl challenge her more forceful roommate.

“So all those weekends you say you’re going home to visit your mom—” Gary said.

Dante grinned. “Yeah. Sometimes I go see her, but I’m not human.”

“That is so cool,” Gary said. “I wish I could see it sometime.”

“I don’t like to be around people when I’m in animal shape. Except for family.”

Rochelle’s pale blue eyes were big. “Why? Are you
dangerous
?”

“I don’t think so. No. It’s just that—the way I think is different. My instincts aren’t the same. I react like an animal instead of a person. It’s hard to explain.”

“Do you remember everything?” Gary asked. “Like—what you did and what you ate?” His face changed. “What
do
you eat?”

Dante grinned. “Just what you think I’d eat.”

“Gross,” said Janine.

“And you remember all that?” Gary pressed.

For a moment, Dante’s handsome face looked uncertain. “I remember most of it,” he said. “I think. But it’s fuzzy. Time doesn’t feel the same, and different things are important. Some of it doesn’t stick in my memory.”

“This is so
awesome
,” Gary said.

Dante glanced around at the four of us. I thought I saw regret on his face. “I’ve never told anyone else before,” he said.

Gary nodded. “Hence the rules of the game.”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone else.”

Janine snorted. “Anyone else would laugh us out of the room, so you can be sure
I
won’t talk about it.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Rochelle promised.

“Me, either,” Gary said.

Dante turned his gaze on me. I think it was the first time those divinely dark eyes had ever fixed on my face and actually
looked
at me. I was suddenly and deeply smitten—so much so that I forgot I was supposed to be making a vow. “Maria?” he asked.

“What? Oh, no, I’ll never tell a soul. I swear it,” I replied hastily.

Little did I know that making that promise would ensure I turned into one of the world’s best liars.

O
ddly, there wasn’t much fallout from that stoned and drunken night of revelations. I never heard Gary or the girls question Dante about his amazing claim, none of us reported Gary to the school board for cheating, and no one turned me over to the cops for aiding a fugitive. No one much cared about Janine’s confession, so the woman who instigated the whole event didn’t have much to worry about.

I did try to talk to Rochelle once about her painful admission. We were in the cafeteria and ended up being the only two people seated at a small table during lunch. To my discredit, the first couple of times I’d seen her after the party, I had quickly turned the other way or pretended to be absorbed in another conversation. I wasn’t able to cope with the knowledge I’d gained about her; it had changed her so much I was almost afraid of her—or maybe I was afraid of how awful I would feel if I learned more details. This was way worse than the beatings Karen had suffered, and until that point, Karen’s father had been my standard for awfulness.

“So,” I said as we sat there spooning up our mac and cheese, “have you written your paper for Russian lit yet?”

“I haven’t even finished Solzhenitsyn yet,” she said glumly. “Thanks for asking.”

I mentally took a deep breath and shook my shoulders back. “Hey, I wanted to say something,” I said, trying to pitch my voice exactly right between sympathy and admiration. “I thought you were really brave the other night at the party. Saying what you said.”

I would never have thought such soft blue eyes could muster such a cold stare. “I was drunk,” she said sharply.

I wasn’t sure how to interpret that.
I was drunk, which is the only time I’d ever want to talk about such a thing.
Or
drunk, which means I can’t remember what I said.
Or
drunk, so I made shit up.
“Yeah, we all were,” I said. “But it was still pretty powerful. And I just wanted to tell you—”

She hunched a shoulder. “Don’t.”

“If you wanted to talk about it—”

“I
don’t
.”

“I mean, I’ll listen, if you want, but maybe you should find a therapist, a professional. Something that traumatic can stick with you—”

“Jesus, Maria, what does it mean when someone tells you they don’t want to talk about something?”

“Well, I think it might be important that you do,” I finished. “As your friend, I just thought I should say that.”

“Great. As my friend, just finish your lunch.”

I held up my hands, palms out, conceding defeat. “Okay. I have the study guide for
The First Circle
if you want to borrow it.”

She nodded but didn’t look up. All of her attention was focused on her macaroni and cheese. “Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll be down in the study lounge tonight.”

“Okay, I’ll bring it by.”

We labored through another fifteen minutes of conversation before Rochelle declared herself done with lunch and carried her tray away. I
sat there by myself ten minutes more, worried that I had said too much, worried that I hadn’t said enough. When do you trust people to solve their own problems, when do you force them to take your help? When can you trust yourself to have a clearer view of their pain, their danger, than they can from inside the maelstrom? And why would you ever believe you have the power to reach out your hand and stop the bitter winds from their poisonous swirl?

I hadn’t wrestled with those questions often and I couldn’t come up with satisfactory answers. I would discover, over the years, that I never could. I never believed that excused me from the obligation of trying.

T
here was one unexpected and monumental side effect of the party held on the night of the blizzard. Dante asked me out.

Snow was still on the ground a week after the storm, and I was getting pretty tired of wearing boots everywhere, not to mention gloves and the ugliest hat in the history of winter. I always found it so hard to look cute in cold weather. My eyes would tear up, my face would splotch with red, and I would swath myself in so many sweaters and scarves and socks that I looked like one of those children stuffed into a snowsuit and sent out to the backyard to play. Even more than I did in summer, I resented beautiful girls who seemed to float effortlessly through the season. They wore chic-heeled leather boots and white parkas with a fluff of fur that framed their faces, and their skin took on a healthy rosy glow. I trudged. I coughed. I blew my nose. I fell on the ice. I spent three months feeling clumsy and oafish and monstrous.

Dante didn’t seem to notice either my unattractive attire or my grumpy expression when he came across me sitting just inside the front door of the dorm, trying to repair a broken bootlace by knotting the frayed ends together. “Hey,” he said. “On your way to or from?”

I glanced up at him, so startled he actually noticed me that for a
moment my hands lay lax on my laces. “Uh, to. I have a three o’clock Ancient Egypt lecture.”

“I’ll walk over with you,” he said casually.

He would? Really?
Dante?
“Great,” I said, my voice just as casual. I finished the knot, tied a sloppy bow in the shortened laces, and grabbed my backpack as I stood up. “I haven’t been out yet,” I said. “Still as cold as yesterday?”

He didn’t exactly hold the door for me, but he pushed it open and made sure I’d stepped out behind him before he let it go. I squealed as the frigid air hit my face, and he laughed. “Maybe colder,” he said.

“I keep looking for the forsythia,” I said with a sigh.

He glanced down at me in amusement. I was tall for a girl, not quite five-nine, and my boots added another inch and a half. But I was still an inch or two shorter than Dante. “You’ll have to explain that to me.”

“Forsythia,” I said, waving a gloved hand. “It’s one of the very first signs of spring. You see it in mid-March. Sometimes it blooms and there’s another snow, so you have these bright yellow flowers in a patch of ice. But at least you know winter is
almost
over.”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind winter that much. I like to ski and snowmobile, and I like to hike in the woods. It’s a totally different experience on a winter day. You hear different things. You see animals you don’t notice in spring.” He pointed to the thin, interlaced branches of a bare oak looking like a crosshatched woodcut against the ancient vellum of the overcast sky. “You see bird nests left behind—things you’d never see on a summer day.”

True, in this particular tree there were three dark clumps of coiled leaves and twigs that might have been home to robins or sparrows on warmer days, though I couldn’t say the ability to locate them gave me any greater appreciation for the dreary weather. “Well, I guess you get points for seeing the beauty in the season,” I said, trying to be fair, “but I still hate winter. I always have.”

“What’s your favorite season?”

“Autumn,” I answered without hesitation. “And October is my favorite month.”

“Let me guess. Your birthday is in October.”

“
No
, it’s in the spring. I just like the colors. And the weather. Cool enough to wear a light jacket, but not so cold that you have to take ten minutes to put on all your extra layers before you step out the door.”

“I like autumn, too,” he said.

I noticed he hadn’t asked me
exactly
when my birthday was. He wasn’t really investigating me; he was just making small talk as we walked together along a common path. “And I like Halloween,” I added.

He was silent a moment. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to think up a reply or if he was sorry he’d initiated this conversation because I was turning out to be the dullest woman he’d ever encountered. I tried to come up with a new topic but my mind was as blank as a field of freshly fallen snow.

When he spoke, he surprised me. His deep voice was slow and serious; he seemed to be sharing a thought he hadn’t put into words until this moment. “I like Halloween, too,” he said. “It’s the one day I don’t feel so much like a freak.”

“A freak?” I repeated reflexively.
What?

He nodded. “This whole shape-changing business. It makes me weird. But on Halloween, everyone dresses up. Everyone tries to be someone or something they’re not. I feel a little more like I belong.”

I couldn’t decide if this was sad or endearing. I certainly didn’t know how to answer. So I just said, “I don’t think you’re a freak.”

We had reached the semicircular patch of sidewalk that formed a sort of landing pad right outside the building where my history class was held. I was sorry to realize my conversation with Dante was almost over, but really excited I would soon be in a warm place, out of the wind. I shivered a little as he came to a halt and seemed to expect me to pause alongside him.

“What do you think I am?” he asked.

When in doubt, go with the truth. “A really cute guy who dates a lot of hot women.”

A smile brushed his full lips and was gone. “Just because they’re hot doesn’t mean they’re nice.”

“Yeah, guys always
say
things like that, but I’ve noticed they still like the beautiful girls.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, though,” he said. My confusion must have showed on my face because he clarified. “When I asked you what you think I am. If you don’t think I’m a freak.”

Fighting back another shiver, I regarded him for a moment, trying to figure out what was behind the question. What did he want from me? “I don’t know you that well,” I said slowly. “You always seemed like someone who was sure of himself, not too worried about what happened around you. Maybe not too connected to other people, but not afraid of them, either. Just living your own life without being bound by what other people thought. But I don’t really have any idea.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Too connected to other people, I mean. You got that right.”

“You have friends, though, don’t you? I mean, you seem to get along with Gary just fine.”

“Yeah, Gary’s cool. He takes people for what they are and doesn’t get too worked up about things. But in general—” He shrugged. “I’m not always sure what other people are thinking. I’m not always sure what to say to them. I don’t know if it’s okay to ask them questions.”

Was that what this was all about? “You can ask me questions,” I said.

His dark eyes darkened even more with some passing thought; his eyebrows drew together as if he was working through a puzzle. “Did you really hide your friend in the gas station and never tell anyone where she was?”

I stared up at him. I could no longer feel my toes and my
cheeks stung from cold, but I knew we had to finish this conversation—and we had to finish it outside, where no one was close enough to overhear. “I really did,” I said.