CHAPTER 12

The next day, Davy trudged to the Irving mansion. Mr. Browndale's sorrowful look at Davy's attempt at Latin translation, combined with the fact that Paul was now expecting him (and all of Green Gables expected him to go), convinced him that there was no way he could avoid going. He just needed to make sure no- silly thoughts slipped into his mind. And if Paul asked, he needed to come up with an alternate explanation for why he'd so strenuously avoided Paul and his house.

"Maybe I can say it's just because I didn't want to become dependent on him for learning," Davy told himself, kicking a pebble down Lover's Lane. "Because- because I need to be able to succeed in Queen's on my own. I was forcing myself to learn independence. Yeah. That works." Davy knew Queens students were not required to take Latin- it was an elective that he would most certainly not elect to take, and Davy could hold his own decently in every other subject. But he didn't need to mention that to Paul. In fact, it was a perfect, handy excuse. And then- then he could explain that he was coming back now because he hadn't realized before that he wouldn't need to take Latin at Queen's.

"But what about Emmaline?" he thought, just when he'd stopped kicking the pebble and had started swinging his arms again. "How can I justify deserting her in her math peril? Could I just say I was avoiding the whole house because I didn't want to fall into temptation to get help from Paul?" That was certainly true- except for the nature of the temptation.

Davy didn't understand his feelings. He had always known that Paul was good-looking, even though he and the other boys had also found his looks sissyish. What kind of boy had such creamy skin, such a pretty face? A sissy. But girls loved him. Girls had always whispered and giggled, and when they were eleven, Davy had overheard Dora telling Miranda that if she could pick any boy to kiss, it would be Paul Irving.

The trouble was, when they had finished making that cake, Davy had wanted to kiss him too. And he didn't understand it.

The idea of a boy kissing another boy confused Davy. He'd never heard of it, and it didn't make sense to him. Boys wanted to kiss girls. And girls wanted to kiss boys too, though sometimes girls kissed each other, but Davy didn't think that was the same thing (except in the case of Minnie May and Averil-Marguerite). Anne kissed just about everybody on the cheek, but she only kissed Gilbert on the lips, and that was just when she thought no one was looking. And Davy had kissed girls before, on the lips, and that was a lot more fun than being kissed on the cheek, which was usually just annoying. Yet if James, who was Anne's age, ever kissed anyone on the anything, it would be very strange.

Kissing was so complicated. There were so many things to consider about it- and Davy had never thought about it so much before, not even the first time he'd kissed a girl on the lips. That was Mirabel Cotton, last year. Mirabel was raggedy and roguish, like her brothers. The Cottons were an odd bunch, of whom "decent" Avonlea families disapproved. Davy was playing with the Cottons after Sunday-school, and everybody wanted to go fishing, but Mirabel had elected to stay behind. She'd stolen the hired boy's denim overalls and rough gingham shirt. She was sitting on the back of the carriage full of hay bales, chewing a piece of straw, staring out in space. Something about her expression made Davy want to stay behind, too. He'd wanted to know what she was thinking about. He'd hopped up beside her, watching her gaze at the sunset, and thought she looked strangely alluring in spite of (or maybe because of) the dirt on her face, the frayed overalls instead of a dress, and her long brown hair free of any sort of braiding or hairpins, just whipping in the wind. Davy and Mirabel understood one another- she often asked about his seedpod boat design, and she would join in when he'd wax enthusiastic about the math behind it. But at that moment Davy was contented with the silence. She'd given him a look- brash and bold, like everything else she did- and then abruptly reached for his face and kissed him. They'd broken apart, and she'd commented "Hm. That was fun." They'd kept at it for about ten minutes. Davy hadn't known what he was doing, but Mirabel didn't seem to notice or care. Then she'd let go of him, hopped off the haybale, and said "I'm Tom and you're Huck. We're trapped in a cave, and Injun Joe is around the corner, so we need to build reinforcements." And just like that, they were playing, the same way Davy played with Milty Boulter. Davy expected Mirabel to hold his hand at recess, to cut their initials into the tree, to tell the other girls that she had a beau- but Mirabel didn't do any of these things. She never mentioned it. Davy spent a few days looking around at the other boys and wondering if Mirabel had kissed them too- because she treated all the boys and girls in her class the same.

Davy hadn't kissed many girls since then. As Davy continued on his path, he realized that he'd never wanted to kiss anybody so badly as he'd wanted to kiss Paul, that day. And he had never felt such a tingling in his body, the way he'd felt since then, every time he thought or dreamed about Paul.

He saw the Irving mansion loom on the horizon. Great. He was almost at Paul's house, and he'd been thinking about kissing. Not good.

Paul knew Davy was coming over after class. He'd watched Davy revive when he'd eaten his grandmother's shortbread, so he tried his hand at making some of his own. He had spare time. He was taking a semester of independent study at home, for his health, and he was far ahead in everything. Completing the standard Classics course of study was hardly a challenge to Paul Irving.

After successfully making shortbread, Paul was having so much fun that he just kept baking. Not everything he made looked great, but it all tasted wonderful. Paul enjoyed the thought of fixing whatever ailed Davy by feeding him homemade cakes, cookies and delicacies. A grin spread across his face as he thought of the shine that he was sure would appear in Davy's eyes after one bite of fruit tart. The best part of all was that both Grandmother and Emmaline would be gone all day: she was going to pick Emmaline up after school and take her to Mrs. Elliot's to be fitted for her first communion dress, and then they had to buy her veil and jewelry from town.

Paul couldn't restrain himself from running to the window at every small noise, over an hour before Davy was due to arrive. When there was no more flour or sugar in the house, he had to stop baking. To distract himself, he thought out a lesson plan for when Davy came over. After this, just to give himself something to do, he carried all of the baked goods up to the study, along with a bottle of raspberry cordial. He'd have a nice surprise waiting for Davy. As he was carrying the last pie, he heard a knock at the door.

"Davy!" Paul tucked the lemon meringue pie under his arm and darted to the door. Davy was there, Latin books in tow, looking tense.

"Is that lemon meringue pie?" Davy asked, eying Paul's arm. Paul nodded shyly. "Is it for us?" he asked. Paul nodded again. Davy looked around. "Where's Emmaline? Is she allowed to have some?"

"Emmaline and Grandmother are out for the whole day," said Paul. "She's getting ready for her First Holy Communion, and they're going shopping for dresses and such."

"Oh," said Davy. He'd hoped he could distract himself by teaching Emmaline math for as long as possible.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in!" said Paul. "Let's go up to my study. I have a special lesson plan to get you up to speed in Latin."

"You have your own study?" said Davy, following Paul. Paul grinned.

"This way," he said, carrying the pie up a twisting mahogany staircase. Paul was practically running. He led Davy through the hall and kicked the ajar door open. "This is my room."

There was a bookcase tumbling over with lovely leather-bound, gilt-edged volumes in slight disarray: Davy supposed the meticulous Paul had been using these books a great deal if he didn't bother tidying them. There was a plush maroon couch and a matching easy chair, a Persian rug spread over the floor, and a rosewood escritoire covered in papers. The papers seemed to be notes of some sort, overspread with Paul's elegant handwriting, and Paul had a heavy blue fountain pen and inkstand. But the most wonderful thing was the lovely smell of cake. Davy gasped.

He hadn't even noticed the glass coffee table on the rug, sagging under the weight of a wonderful variety of cakes, pies and tarts.

"Paul," he gasped. "Are those-"

"For us," said Paul, beaming. "Grandmother will never know that we ate them up here."

Davy stared, speechless. Paul calmly set the lemon meringue pie on the only free corner of the table.

"Wait here," said Paul. "I forgot the plates and silverware." Paul scampered out of the room.

Davy hardly knew what to do first when Paul was out of the room. He wanted to examine the bookshelf- it occurred to him that he had only the vaguest idea of what Paul was studying besides Latin. He wanted to snoop through the notes on the desk. He wanted to pull the cord of the loose panel on the ceiling- there had to be something hidden up there. He wanted to peek through the door of the adjoining room, where he was sure Paul slept. And he wanted to taste one of the small, exquisite fruit tarts, covered in sugared Avonlea strawberries. But before he could do any of that, Paul was back.

"Dig in," he said. He handed Davy a heavy silver fork and knife.

"Where can we eat?" Davy asked.

"The floor," said Paul. Davy gaped.

"The floor? Do you mean- the rug?"

"Sure," said Paul.

"But won't we make a mess?"

"Young Mary Joe will clean it up," said Paul airily. "She won't tell Grandmother. I'll make sure of it."

"A-all right," said Davy, who still felt uneasy. If Marilla or Mrs. Lynde knew he was sprawling on an expensive rug and eating cake off it... He tried the shortcake first. Delicious. Scrumptious golden melt-in-your-mouth buttery sweetness.

"Won't your grandmother realize all this food has mysteriously vanished?"

"She doesn't even know I made it," Paul laughed. Davy raised his eyebrows.

"I thought you didn't know how to bake," he commented.

"I'm a fast learner," said Paul.

"Braggart," said Davy.

"What? It's true. Admit it."

"Never."

"Fine then. No more cake for you." Paul went to swipe the cake plate from Davy's hand.

"No! No! I take it back!" cried Davy. Paul chuckled as he ate a small slice of lemon meringue pie. They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Paul enjoyed the expressions of rapture that flitted across Davy's face as he relished the delicacies. Davy was too caught up in the desserts to even look at Paul- which suited him just fine.

"We should probably get started on Latin," said Paul at last, when both of them were getting a bit full. The lead weight returned to Davy's insides. Would Paul interrogate him now?

Paul did not. He walked over to the bookshelf. "I assume you're rather far behind in Latin," he said, "so I'm not going to drill you in verbs just yet. I think we can start out with something easier. I have Latin versions of some of Plato's dialogues. Have you read any Plato?"

"No," said Davy, blushing.

"Good," Paul said. "If you'd read him before, this exercise won't help you at all," Paul explained. "I want you to read passages and tell me what they mean in English. And if there's a word you don't know, you can ask me, and I'll tell you what it means."

Davy brightened. That did not sound too bad.

"Sorry we aren't playing with soldiers today," said Paul, as he contemplated the titles. "But your exam is only a few weeks away, and I really need to gauge where you are so I can help you more efficiently."

Davy bit his lip. Paul was expending so much effort to help him- yet he was avoiding Paul's house and having dreams that he was sure would horrify Paul. Davy's conscience pricked his insides, and he resolved to be a model Latin student.

"Aha," said Paul, finally choosing the slimmest volume. "Phaedrus. This one I know almost by heart, so I don't have to look on with you." He tossed Davy the brown leather-covered book. "All right. Just open up to a random page and start translating."

Davy finished the last bit of tart he was holding, wiped his fingers on the snow-white cloth napkin, and did as he was told, haltingly translating.

"The lover will block his beloved from society- he will keep him from the wealthy, in case their wealth exceeds his own, and from the educated, in case they're superior to him in intelligence, and he is just as scared of- I don't know this word."

Paul scooted over to Davy. "Influence," he said. "Here- let me get you a notebook, so you can write down the words you don't know." He went to the escritoire and brandished a new, clean notebook and pen for Davy.

"Thanks," said Davy. He thought of how nice it would be, to have enough money to keep spare notebooks lying around and dispense them as carelessly as Paul did. "How am I doing so far?"

"Pretty good," said Paul. "Better than I expected."

Davy blushed with pleasure as he jotted down the Latin word and its definition. He continued translating. "If he can convince you to break with them, you will be left without any friends- and if you have better sense than to listen to him, you will- here's another word I don't know."

Paul leaned over Davy's shoulder again, his curls brushing against Davy's white shirt. "Quarrel," he said. Davy accordingly wrote the word and definition in his book, and discreetly drew a little away from Paul. It wouldn't do to get distracted now.

"Quarrel with him. But those who are not lovers will not be jealous of the companions of their beloved..."
"What's the matter?" said Paul: Davy's jaw had dropped, and he was staring into space as though he'd stumbled upon a shocking, unpleasant revelation.

"James," said Davy.

Paul immediately glanced out the window. He sighed with relief- no James there.

"What about James?" asked Paul.

Davy said nothing- his eyes widened more and more. Davy didn't know or care who this Phaedrus was- but Phaedrus was describing James to a T. James was Davy's friend- he'd always said so, and Davy had worshiped him since he was ten. James had given Davy presents and told him stories. He'd shown him some of the best times Davy had ever had. The only person Davy had revered higher than James was Anne.

And now, James was quarrelsome with Davy- he was petty- he kept insulting Davy's friends. James had never met Anne, but had mocked Davy when he'd waxed poetic about her- until Davy had punched his arm. And James also seemed to hate Paul.

James was jealous- of everybody. And he wanted to take Davy to India, to whisk him off to a new land where he'd be away from all of his other friends- where they wouldn't know anybody, where they would only have each other, and where James would have the power to make Davy do whatever he wanted- because it was his money.

James was not content to be one of Davy's many friends. James wanted to be- wanted to be his...

Davy burned red with embarrassment, confusion- and shame.

"Davy?" said Paul cautiously.

Davy dared not look at Paul.

He felt a little sick, when he realized James might be having dreams that featured him, the way his own dreams featured Paul Irving. The thought of doing such things with James made Davy shudder.

He wondered if Paul would shudder too, knowing what thoughts lurked in Davy's mind about him.

"Davy- are you all right?" said Paul again. "Do you want some raspberry cordial?"

Davy shook his head forcefully. "No," he said. He forced a smile. "I'm fine. I'm just- pressure of the exams and all that."

"All right," said Paul uncertainly. "Why don't we take a break? We can go swimming in the stream."

"No! No, uh, thank you. Here. Let me have the book- I'll keep translating." Davy snatched the book from Paul and kept going, hoping further translation would erase the blush from his face, and keep his mind off of his unpleasant epiphany. He forced himself to focus entirely on the act of translation, and not to worry about what Phaedrus and Socrates were actually saying.

Paul listened to Davy's translation, and interjected whenever Davy didn't know a word (which was reassuringly rare), but he knew something was up. He also knew that Davy would not tell him until he was ready, but he couldn't help wondering, couldn't help feeling some concern for his uncomfortable friend. He could tell that Davy understood little of what he was translating- he was only concerned with the superficial meanings of the sentences, so they could be translated one by one and then forgotten. He was almost upset about this, for Plato's sake- but Davy would have plenty of time to really analyze Plato later.

"'The victim of passions and the slave of pleasure will want to make his lover like him as much as possible...'" recited Davy mechanically. Paul blinked at this. For some reason that line made him uneasy.

Davy was reading, obviously still troubled, but not looking at Paul at all.

Paul concluded that the heat and the cake were probably doing things to his sleepy brain. He pinched his own hand. He felt better.

They heard a clatter.

Paul jumped.

"They're not supposed to be back yet," he whispered.

"Maybe they aren't," said Davy.

But then they heard Grandmother Irving's scolding voice.

"Emmaline, stop that ridiculous crying right now! What a scene you made!"

"But I want the silver pendant," sobbed the little girl.

"You're too small to wear such a large trinket, Emmaline. A pretty day that will be, when I allow my own granddaughter to parade herself in church ornamented like a shameless heathen!"

"It's a cross, Grandmother! How can I be a heathen when I'm wearing a cross?" They heard another clatter and more scolding.

Paul swore.

"Should we go down?" whispered Davy.

"No," he said. "Let's go up before they find us. Hurry!"

Paul grabbed a cake and strode to the corner of the room with the rope. He pulled it down. A rope ladder dropped, and Paul began climbing. "Pass me the cakes one by one," Paul hissed. Davy, bewildered, did as he was told. In less than a minute all the cakes, plates, and silverware were cleared from the room. "Bring the book," said Paul, and Davy grabbed Phaedrus and shimmied up the rope ladder. Paul took his hand, hauled him up, and slammed the hatch shut.

This attic was crammed with even more fascinating objects than Paul's study. A single rose window admitted the early-evening sunlight into the slanted roof, illuminating Chinese vases, end tables, lamps, chair cushions, and blankets shoved up against one wall. Dusty books lay everywhere on the furniture and the old wood floor. Brass candelabras- with half-used candles still inside them- gleamed from every corner. And, best of all- much of the wood floor was covered in a brown bear rug, with outrageously, luxuriously thick fur.

"As long as we're quiet, they'll never think to look for us here," said Paul. "They might think I'm at your house. And maybe they'll go back out and continue shopping once Emmaline calms down."

"I didn't know Emmaline had a temper," whispered Davy.

"You don't have to whisper," whispered Paul. Davy swatted his arm, and he grinned.