Desdemona by Tag Cavello (love books to read txt) 📕

on it. From there the love story became exposed.”

“What was in the envelope?” Dante asked.

“Ah!”

And before Dante could stop him, the old man was on his feet again. This time he went to the hallway. His steps echoed on the high ceilings. Dante heard him go up the stairs, rummage about somewhere for a minute or two, then come back down. As before, he had retrieved something. Not more breakfast treats though.

Donati sat. He placed an old, brown envelope on the table. Dark splotches stained its surface. It looked every bit as ancient and fragile as the chalkboard. Across the front, written in staggered cursive, was one word: LOUISA.

“No,” Dante said, awe-struck. “I don’t believe it.”

“You do. It’s just an old envelope.” The opera singer smiled. “No doubt you’ve seen stranger things.”

“I have. It’s just that—“

“Open the envelope, boy. We must have your question answered.”

Dante reached for it. He feared it might fall apart in his hands, delicate as the fibre had become. Its texture was soft, almost powdery, as if at any moment it would crumble. Gingerly as he knew how, he extracted a parchment from within. This too proved a challenge to unravel. With great care Dante pulled one corner back, and then another.

“It’s already torn in many places, as you can see,” he heard Donati say, “but the poem is still perfectly legible.”

Indeed it was. And it looked to be written by the same hand as what had marked the envelope. Faded letters waltzed across the page, their orientation slightly crooked, their words all but hemorrhaging with desire.

 

My shadow falls upon the porch,

Of the temple where you lie.

My shadow fades upon the torch,

Of the beauty I draw nigh.

 

Each night I walk the pediment,

To soothe an aching need.

I long for your disarmament,

I kiss you and I’m freed.

 

A giant’s bones are not enough

To keep my heart at bay;

A giant’s bones my own rebuff—

My love for you holds sway.

 

Always will I come for you;

Wait for me and see.

I love you, sweetest Louisa, true,

My darling, my dear, marry me!

 

“This was written by the boy?” Dante asked.

“To his Louisa on the night that he died. The story comes from the realtor who sold me this house. Where she got it” Donati shrugged “who knows? Does it even matter? The poem eventually found its way to Louisa’s hands. She kept it for the rest of her life. Never married.”

“That’s…” Dante began. But he couldn’t think what to say. Dumbfounded, he shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.”

But Donati did know. “That is love, boy. Romantic love. And when it’s real, there is no stopping it. A boy and girl will always come together. The author of the poem used his mind to make sure it happened for him and Louisa. But the spark derived from love.” He leaned closer. “If you truly love this Sunny Desdemona, you will think of a way to win her.”

“I love her,” Dante said, more sure of himself this time.

“Then what are you waiting for? Get to plotting, boy, get to plotting.”

CHAPTER THREE: Sunny

Many days passed before he saw Donati again. But the opera singer’s words no distraction would rescind.

 

On the first day of school Dante dressed in clothes he thought would be suitable for catching Sunny’s eye: black boots, dark jeans, a red dress shirt. To complete the ensemble he added a leather jacket, though the early autumn weather remained warm.

Would he even see Sunny this year? That was another issue he wondered about. What if she’d moved away over the summer, or transferred to a different school? Like maybe a juvenile detention center, a cruel thought whispered as he walked down Benedict Avenue. It almost made him trip on the railroad tracks. But no, Sunny wouldn’t be in juvie, not at her age. The academic pundits of Norwalk’s school board might recommend her for home education, but they wouldn’t stick her in juvie.

Leaving the tracks behind, Dante walked uphill to Norwood Avenue. Further down it intersected Christie, the avenue of Norwalk Middle School. A double-laned drive—crowded with cars already—led to its single story facade. Groups of noisy kids gathered around the bike racks. Others stood in the parking lot, saying goodbye to their parents. Dante knew from last year that Sunny’s parents drove her to school in a slick Jaguar sedan. He looked for that sedan now, slowing his gait, but could find nothing remotely close. Nor was anything like it turning at the drive.

She’s gone; you know she’s gone.

Ignoring the thought, Dante approached the main doors of Norwalk Middle School. To him its impression was that of a federal prison, with its low rectangular windows set within beige bricks. High hedges protected the glass, giving the whole building a wall of sorts to peek over like a cat on the hunt. Dante did not care about cats on the hunt. This school couldn’t scare him—not anymore. That was last year. Last year he’d been too afraid to even walk on the first day; he’d asked his dad to drive him instead. Last year was sixth grade, the first year of middle school. New building, new teachers, new rules.

This year he walked right to the main door and yanked it wide. Kids, most of them shorter than he, scurried everywhere. Their voices were like snow on a television screen—blah blah blah, zabba zabba zabba. The buzz of crazed insects. Danta walked through them as best he could, trying not to step on any toes. He already knew his homeroom number—204. It waited at the end of the hall, an open door, a tall, smiling teacher wearing a beard. Dante remembered the teacher’s name as Mr. Wolfe. Or Wolfton or Wolfley, something along those lines. He was watching the kids at their lockers, his round, furry face a selling point: I’m friendly, I’m helpful, you can trust me.

The lockers popped open, slammed closed. A smell of pine cleaner and new books hovered everywhere. Mr. Wolfe spied Dante, said hello. Dante said hello right back.

“Your locker is number sixteen,” the teacher said.

“Thank you, Sir.”

Where is she where is she where is she?

Dante went to his locker. A few more familiar faces from last year said hello. None of them had red hair. None of them were even girls.

Now he was stopped in front of his locker. A black combination dial regarded him blandly. Dante looked back at it. Of course, he had forgotten to get the combination from Mr. Wolfe.

∞

Things did not get any better at 7:30, when homeroom began. Hoping to rub elbows with various members of Sunny’s trouble-making clan, Dante took a seat in back of the room. An empty green chalkboard hung at his shoulder. A row of sleeping Amiga computers, their faces also blank, kept it company. There came the squeak of chairs, the slapping open of notebooks, a few coughs. Students were settling in. Mentally preparing themselves for day one at NMS. Looking from one seat to the next, Dante felt his heart sink lower, lower, lower. None of the girls he saw looked like Sunny. Nope. Sunny just wasn’t here.

“Okay then,” said Mr. Wolfe from in front of the class, “welcome back to anther year.”

Moans and groans greeted this. It made Wolfe laugh.

“Yes, I know how excited you all are. I am Mr. Wolfe, the seventh grade English teacher. Some of you will see me later today. Those of you who won’t have presumably been assigned to Mrs. Durkey.”

More moaning and groaning, some laughter. Mrs. Durkey’s rather unfortunate married name meant that a lot students called her Mrs. Turkey behind her back. Last year, Sunny had called it right to her face.

“Now let’s do the roll call,” Wolfe went on, “shall we?”

Over the next seven minutes he called everyone’s name neatly, soberly, alphabetically. His bearded smile never wavered. Dante’s lip tightened when he got to the D section, but Sunny Desdemona’s name was not cast. A hot, unreasonable anger toward Mr. Wolfe rose in Dante’s gut. For whatever reason, he was sure that Sunny’s name was on the English teacher’s roll card, but just to be mean, he skipped over it. Somehow, he knew Dante wanted her here, needed her here, so he skipped her.

Stupid, the whispering thought said.

And yes, Dante knew it was exactly that, but he couldn’t help wondering.

She’s not even here! Do you see her here?

Someone knocked at the door. Mr. Wolfe went to it, stepped into the hall. Somebody else—another adult—had summoned him, but Dante couldn’t see who it was. The doorframe blocked his view. He tried to listen to their voices, make out what they were saying. There was laughter, something about cafeteria lunches. Then Mr. Wolfe returned to the room.

“Sorry about that,” he told everyone. Dante noticed that now his smile looked awkward, slanted, a little off. “We have a slight change in attendance.” The slanted smile faced the door. “Sunny?”

And in walked the girl of Dante’s dreams.

She wore black. Her skirt and blouse were like midnight struck upon an open blaze, her jewelry the stars, the green of her eyes a furious shimmer set above the chiseled cold features of her face.

Her boots, gold-buckled, clicked daintily across the tiles, until Mr. Wolfe’s desk arrested her progress. “Where would you like me to sit?” she asked, as if the teacher were stupid.

Mr. Wolfe either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Just find an empty desk,” he answered pleasantly.

Turning on her heel, Sunny approached the class. Dante wondered if anyone else noticed her sneer, or the way her nails, lacquered red, fanned at the belt of her skirt like bloodied claws. Click…click…click the buckled boots went on the floor, coming closer and closer to Dante’s desk. The heels must have been an inch high, yet Sunny was still short. A slender sprite with red hair. A deviant pixie.

The girls moved sideways a little to let her pass; the boys turned their eyes away. No one, it seemed, had the courage to look at those icy green eyes. Except Dante.

Perhaps that was why Sunny chose the desk right next to his. In one delicate move, she placed her bottom on the seat, crossed her bare legs, and flashed Dante the deadliest smile he had ever seen.

“Okay if I sit here?” she asked.

Dante could only nod. Her perfume smelled of baked cinnamon, and the sound of her breath felt good enough to drink.

∞

That first week took a long time to get through—much longer than five days. A number of issues contributed to the drag. Unseasonably hot weather, piles of homework, boring teachers. On Wednesday Dante stopped at his locker just before lunch, only to find that its combination no longer worked. Over and over he dialed the correct numbers; over and over, when he pulled the release lever, nothing happened. Hungry and thirsty (especially thirsty—the temperature outside had struck ninety degrees by then), Dante began to despair. If it really wouldn’t open, he would need to go to the office and report the problem.

It really wouldn’t open. Dante went to the office. First the principal’s secretary didn’t believe him, then the principal didn’t believe him. Then the school janitor was called, and everyone went to locker sixteen. The janitor dialed the same numbers Dante had been using for two days now. He pulled the latch. The locker popped right open.

Thursday came and it happened again. Dante twisted the dial to the left, the right, the left, just as he had all week. He pulled the latch. Nothing happened.

“No way,” he moaned.

The hallway was empty. Everyone else had gone to lunch. Dante tried the combination again. When it didn’t work, he punched a dent in the door.

“Having trouble, handsome?” Sunny Desdemona asked from somewhere.

Dante could not have turned faster without swirling his cranial fluid into parfait cream. A quiet row of neighboring lockers met his gaze; a broken pencil lay on the floor.