Dread Locks (6 page)

DANTE’S SECRET

C
ome on,” Tara said. “Now it’s your turn to show me around.” It was a Saturday afternoon, and we were at my house. This time she had been invited. Mom even prepared her favorite linguini recipe, making it clear that Tara was forgiven for her earlier trespass.

“Show you around? Okay,” I said. “This is the living room—”

Tara punched me on the shoulder. “Don’t be a jerk,” she said, smiling. “I want to see the town. The only places I’ve been since I moved here are my house, your house, and the school. I want to get an idea of what the whole valley looks like.”

“Sure,” I said, rapidly thinking about the few points of interest nearby. “What do you want to see?”

“Anything. Everything.”

We walked outside. The sun was high in the sky. We had plenty of time to do some sightseeing. I got on my motorbike and looked at Tara.

“Do you have a bike?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said. “Slide forward.”

I stopped for a second, to make sure I had heard her right. Sharing a seat on a bike was a very intimate thing, usually reserved for a boyfriend/girlfriend level of relationship, and yet Tara was treating it like it was nothing.

“Just a sec,” I said, and hurried into the garage to get her a helmet, because how embarrassing would it be if we got pulled over by a cop on our first ride together? Besides, running into the garage gave me time to get that blush off my face, although I don’t think I did. I returned with the helmet, hopped on the bike, and she sat down behind me. I kick-started the motor. “Hold on tight.” She put her arms around me like it was no big deal, although it felt big dealish to me.

I took off down the long driveway, hanging a left when we hit the street, and soared down the road.

I detoured past friends’ homes without her knowing, because I secretly wanted to be seen with her—but of course no one seemed to be around. Then I took her to the most impressive place I knew.

On a nearby ridge, there’s a place people called Darwin’s Curve, because this was the spot where survival of the fittest really kicked in. In other words, this was where the
really
bad drivers removed themselves from the gene pool by crashing through the railing and plunging a hundred feet to certain death. Even now, there was a gap in the railing from the last accident that had taken place there.

“Here you go,” I said, stopping at Darwin’s Curve. “You said anything and everything, so here’s everything. The whole valley.”

I parked the bike at the side of the road. We dismounted and stepped through the gap onto the ridge, a rocky surface that sloped gently for about twenty feet, then plunged down sharply.

Most of the locals—at least those of us without a fear of heights—had no problem walking out to the very edge of the cliff for a breathtaking view. I was carefully making my way toward the edge when Tara fearlessly strode on past me.

“Come on,” she said, “if you’re not chicken.”

“Me? Chicken?” I said, following her. “I live for adventure.”

She laughed, almost skipping as she approached the point where the gentle slope turned into a cliff. The little geckos that populated the hills skittered away before her. She stopped at the edge and looked at the town below. The warm wind whipped the twirls of hair around her shoulders.

“There it is,” I said, catching up to her. “You can see most of the town from here.” I pointed out our school, then Main Street, then the mall. Tara took it all in hungrily.

“Look at all the little, tiny people,” she said.

I followed her gaze. I couldn’t see any people—just the artifacts of people: buildings, roads, cars.

“They’re like toys, aren’t they? Little toys we could pick up and play with.”

“You’re too weird, Tara.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It reminds me of a little town where I once lived, on Crete.”

I looked at her. I couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. Crete is somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea. An island south of Greece. As I recalled from Mr. Usher’s endless rants on world history, the Minoans lived there until a massive tidal wave wiped them all out. That was one of his more interesting rants.

“You’ve really been around, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been around.” She nodded, suddenly seeming very far away. “I’ve been around, and around, and around.” Then she smiled. “I have something for you.” She checked her pockets and frowned. “Hmm, I must have dropped it. Wait here!” She ran off toward the broken guardrail, disappeared behind a hedge, then returned a few seconds later with something in her hand.

“I think you’ll like this.”

She handed me a small lizard carved out of stone. It was a gecko, like the ones always running around this place. “This is cool! Where’d you get this?”

She shrugged. “I collect stuff like that. You can have it.”

“Thanks!” I carefully slipped it into my pocket. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go take a closer look at the town.”

We rode down the hill, past the places we had seen from the ridge. I worried that Tara wouldn’t find the town quite so attractive up close. The old shopping center, which looked so friendly and inviting from up high, was tired and faded, with its paint peeling and the litter left to fend for itself. The new shopping mall was a prefab monstrosity.

But then there was Main Street, with its antique shops and the old video arcade with cool retro games dating all the way back to the 1980s. It was the only place in town with some character.

The sun was just starting to set as we coasted down Main Street, and we found ourselves caught in that magical moment when the old-fashioned streetlights started blinking on.

I guided my bike to the curb, hit the brakes with a satisfying squeal, and turned off the engine. We were in front of the place where my friends and I hung out—a bowling-alley/coffee shop called Grubbs. Apparently, there used to be an actual bowling alley attached, but it had been torn down. Now all that was left was grubby Grubbs, decorated with bowling-alley furniture and bowling pins on every table. It was kind of pathetic when you thought about it, but the manager was cool and didn’t mind if we sat there all afternoon without ordering anything.

“C’mon,” I said to Tara. “I’ll buy you a soda.”

As we went in, I saw Dante and Freddy at our usual booth. Their jaws dropped open when I entered with Tara.

Well, impressing my friends from a distance was fine, but did I actually want to sit at a table with them, where they could find a million ways to embarrass me? No. I started guiding her to the booth farthest away from them.

“Don’t you want to sit with your friends?” she asked.

“Not especially.”

“Come on,” she said. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

We walked up to the booth. “Hey,” I said to the two of them, suddenly halfhearted.

“Hey,” Dante and Freddy responded. These were my best friends, but compared to Tara ... well ... they kind of seemed like losers.

“Can we join you?” Tara asked.

“Sure,” said Dante, sliding over on the padded bench and almost knocking over Freddy’s shake in his eagerness. “Come on, sit down, plenty of room.”

As if to reward him for his awkwardness, Tara sat down next to Dante, and I sat across from her.

“So you’re Tara,” Dante said.

“And you must be Danté,” said Tara.

“Oh?” he said, brightening. “Heard a lot about me, did you?”

“No,” said Tara. “Not really.”

Freddy stifled a laugh.

“What’s so funny, Freddy?” Tara asked, smiling as she looked at him. “Do you imagine I’ve heard a lot about
you?
”

I had to admire Tara’s light touch. Coming from someone else, these words might have been a real put-down-but coming from Tara, well, Dante and Freddy were acting like it was reward enough just to be the center of her attention. I wondered how she knew their names, though. It wasn’t like they were wearing name tags or anything. Did she pick that up at school? Had
I
told her?

“What would you like, Tara?” I asked.

“A strawberry sundae,” she answered. “Strawberry ice cream, strawberry topping.”

“All strawberries, all the time.” I nodded. “You got it.”

I walked over to the counter and gave the guy Tara’s order, and ordered a root-beer float for myself, keeping an eye on the booth. The conversation obviously wasn’t lagging just because I was gone—I saw my friends crack up at something Tara said. I walked back to the booth with my drink and her sundae, setting them down on the table.

Tara grabbed my drink and took a sip. “Mmm,” she said, holding on to it. “I like it.”

“Um, can I have it back?”

“Nope,” said Tara, taking another sip. “You can have my sundae.” She pushed it over to me: two pink mounds with lumpy red liquid dripping down the sides. It looked like a piglet that had been squashed by a truck. Roadkill delight.

Normally, something like that would have driven me batty. But there was something about Tara’s attitude that made it seem like normal behavior. According to Tara, nothing belonged to anyone, so trying to argue that it was my drink would have been pointless. I ate her sundae, even though I hate strawberries.

“So what do you think of our town?” Dante asked.

“It has a lot to offer someone like me,” Tara said. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

It’s funny, but I felt a wave of relief wash over me. The knowledge that Tara was going to stay awhile calmed a fear that had been growing inside of me—the fear that she was going to leave before I got the chance to know her better. A fear that if our dull town didn’t live up to her exotic expectations, she’d be gone. I knew this was completely irrational. I mean, her parents would have some say in the matter, right? Of course I hadn’t met her parents yet. They were still somewhere in Europe with her sisters. Shopping. I wondered if anyone else knew that Tara was here all alone. I wondered if I should tell anyone, but knew I wouldn’t.

Tara stayed quiet while the three of us talked. Our usual stuff. Dante gave us his predictions on every upcoming sporting event for the next month, while Freddy told us which movies opening over the weekend would be worth seeing and which would be a waste of time.

Tara listened closely, but said nothing. Somehow, though, I got the sense that she was putting my friends under some kind of mental microscope. I could tell she was gathering a lot more information from each of them than just their words—a lot more information than they knew they were giving.

Dante made a point of looking straight at Tara while he spoke, although it didn’t really matter, because he couldn’t see through her sunglasses. Freddy, on the other hand, had this habit of not looking directly at whoever he was talking to. I noticed that he was sneaking glances at Tara when someone else was speaking, but whenever he was the one talking, he wouldn’t look at her.

Freddy was telling us all about some new sci-fi movie while studying his straw, apparently very curious about the technology that made the bendy part possible, when Tara suddenly leaned toward him.

“What’s the matter, Freddy?” she asked. “Why can’t you look at me? Something on my face you don’t want to see?”

Freddy looked startled. “Huh?” He blinked, finally forced to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“When you’re talking to someone, it’s polite to look at them once in a while.” She turned to us. “Doesn’t it bother you that Freddy never looks at you when he talks?”

Dante and I exchanged glances. I had never really thought about whether it bothered me, and of course neither one of us had ever mentioned it to Freddy.

“It’s not a problem,” Tara continued. “It’s just a sign of low self-esteem. Does your mother ignore you? Your father belittle you? Something like that?” Tara sighed when Freddy didn’t answer. “That’s okay. There are worse things in life ...” And then she shifted her attention. “... Aren’t there, Danté?”

Dante looked up at her like a rabbit who had just noticed the coyote in front of him.

“Huh?”

“I’m talking about
your
problem.”

Dante looked confused for a second, then understanding seemed to dawn on him.

Tara continued. “Your friends don’t know about it, do they? But it’s on your mind a lot. I know you’re embarrassed about it, but you’ll feel better if you just say it.”

Dante looked at Tara with an expression of disbelief, and Tara returned the look with an expression of infinite sympathy.

“How—how do you know?” he sputtered.

“It’s hard to talk about, but you’ll feel better if you do. I promise.”

Dante looked a little like he was choking on a chicken bone.

Tara continued her soft coaxing. “You want to tell them. I know you do.”

“I ...” Dante began, then stopped.

Tara nodded at him encouragingly.

“I’m afraid of the dark,” he said. “Terrified of it. That’s why I won’t have sleepovers. That’s why I don’t go to movies.” His face was red. His eyes were heavy with tears not quite ready to fall. “One time my night-light went out, and I couldn’t stop screaming. So now I have three.”

Tara sighed sympathetically. “I understand,” she said.

Freddy and I looked at Dante. We were blown away. Cool, confident Dante. The guy with an answer for everything. He suddenly looked so broken, sitting there in the booth. Like Melanie had looked when she had been crushed by Tara.

“Gee, Danté,” I began weakly. I don’t think I had ever said
gee
in my entire life.

“Y-you never told us,” stuttered Freddy.

“It’s called nyctophobia,” Dante said. “I don’t know why I have it, but I do.”

It’s not like it was such a horrible thing—but that didn’t matter, because I guess it was devastating to Dante. He couldn’t look at us. I thought for sure he was going to get up and run out of the coffee shop, but he didn’t. Instead, he started crying. It was, at the same time, touching and creepy.

I knew I had to say something. “Hey, Danté,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dante didn’t seem to hear.

Then Tara reached across the table and took his hand. With utter conviction and a measure of tenderness, she said, “Listen to me, Dante. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, really.”