Aristotle and Dante Dive into the Waters of the World (Aristotle and Dante #2)(33)

“How was the camping trip?”

I looked at Mr. Quintana. “Dante’s a quick study.”

“That he is.” The look on Mrs. Quintana’s face told me she was about to drop a hammer. She didn’t look angry. She just had this look, I don’t know, like a cat about to catch a mouse. “Aren’t you going to ask us about what we’ve been up to since you’ve been gone?”

“Well, to be honest, Mom, I wasn’t.” Dante knew it was coming. He had that Oh shit, I’ve been found out look on his face.

“Well, we had some friends over a couple of nights ago.”

“Yes, we did,” Mr. Quintana said. “And I’d bought a bottle of Maker’s Mark just for the occasion. It’s my friend’s favorite bourbon.” He glanced over at Mrs. Quintana.

“And when I went over to the liquor cabinet…” Mrs. Quintana paused. “We don’t really need to go on with this story, do we, Dante?”

I had to give it to Dante. He might have felt like a rat caught in a trap, but he wasn’t showing that face to his parents.

“Well, it’s like this,” Dante began. Mrs. Quintana was already rolling her eyes, and Mr. Quintana couldn’t help himself—he was smiling and smiling. “I thought it would be nice if we had a little something to warm up because it gets cold up in the mountains, and I really didn’t think that you’d mind—”

“Stop right there,” Mrs. Quintana said. “I know exactly where you’re going with this. You were about to say, Well, and if you did mind, it’s better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”

Dante had this Oh, shit look on his face.

“Dante, I know you inside and out. I know your virtues and I know your vices. And one of the vices you need to work on is that you think you can talk your way out of anything. That’s a terrible quality, Dante, and not one you got from either of us.”

Dante was about to say something.

“I’m not finished yet. And we have already spoken about the use of mood-altering substances, alcohol included, and you know the rules. I know you don’t like rules—and I don’t know of too many boys your age who do—but you not liking the rules is not a compelling reason for you to break them.”

Dante took out the bottle from his backpack. “See, we hardly drank any.”

“You want credit for that, Dante? You stole your father’s bourbon. And you’re underage. So, technically, you broke two laws.”

“Mom, you’re kidding, right?”

Dante looked over at his dad.

Then Mr. Quintana said, “Dante, you should see the look on your face.” And then he busted out laughing—and Mrs. Quintana busted out laughing—and then I busted out laughing.

“Very funny. Ha. Ha. Ha.” And then he looked at me. “That’s why you wanted to come in, isn’t it? To see if there’d be any fireworks. Ha! Ha!” He picked up his backpack and marched himself upstairs. I was about to follow him up. But Mrs. Quintana stopped me. “Let him be, Ari.”

“Weren’t we a little mean? By laughing?”

“No, we weren’t a little mean. Dante plays practical jokes on us all the time. He expects everyone to be a good sport. And he’s generally a good sport too, but not always. And sometimes, he likes to spice up our lives with a little drama. This isn’t any big deal, and I think he knows it. And, speaking as his mother, Dante needs to learn that he doesn’t make the rules. Dante likes to be in charge. I don’t want him to turn into the kind of man who thinks he can do anything he likes. I don’t want him to ever believe he’s the center of the universe.”

I nodded.

“Go on up, if you like. Just don’t be hurt if he doesn’t open the door if you knock.”

“Can I put a note under his door?”

Mrs. Quintana nodded. “That would be just fine.”

Mr. Quintana handed me a pen and a yellow note pad. “We’ll give you a little privacy.”

“You’re nice people,” I said. It wasn’t a very Ari thing to say. Still, the words had come out of my mouth.

“You’re nice people too, Ari,” Mrs. Quintana said. Yeah, she was something.

I sat there in Dante’s father’s office, wondering what to write. And then finally, I just wrote: Dante, you gave me the best three days of my life. I don’t deserve you. I don’t. Love, Ari. I walked up the stairs, pushed the note under his door, then let myself out. As I drove home, I thought of Dante, how I’d felt all that thunder and lightning shoot through my body as I’d kissed him and pressed against him and how strange and beautiful my body had felt and how my heart had felt so alive and I had heard talk about miracles and never knew a damn thing about miracles and I thought how now I felt I knew everything about them. And I thought about how life was like the weather, it could change, and how Dante had moods that were as pure as a blue sky and sometimes they were dark like a storm and that maybe, in some ways, he was just like me, and maybe that wasn’t such a good thing—but maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing either. People were complicated. I was complicated. Dante, he was complicated, too. People—they were included in the mysteries of the universe. What mattered is that he was an original. That he was beautiful and human and real and I loved him—and I didn’t think anything would ever change that.