Breathing Underwater (18 page)

I said no way was I sleeping now, but Tom said, “Don’t worry. Next one’s for me.” Tom flopped on a towel and started drawing on his leg with zinc. No one stirred. Pretty soon, Tom the artiste had drawn a creditable dolphin, the school mascot
.

“Do you do Billy the Marlin too?” I asked
.

Tom laughed. “For a price.”

“What price?”

“Information. Noticed you and…”—he gestured toward Caitlin—“shared a room last night. Bed too, I’d imagine. You doing her?”

Cornered, I grinned. “I prefer to think of it as the ultimate physical expression of our spiritual oneness.”

“Which involves what—doing her?”

“If you want to be gross.”

“And proud of it.” Tom slapped my shoulder, letting me know I needed more lotion. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t tell me your first time.”

“One good reason.” Tom looked around then lowered his voice. “I am pure as a newborn babe.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not. Liana’s saving herself for marriage.”

“Think Cat wasn’t?”

Tom leaned on his elbow. “You didn’t … force Caitlin or anything?”

“’Course not. Just let her know she wasn’t the only girl around.” I reached for Tom’s Panama Jack, glancing at Caitlin. Her eyes were closed, her face motionless. “You can’t be so whipped. You have to call the shots.”

Tom sat up. “I just heard that. Who you calling whipped?”

“A guy who’s whipped.”

Tom was on me. I put up a fight, yelling, “You trying to get some from me because you can’t get it anywhere else?” No one stirred. We fought harder, like we used to fight when we were kids. He pinned my arms. He was laughing, but I could tell he was a little serious too
.

“Am I still whipped?” he yelled
.

“Like cream. Which incidentally is—”

I didn’t finish. He pulled me up and dragged me to the side of the boat. “Still?”

I nodded
.

He hoisted me onto the rail. I kicked him a few times before I stopped struggling and grinned at him
.

“You know, this is interesting,” I said. “I read somewhere that purity brings superhuman strength.”

“Asshole!” Tom pushed me into the ocean
.

I fell, head-on, and got a throatful of salt water. When I surfaced, spitting out the ocean, my first words were, “Still whipped.”

Tom jumped almost on top of me with a splash that should have awakened everyone. We both treaded water a minute. He said, “You know, I’m glad you were first. You had so much more to prove.”

I stare at the lines my hands, apparently incommunicado with my brain, have typed. I’m screwed if I turn this in. Football seemed like a safe topic. I chose blank verse because my mind was equally blank. At least, I thought it was. But I ended up writing, about Tom, things I hadn’t even thought I’d thought.

An hour later, the poem’s still in my face. My brain is an abyss. I try, but the only images I can channel are of Caitlin. Caitlin dancing on Duval Street, Caitlin’s hands fanning green waters, Caitlin swimming in the moonlight. I blame the journal. It’s become my torment and my salvation, the cable that binds me to the past by being my sole reality. And somehow, when I see it on paper, it becomes more real than when it’s just in my head. I should stop writing. Mario doesn’t look at it, and it makes me think pointless thoughts, wonder if things could have been different. With Cat? With Tom even? If I’d told Tom how it was at home, would it have changed anything? He was my best friend. Could he have helped?

No. He’d have laughed at me.

I shove the poem into my backpack and take out my journal. I’m back with Caitlin. Except I don’t want to be where I’m going now.

The road north was straight and long. The mangroves surrounding it stank like stale beer. Cat and I were alone, me memorizing the license number ahead, an out-of-state tag that said FISHIN, Caitlin wearing sunglasses, eyeing the five o’clock sky. Why was she so relaxed? She wasn’t stuck driving, that’s why, wasn’t driving down this two-lane road behind FISHIN, who traveled below the speed limit. Jesus Christ. I sped up, almost tapping his bumper. Cat opened her mouth and shut it. Good choice
.

One-word signs lined the road:

PATIENCE

PAYS

ONLY

TWO

MILES

TO

PASSING

ZONE
.

I had no patience. Two miles took five minutes because of FISHIN. Finally we hit the passing zone, and I gunned past five cars, barely slipping in front of the last. We were near the Seven Mile Bridge. I could see water ahead. Caitlin stirred beside me, fiddling with her sunglasses
.

Finally, she said, “Nick, we need to talk.”

“About what?”

She moved away. “About Friday on Duval Street. How you were drinking, how you acted.”

I clutched the wheel. Friday was pretty much a blur, although Tom and Dane had reamed me for getting us thrown out of that bar. “How I acted?”

“Nick … you know I love you.”

“But?”

“Sometimes, you act like someone else.” Caitlin looked away. I stared forward, but my heart was ramming into my ribs. Did she want to break up? “Sometimes you’re not nice to me,” she concluded
.

“Not nice, huh?” I said. She could not leave me. Cat turned toward the window
.

“Sometimes, it’s like you don’t trust me,” she said
.

She
was
trying to break up. Who was it? Saint? Maybe even Zack? My tires met the bridge, two lanes suspended between sky and water. The ultimate no-passing zone. Only an occasional car drove the left lane, but visibility sucked. Sun turned water tangerine. Caitlin fidgeted
.

“I said you don’t trust me.”

“I heard you. I’m deciding how to
respond.
” She could not leave me. As I hit the word
respond
, I pulled to the left, veering into the southbound lane. Then, I floored it past three cars. A southbound Volvo station wagon slammed its brakes within yards of us. The driver was honking, yelling. I pulled back into the northbound lane and flipped him off. I looked at Caitlin. Her mouth hung in midscream. I laughed
.

“Do you trust me, Cat?” She was silent. I leaned closer. “Did I ever tell you about my mother?” Caitlin recovered enough to shake her head no, and I said, “I was four, five, I’d lie awake nights, listening to her and my dad fighting, him hitting her.” I looked at Caitlin. “You want to hear this?”

She nodded
.

“I thought we’d pack up and leave someday, her and I. I lived for that day.” On the wheel, my knuckles were white. “Then, one morning, I wake up, and she’s gone, never came back. She ran from the monster and left me there with him.”

Caitlin removed her sunglasses. “I’m sorry, Nick.”

“So you talk about trust, it’s pretty important. I mean, when the one person you trust just picks up and leaves…”

Caitlin’s hand slipped across my shoulder. I tried to shrug her off, swerving left into traffic, then back. Terror filled Caitlin’s eyes. Her nails ripped my flesh
.

“Trust me, Cat?” She could not leave me. I swerved again. “’Cause if you haven’t figured it out, life doesn’t mean much to me. Without you, it’s worthless.”

A flock of seagulls headed across my windshield. She could not leave me. I swerved again, this time counting three before I veered back. She could not leave me. Caitlin screamed at me to stop
.

“What’s the matter?” When she didn’t answer, I swerved again. “Oh—this. Maybe you’re right.”

I straightened the wheel, looking beyond her to the orange and green water east of the bridge. Silence. I didn’t swerve. Nothing. We were halfway across. Caitlin relaxed
.

Suddenly, I said, “Think I could make a right here?” Right was into water. I made like I’d do it, crash through the guardrail, then down. Caitlin screamed. She grabbed for the wheel. I shoved her away so her fingers clawed the air. She tried again, gripping both my hands. The car swerved left into the path of a Bronco towing a boat. I pulled it back. My mind knew what she was doing, but my eyes didn’t. I couldn’t see her. She was shrieking. God, shut up! Her voice deafened me, and it was all around, in my ears, making me lose all control. She tried to grab the wheel. Blind and deaf, I drove, sun hot on my face. I had to get her off me. God, I just had to get her off me. Get her off me! Get off me! Get off!

Next thing I knew, I was driving on land. I couldn’t tell you whether it was minutes or hours later. Caitlin hung across the seat, head cradled in her fingers. My hand throbbed, and I knew I’d hit her. I’d hit her. I was tired. She’d worn me out, but the anger inside me dissolved, replaced by that regret. But I’d had to stop her. She’d been irrational, overwrought, shouldn’t have touched the wheel. She could have killed us. I looked at her. The seat was the length of a football field. Caitlin faced the window. She was so beautiful. Ahead was a red pickup with a Jesus fish. It was going at a good clip, but when we reached the next passing zone, I overtook it and a few other cars. Cat stiffened. I merged back into traffic and reached to stroke her hair
.

She lifted her head, cautious as a runner stealing home, and stared
.

“Are you all right, Caitlin?” I asked
.

When she didn’t answer, I repeated the question
.

She shook her head. “You hit me.”

I told her no. I hadn’t. I mean, she was grabbing the wheel. We’d almost creamed the Bronco. I had to get her off me before we got killed
.

“Because you were driving off the bridge,” she said
.

I laughed and said she knew me better. I was just screwing around, like when we kidnapped them from Jessica’s. I’d never do it for real. Besides, we’d have crashed the guardrail, and I’d have gotten killed for wrecking the car
.

“But you hit me, Nick.” She leaned out the window toward the sideview mirror to see if her cheek was getting red
.

And it was. I didn’t expect it to be red, but it was—a little. I hadn’t hit her hard, just enough to get her off me. I said, “Don’t you know you shouldn’t grab the wheel when someone’s driving?”