Breathing Underwater (2 page)

Yet, it’s my father’s eyes I notice now, my father I’m trying to please when I speak on the witness stand, lying despite the oath. I wonder if God is listening, if God exists.

“I never hit her. Caitlin’s making this up to get back at me for breaking up with her. She’s nuts.” My face hardens. The mask takes over. “She doesn’t need a restraining order. She’s flattering herself if she thinks I’d waste my time.”

I start to step down, knowing I screwed up big-time. The judge’s voice stops me.

“Stay there, Nick.”

I sit. Where does she get off calling me
Nick
? A brass nameplate identifies her as
THE HONORABLE DEBORAH LEHMAN
. What if I called her Debbie, maybe even Debs?
So, Debs, what’s your take on separation of powers?
It wouldn’t matter. Judge Lehman is destined to hate me. Young, but not pretty, brown eyes swimming behind thick glasses. I see her as a schoolgirl, lenses covered in fingerprints, waiting for the day she can screw someone like me. Her next words prove my point.

“You think you’re pretty cool, don’t you?”

What can you say to that?

“You can stop with the
who me
look. You may think I don’t know you, but I do. I see you every day, you and other boys like you in your Abercrombie & Fitch khakis, privileged boys who live on Key Biscayne and have everything handed to them.”

Sounds like you’re seeing things
. But I don’t let myself say it. Control is part of faking it.

“You’re not the least bit sorry, are you?” Judge Lehman persists. “You tell me your girlfriend’s crazy. She’s lying. Sweet little you could never do such a thing. Right, Nick?”

The mask doesn’t like the direction this is taking. “Right.”

“Wrong,” Judge Lehman says. “Because you see, Nick, I can read minds. I see inside you, and I don’t like what I see.”

I fake a smile. “I’ll get going then.”

“Sit!”

Judge Lehman reaches for a paper on her desk. “I’ll grant the request for a restraining order. If you contact Caitlin McCourt, talk to her at school, if you so much as look at her funny in the hallway, you go to jail. We understand each other?”

The mask constricts. Jail? For what? But I say, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Judge Lehman smiles a bit. “Good. To make sure it’s not, I’m also ordering six months’ counseling, classes on family violence and dealing with anger.”

Six months for a slap. Well, that’s fair. “Whatever.”

“And since you’re having a hard time understanding how you got into this mess, I want you to tell me. Along with your counseling, you’ll keep a journal, five hundred words per week. In it, you’ll explain what happened between you and Caitlin McCourt, from the first time you saw her until today. You can write your version or the truth. I don’t care. I like fairy tales. I won’t even read it unless you want me to. But every week, you’ll bring that journal to class and show your counselor you’ve written, that you’re thinking about what you’ve done. If you’re very lucky, maybe you’ll learn something.”

“You can’t just convict me based on my clothes,” I say. “Ever hear of due process of law?”

“Smart kid.” She looks surprised. “Did you give your girlfriend due process before you hit her?” Before I can answer, she bangs her gavel. “Court’s adjourned.”

I jump down from the witness stand and ram my fist into a wall. It doesn’t go through, and it doesn’t even hurt, but the bailiff threatens to call security. “Don’t bother, I’m leaving.” I storm up the aisle. Mrs. McCourt smiles. Cat watches my father, and when I glance over, I see why. His face looks like it’s on fire. Still, I follow him out, my hand finally uncurled enough to ache.

We walk to the parking lot. The January air is barely cold, and my father’s green Jag’s parked between two spaces. He unlocks it, and I get in. He slams his door and shoves the key into the ignition.

“You had to talk, did you?” he says over the motor. “You just had to open your big, fat mouth.”

His hand moves from the steering wheel, and I feel myself flinch.
Coward
. When I look again, his manicured fingers rest, harmless, on the gearshift. I say, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“You always are,” he replies. “And yet, you always say the wrong thing, always the stupid thing. This is why you always fail.”

I don’t fail
, I want to say. But, for an instant, I remember Caitlin’s face, and I know my father’s right about me.

“I didn’t know what to say,” I try to explain.

He flips on the classical station. Screeching violins fill the air, and the conversation’s finished.

Later that day

To: Judge Debbie Lehman
From: One Rich Key Biscayne Kid in
Abercrombie & Fitch
Re: My side of the story (as if you care)

That’s what I’ve written so far, and I’ve been sitting two hours. I can’t believe I have to write five hundred words a week. Five hundred words—that’s like major literature. Having screwed around the last hour trying to decide whether to write in the style of Isaac Asimov (that version featured Caitlin as a Venusian chick with one eye and three breasts) or Dr. Seuss (“I am Nick/Nick is sick/Nick tells Debbie to…” well, you get the idea), I need to get down to it. Though it means remembering things I’d rather forget, I finally decide to write the truth. It doesn’t matter anyway.

Tuesday morning, second week of sophomore year, I approached Key Biscayne High’s Mercedes dealership of a parking lot driving a red 1969 Mustang convertible, my father’s belated birthday gift. Tom rode shotgun. His long blond hair blew in the breeze, and he pretended not to flex his muscles to impress whatever girls might notice. In other words, nothing unusual was happening, nothing to hint at what was coming: the end of Nick Andreas as I’d known him
.

Tom and I had been best friends since first grade. That’s when I’d figured out that Tom’s peaceful house was the best place to escape my father. I didn’t tell Tom that, of course. He’d never understand. It wasn’t that I blamed Tom for getting everything he wanted. I couldn’t do that because he was such a great guy. But then, we’d all be great guys if we had his life
.

That day, he was trying to talk me into asking out Ashley Pettigrew. I told him she wasn’t my type
.

This confused Tom. “Who cares?” he said. “She’s hot for you.”

I asked him if that was all he thought about
.

Tom nodded and said, “That’s what I like about you, Nick—no competition for girls. You’re the only guy I know who actually aspires to die a virgin.”

His words were still hanging like a cartoon bubble when I saw Caitlin. She emerged from the mob of JanSport-toting zombies. I stared a second. Then, a second longer. I knew her. The words
dream girl
, stupid and corny as they were, popped into my head. This was her. The One. It was ninety-three degrees out, but she didn’t wear shorts like everyone else. She actually wore a dress. Still, I noticed the outline of her breasts, her legs brushing together. Other girls wore silver earrings shaped like crosses or hoops. Hers were pearls. She moved out of range, and I turned to Tom
.

“That’s the one I want,” I said
.

Tom was back to looking at his biceps. “Who?”

I pulled down Tom’s arm and pointed. “The blond in the blue.”

He looked. “Her? You’re so kidding me. That’s Caitlin McCourt. Remember, from kindergarten? And every grade after that.”

“She didn’t look like that in kindergarten.”

“She went to fat camp this summer. Everyone’s talking about it.” He stopped staring at himself long enough to give me a funny look. “She’s a geek, Nick. She’s in chorus, for God’s sake. And she’ll get fat again.”

I didn’t answer. I was picturing the way Caitlin McCourt moved, walking away. I wanted to touch, even smell her. How would her skin feel under my lips?

Tom went back to talking about Ashley, and I’d get nowhere with him. So I eased into a parking space. I figured if I ran, I could maybe track Caitlin down before class. Not that I knew what I’d say. Leaving the top down, I sprinted to the building while Tommy Boy was still examining his pecs
.

I put down my pen. Four hundred ninety-nine words is all I can manage. I’ll write the extra word next week.

I do not belong here.

Picture this: seven guys in a circle, like a prayer group or something, in a room that overlooks the Metrorail train tracks. The walls are covered with nightmares—wild modern art that looks like those old John Carpenter horror movies on late-night TV. The population is scarier. There’s everything from a guy with pierced cheeks to a scrawny accountant type who looks like he made a wrong turn on the way to a Rotary Club meeting. We do have two things in common: First, we’re all pissed about being in Family Violence Class. Second (I think I can go out on a limb), we’re eyeing this guy across from me, who’s staring at the floor and ceiling, eating his fingernails to the nub, and rocking back and forth. I try not to gawk. You never know what sort of weapons a psycho like that could have. But it’s like a car wreck or a girl with enormous breasts. You have to look. Now he’s clenching his fists, shaking.

I scan the room, mentally awarding the prize for Most Likely to Kill Someone in a Traffic Altercation. Six-way tie. Our instructor, a fat, cherubic-looking guy named Mario Ortega, explains the rules.

“I don’t make many rules,” he says. “Those I do make, I expect followed. Arguments to the contrary, you can take to the judge.”

He smiles quickly, like he’s joking, but his eyes don’t smile with him.

“Rule one,” he continues, “is, be honest. Without that, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Honest,” says a voice. “I don’t do rules much.”

This comes from the skinny blond kid two seats down. You know the type. Only an illegible tattoo keeps him from looking nine years old. He runs a penknife under filthy nails. It sounds clichéd to call him a redneck, except the back of his neck is at least bright pink. His face matches it. I’d bet there’s a pickup truck with a gun rack out in the parking lot.

“You don’t, do you?” Mario asks. “Well, if you have a problem, you can leave.” Mario slaps a palm to his forehead. “Oh, I forgot! You can’t leave. I guess we’ll have to open our minds, Mr....” Mario checks his list. “Mr. Kelly, I believe.”

“Kelly’s my first name,” the redneck says, and I suspect from Mario’s smile he knew that. Kelly glares at all of us, and I silently thank whatever deity was on duty the night my parents saw fit
not
to give me a girl’s name. “No cracks if you know what’s good for you.”

“We don’t put each other down here,” Mario says, turning his attention back to the group. “That’s another rule. The rest are pretty simple, and since you’ve got no choice, you’ll follow them. Next one is, be on time.”

As if on cue, the door flies open. The guy who opens it looks in no particular hurry. Like most of the group, he’s about my age, but he’s normal compared to the rest of them. Better than normal, maybe. Tall and dark, with a take-no-shit walk, he apologizes, his cool voice conveying no actual contrition, and sits by Kelly.

“How perfect,” Mario says. “I was just explaining my quirk about punctuality.” Mario consults his list again. “You must be our lost lamb, Mr. Sotolongo.”

“Leo Sotolongo.” Leo displays two rows of white teeth. “I’ll be good from now on, Teach. Promise.”

“Fine.” Mario looks away before Leo finishes speaking. “Rule four: no drugs or alcohol. Rule five: participate in class discussions.”

The Psycho across the circle stabs a pencil into his palm. It must hurt, but he doesn’t even flinch. Me, I have no intention of talking. I have enough problems without some Ph.D. deciding the reason Caitlin and I fought has something to do with my father using me for a punching bag all these years. That’s an old story. Been there, done that, heard it on
Oprah
. I figure the time spent here will be an excellent period to devote to Serious Thought—say, memorizing the periodic table of elements. The mountain of a black guy beside me—obviously a result-oriented individual—nails my feelings when he says, “We get a grade on this?”

The rest of the group nods as one, except the Psycho, who’s still trying to impale himself on his number two lead, and Mario says, “Well, I guess it’s pass/fail. You don’t participate, I cut you loose. For you court-ordered people, that means starting over again. Or face the consequences.”