Chapter 11

Davy paced around and around his room. He needed help. Serious help. Not just with Latin. With life.

He'd been brushing James off- he'd forced himself to be brusque and borderline rude, and also to pretend that he didn't care at all what James said. But James was raising questions in his mind. Why was he doing this? Who was he taking these exams for? What did he want out of life?

"I'm too young to deal with this," he said aloud.

He wondered if he would be feeling this way if studying came easily to him, the way it did for Dora. He'd never exactly enjoyed school. There were subjects that fascinated him- but there had always been subjects he'd hated. But because he had never had the option not to go to school, he'd dealt with it- and until Latin came into his life, he'd never been absolutely hopeless at a subject.

And now James was offering to whisk him away from this life- from Latin and teaching and tedium. Not that teaching would be too bad- but he didn't know if that was what he wanted. The only thing he'd always wanted to do was explore- and James was giving him a chance to do just that.

But James was feeding him insults, whereas Paul was feeding him cake.

Paul.

When Davy had seen Paul in his backyard, after another awful talk with James, he'd assumed Paul was a figment of his imagination. Because he so thoroughly suppressed any thought of Paul that came to mind during the day, Paul haunted his dreams every night. But it wasn't like his seedpod boat nightmare anymore. They weren't nightmares at all. In fact, they were- Davy blushed beet red at the flashes of dream-memory. Swimming with Paul in a waterfall at midnight, having a splash-fight. There was nothing wrong with that. Boys swam together all the time. Wrestling by the Lake of Shining Waters (as Anne called it): that was all right too. Boys who didn't fight weren't real boys. But Davy had never wrestled that- close- with anyone. At least, not since he was about six, back before personal space was an issue. Still, there was nothing wrong... but the dreams made Davy feel so odd, and so oddly sinful.

Davy groaned and faceplanted into his pillow. This happened with alarming frequency lately. He dazedly wondered when the pillow would revolt and hit him in the face when he least expected it.

He was in a cave full of exquisite marble statues, of a lady with a harp, a young forlorn girl with long hair and big reproachful eyes, and two thoroughly salty-looking pirates on a ship. Davy wandered amongst them, enthralled by how beautiful and lifelike they were. Then he saw another statue, under an inexplicable natural skylight. The statue glimmered in the shaft of sunlight, an Adonis in a jaunty beret, staring dreamily into the distance. As Davy approached this wondrous sculpture, it spoke.

"I made these," it said, flicking a chestnut curl from its forehead. That was no statue. That was Paul. "Sculpted them from my own imagination."

"Wow," breathed Davy.

"I want to make a statue of you, too," said Paul, in that same echoey voice.

"Me? Nah," said Davy.

"Why not?"

"I'm not- beautiful, like these people," said Davy, gesturing around. Paul snorted.

"You call them beautiful?" He gestured toward the old pirates, who were ugly as sin, but their faces held such character that one didn't notice at first. "Besides, I beg to differ," he added. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more-"

"Hey! I know that one!" Davy cut him off. "Rough winds do shake the darling birds of prey..." Paul didn't laugh. He was too busy drawing rapid strokes on a gigantic sketch pad. Within seconds, he held it up. It was a perfect minimalistic likeness of Davy- too perfect. Davy was pretty sure he didn't look that good when he washed his face and looked in the mirror. Paul's pencil had accentuated his dimple, made his eyes gleam with merriment, made his hair fall in alluring curls rather than the mess Davy imagined it usually looked.

"This will do for a sketch," said Paul. "But in order to sculpt you from marble, I need a three-dimensional perspective."

"Do you- do you want me to turn so you can draw a profile?" Davy asked shyly.

"No," said Paul. "Come here."

Davy came a few steps closer. The sunlight was blinding.

"Closer," said Paul.

Davy ascended the pedestal on which Paul's oak stool was perched.

"Close your eyes," Paul whispered. Davy obeyed, dizzy from the shower of sun that now drenched them both. Davy felt soft hands running through his hair, down his face, down his neck, to his shoulders...

"Davy?"

Davy promptly rolled off his bed and hit the floor.

"C-can I come in?" That wasn't Dora, or Anne, or Marilla. That was Paul.

"Just a second," said Davy. Then he kicked himself. He should've said no, or pretended to still be asleep.

Davy had a glass of water in his room. He dumped it on his face. It was cold- which was good. He tried to think of something else as he wiped his face with a towel. Latin verbs. How annoying James had been. His uncertain future. Mrs. Lynde. That did it.

Davy opened the door.

"Are you all right?" asked Paul. Davy panicked for a moment, then realized Paul was probably just being polite.

"Yeah," said Davy. "Guess I just drifted off... How long was I asleep?"

"I was out talking to Dora and Miranda for about ten minutes, then I came in," said Paul. "So- ten minutes, I guess."

"Oh," said Davy. "Okay."

Paul shifted from foot to foot.

"Thanks again for the cake," Davy blurted.

"No problem," said Paul.

Davy ran his hands through his hair, hoping it didn't look too awful.

"What are you worried about?" Paul asked.

Davy panicked again. "What do you mean?"

"You're all fidgety like a squirrel," said Paul.

Davy forced a laugh. "I'm Davy. I fidget. It's what I do."

Silence reigned once more, as Davy and Paul just looked at each other.

"I wish you'd tell me what's wrong," said Paul. "I still feel like I did something."

Oh, you did something all right, Davy thought. Then he mentally punched himself.

"You didn't," said Davy. "I've just been really anxious about exams. I think- I think I've been having too much fun, and I've been doing too little studying. So I'm trying to study on my own now so I make better use of my time."

"Are you kidding? You learn far more from two hours with me, than from two days of trying to muddle through that awful textbook," said Paul.

"You know, Paul, pride is a deadly sin," said Davy. "Heathen."

Paul punched his arm. "So is sloth, sleepyhead," he said. "Not to mention gluttony. Five pieces of cake? In fact, I think that counts as avarice too."

"Now don't incite me to wrath, or I might just punch you back," Davy said, though at the moment Paul's mischievous grin was inciting him to a different deadly sin entirely.

"You know, it's funny," said Paul, advancing into the room and sitting on Davy's bed. "Everybody remembers the seven deadly sins, but nobody remembers the seven capital virtues. Why is that?"

"Maybe because we want to know exactly what kinds of depravity we need to avoid most," said Davy, sitting next to him.

"Or because we all assume we're going to hell, and so it intrigues us more than a heaven we'll never reach," said Paul lightly. Davy raised his eyebrows. This was not Paul Irving, Sunday-school model child. "It's true," he continued. "Everybody reads Dante's Inferno, but no one reads Purgatorio or Paradiso."

"Maybe if they can clearly imagine how bad hell is, they have more incentive to try to be good," said Davy. They continued talking pleasantly about good and evil for half an hour. Then they heard the door open. Mrs. Lynde and Marilla were back.

"You should probably go home," Davy sighed. "Your grandmother's going to be worried."

"She'll be fine," said Paul. But he got up- reluctantly, Davy thought. Both boys went out to the parlor, where Mrs. Lynde's carrying voice was telling Marilla all about how the Pye farm was doomed to fail under Joshua Pye's airheaded son's mismanagement.

"Oh, good, you're here," said Mrs. Lynde. "I was wondering when Davy would come to his senses. It's time he made some actual progress in Latin again."

Davy froze. Paul looked at him.

"What's going on, Davy?" he asked quietly.

"The boy's been slaving away over Latin, dear," said Mrs. Lynde. "But surely you know that. He tries and tries. The simple truth is he's absolutely incapable of learning it for himself, but he's too stubborn to ask for help. That's exactly what Mr. Browndale told Marilla on Thursday, isn't that right Marilla?"

Marilla didn't reply- she just wished Mrs. Lynde could turn off the talking faucet once in a while. Paul just stared.

"Oh, but don't worry, Paul," said Mrs. Lynde kindly. "I'm sure you'll set him right in no time. You're a good boy, and a fine teacher."

"Right," said Paul. "I, uh, should be going." He turned to Davy. "So you'll come to my house after school tomorrow, right Davy?" he asked loudly.

Davy just stood there, shocked at how much anger he felt at Mrs. Lynde at that moment. He really, actually wanted to punch the old woman. And he'd never wanted to punch an old woman before.

"Go on, Davy. You need it," Mrs. Lynde urged. "Those girls are still outside making those heathen artifacts! I wouldn't encourage that sort of unchristian nonsense if I were you, Marilla my dear."

"Y-yes," Davy choked out. "I'll be there."

"Good boy," said Mrs. Lynde. "I'm going to go talk to those girls. And where is Anne? Surely she's not still gadding about at Gilbert's house? It's perfectly scandalous, how much time she spends with him."

"They are engaged, Rachel," said Marilla.

"Yes, but they're not married yet! And it's after dark! Good Lord in Heaven, what is happening to today's youth?" Mrs Lynde burped loudly. "Excuse me. It must've been the bean casserole."

Davy had had enough. "Goodbye Paul," he said. He went back to his room.

On the bright side, now I know what to do when I'm feeling- girly about Paul, Davy thought. I just have to think about Mrs. Lynde.