Breathing Underwater (22 page)

“What emotion?”

“Name it, it’s yours.”

“Guess I was pissed off.”

Mario sighs audibly. “Are you ever anything else?”

Why is he yanking my chain? I don’t have to listen. I push the
off
button.

I sit.

“Well?” he says.

“Thought it was rhetorical.”

“You thought wrong.” Mario places a hairy hand on my shoulder. “What, my volatile boy, did you feel besides
pissed off
?”

I don’t feel like answering.

“Here are some choices.” Mario smiles, patient, a botanist waiting for flowers to grow. “Were you afraid? Embarrassed? Ashamed of being a jerk to the woman you supposedly loved?”

“You said no put-downs.” I stand, my shoulder brushing his gut.

“Am I embarrassing you?” Still angelic.

“No.” I look into ten eyes. Are they laughing? “What’s your point?”

“You’ve got two speeds, pissed off and asleep. You can’t operate like that. You’ve got to acknowledge other emotions, other ways of dealing with them.” He starts to walk away, then turns. “Your girlfriend says something you think questions your manhood, so you call her a bitch. Or a whore. Or whatever particular term of endearment you learned at your father’s knee. Next time, you figure she asked for it, so you hit her. Is that the best thing to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to know? Think!”

Outside, a guy and girl jog by. I watch them slow to a walk, first her, then him. He swings an arm to grab her, and she stops, leans toward him. They kiss. Then again, his free hand caressing her hair.

“I don’t know,” I repeat. But the words are hollow.

“That’s great,” Mario says. “No, really. It’s great you’re proud of what you did.” He leans over me. “Whoooee! Nick Andreas is a hero! He can lick any girl he wants!”

“Screw you.” Behind my eyes feels suddenly hot.

“I’m pissing you off ?” Mario says.

“Yes.”

He leans closer, on me like tight briefs. No one else moves. He waves a chubby forefinger in my eyes. “So you’re pissed.”

“Yes.” Swallowing.

“You’re madder than my fat brother, Julio, when someone beats him to the dinner table?”

“Yes.”

Across from me, A.J.’s mouth hangs open.

“Then hit me,” Mario whispers.

“What?”

“Did I stutter? Hit me.” When I don’t budge, Mario yells in my face, “Hit me!”

Instead, I elbow past him, the running girl’s image still tattooed on my brain. “I can’t.”

Mario follows. “Why the hell not? You chicken?”

“Quit it.”

“No. You’re mad, aren’t you?”

“Right.”

“When you got mad at Caitlin, you hit her?”

“I slapped her.” But it’s no different, even to me.

“Hit her, slapped her. You didn’t turn the other cheek, adopt this Gandhi posture you’re taking here, did you?” When I shake my head, he says, “So you’re mad at me, you hit me. Right?”

“You’re a teacher.”

“It’s okay to hit your girlfriend, but not a teacher?”

“I didn’t say that,” I say.

“You didn’t have to. You say it with every molecule of your being.”

I look away. “I know it’s not okay.”

“But you can’t control yourself?” I shake my head, just to get rid of him, and sit down again. The room’s so quiet I swear I hear my hair blowing in the air conditioner. Mario nudges Tiny over and sits by me.

“Sure you can,” he says. “You just did it with me. You can do the same with her.”

I should have hit him when I had the chance.

The rest of class, Mario lectures about the three C’s, compromise, communication, and control. Near the end, Kelly says, “Hey, Mario, what do you call a woman with two black eyes?”

“We’re not doing that today,” Mario says.

Kelly stops, but when Mario turns away, Kelly whispers, “The new and improved model.”

After class, I gather my stuff, hanging back so I’m the last to go. When everyone’s gone, I approach Mario. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

“That day on the bridge, when I slapped Caitlin…”

“Yeah?” He turns to give me his full attention.

“I was afraid, okay? I was afraid she’d leave me.”

Mario nods. “I know you were.” He starts to reach his hand out, then takes it back when he sees my face. “It’s okay to be afraid, Nick.”

I shrug and walk out. Tiny’s waiting outside. He offers me a ride home. I’d take him up on it, but today I’m meeting Leo. We’re banging out some school-required community service hours by selling sodas at a carnival. Our shift begins at noon.

At five after, I’m still waiting. I remember when we discussed lateness in class. I’m annoyed with Leo but not furious. Would I be madder at Cat? Losing it, maybe? No. Not really.

Maybe.

Probably.

No time to consider. Leo’s black Trans Am cruises to a stop. When I get in, he says, “Sorry we’re late.
Someone
got held up at the drugstore.” He turns to the guilty party, Neysa, sitting beside him. “That’s your story, right?”

“Leo…” she says.

“Leo…” he imitates, gunning the motor.

“Why are you acting this way in front of—”

“What way?” Leo demands over the tires’ squeal. “
You’re
the problem, not me.”

“I’m sorry.” Neysa examines the floor mat.

“I’m sorry,” Leo mocks. “I’m sorry I’m always late. I’m sorry I’m a lying slut. I’m sorry I—”

“It’s okay,” I tell Neysa. “I don’t think it matters if we’re late.” Leo, I ignore. Why is he acting like this? Why is it so familiar?

The Grove traffic is heavy, and Leo swerves, barely avoiding cars to the front and side, eyeing Neysa, not the road. “I don’t appreciate being lied to,” he says. “Or waiting, with your parents giving me the evil eye while you’re out catting around.” Leo floors it through a yellow light, and Neysa clutches the door handle. “Am I scaring you, princess?”

“Quit it,” I tell him.

He glances back like he forgot I was there. “Quit what?”

I look at Neysa. Her eyes plead with me to say nothing. “Quit driving like a maniac,” I say.

Leo slows, saying nothing.

We reach the fairgrounds twenty minutes late. The sun scorches, melting wads of cotton candy and blobs of ice cream dropped on the ground. The air is filled with the odor of hot dogs and burnt sugar, a smell that, like everything else, reminds me of Caitlin. We were at Winterfest carnival the day she left me for good. Leo, Neysa, and I find our booth in silence, a trailer manned by two girls from Palmetto High. Neysa and I get to work. Leo does nothing, just palms the counter, watching Neysa. When a customer is male, she steps back, letting me or one of the Palmetto girls help him. I want to ask why. Why is Leo acting like a poster boy for female chastity? But Neysa’s eyes stop me. She’s afraid of him. No wonder. If he acts like this around people, what’s he like when they’re alone?

The afternoon is slow and I’m slower. Around two-thirty, three guys ask for Neysa. She goes to help them, then stops. Steps back. Leo shoves past.

“Just get the ice,” he says.

“Hello to you too, Leo,” the biggest guy, a rich kid trying to look like a gangsta, says as Neysa obeys Leo’s command.

If looks could kill, the guy would be two hundred pounds of medical waste.

“Hello, Alejandro,” Leo says. “Visiting my girlfriend?”

“Could be.” Alejandro smiles. “Don’t sell yourself short. Maybe I’m visiting you.”

“That’s a given. You visit Neysa, you visit me.” Leo brushes melted ice from the counter and yells to Neysa, “You got that ice yet?”

“Yes.” Neysa hands Leo three cups, not looking up.

“Yes,
sir
,” Alejandro corrects. “Give my man Leo the respect he deserves.”

Neysa’s lip twitches. “
Por favor
, Alex,” she whispers. “Please don’t start with him.”

Behind us, the roller coaster’s in gear. Boys laugh. Girls scream, but I don’t listen. A family passes, the daughter hanging from her father’s shoulders. Twin boys in matching Scooby-Doo T-shirts sprint for the shooting gallery. I don’t watch. I hear Leo’s voice. I see Leo’s eyes. I don’t like what I see.

“Why don’t we go,” I say, and the Palmetto girls volunteer to cover for us.

“Because Neysa isn’t through serving her friends.” Leo pulls Neysa to the counter. Ice flies everywhere. “Now, clean it up!” He raises his hand, and she backs away.

“
Leoncito
, not here.” Neysa’s eyes are huge in her face.

Leo releases her, suddenly calm. “Neysa, your manners. Ask Alex what else he wants.”

Neysa doesn’t move.

“Do it!”

Neysa shakes her head at Alejandro. “What else would you like?”

“To give you a ride home,” Alejandro says, and Leo’s shoulders constrict.

“I have a ride home.” Neysa indicates Leo.

I go to help a family. Through their chatter, I hear Alejandro say, “You stay long enough, he’ll kill you.”

But Neysa pats Leo’s hand. “We understand each other.”

Alejandro shrugs and signals to his friends. They walk away toward the rides, whirling and sick-inducing. Across the midway, a monster in a cape scares passersby, inviting them into his haunted mansion. Three little girls in cornrows hug one another in fright. But I see Leo’s black eyes.

Later, when Leo drops me off, I watch his taillights to the end of the block, then beyond until they’re like distant stars. I don’t plan to see him again.

God, was I like that with Caitlin?

Saint was shirtless, and I was sick about it. A few days before Winterfest, the school’s annual football game and carnival, we had lunch at the beach. Saint was still trying to lose Tom’s suntan tattoo. He’d offered a reward for the culprit’s name, but I never told. Maybe if he’d noticed the dolphin, still branded on Tom’s leg, he’d have figured it out. I was eating Kentucky Fried Chicken strips, trying not to look at Saint, who was letting Peyton spread suntan lotion on his back. Caitlin and I hadn’t argued in close to two weeks. Her amethyst ring glittered in the sun as she ate her usual raw carrots
.

“Does it ever occur to you that no one wants to see your armpit hair when they’re eating?” I asked Saint finally, my arm around Caitlin
.

“No, it never does,” Saint said. Having spread suntan lotion on every part of his back except Tom’s lettering, he lay on his stomach and let Peyton feed him chicken. Between bites, he spoke to Caitlin. “Heard you at rehearsal yesterday. You got some voice.”

“Rehearsal?” I asked
.

“For the talent show.” He turned to the rest of the group, saying, “Bunch of guys are doing an act, and Caitlin’s got a solo.”

“You do?” Liana and I both said at once. Liana started babbling about how wonderful that was. I said nothing, just looked at Cat. She sat only an inch away, but her eyes were elsewhere. Why had she defied me? She knew how I felt, yet she’d gone to an audition and rehearsals without telling me. Didn’t I matter to her? I stared until my eyes felt ready to burst. Finally, someone changed the subject, and Caitlin looked at me. She flinched. I mouthed one word,
No
.

Caitlin looked away, whining something about hoping I’d change my mind. I ignored her. I dropped my hand from her shoulder and turned to Ashley, who was talking to Peyton. I said, “Say, Ash, I just found out Caitlin’s in a talent show Saturday night. Want to go?”

Ashley stopped talking and flipped her auburn hair. “Of course I’m going. Everyone is.”