Breathing Underwater

by Alex Flinn

  “Were being the operative word. That was before what you did to Caitlin.” He keeps walking.

  I follow him. “You’d think your best friend would give you a second chance.”

  “I don’t even know who you are.” He shakes his head. “My best friend, Nick, wouldn’t do what you did.”

  Then he and Saint disappear into the crowd.

  Later, in my room, I rescue the photographs from my backpack. The one of Tom and me is crumpled at the corner, but I smooth it as best I can and slip it into my mirror frame next to five pictures of Caitlin and me. I stare at it a long time.

  It was stupid thinking I could work things out with Tom. For the first time since Caitlin dumped me, I face facts: I’m on my own.

  After Zack’s party, I became an addict.

  Every year, in an assembly for the perkily named Red Ribbon Week, they pass out pamphlets emblazoned with “Just Say No,” spouting the party line: A single joint today, you’ll shoot up in an alley the rest of your life. Yeah, right. But being with Cat was like that. My satisfaction seeing her in school gave way to a need to pick her up every morning. Then, drive her home, days I didn’t have football practice. Or call after practice. Or drive her home, then call.

  For Caitlin’s part, she took the locker by mine, a seat on our group’s regular bench at Mr. Pizza, and the appropriately named “hump” seat in my car. And we sucked face, lots of it. This was all before I said I loved her, even though I did. I was a junkie. Caitlin was my dealer and my drug of choice.

  The one barrier to bliss was Elsa. Elsa was Caitlin’s best friend and fellow first soprano (whatever that meant), which translated into my driving her to lunch with us. Every day.

  The first time Elsa showed up at my car, I thought I’d picked up a homeless person. She was scrawny, with floppy hat and trailing gauze everywhere. She didn’t acknowledge the fact that we’d sat next to one another in English for two weeks. She just looked at me with narrowed eyes, then inspected my backseat like a rodent sniffing for predators. Finally, she said, “Nice car. I suppose you worked overtime at the family farm to afford it? Or are you in Junior Achievement?”

  I said, neither. It was on loan from my cousin, Guido, who’s in the joint. I pronounced it jernt, like in a Joe Pesci movie. Hey, I was joking. But Elsa didn’t smile, like she thought as much.

  Yet she accepted a seat and rode to lunch with us. Every day.

  After three days, I realized Elsa was a permanent guest. I confronted Caitlin before Spanish class, asking her why exactly I had to have lunch with Elsa.

  “We’ve sat together at lunch for ten years. I can’t just flake on her.”

  “Why not?” I was rooting for flakage.

  “’Cause it’s something Zack would do, not me.”

  I told her you don’t get to the top of the food chain without eating some bugs. Caitlin fit in with our group, but they didn’t let just anyone join their reindeer games.

  The rest of the week at Mr. Pizza, Elsa spent the entire hour either talking to Cat or making comments to no one in particular. “I wonder how much that watch cost his parents,” she’d say to her sandwich. Or, “She’s trying to prove that less really is more,” when Peyton showed off her new crop top. Her hatred for me was obvious and (I won’t lie about this) mutual. By the second week, we greeted each other with barely concealed disgust. Before the summer heat had burned off, I’d had enough. Caitlin and I had to talk.

  It happened in the Mustang. We’d dropped Elsa off and were going to study at Caitlin’s. It was raining. The top was up, and the sound of rain on the ragtop made me horny.

  Elsa had been in her usual form, dressed gypsy-style though Halloween was weeks away, and somehow, when we ran for the car, she’d managed to wedge herself between me and Cat, sitting in front of the stick shift. She flipped through the radio stations like she owned the car, finally settling on something by this teen group I detest. I said nothing. I’d rather listen to them than Elsa. But she babbled on, ripping me and my friends. Peyton’s too into her boyfriend. Tom’s too into his looks. I’m too into Cat (well, that part was true). And the whole time, her mouth got bigger and bigger until finally you couldn’t see her face at all. Just mouth. I went in. I reached down her tunnel of a throat, past her intact tonsils, and down until my arm disappeared. I yanked out her still-beating heart and hurled it to the street. It bounced away. Elsa gasped her last, and I switched the radio back to Y100.

  KIDDING.

  The music part was true, though. And Elsa’s yakking, needless to say. I even got out in the pouring rain to let Elsa out. Once she left, I snapped off the radio. Silence, except the rain, splashing the window, making the world a blur. Like I said, rain makes me horny. I draped my arm across Caitlin’s shoulders, fingertips grazing her breasts. Uncharted territory. I waited for Cat to yell stop, but all signals were green, except the traffic light ahead which was—incredible luck—yellow. I skidded to a stop and kissed her, lips moving down her neck. Then, my tongue. A sound escaped her throat. Promising. I reached into her shirt.

  “Nick… It’s too soon.” Caitlin pulled my fingers from her shirt and placed them on her shoulder. The car was moving again, and she kissed my cheek.

  I told her lots of girls wouldn’t think it was too soon, Ashley, for one.

  “You want Ashley?” she asked.

  I said maybe so. As if. So I said, no. I wanted her. I just thought we were pretty serious. “I sort of thought I was your boyfriend.”

  She smiled. It was the first time I’d called myself that. But then, she said that didn’t mean we were going all the way.

  I said, “It’s Elsa, right? She hates me, and you think she may have a point.”

  I passed the turn for Cat’s house and got back onto the causeway. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. The water whizzed by in both windows. Caitlin tried to convince me that Elsa didn’t hate me.

  Right. “No, she just hates my friends. And my car. And my clothes. And my friends’ cars and their clothes. Where does she get off anyway, acting like Little Miss Proletariat? That wasn’t a shack I dropped her off at. And if my car’s so godawful, why’s her butt in it all the time?”

  We neared the mainland, and I pulled off onto the beach, where people parked nights, in the shadows of downtown Miami. I threw the car into park. “Look, I don’t like you hanging out with her.”

  “What?”

  “Get rid of her.”

  Cat stared at me like I was crazy. Maybe I’d gone too far. For some reason, I remembered her telling Dirk off at Zack’s party. But I wasn’t Dirk. What I was saying was for her own good. So I continued. “Make your choice, Cat. That bitch or me.”

  Caitlin touched my shoulder, whispering, “Nicky…”

  I shrugged her off. “Her or me? Hang with me and all my friends, or sit in the cafeteria with Elsa and her Disney lunch box.”

  I saw I’d hit a nerve with that one. Caitlin stared at the floor, biting her lip. Did she like being part of my crowd more than she liked me? Was it enough to give up Elsa? It was pouring now, and the skinny pines shook like skeletons by the road. I didn’t want Caitlin to call my bluff. I couldn’t lose her, but I was protecting myself. Elsa wanted to break us up. I had to know where I stood. A car whizzed by, swamping us in muck. Caitlin gripped the door handle, on the edge of her seat. The rain was deafening. I leaned to kiss the back of her neck.

  Her hand snapped back. “Could I still see Elsa when you aren’t around?”

  I kissed her again. “Sure. But I plan on being around more and more. I want to be together all the time.”

  Caitlin said she wanted that too. She kissed me and put my hand back where it had been. I tried to continue what I’d started, but my horniness had disappeared. Was I crazy? We were on make-out row, and she was willing now. Too willing. I slipped my fingers between her breasts. No good. I took my hand away. I said, “I’ve got a test in English tomorrow. I’ll take you home.”

  Her own hand, which had sta
rted to negotiate its way across my stomach, stopped. She drew away. We drove back in silence, me wondering at my sanity.

  The next morning, when Caitlin opened her locker, she found a bouquet of white roses inside. I grinned as she did a little dance around the hallway. I hadn’t asked too much. After all, I loved her. And with Elsa off my back, I relaxed. Caitlin saw her a few more times, but soon, she was too busy with me and with my friends. Especially when she got a bid to join Sphinx, Key’s best sorority. They’d never have asked with Elsa clinging like a plantar wart. I knew Cat was excited. All the girls in our group were Sphinxes, and of course, my girlfriend would be part of our group.

  The problem was Sphinx took a lot of Cat’s time, going to meetings, doing pledge stuff like baking cookies for the members. Once, she had to sing the alma mater, standing on a cafeteria table. Another time, they made her wear the same clothes three days straight. But at least it was with the right people. My people.

  FEBRUARY 7

  * * *

  Family violence class

  Mario’s on everyone’s case again.

  “Does this sound familiar?” he says. “When your girlfriend’s been out, do you check her odometer to see how far she went?”

  “Don’t everyone?” Kelly says.

  “How else you know if she’s telling the truth?” Tiny asks.

  “I’ll take that as a yes for Tiny and Kelly. Thanks for your candor.” Mario scans the room. “Anyone else? Or do you interrogate her about where she’s been, listen to her answering machine, call her names, or isolate her from her friends?”

  No, no, no, no. I shake my head. None of this applies to me. Or does it? I study the water beads pooling under the A.C. unit and remember about Elsa.

  “What if you don’t like her friends?” Tiny asks.

  “I don’t know, Tiny,” Mario says. “What if you don’t like her friends?”

  “Then she ought not to hang with them.” When Mario doesn’t answer, Tiny continues, cracking his enormous knuckles. “I mean, I don’t want Donyelle going around with people got a bad ’tude toward me or our relationship. Her girlfriends all talk trash about a guy, acting like she’s all that and could do so much better,” he says, and I nod.

  “And you don’t like that?” Mario says.

  “Would you?”

  “And what you say goes?” Mario pretends he’s confused. “Donyelle has no say? She can’t make her own decisions?”

  “That ain’t what I said.”

  “Repeat what you said then. I misunderstood.”

  “Forget it.” Tiny flops back in his seat.

  “I knew what you meant,” I mutter.

  Mario hears, and I think he’s about to challenge me, but this guy named Ray raises his hand. Ray’s one of the older guys in class. At least, he’s through school. He’s sort of serious compared to the rest, which is probably why I figured him for a kiss-ass from day one.

  “I understand,” he says when Mario calls on him.

  “What do you understand, Ray?”

  “You’re saying it’s controlling behavior to separate her from her friends? We shouldn’t do that.”

  Gold star for Ray.

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Mario says, like he knows Ray’s a bootlicker too. He turns to me. “I saw you me-tooing before, Nick. Let’s get your input.”

  “Aww, don’t call on him,” Kelly interrupts. “Richie Rich is too big to talk to the likes of us.”

  Everyone looks at me then, so I’m cornered. I hit Kelly with a look. But I decide he’s not worth bothering with. Instead, I say, “I agree with Tiny. I mean, should I spend time with people I don’t like just because they’re her friends?”

  “Not necessarily,” Mario says. “But can she?”

  “We were always together,” I say.

  “Maybe that was part of the problem.” I shrug again, and Mario says, “What about your guy friends? I’ll bet they hang with people you may not like. Do you say, ‘Hey, Bubba, it’s him or me,’ or do you just go along?”

  I go along, I think, remembering Tom’s friendship with Saint O’Connor. I’d spent hours, days of my life with that knuckle dragger. “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “Because if I told a guy to choose between me and someone else, he’d tell me to screw off.”

  “Because you have no power over a guy, no control the way you have with a girlfriend?”

  “No. ’Cause if you say that to a guy, he’d think you’re queer.”

  “And if you say it to a girl, she’ll know you’re a control freak.”

  I look around the room. Everyone’s pretending fascination with what Mario’s saying because they don’t want to talk themselves. Was I a control freak? If I hadn’t done stuff like that, would Caitlin still be around? But I go for broke. “So I’ll find someone else,” I say. “They all have the same thing between their legs.”

  This gets some chuckles, some raised thumbs. But Mario shakes his head. “Somewhere down the road, Nick, I hope you’ll find they don’t all have the same thing between their ears. The good ones don’t put up with macho mind games.”

  I’m coming up with a response when a voice interrupts.

  “Why don’t you leave him alone?”

  It’s Leo-the-cool. I gape at him, and Mario says, “What?”

  “You said no put-downs, didn’t you?” Leo says. “That was one of your rules.”

  “Confronting someone about their beliefs isn’t a put-down,” Mario says. “Challenging attitudes is the point of this class.”

  “That’s a load of crap,” Leo says. “All you do here is play mind games and make people feel stupid.”

  I’ve recovered from my shock enough to scowl at Leo. “I don’t need you to defend me.”

  Even so, I’m wondering why he did.

  “Sorreee,” he says. “Thought you did. Considering you got this look like an ant staring down a can of Black Flag.”

  “You aren’t my mother,” I say. But that gets me mad. Why is he calling attention to me when I just want to be ignored? Why is he making me out like I’m some weakling? I feel blood coursing through my wrists, and I stand. I start toward Leo.

  But Mario gets between us, real quick. “Are we still in my class?” His eyes are cold. “I know we aren’t ’cause there’s no fighting in here.”

  “But he—”

  “Not here. You take it to the streets if you have to, but not in my class.” He turns to Leo. “Hear that?”

  Leo doesn’t look at me. “No biggie. I was just trying to help.”

  Mario turns my way. “Nick?”

  “I don’t need his help,” I say. “I’ve eaten as much shit as anyone here. He’s got no right to act like I can’t.”

  Mario nods. “I agree with you. But fighting’s not what this class is about.”

  “I don’t know what the hell it’s about,” I say.

  “It’s about God kicking you in the butt so you’ll notice the mess you’ve made.” When I look at him, surprised, Mario adds, “Now sit.” He waits until I obey, then stares at me until I look away. He turns. “Next session, we’ll talk about eating shit. By that, I mean we’ll be discussing our families, our parents.”

  He pauses like he knows the reaction he’ll get.

  Stunned silence. Everyone who’s been shuffling around, getting ready to go, stops. He really wants us to talk about our parents? Like, about my father? Tiny says, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I know it’ll be painful for some of you—maybe all of us.” Mario walks around the circle, scanning our eyes. “But exploring the past brings out the sort of feelings that cause us to become insecure, controlling, even violent.” When Mario passes me, I don’t look at him. He sits, hands on knees. “Anyone have anything else before we call it quits?”

  People start gathering books, keys, backpacks. Kelly’s recovered enough to volunteer. “I heard a wicked-ass joke.”

  “Always got time for humor, cl
ean humor,” Mario says.

  “It’s clean.” Kelly flips a hand across his hair. “What’s the first thing a gal does when she checks out of the battered women’s shelter?”

  Mario holds up his hand. “I don’t think—”

  “The dishes, if she knows what’s good for her!”

  People laugh, but me, I’m wondering what made Leo take my side. And what will I say about my father in class?

  Later that day

  I’m still thinking about my father hours later, instead of doing homework, instead of working on my journal. Fact is, my father is part of this story too. The next part. But I don’t want to write about him. And I sure as hell don’t want to tell Mario about him. Judge Lehman said she wouldn’t read the journal if I didn’t want her to. But how can I be sure? Finally, I open the wavy-edged book to a fresh page and write:

  (DON’T READ. YOU SAID YOU WOULDN’T.)

  Lights blazed on, and I saw the clock. 3:00 A.M. I blinked, tried to cover my face with the sheet, but my father pulled it away.

  “What is this?” he yelled, shoving a paper in my face.

  I said I didn’t know. I stood, then edged away, trying to focus.

  But he came closer, screaming, “I will tell you what. A receipt for beer. Beer! Rosa brought beer into this house, so where is it?”

  The beer for Zack’s party. I said, “I don’t know. Honest, Dad—”

  “Liar! I asked Rosa. She says you took it.”

  “She’s lying. Dad, I—”

  “Thief! I did not raise you a thief, but you are one. When I was your age, I was away from home, working. You only steal from me.”

  “I didn’t—”

  He hit me hard in the face, and I stumbled back onto my bed. I lay not moving, not speaking. Arguing made his anger worse, and now I only wanted him to leave. He raged on about how hard he worked, what a lazy ingrate I was, but I stopped listening, my brain carrying me to an alternative reality, where I was watching someone else lying under my black bay window. Then, I went further. I don’t know if it was a minute or an hour. I stopped caring whether Rosa heard. I don’t even know if he hit me again. My mind took me to Caitlin.