Breathing Underwater (23 page)

“I meant with me,” I said. “Seems the seat next to mine’s open. Seat in my car too.” I leaned close, ignoring Caitlin. If she didn’t care what I thought, I’d teach her a lesson
.

“You messing with me?” Ashley asked, so I knew she still liked me
.

“No way,” I said. “We’ll have dinner after. Rusty Pelican’s nice.” I cast a sidelong glance at Cat. The Rusty Pelican was our place, where we’d gone for each month’s anniversary. The third one was that week. I could see Caitlin’s lips pressed together, her eyes ready to spill
.

Ashley said, “Sure I’ll go.”

“Why are you doing this, Nick?” Caitlin asked
.

“Doing what? You’re the one doing it to me.” Everyone pretended to continue their own conversations, but they watched us. I said to Caitlin, “I don’t want you embarrassing yourself in that talent show. You go there, singing like you do, looking like a fat slob, and people will laugh.” I was so worked up, I almost believed what I said
.

Caitlin did believe it. She metamorphosed with my words, arms drooping at her sides. She said, “Okay, I won’t sing. It was a stupid idea.”

“I’m only saying this for your own good.” I twined my arm around her waist, loving the feel of her hair against my lips. “Someday, you’ll realize I want what’s best for you.”

“So our date’s off,” Ashley interrupted. “You used me to get Caitlin to change her mind.”

I looked from one to the other. “We can all go together.”

“Like I want to be your second-choice date, Nick Andreas.” But a minute later, she leaned toward me and said in a whisper everyone could hear, “Call me when you guys break up.”

Caitlin said nothing, but her grip tightened around my waist
.

I
was
like Leo.

Something’s wrong with Mario. He’s pacing like a tiger on a treadmill. He hasn’t said much of anything this class. For some reason, my mind turns to Leo. I’ve avoided him since the carnival last week, not wanting to deal with what I now realize is his abusiveness. Who am I to say anything? But I’ve heard his voice, leaving frantic messages on my answering machine. Neysa left him. He wants back in the group so she’ll see he’s changed. No, that won’t help. He doesn’t know what to do.

I don’t either. I ignore the messages.

Now, I watch the train roar past the window. Mario still paces. Kelly asks how many Cubans it takes to screw in a lightbulb, and Mario yells, “Can’t you ever just shut up?”

“What about anger control, Mario?” Tiny’s teeth flash white. “What about your three C’s, or do only we have to abide by that?”

Mario stops pacing. “Yeah, Tyrone, I’m supposed to control myself. And I am. I’m not going around hurting people like some animal, am I? Like…” He sinks into his chair, looking first at the ceiling, then our faces. He’s silent a long time.

“Look,” he finally says, real soft. “It’s a bad day, but that’s no excuse. Everyone read ahead so there’s no homework.”

The others obey without comment, but I can’t read. I don’t know why. I watch Mario instead. He’s turned away, but I sense if I could see his face, I’d see tears. What’s wrong? Probably nothing, a fight with his wife, maybe. But when his receptionist comes in, I hear the word
newspaper
. I hear Leo’s name. Mario slips, unlooking, from his seat, and I take out my journal to forget the killing questions. What did Leo do? And why is the newspaper calling Mario?

The day Caitlin and I broke up began typically. Tom was a hero. At Winterfest carnival, everyone was talking about how Tom “Samson” Carter had held Columbus High to seven points and won his bet with Liana. We’d lost 7–3, but Columbus scored the touchdown when Tom-the-hero wasn’t even on the field. It was an offensive fumble, recovered by Columbus and run in to score. One guess who fumbled. Good guess. We were out of the regionals, and it was my fault. When Caitlin tried to say it was no big deal, I told her to shut the hell up. And she did
.

Saturday morning, we stood in line for the Himalaya, one of those spinning rides that stays on the ground while loud music and g-forces combine to produce thrills, chills, etc. I wasn’t thrilled that day. On the ride, people screamed “Faster! Faster!” and the carnies egged them on. I could have waited forever. I’d dragged myself to the carnival because my friends were going, and if I didn’t, they’d know I was laying low. My fist clenched around Caitlin’s hand. She tensed beside me. Finally, the ride ground to a stop, and everyone stirred in their seats. We were next
.

The first people off the ride were Elsa and Derek
.

“Nick!” Elsa said with exaggerated congeniality. “I am so glad to see you. I brought you a present.” She flipped a bottle of Elmer’s Glue-All at me. When I reached up to grab it, she said, “Good catch, Nick. I wish I’d given it to you sooner. It might have helped.”

I hurled the bottle back at her and pulled Caitlin onto the ride. I was strapping us into the light blue and white car when Derek yelled something to Cat. Something about only eight hours to showtime
.

The ride lurched to a start, and we began our first circuit around the track. Outside, there were faces, people waiting, friends waving, everyone staring and pointing at the loser who’d ruined the season. Caitlin hugged me. I asked her what Derek had meant
.

“I don’t know,” she said
.

I said I thought she did. The ride music invaded my brain until I could barely recognize my thoughts. My head pounded. Caitlin’s next words were lost in sound and speed. Her mouth moved, her face contorted with the motion of the ride. She looked ugly. I yelled that I couldn’t hear her
.

She put her mouth against my ear. “I guess he thinks I’m singing.”

“Why would he think that?”

“My name’s in the program,” Cat yelled
.

“Faster! Faster!” the riders screamed. The ride operator screamed back at them to yell louder. The noise deafened. Next to me, Caitlin screamed with the crowd
.

I yelled too, but what I yelled was, “You’re not singing!”

Caitlin backed away. “I’m not,” she mouthed. “I told you I’m not!”

I said she’d better not be. I grabbed her arm and held it. The ride lurched and jumped then wound down to the ground. “You’d better not be,” I repeated as we slid to a stop. I pulled her out of her seat almost before she undid her seatbelt. We moved toward the exit. At the gate, Josh Brandon, a skinny, unwashed-looking kid from my chemistry class, knocked against me
.

“Hey, Andreas, I ever tell you you’re my hero?” He nudged the redhead standing by him. “Really. It takes guts to play that bad.”

I shoved him back. “You value your life?”

He slipped through the gate, but his obnoxious voice followed me until we reached the cotton candy stand
.

The rest of the day was the same, and maybe I was looking for a fight. I found one
.

Mario hasn’t returned by the end of class. The others leave. I put my pen in my backpack, unable to write further, waiting for Mario. My head feels like rap music’s playing inside, and I stare at the ceiling fan. Finally, I hear the doorknob. Mario comes in. “Nick.”

I turn. He stares at the floor, pressing his lips together. Finally, he says, “You were friends … weren’t you, with Leo?”

I nod, remembering our last encounter.

Mario sits by me. His face is weary, his eyes rimmed red.

“It never gets easier,” he says. “When I started doing this, they told me, you win some, you lose some. Always think about the ones you’re helping, but…” His head twitches. “Leo’s dead, Nick.”

The room is silent except for Mario’s voice and the ceiling fan’s hum. Funny how you can know something and yet not believe it’s possible. Whether it’s sheep cloning or space travel. Or the fact that, last night, Leo Sotolongo broke into his girlfriend’s bedroom and put a bullet through her skull. Then he turned the gun on himself. Mario’s words seep through my skin, but my brain is bargaining. I see only possibilities. What if I’d answered Leo’s calls? What if he’d come back to class? But it’s over. Mario’s stopped speaking.

“He never thought there was a problem,” I say.

“You mean he wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of admitting it, even to himself.” Mario’s sad voice is angry too. “It wasn’t the first time he held a gun to that girl’s head. The police gave it back when she dropped the charges, though. He made sure of that. He called last week, said he wanted back into class so she’d take him back. Not that he needed counseling, not him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I can only help people who’ll let me.” Mario watches a train pull by, maybe remembering, as I am, the story Leo told us. “But that’s not enough people.”

I can’t stay. A second later, I’m out the door, Mario’s words still in my ears.

I sprint downstairs, then six blocks to the station. The escalator bears me to the platform. I can’t breathe. And I’m cold. The sun bakes the red-brown tiles, suddenly so close, so bright. I shut my eyes. Neysa. What did she look like, even? But I see Caitlin’s face, Caitlin’s blue eyes, staring.

Could it have been me, me and Caitlin? No. I want to scream it. No! My brain tells me different. You and Leo were the same, it says. Lonely, obsessed. Angry and out of control too. I saw it in Leo, I see it in myself. All I did to Caitlin, everything I said. Of course she’s afraid of me. I’m no different from Leo. I wasn’t, and I’m not.

But can I be?

Is there time?

The train’s in sight, white light piercing the sun, and I think of Leo’s brother. Then Leo himself, ending it when life became unbearable. It would be easy for me too. Who would care? Not Caitlin, not Tom. Not my father. One final shock, then no more pain. No pain. I feel in my pocket for the ring, Caitlin’s ring. My fingers meet coldness, and I take it out, hold it to the light. Purple prisms reflect around me. The train descends. I clutch the ring. Only the ring supports me. I step toward the tracks. The horn sounds. I hoist the ring to the sky and raise my arm.

Then it’s flying out, out over the track, then crashing to the street below. I watch until, finally, I can’t. The train pulls in but still I see the ring. Hitting ground somewhere below, its stone shattering on impact. The doors open, and I walk inside. I collapse into a seat and stare out the window. Where is it? Where’s the ring? It should be a mile wide, but it’s gone. The train pulls out, and still I look. I try to picture Caitlin’s face, but I can’t.

I only see my own face, reflected in the glass.

I’m sitting here with a flashlight, Caitlin’s pen, and my journal, which, in addition to being smudged, torn, and rippled, is now pretty much covered in wet sand. I have to finish it, though. I don’t want to, but I have to.

The pain in my brain was at tumor level by evening. Yet, somehow, I had a front-row seat, watching Saint O’Connor and company, in wigs, dancing to “Short Shorts.” Caitlin squeezed my hand, and through the deafening laughter, I heard her voice
.

“I love you, Nicky. You don’t have to be a football hero for me to love you.”

I pushed her back, her words like a hand clutching my throat. Onstage, Saint ground his butt. I glanced away. Then, I noticed the dolphin on the calf of one of the wigged dancers. Tom. He wore a red bouffant wig, kicking and strutting with the others—without me. They belonged together. I was the oddball. For the first time in my life, I wanted to go home. Finally, the lights came up for intermission
.

“Wasn’t Tom funny?” Liana said. I noticed then that the seat by hers was empty. “He wanted it to be a surprise.”

I started toward the doors. Cat stood to join me, but I said, “You following me to the men’s room?” She shook her head, sitting
.

I stayed away a long time. When I returned, Tom and Saint were there, wigless. Caitlin was gone
.