The Hourglass Door (24 page)

The hot stage lights burned like fire on my suddenly cold skin.

~

Dante was waiting for me at my car in the parking lot. He was leaning against the side of the door, his head tilted back, watching the stars twinkle into life in the twilight sky. I slowed my pace so I had time to appreciate the long lines of his body. Just seeing him standing there in his wool coat and leather gloves made me feel calmer. Dante had a knack for stillness. A quietness I appreciated. As crazy as my life got, I knew I could always count on Dante to be the eye in my storm.

And after my argument with Valerie, I needed some relief from the storm raging inside me.

“Ready?” Dante asked, reaching to open the door for me.

“Absolutely,” I sighed, grateful for his attention.

Dante looked in my face and then held his hand against the door, preventing me from getting into my car. “Tell me what’s wrong, Abby.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a demand. It was a tender invitation, and I broke down at the gentleness of his voice.

With tears streaming down my face I told him about what Valerie had said to Amanda and then to me and about my suspicions that Zo was somehow behind it—even though it sounded absurd when I said it out loud—and about my frustration over not getting into USC when all my friends had and about how afraid I was that I wasn’t going to get into Emery either and then what would I do? How could I live without limits if everywhere I turned I was faced with impossible obstacles?

Dante listened to the entire emotional eruption without a single word. He simply handed me a handkerchief from his coat pocket. He almost brushed back my hair, but at the last moment rested his arm on the roof of my car instead, close enough for comfort, but not quite close enough to touch me. He nodded in all the right places and waited until I had run out of words and breath. The tears were endless, though. Weeks of stress and worry had built up inside me. I hated crying in front of him, but once I’d started, I couldn’t seem to stop.

“It seems like you’re the only person I can talk to anymore.” I hiccupped through my tears. “My parents don’t know that Jason and I broke up or that I didn’t get into USC, so I can’t talk to them about anything. Jason and Natalie are dating and Valerie hates me.” I felt a fresh wave of tears rise up and bit my lip to keep from crying again.

“Valerie doesn’t hate you,” Dante finally said. “You are right to suspect Zo’s involvement in her . . . transformation.”

“Do you know what he’s done to her?”

Dante thinned his lips and looked away. “It’s complicated. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” He shook his head slightly before turning back to me. “You should talk to your parents about Jason, about college. I’m sure they would help if they knew.”

“I know, Dante, I will.” I wiped at my eyes with his handkerchief, which was now streaked all over with my makeup. “Lousy, cheap, non-waterproof mascara,” I complained, attempting a laugh. “I must look a wreck.”

“I’ve seen you look better,” Dante said.

“Gee, thanks.” I covered my face with my hands.

“I thought you were brave enough to hear the truth,” Dante said, a note of amusement in his deep voice.

“And I thought you were smart enough to know when a girl
wants
to be lied to,” I retorted.

“In that case . . .” Dante pulled the handkerchief from my hands and used it to dab at my eyes. “You look beautiful.
Molto bella.
”

I saw the sincerity in his clear eyes and felt myself blush. How did he always manage to make me feel this way with just a look and some Italian? Maybe I was a hopeless romantic after all.
Hannah would be so proud of me,
I thought, amused.

“Here are the rules,” Dante announced, finally opening the car door for me. “The cheering-up-Abby rules. You drive where I tell you to and no questions allowed.”

“What? Where are we going?”

“No questions. Just drive.”

I slid into the front seat and Dante joined me, sitting in the passenger’s seat. I moved to toss my bag in the back when Dante plucked it from my hand. “First, call your parents. Tell them you’re with me and you’ll be home before curfew.” He paused. “When is your curfew?”

“I thought you said no questions.”

“Not from you.”

“Midnight, on the weekends.”

“Excellent.”

So I called home as instructed. Mom told me to have a good time and to check in with her after my date.

“It’s not a date, Mom,” I insisted. I covered the phone with my hand and whispered to Dante, “It isn’t, is it?”

Dante simply arched an eyebrow and smiled.

I felt the butterflies wake in my stomach and a grin tug at my lips. “Sorry, Mom,” I said, “it’s totally a date.” I flipped the phone shut and dropped it in my bag. “Now what?”

“So many questions. You’re not very good at following the rules, are you?”

“It’s cheering me up.”

“Then let’s not stop.”

I started the car. While the heater warmed up, Dante opened the glove compartment and pulled out my Preston Bus CD. He handed it to me and instructed me to play track one. I did as I was told. “Rosemary, That’s for Remembrance”
bloomed from my speakers.

We pulled out of the parking lot and headed away from school, away from home, away from the stress. I didn’t know where we were going, and I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to enjoy the moment of uncertainty, of unpredictability, of possibility.

The chorus of the song kept us company as we drove off into the night:

Rosemary, that’s for remembrance

Pansies, that’s for thoughts

Fennel, columbine, and rue

Pray, love, remember—

And forget-me-not, forget-me-not, forget-me-not . . .

~

I felt like Cinderella. Almost. Only in this story, the pumpkin coach was just my rumbling old car and both the prince
and
the princess had to be home before midnight.

As I drove home alone through the dark, quiet streets, I couldn’t help but think that Dante had been true to his word. He had cheered me up—no question about it. First, he’d taken me to Helen’s Café for a late-night breakfast. Then, after a long conversation about nothing and everything, he had directed me to the Wise Old Owl bookstore, where we’d walked up and down the cramped and curving aisles talking about the books we’d read (mostly classics for Dante) and the books we wished we’d read (mostly classics for me). The small bookstore café offered hot chocolate with peppermint-flavored marshmallows, and Dante ordered us two. One with extra whipped cream for me.

The entire night passed in a blur of comfortable conversation and company. Before I knew it, the clock had chimed eleven, the bookstore was closing, and it was time to head for home. Sometimes, when I was with Dante, I felt like we had all the time in the world. Other times, it seemed like if I blinked, I would miss the whole evening. I tried hard not to blink all night.

Outside the Dungeon, I turned the car off and we sat for a minute in the dark, listening to the hissing and ticking as the car caught its breath.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” I said.

“
Piacere mio,”
Dante murmured. In the dim glow of the streetlight, I could see him studying my face. “Was it a good date?”

I rubbed my hands along the curve of the steering wheel, fidgeting but unable to stop. “So far.”

“I’m glad.” Dante unbuckled his seat belt and turned to face me. “I don’t know how you do it, Abby.”

“Do what?” I ran my fingers along the key chain dangling from the ignition.

“Keep your balance. I’ve watched you juggle school and rehearsal and your family. Jason. Natalie. Valerie.”

I frowned at the mention of her name.

“You make it look effortless.”

I barked a laugh. “Did you miss my meltdown a couple of hours ago?
That
was effortless. The rest . . .” I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest. “Sometimes it’s really, really hard.”

“Then you make it look like it’s worth it.”

I smiled slightly. “How does the saying go, ‘If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well’?”

“‘Screw your courage to the sticking place, and we’ll not fail,’” Dante quoted back to me.

“
Macbeth,
” I identified. “You’ve been studying.” I opened my eyes and turned to look at Dante.

The light brushed star fire along his profile; I could see the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips. The air in the car felt heavy and warm. I swallowed. I wondered if he would kiss me, if his lips would match mine.

“Abby.” Dante’s voice was a breath in the shadows. “Abby, I—”

I could smell the musky-sweet scent of his coat as he moved closer to me. I could hear his body shifting inside his clothes, the creak of leather as he adjusted his gloves. I wondered if he was finally taking them off, if he would finally touch my skin with the bare palm of his hand. He was so careful not to touch me that on those rare occasions when he did, I’d feel it on my skin for hours afterwards. I felt the hairs on my arms lift in anticipation.

Dante leaned over, drawing close enough that our coats almost touched. I could feel his breath on the curve of my neck. “I’m glad I could make you happy,” he whispered into the shell of my ear.

“Me too,” I whispered back. I knew if I turned my head, I’d be close enough to kiss him. The space between us felt alive, charged with promises. If I moved, would he kiss me? Would he let me kiss him?

I would never know.

A heartbeat later, Dante had pulled away, returning to his seat, gathering up the bag of books he’d purchased at the Wise Old Owl. It was hard to see in the dim light, but I thought his hands were trembling slightly.

He paused before opening the door, looking back at me over his shoulder. “Good night, Abby,” he said, though I was sure he had wanted to say something else.

“Night, Dante.”

He closed the car door and I immediately exhaled a long-held breath. My heart beat swiftly in my chest, pulsing in my wrists. I could taste a mix of frustration and excitement in the back of my throat. He’d been so close. Why hadn’t he kissed me? Why hadn’t
I
kissed
him?

The clock on the dashboard ticked closer to midnight. I thought about the last time I’d been in a car with a boy and the wish of a kiss at midnight. I experienced a strange sense of déjà vu as I compared that night in January with Jason to the moments I had just spent with Dante. The circumstances were eerily similar—a cold evening, a warm car, the air thick with nerves and barely checked emotions. But this time I hadn’t been frustrated at being kissed and not wanting it, but by wanting the kiss—and not getting one. This time I could feel the fireworks sizzling inside me, and I couldn’t wait for Dante’s kiss to set them free.

I watched as he walked toward the Dungeon, the last stragglers from whatever live show had played earlier passing him in the dark. I swallowed hard at the sight of his measured pace. He moved gracefully, as if he had all the time in the world to get where he was going.

I felt younger than seventeen. Warm and young and full of life.

I felt like flying.

~

My house was quiet as I unlocked the door. I checked in with my parents; I had to wake them up to let them know I was home. It was nice to have parents who trusted me enough that they felt comfortable falling asleep instead of waiting up for me to come home.

I peeked in on Hannah as I passed her room. Curled up on her side with her hands folded under her cheek, she looked like an angel. I shook my head. If only she were an angel when she was awake, too!

Closing my bedroom door behind me, I changed into my pajamas and brushed my hair out. I could still feel Dante’s nearness and the almost-kiss we’d almost shared. I was too keyed up to sleep so I turned on my computer to check my e-mail.

The ding of new mail in my inbox sounded loud in the sleeping house. I quickly turned the speakers off. As I scanned down the list of incoming messages, my eyes found one from [email protected]. Subject line: Application for A. B. Edmunds. Suddenly the hum of the computer was the loudest sound in my room. I think I stopped breathing.

I clicked on the message.
Please, please, please . . .

The e-mail opened and I read it in less than a second. There wasn’t much to read. But this time, the short letter wasn’t bad news.

Dear Ms. Abigail B. Edmunds,

Yes.

Please contact me to discuss scholarship opportunities.

Sincerely,

Mr. Wilson Cooke

Admissions

www.EmeryCollege.edu/Orientation/FreshmanClass.htm

I clicked on the link, unable to believe what I was seeing. Images and information filled screen after screen. Class schedules. Maps of the campus. Dorm room layouts. Calendars of events. Everything I wanted. My future unfurled before me like a banner, freeing me from who I had been, leading the way into who I would become.