by Alex Flinn
“No. About you. I couldn’t read it because it was pornographic, all my wet dreams about your nonexistent tits and bony elbows.”
“Pig.” Elsa pulls her books to her chest. “By the way, Caitlin’s hot and heavy with some football player.”
“Thanks. I knew that.”
But hearing it makes me long to do something, long to tell or show or make Caitlin know I’m the one for her. I wait for Elsa to leave, then start for the door.
“Nicholas?”
I turn to face Miss Higgins.
“Didn’t you do the assignment?” she asks.
I try to smile. “Don’t I always?” I pull the paper from my notebook.
Her whitish eyes take me in. “Yes. You’re a good student. I hate to ruin a perfect transcript, but I believe reading aloud is essential to writing. Following instructions is up there too. Why wouldn’t you read?”
“I’ll write something else and read it tomorrow.”
“You must have expected me to see it.”
I hold the paper out with my good-student smile. “You can see it.” I drop it onto her desk and walk out.
When I enter the hall, a fist rams my face.
“Leave her alone!”
“Caitlin’s gone, Nick.”
Mrs. McCourt’s lacy red negligee left little to the imagination, and her feather-slippered feet sported crimson toenails. I wondered whether she put on fresh polish for bed. I was so busy gaping I barely heard her. I think I managed, “Huh?”
“Caitlin left. I thought she was with you.” Mrs. McCourt threw open the door, waving her hand in what was probably meant as an inviting gesture. She offered me a muffin.
But I was out of there before you could say magic crystal. Why did Caitlin leave? I always drove her to school. I jumped into the car, not opening the door. A block later, I saw Caitlin, looking lonely in white pants and a green linen shirt. I pulled beside her.
She turned. Her face looked different, almost out of line. Then, I realized it was her makeup. Heavier than usual, it still didn’t cover the red mark under her eye. My breath quickened. I’d done that. How? I’d barely touched her. Her eyes met mine.
She said, “I can’t see you anymore, Nick.”
I followed, cruising at idle speed. “Why?”
She kept walking. “Why? Because you hit me, Nick. You hit me! You practically kill us driving home in the wrong lane, then you hit me. Does any of this ring a bell?”
She crossed the sidewalk and started walking in people’s yards. I ditched the car to run after her. In a few steps, I lost my breath. Impossible. I ran miles at football practice. But Caitlin’s words knocked the wind out of me. God, it was a slap, barely a mark. Yet, I was helpless to the point of desperation. I put my hands on her shoulders, and she recoiled like I’d hit her again.
I begged her to give me another chance, but she said, “No. I can’t take it. I can’t be with someone who hurts me.”
She broke into a run, and I chased her like an asshole. I was an asshole. We were near school. The traffic jam had started. Heads whirled at the awesome sight of Nick Andreas chasing the homecoming princess down the street. I barely noticed. I was too busy begging for another chance, telling her what a scum I was, it was all my fault. I was as close to bawling as I get. Bawling about what a loser I was and how I’d do anything to make it up to her. Anything.
She stopped at the parking lot entrance, and cars worked around her. “I’m sorry, Nick.”
“But you said you loved me. Is that something you turn on and off?”
“I just can’t be with you.”
“If you love me, I can change.”
Caitlin said she wished she could believe that. Then she turned and started toward the oak tree where our group met every morning. She said she wouldn’t tell anyone what happened.
Why was she doing this? I wanted to run, throw myself at her feet. Or maybe grab her shoulders and shake her until she begged me to stop. But she stood by Saint, their bodies perfect as puzzle pieces. I was the one who didn’t fit. I trudged to my car. One thing was sure, I’d do anything to get her back.
MARCH 30
* * *
My bedroom
The mirror reveals the only black eye I’ve gotten from anyone but my father. This one’s courtesy of Saint. And Tom. Tom was with him.
They’d ambushed me coming from English class. After the punch, Saint grabbed my arms and held them behind my back.
“Leave her alone!” Saint yelled.
I didn’t struggle, just looked at him. “What do you mean?” I said, my father’s face taking over, his cool eyes appraising Saint’s fiery ones. I’d seen that face enough to be able to put it on and off. I hated myself for it.
“You know damn well. Stop calling her! Stop talking to her in the halls! Stop leaving little presents in her locker!” He shook me with every sentence. “She’s not interested, okay?”
“Who’s not?” I said, cool as he was hot. “Caitlin? I’m not allowed to talk to Caitlin.”
“Don’t screw with me. We both know you do, and I don’t need a court order to kick your ass!” He shoved me against a locker. “Consider this a preview.”
“Come on, Nick,” Tom pleaded with me. “Just lay off.”
I glared at him. “You’re not speaking to me, so shut up.” I pulled from Saint’s grip. “And you’re just pissed I got there first.”
As I walked away, Saint yelled, “By the way, thanks for the roses. I told her I bought them.”
Now, I pull the photograph of Tom and me off the mirror. I look at it a second before I rip it unrecognizable.
I’d been camped on Caitlin’s doorstep since two, after a morning spent on the beach, texting her over and over to forgive me. She didn’t answer, and there was nowhere else I could think of to be. At five forty-five, Caitlin showed up with Elsa. I demanded to know where she’d been.
“What business is that of yours?” Elsa said. Caitlin fished for her keys, avoiding my eyes.
“We need to talk,” I said.
Elsa grabbed Caitlin’s arm. “She isn’t speaking to you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?” I said. When Elsa didn’t move, I thrust a silver-wrapped package toward Caitlin.
“I can’t, Nick.”
It’s hard for me to admit this, even to a notebook. Even to myself. But at that point, I begged. Flat-out begged her to open it. It was my only chance. I sank to my knees, not caring how I looked. Nothing mattered. Nothing.
And finally, Caitlin gave in. She pulled from Elsa’s grip, eyes weary under her heavy makeup. I straightened. She took the package, peeled off the paper, gasping at the leather-crested box. She opened it.
The amethyst caught the sun’s dying rays from its diamond perch. Caitlin’s eyes widened.
“I was going to wait ’til Christmas,” I said. “But there won’t be Christmas without you. There’s nothing good for me without you.” Elsa made the “tiny violin” gesture with thumb and forefinger, but Caitlin turned the box in her hand. “Put it on,” I said.
Elsa’s voice. “She won’t take you back just because—”
“I love you, Caitlin.” I ignored Elsa.
“Caitlin, you can’t be bought with some trinket.” Elsa was angry. She pointed to Caitlin. “You think I haven’t noticed that big, red mark on your face? He did that to you.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did he?” Elsa demanded. “Caitlin?”
Caitlin was silent. We stood there a long time. Caitlin looked from me to Elsa, then back. Finally, she said, “Of course not.”
“Oh, God! You’re such a liar! You should be happy together, a liar and a criminal.” Elsa stormed into the street, not checking for traffic.
Caitlin started to follow. I stopped her, saying, “Try it on, Cat.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to let her boss you around?” I slipped the box from Caitlin’s hand and removed the ring. I took her hand. When
she didn’t pull away, I eased the ring over her knuckle. “Give me a chance, Cat.”
“I don’t know.”
“So, you don’t love me anymore?”
Caitlin didn’t answer. Mrs. McCourt’s car pulled into the garage. I heard footsteps in the house. Then she was in our faces. She winked at me, barely looking at Caitlin.
“Your hair’s a mess. Can’t believe he stays around with you looking like that.” She smiled at me again. I still held Caitlin’s hand and saw Mrs. McCourt’s eyes go from my face to our hands. They lit on the ring. “Where’d you get that?”
Caitlin raised her head. “Nick gave it to me.”
“Give it back. A young lady does not accept jewelry from a gentleman.” She turned her shadowed eyes on me. “Where does a boy your age get that kind of money?”
Caitlin muttered something about dealing cocaine, and her mother said, “Sarcasm isn’t attractive.”
“Who’s being sarcastic?” Caitlin said.
Mrs. McCourt shook her head. “Caitlin can’t keep the ring, Nick.”
“I’m keeping it,” Caitlin said, which was news to me. She crossed her arms, stuffing the ringed hand between elbow and breast. “I’d think you’d be happy someone buys me a present, but no. You’re jealous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Caitlin didn’t respond. Mrs. McCourt yanked her into the house and slammed the door. I walked to the driveway, unsure whether I was high as a concert audience or lower than a flea at an NBA convention.
When I got to the car, I heard my name. I searched the pink shutters for an open window. I walked toward it. I could barely see through the screen, but she held up her hand, and the ring gleamed.
“I’ll keep it,” she said.
“To piss off your mother?”
“She sent me to my room—can you believe it?” Caitlin rattled the screen until it detached. She stuck her hand under and reached for mine. “It’s not the ring, it’s you. All day, I’ve thought about what you said about changing. How you loved me. I didn’t tell anyone we broke up except Elsa. Big mistake.”
“Was it?”
She nodded. The black screen didn’t dull her blue eyes when she said, “I love you, Nick. I want to be with you. I just want you not to hit me.”
I promised I wouldn’t, and she said, “I believe you.”
MARCH 30
* * *
9:00 P.M.—Mustard Watermelon Bar, South Miami
“Hello?”
The pay phone smells of booze and hairspray. I grip it, taking a swig of beer. Across the room, Leo, in someone’s University of Miami baseball jersey, tries his moves on a redhead. Caitlin’s voice fills my ear.
“Why are you doing this, Nick?”
She’s different. At least, she sounds different to me. Wheel of Fortune blares in the background, and Caitlin sounds used up. Is it Saint’s threats? Mario’s nagging?
No, it’s me. The only thing that’s changed is me.
“Please leave me alone,” Caitlin’s new voice says, and I want to obey if it would make her sound happier. Leo gestures from the bar. I wave him off, closing my eyes, trying for the feeling I used to get with Caitlin, how it felt to know she loved me. Could love me. No good.
“Please, Nick.”
Leo calls my name when Cat says it. I push the receiver button, leave the half-full beer on the ledge, and find Leo. He’s added a blond to his circle, overripe but borderline beautiful and obviously meant for me. She smiles. Leo palms my shoulder.
“Nick, meet Laura.” He sees her notice my black eye. “Nick got hit with a baseball.”
Cut the crap. But I nod and straddle the barstool. Laura leans against me, smelling like the telephone did, and I feel the roundness of her breast on my arm. I don’t react.
“Can I get you something?” the bartender asks.
“You have Mountain Dew?” I ask, suddenly remembering Mario’s rule about no alcohol. Why am I even here?
The bartender shakes his head. “This isn’t McDonald’s.”
“Order a beer,” Laura says. But I wave the guy off and look at Leo. He’s making out with the redhead. I wonder where Neysa is tonight. Laura watches me, putting her hand on my butt. I don’t react. Finally, she says, “What are you, gay?”
“That’s it.” I leave her standing there and return to the telephone. I fumble for Mario’s card. He said call him anytime. I stare at his name a minute before shoving the card back into my wallet. I call a cab.
I fall, painfully sober, into bed. When I wake, the digital clock flashes 12:00. My watch says 8:30. I’m late for school. I remember I’d been dreaming of Caitlin, and I roll over, longing to dream of her one last time.
Later, when I wake up for the second time
The first thing I do is pick up the journal. Funny, I didn’t want to write in it. Now, I’m way over the word count I needed. I could probably stop. But I have to see this through to the end. If I don’t, I have the feeling I’ll drown.
So, I was being careful again, freaking about whether I’d make a wrong move. Sometimes, I heard Elsa’s voice, He did that to you, and saw Caitlin running from me. But Caitlin wore my ring, and everyone knew she was my girl.
At school, Tom was big news. Back in October, he’d bet Liana that if an opposing team scored ten points on our defense, he’d get a short haircut. Liana had been lobbying for that anyway. “What if you win?” I’d asked once. “If no one scores ten points? You get anything good?”
He smiled. “Not like you mean, little buddy. Liana said she’d cook me dinner.”
I’d called him a sucker. But by late November, no one had scored ten against us, and Tom got the credit. Key was having its first winning season, and if we won the last game, scheduled to coincide with Key’s annual Winterfest carnival, we’d make the regionals.
“What she doesn’t know is, if I lose, I’m shaving my head,” Tom said as we walked to the chorus room to meet Caitlin one day after returning from Key West. Two guys, hands still greasy from auto shop, accosted Tom, wanting to rub his head for luck. One guy even called Tom Samson. I said I guessed that made Liana Delilah.
Tom didn’t answer because at that second, Caitlin rushed from the chorus room, Derek Wayne hot on her heels. Derek was saying, “You know you want to do it,” and Caitlin giggled, practically crashing into us.
“Do what?” I asked, giving Derek my best glare.
“Oh, nothing.” Caitlin tried to pull me toward the parking lot. Derek walked away.
I didn’t budge. “I want to know what Wayne the Brain wants you to do.”
“It’s silly. Just, Mrs. Reyes said I should try out for the Winterfest talent show.”
“That’s great, Cat,” Tom said. “If she asked you, she must think you’re really good—like when Coach told me to bulk up so I could be starting linebacker. He couldn’t say that if the position wasn’t available.”
I was getting a little sick of Tom and football. Caitlin was beaming, and I said, “Wouldn’t that take a lot of time, though? You’ve got your sorority meetings.”
We were approaching the parking lot, and suddenly it was like a conga line heading for Tom—except the music was more Insane Clown Posse than Gloria Estefan. Several generic-looking cheerleader types approached Tom about being a target in Friday’s pie-throwing raffle. Liana materialized from the crowd, along with a reporter from Keynotes. Dave “Doobie” Dooley, who smoked pot behind the bushes mornings before school, threw himself at Tom’s shoulders, shrieking, “Don’t let her scalp you, man!” Some freshman JV players followed, giving Tom we’re not worthy gestures. I steered Caitlin around the carnage. Once we broke from Tom, we walked alone.
We reached the car, and I opened Caitlin’s door. “I don’t want you in that talent show.” I didn’t like it. She’d have extra practices. Then be parading herself on stage for everyone to see.
“But Tom said…”
“The gridiron hero’s a music critic now?”
“He had a
point.”
“So, go out with Tom.” When Caitlin started to protest, I said, “Look, I’m trying to protect you. I’ve heard you sing. You suck. I don’t want you embarrassing both of us.”
She started babbling about what Mrs. Reyes had said, and I said, “Are you deaf or just stupid? I said no. Subject closed.” Why did she have to do stuff to set me off? I saw my fist clench in my lap.
Caitlin saw it too. She stared at my hand, then at my face. Finally, she said, “I guess you’re right. I’m really not good enough.”
“That’s my girl.” I put my arm around her, kissing her. “Will your mom be late tonight?”
“Probably around seven.”
“So I’ll come over after practice.”
“Sure,” she said, and I kissed her again.
Tom and Liana finally broke from the crowd, and we drove to Mr. Pizza together. Caitlin didn’t mention the talent show again, and neither did Tom. Still, it nagged at me. All I’d had to do was make a fist, and she’d given in. Or had she?
APRIL 1
* * *
Passing period after Miss Higgins’s English class
“Where did you get the black eye?” Higgins asks after class Wednesday, pointing two red-tipped index fingers at my face. Behind me, second period drifts to their desks.
“Present from an old friend.”
“Same friend as last time?”
“Last time?” I feel suddenly warm despite the air-conditioned cool.
“January, I believe,” she says.
I don’t flinch. “No. Then, I was training for boxing. Had to give it up, though. Interfered with my poetry.”
Higgins pulls her grade book from the top drawer and flips through its pages. She doesn’t smile. “You missed two days in October, came back with bruises.”
“Flu.”
“A day in January—fat lip.”
“Cold sore.”
“Now this.”
