Inferno Read Online Free Page B

and a few unclassifiables: they’re harder to predict. Mr. Lawson is easy though. He’d just stroke his mustache before tapping his heels together and disappearing off to the office to report it.
    I can’t help laughing. “Okay,” I concede. “It’s a pretty funny thought.”
    She brushes that aside. “Yeah, but it’s more than that, right? Wouldn’t it make them stop and think? Maybe realize that it’s not so far off to call a school a detention center?”
    I consider it. “I don’t know,” I say slowly. “Maybe. But I don’t think most people would really think about it that much. I mean, look at the flyers you handed out.”
    â€œWhat about them?”
    â€œWell, what did they accomplish?”
    Parker’s lips part in a slow, wide grin. “You’re here.”
    â€œYeah, but...”
    She leans toward me, her voice low and intense. “That’s how change happens, Dante. One person at a time.”
    A strange tingle runs down my spine. I swallow and try to stay cool. “I guess.” Her eyes hold mine and I give in. “Okay. Okay. It’d be pretty cool.”
    Parker whoops and holds up a hand for a high five. “I knew you’d be game.”
    â€œMe? I said it’d be cool; I didn’t say I’d
do
it.”
    She shrugs like she doesn’t much care either way.
    The wooden sign looks very solid and heavy. It is maybe four feet long and two feet high, and it sits low to the ground in the middle of a bunch of shrubs and flowers.
    â€œIt’d weigh a ton,” I say. “I don’t think it’d even fit in your car.”
    Parker rolls down her window, lights a cigarette, inhales and blows the smoke outside. She keeps her arm hanging out the window, and I watch the smoke curl upward into the still air. “That’s okay. I’ve got a couple of other friends who will help.”
    â€œOh. Well, good.” I feel a bit hurt, which is stupid, but I’m not going to risk getting a criminal record just for a few laughs.
    She pushes her white-blond hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear. “I wish you were coming too. I’m sick of being the only girl.”
    â€œMaybe another time,” I say. It sounds lame and we both know it.
    Parker drops me a block from my house, right around the time I usually get home from school. I check for messages, in case someone has called to tell my parents I cut class, but there are none.
    Which is good, because Mom would flip.
    I head up to my room and turn on my computer. Beth hasn’t sent me any messages. It’s been three months; I’m crazy to think she still might. I log on to Facebook, click on Beth’s profile and stare at her picture on the screen. Two thousand miles away, she must be sitting at her computer too. She changed her status just a few minutes ago. Now it reads
Beth loves her new school
.
    I stare at her picture on the screen. It’s an old photo; one I know well. I took it last summer. She’s standing at the end of my driveway, wearing a tank top, running shorts and sneakers. She’s laughing—openmouthed, head thrown back. Her teeth are Hollywood white, her slight overbite pushing her upper lip forward, her eyes dark slits, a long dimple curving in her left cheek.
    I wonder if it means anything at all that she’s still using a photograph I took. Probably not. I write a long message to her, telling her all about how Mom is driving me crazy, and about my haircut, and about Mr. Lawson and Parker. I tell her how much I still miss her and how I think about her every single day. Then I delete the whole thing before I’m tempted to hit Send.
    Clearly, Beth has already moved on. I wish I could.
    â€œHow was school?” Mom asks at dinnertime. “Good day?”
    I hate it when people ask questions like that—when they give you a little prompt to tell you what your answer