Breathing Underwater (9 page)

Cat called at lunch and after school, begging to come over both times. I wanted her to come. God, did I want her to, but I couldn’t let her. Instead, I told her to text me when she got home
.

That night, she called during the game. When I asked if she missed it, she said, “I miss you.” I didn’t believe her, but I fell asleep with the phone in my hand
.

“Hello.”

Caitlin whirls to face me.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t trying to run into Caitlin. Since I figured out her new class schedule, I’ve even been bugging out of third period history, hoping to see her. After two weeks, it finally works.

“Nick, you’re supposed to leave me alone.” She starts to jog toward class.

“You going to have me arrested for talking to you in the hall?” I move closer, and she stops. She carries a wooden hall pass and wears a pink dress, revealing a veil of freckles from days she forgot sunscreen.

“No,” she says.

“I forgot my book’s all.” I rein in the arm that’s reaching for her and force my eyes to the floor.

“I know you didn’t plan it,” she says, her voice uncertain. She thinks of something else. “Did you call Monday? I’ve been getting hangups.”

“What are you saying?”

“I just thought—”

“Caitlin, you hauled me into court, you had some judge order me not to call you.” Chuckling at the absurdity of it. She hasn’t left. I move two steps closer, the smell of her Finesse shampoo calling up stupid memories of watching reruns together after school. “Throw the order away, Cat.”

“I have to go.” She doesn’t move.

“I’m going to counseling every week. I’ve changed.” I make the big gamble. “You feel the same way you always did, don’t you?”

Her face tells me that’s true. The hall is dead silent. The big wall clock ticks nine, twenty minutes until the end of class. Her eyes meet mine, and I think I see her hand move toward me. I reach for her.

She flinches. “Don’t, Nick.”

“Don’t what? Who’s talking to you?”

“No one.”

“Is it Elsa? Saint? They don’t know me, Cat.” I slide my hand onto her waist, leaning close. She doesn’t pull away. “Only you know me. You know I get stressed out, the way things are at home. I never told anyone else, just you. You were the only one who understood.”

“I know.” I can feel her breath on my face, blood coursing under my hand, the feel and smell of her sending my own blood rushing to all the same nerve endings. We stare at each other, and I see her giving in to the feelings.

Then, she turns away, saying, “I can’t take this.” She hurries toward her class.

I watch her go. Before she reaches the door, I say, “I never loved you, you know.”

She stops a second in the silent hallway. She lifts her chin and stares at me a long time. Finally, she says, “Thanks, Nick.” She shakes her head. “Thanks for reminding me why I can’t be with you.” She slips into her classroom.

I start to walk the other way. Something on the floor catches my eye. Caitlin’s pen, dropped in her hurry to escape me. I recognize it from the way she bit the cap. I used to hate that, but now, I pick the pen up and place it in my mouth, caressing her teeth marks with the tip of my tongue.

Later that day

I still have Caitlin’s pen when I pick up my journal at night. I’ve absolutely done my word-count for this week. But now, I just want to think about her, remember what it was like to be with her.

(You’re still not reading this, right?)

Twenty-four hours into my paternally imposed exile, the doorbell rang. No way could I answer it. My father, either asleep or gone fishing, didn’t stir. Rosa’s sneakers squeaked on marble below. I heard her tell whoever it was I wasn’t home
.

The next voice was Caitlin’s. She answered in halting Spanish (she was making a B, but only because I did her homework),
“Él está aquí. El automóvil está aquí.”
She’d seen my car. She must have pushed past Rosa, because I heard heels on the stairs, her voice calling my name. I reached for the door then pulled back. I couldn’t let her in. “I told you not to come,” I said
.

Caitlin pounded the door and begged to know why I was acting that way. She rattled the knob, yelling so loud I thought she’d wake my father. Having Caitlin see him, awakened, would be worse than bruises. Out of choices, I cracked the door
.

Caitlin pushed it the rest of the way open. It slid over carpet with a hiss. I didn’t, couldn’t stop her. She started to form her first word, stopped, lips parted, and stared
.

I said, “I got creamed in practice Thursday. It’s no big deal.”

She nodded, almost accepting this. But then, she said, “We studied together Thursday night. It wasn’t like this.” I told her it swelled more later. But she knew I was lying. “Someone beat you up.”

“Not likely.”

She stared, and I saw her putting it all together, my absence from school, the fact that I hadn’t seen anyone since Thursday, and she took my face in her hand. “Oh, God. Was it your dad?”

I said no, tried to pull away, but she touched my face, moving her hand to the other side. Her fingers were cool, soft, smoothing my hair, and I remembered what she’d told me at Zack’s party, about her mother saying she was fat. Could she understand about my father? Finally, I said, “He didn’t beat me up. We had an argument. He was drinking.”

“And he beat you up. There’s no other word for this, Nick.”

“He hit me, okay. Once. I can handle it.”

“He must have hit you pretty hard to—”

“I can handle it.”

She didn’t answer. Downstairs, Rosa started the vacuum
.

Finally, I said, “No one else knows. Not Tom, not anyone.”

“You should tell someone.”

“I’m telling you.”

“But I mean a teacher or something.”

“Tell them what? I’m sixteen years old, and my dad still hits me?” It infuriated me to have to whisper. “I know what they’d say: Butch up, kid. Well, that’s what I’m doing.”

I’d been wrong to tell her. She couldn’t understand. But to my surprise, she embraced me, her face sinking down my chest, and nothing hurt
.

“I love you, Caitlin.” The words escaped before I could stop them, too late to take back or pretend I was joking. I waited for her to recoil. Or maybe, she’d say she loved me too. Could she? Please say it, Cat. Please
.

“I love you too.”

Kelly examines his boot and throws out the challenge. “Say, Tyrone, tell me something. Why do you people always drink orange soda? What’s wrong with Coke?”

The members of Mario’s group are slumped in their seats. Kelly looks confused, and if I didn’t know him, I’d think it was an honest question.

But I do know him. So does Tiny.

“I had about enough of you, Whitetrash!” he yells.

Kelly shrugs. “I’m just stating a fact. Orange turns you people’s tongues a funny color.”

“Your butt’s going to be a funny color you don’t zip your lip.”

Mario comes in, saying, “What did I tell you about racial slurs, Kelly?” and Kelly shuts up. I slip into the seat by Leo’s, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. I don’t care. All week, I’ve dreaded what Mario calls “Family Day.” I’m planning to say I live with Uncle Henry and Aunt Em and our dog, Toto. Scary thing is, people here would believe me.

Mario consults his class list. “Everyone here?”

“I ain’t,” Kelly says.

Mario crosses a name from the list, saying, “Xavier’s no longer with us.”

“Where’s X-Man?” Tiny asks, cracking his knuckles.

“County jail for violating his restraining order.” Mario shakes his head. “Let that serve as a cautionary tale for you boys.”

Mario lets that sink in. Then he pulls a chair up to the circle, turns it backward, and sits. “Today, we’ll be talking about families, our parents in particular.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” I ask.

“All part of a generational cycle,” Mario says. “What happens at home’s the cornerstone of your other relationships.”

“So if your daddy beats on you, you’ll hit your own kids?” Kelly asks. I look at him, and he curls his lip. I turn away.

“Not necessarily,” Mario says. “But it’s a risk factor you have to understand and deal with.” Then, before anyone can use any stall tactics, he says, “Now, who’s first?”

Silence, all eyes on Mario. Usually, when he asks a question, someone will jump in, just to get it over with. But knowing one another makes it both easier and harder to talk, and no one’s touching this one. Especially after what Mario said about generational cycles. Mario’s eyes roll across the circle like a roulette ball. Finally, he stops. He picks his victim.

“Nick, you live at home. What’s your family like?”

I shrug, feeling my skin tighten around my forehead. “All right, I guess.”

“That’s descriptive.”

“I try.”

“Try harder. Tell me about your father.”

“He’s my hero,” I say, then try to swallow. “A self-made man living the American dream.” I’m quoting one of my father’s speeches. Next comes the part about how he came from Greece at sixteen and learned English reading the
Miami Herald
.

“What’s he do?”

“He’s an investment banker. Those are the sharks—the guys who buy the companies in trouble, then sell them off.”

“Impressive. He must work hard.” Mario walks toward me. “He ever get stressed out?”

“He’s fine,” I say, squirming. “We get along great.”

“What about when he gets mad? Everyone gets mad sometimes. What’s he do then?”

“Not much. Yells sometimes. Doesn’t everyone?” Around the circle, others nod, except Leo, who stares out the window. Do they know I’m lying?

“A fine relationship.” Mario smiles, walking behind me and putting his hands on my chair back. “How’s he show he loves you, Nick?”

My stomach tightens, and I remember a long-ago Dolphins game with some lawyer and the lawyer’s son. My father bought me a jersey, even high-fived when the ’Fins scored an overtime field goal. For months after, I’d slept in that shirt. We never went again.

I say to Mario, “We’re not into that touchy-feely crap.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says, touching my shoulder. “Feels good, sometimes, knowing someone cares.” I shrug his hand away. “Make you nervous, talking about your family?” When I don’t answer, he says, “No one makes fun of anyone here, Nick. What about your mother?”

I stare ahead. “That’s easy. I haven’t seen her since I was five.” I lean back in my chair. “Someone else should talk now.”

Mario nods, and there’s another silence. Beside me, Leo’s gaze hasn’t left the window. Then Kelly breaks the stillness, pointing at me.

“My family’s about the same as Rich Boy’s, I reckon, ’cept my daddy ain’t no Mr. Gotbucks banker.” He pulls a sinewy hand through his hair. “He raises me and my sisters though, got a temper, but we get along most of the time.”

“And the rest of the time?” I ask before I realize my lips have moved. Are other people’s fathers like mine?

“Like I said, he’s got a temper. Don’t hit us or nothing. Mostly just put-downs, stuff like that. Don’t hurt anyone none.”

“Not once you build up that scar tissue,” Mario says, and Kelly nods.

“That’s about right, I guess.”

“Poor babies,” Ray, the older guy, says beside me. “Their daddies put them down.”