Breathing Underwater (5 page)

“Perhaps over the summer,” Tom’s father said
.

Tom pretended not to hear. “Did I mention the Iceman has a date?” he said between forkfuls of potatoes. Tom was on a carbohydrate kick that week, although the week before, it had been proteins
.

Mrs. Carter turned to me, glad to change the subject. “Is it anyone special?”

“I don’t know yet. It’s our first date.” I was lying
.

Tom mentioned she’d had lunch with us three times during the week, and his mom chuckled. “And what about you, Thompson? Who’s your date?”

“I don’t have one,” Tom answered, before I could say anything
.

I caught the look on Tom’s face. Though I didn’t know why, I changed the subject. “Did Trey send over any more pictures of Little Win?” I could always charm his mom
.

Of course there were more pictures, so I told her we’d clear the table while she went and got them. I rose and picked up my plate. Tom followed me into the kitchen. When we were out of earshot, I asked why he hadn’t told his parents about Liana
.

“They wouldn’t like it. Mom would hear a Cuban name and freak.” Tom picked a leftover roll from the basket and downed it in two bites. “My parents’ ancestors came over on the Mayflower, as Mummy likes to mention. They wouldn’t want me dating anyone whose people floated in on less exclusive boats.”

Rafts
, he meant. Like in the newspaper—
balseros
, who swam from Cuba with nothing but the clothes on their backs and rafts made of driftwood and garbage. But what did that have to do with tall, beautiful Liana and her Tommy Hilfiger wardrobe?

“They wouldn’t think that,” I said. “Your parents are cool, and Liana’s no boat person. She doesn’t even have an accent. She grew up here.”

“She was born here. It won’t matter. Either her family’s in the country club, or they’re not. And if they aren’t, they’re not good enough for a Carter.” Tom grabbed a handful of rice cakes. “My brother went to law school and married some cold fish from the Social Register, even turned down New York law firms to work for my dad. Now, I’m supposed to do the same thing, cut my hair, and conform. Forget what I want.”

He didn’t just mean Liana. I was sure of that. Only I knew that Tom secretly dreamed of becoming an artist, something else he’d never shared with his parents. His father dreamed of a law firm called Carter, Carter, and Carter, and Tom never told him otherwise. I said, “You’re not being fair,” meaning the art, more than Liana. “You should give them a chance.”

“You don’t know what they’re like. They’re not your parents.”

No. They weren’t, unfortunately. I shrugged, guessing I didn’t know much about family relations. Leaving Tom in the kitchen, I pushed through the dining-room door. The Carters waited, packages of baby pictures spread before them. Mrs. Carter waved me over, pointing at a photo
.

“Isn’t he an angel?” she said. “Look at this one, with the bunny ears.”

I nodded, but I was back to imagining Caitlin’s kiss
.

Between Mario’s class and writing in my journal, I’m still going to school. Everything’s the same as always here, just not for me. The school office rearranged Caitlin’s schedule so she seems like a figment of my imagination: no classes together, barely passing in the hallway. God, I miss her. I try sometimes to see her, making it look accidental. Like today. I go down where my locker was B.C. (Before Caitlin), on the first floor by the Fruitopia machine. She’s there with all my ex-friends, laughing with Tom and Saint O’Connor, her blond hair barely visible between their massive forms. Saint is Key’s star quarterback and also Tom’s new best friend. What could he have said to make Caitlin laugh?

When I walk by, she stops laughing. Her eyes meet mine, but she makes the type of sound you’d get seeing a palmetto bug or some other vermin.

Tom sees me too. His eyes are the same as always, and for a second, I think he’ll smile, say hello. Like, maybe things will just get back to normal. No way. Tom slips a hand onto Caitlin’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cat. Saint and I—we won’t let him hurt you.” The three of them glide as one toward the science wing.

I walk the other way, through the throng of what used to be my friends. They ignore me. After everything happened with Caitlin, me hitting her, the restraining order, everyone took Caitlin’s side. It didn’t surprise me, except for Tom. Tom, who knew me better than anyone, who should have stood by me. I glance at Tom’s back as they walk away, his fingers still on Caitlin’s shoulder. How could he just toss a ten-year friendship over this? He wouldn’t even talk about it. I guess it’s like they say: When the going gets tough … your best friend flakes on you. So, who needs him? I should be glad he’s not around.

I walk into English class. Heads turn. It’s a small group, all honor students, and usually they’re too busy yakking about the next Brain Bowl or Debate Team bagel sale to notice much. Today, silence. Every eye turns, in synch, from my face to the blackboard. I look, too, then turn away. Someone’s written:

GO NICK! BEAT YOUR GIRLFRIEND!

I walk, seconds multiplying like amoebas, to my desk. Elsa, Caitlin’s best friend, glares at me from under her beret—she has the nerve to wear that and look down on
me
? The rest just stare. Amy Patterson, who’s had a crush on me since fifth grade, pretends to be fascinated with her grammar book. Trust me, she’s faking it. But that’s the closest anyone comes to taking my side.

The desks in here are arranged in a U shape so Miss Higgins won’t have to navigate rows in her motorized wheelchair. My seat faces the board. I shove my backpack under the chair, grip my desk sides, and stare at the green board until the letters blur and it’s all black. I hear a voice.

“I wrote it, Nick. Why don’t you hit me?” It’s Elsa.

And another girl, a new girl whose name I don’t know:

“I wrote it, Nick. Teach me a lesson.”

Derek Wayne, from across the room:

“I wrote it. Or do you only hit women?”

I want to bolt. Last week, Mario said if you think you’re about to lose it, take a walk. I can’t. I hold my desk like a life raft. If I go ballistic, they’ll think they’re right.
Be cool
. Mario’s deep-breathing exercises and his rules rise, unbidden, in my mind.
Cool
. I think of icebergs, of ski trips with Tom’s family when I’d refused to wear long underwear. I think of Leo. I think of breathing underwater. Finally, through the blur of thoughts and anger, I see Miss Higgins wheel through the doorway. A second later, she notices the blackboard. She sees, but it’s too high for her to erase. She faces us.

“Who wrote this?” She scrutinizes us, acknowledging me before moving on. I keep breathing. Higgins tries again.

“Will the creative writer please identify him- or herself.”

No one. Her eyes scan the room and finally land on Elsa. “Please erase it, Elsa.”

Elsa hesitates, starts to speak.

I say, “Leave it.”

Miss Higgins’s eyes meet mine with a look I can’t figure out. “Very well. But whoever wrote it neglected the comma.”

She reaches above her head and chalks one between
GO
and my name. Whether she’s deflecting attention or digging me a deeper hole, I laugh with the others. It sounds real. Then, to complete the illusion, I smile, raise my hand like nothing’s wrong. When Higgins calls on me, I point to my copy of
Wuthering Heights
.

“Miss Higgins, in chapter three, when Cathy’s at the window, is that supposed to be a ghost, or is Lockwood still dreaming?”

Higgins raises a sparse eyebrow. “What do you think, Nicholas?”

I can’t go on like this
, that’s what I think. Losing Caitlin was bad enough without everyone hating me. And suddenly, my thoughts return to Tom. Talk to Tom. Years of friendship must be worth something. If I could only get Tom to forgive me, everyone else would follow. And with Tom’s help, maybe I could get Caitlin back too.

But I say, “I guess it was a ghost. Like, maybe if people are in love like Cathy and Heathcliff, nothing can separate them, not even death.”

Beside me, Elsa snickers, but I ignore her. I finger the ring in my pocket and reach under my desk for the journal. I don’t care about English. I just want to remember when things were better. Like that first night with Caitlin.

The driveway to Zack’s house was two blocks long, and since we were late, we walked it. Five minutes of gravel crunching under sandals. Finally, the trees parted, and Caitlin gasped. I let myself grin. The invitation was a lot of what I had to offer Cat. I got invited to all the cool parties. I’d hoped she’d be impressed. The house was huge, white, like the Disney version of a Southern plantation
.

Caitlin looked from the house to my face. “I didn’t know Zack lived someplace like this. I’ve known him all my life, but I never thought he was … rich.”

She said the word like it burned her throat. I snuck closer, still unready to make the grab for her hand. I told her Zack’s family had just hit it big the year before
.

“That explains why Zack blows off his old friends,” she said, then added, in response to Tom and Liana’s questioning looks, “He started hanging out with you guys, and now, he won’t talk to me or Elsa, people he’s known since kindergarten.”

I told her no one really liked Schaeffer. We only let him hang with us because he had a hot tub and minimal adult supervision
.

Caitlin said, “I get it. But for once, I’d like to be the one blowing people off instead of the one being blown off.”

“A noble goal,” I said. I threw open the front door and led her into a white-and-glass living room big enough for a pep rally. We walked through French doors to the patio. The hot tub was full of people in bathing suits that might come off before the evening was over. Almost everyone else circled the inkblot-shaped pool, though a few lurked in a corner, smoking grass. I avoided that area—one thing I don’t do is drugs. Tom patted my backpack
.

“What’s in here?”

I told him beer, wondering if Caitlin would disapprove. Maybe I hoped she would. I mean, I didn’t want a girl who drank. Still, I added, “I just wrote
cerveza
on Rosa’s shopping list, and here it is.”

“You the man!” Tom laughed, then added, to Liana, “Rosa’s the housekeeper. What is she, Nick, number twenty-five?”

“Thirty-two,” I corrected
.

“So hard to find good help,” Liana said
.

I ignored her, watching Peyton walk by in a bikini that barely covered her nipples. She had rings on her toes and in her belly button, and Saint O’Connor, Key’s Neanderthal star quarterback, followed, dragging his tongue on the ground. How could he let Peyton wear that in public? Caitlin, I noticed, wore a long skirt with a white linen shirt knotted over her tank swimsuit. Good. Though I wouldn’t have minded seeing her in an outfit like Peyton’s, I didn’t want anyone else to. I swung my arm, fingers touching hers. For an instant, I saw her shiver. I grabbed her hand. She laughed then smiled at me, and even in the darkness, I felt my skin broil
.

“Want to go swimming?” I asked, figuring a shock of cold water would do me good
.

“If you do,” she said
.

“I don’t care.” I led her to a stone bench, still cradling her fingers like feathers. Why was I so jacked up just holding this girl’s hand? I told myself to chill
.

Caitlin’s eyes scanned the patio. “Good. I hate bathing suits. At camp, I always thought people were staring. And the girls here are so beautiful.”

I squeezed her fingers. It was so cool that she didn’t know how pretty she was. When I found my nerve, I said, “You’re the most beautiful girl here.”

She rewarded me with a smile. We stared at each other, me palming a Bud Light can until I felt a big paw on my shoulder. I smelled Doritos, saw red hair, teeth coated with orange cheese crap. Saint O’Connor. I put the can down. Saint raised a big arm to high-five, then clasped my hand instead
.

I knew he was just looking for beer. I pushed my lips into a smile and withdrew my hand from Saint’s and the other, more reluctantly, from Caitlin’s. I handed Saint a can, offering Caitlin another. She shook her head. Saint looked like he’d just noticed her
.