Breathing Underwater (6 page)

“Caitlin McCourt!” He whistled, two fingers to his mouth. She turned away, giggling. “Man, you are one hot babe. You must’ve lost thirty pounds at least.”

“Thank you, Patrick.”

Patrick?
Patrick?
I felt my jaw clench. I’d never suspected O’Connor had a real name. How did Caitlin know? I chugged my beer, wanting to tell him to leave Caitlin alone. She was mine. But O’Connor was a football player who could pick his teeth with my arms
.

I asked him if Peyton wanted one. Saint said, “Nah, she don’t drink nothing with calories. I’ll take hers, though.”

Like I was buying drinks for this Saint Bernard. Maybe he figured I’d just hand over Caitlin too. But I pulled a beer out, yelled “Catch!” and hurled it over O’Connor’s head so it splashed into the pool. Saint stood, blinking. Then, he turned to watch it sink
.

I said, “Nice catch. Makes me glad you’re on my team.”

“Yeah, great throw, Andreas.”

I said I didn’t claim to be a star quarterback, and Saint smirked, like it was a good thing I didn’t. I pointed toward the drowning Bud. “Mind getting that?”

“Be a sin to waste it.” Saint nodded at Caitlin, then dove for his prey
.

I thumbed open another can, pool sounds buzzing my ears like a traffic jam. Finally, I said, “How’d you know O’Connor’s name?”

Caitlin laughed. “Patrick? I’ve always called him that. We had Sunday school together before I quit to join the church choir.”

I rolled the icy beer in my hand. “You like him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Figure it out.”

Her eyes widened. “Me and Pat O’Connor? That’s so not possible. I mean, he used to burp and blow it on me.” Her blue eyes focused on my face. Below, Saint and Peyton played chicken with Tom and Liana, Peyton fighting dirty, trying to pull off Liana’s bikini top, Liana’s shrieks echoing off the patio roof. But I heard Caitlin. “Besides, I like you, Nick.”

The noise stopped. The ice melted, and I regained my sense of taste. I looked at her and said the first thing that popped into my head
.

“You’re in church choir?”

She made a face. “I bet you think that’s so geeky.” I shook my head, no, it suited my image of her, and she added, “I want to be a professional singer someday.”

“What, like a rock star?” Which didn’t suit her at all
.

“I don’t know, maybe. I take voice lessons, and I tried out for show choir last year, but I didn’t make it. My mom said, ‘It’s because you’re fat. No one wants to look at a fat girl, Caitlin.’”

“Nice mom,” I said, feeling, if possible, closer to her
.

“I know, but she was right. I lost thirty-five pounds, and then you asked me out.”

“Making it all worth it?”

I swear, I was joking when I said that, but she said, “Kind of,” smiling but serious. “I
did
have the biggest crush on you in seventh grade. You gave that report on alternative power sources in Mr. Ohlfest’s class.”

I said I couldn’t believe she remembered that. I moved closer
.

She said, “I thought you were so smart, so … you didn’t notice me, of course.”

“I didn’t notice anything in seventh grade. I still thought I’d play pro football in seventh grade.” I rolled my eyes. “That was nice, actually.”

She laughed. “You wouldn’t have noticed me anyway.”

Her fingers touched mine, and I leaned toward her. “I notice you now.” I reached to caress her cheek, my lips an inch from hers
.

“iOye, Nick! Caitlin!” Liana’s voice was like the splash of cold water that followed. Caitlin and I separated, looking at the pool where Liana and Tom were locked in chicken-fight combat with Peyton and Saint. They were losing ground quick. Liana shrieked at us to help them
.

I didn’t move. They splashed harder, screaming for us to join them. After a monsoon drenched her skirt, Caitlin said, “Guess we have to.”

I tried to stop her, but she stripped to her bathing suit and slid into the water before I could see much of her. I looked at the spot where she’d been sitting, then down at the pool, and it dawned on me that there I could touch her like I was dying to. God, her legs would be around my head. I tore off my shirt and leaped in
.

We didn’t last long in the fight. Caitlin slipped from my shoulders in seconds. “Sorry,” she sputtered, hugging herself and jumping side to side
.

“Don’t be.” I moved closer, feeling her leg against mine. Droplets of water ran down her chest and beaded on her breasts. I’d die to touch them. Would she let me? Not likely. Still, for one moment, everything was possible. I fingered her waist then wimped out. “So it’s just you and your mom then?”

“Yeah. Like you and your dad. Ever wish you had brothers or sisters?”

“No. I’ve got Tom.
He’s
my brother.”

She nodded. “I’m the same with my friend, Elsa.”

I waded closer, my hand more firmly on her waist. “Know what I was thinking before we went swimming?”

“I think so.” She looked into the water. “I thought maybe you were going to kiss me.”

“Really?” I raised her chin, whispering, “I thought so too.”

Suddenly, there was a crash. It came from the house, like a bus hitting a brick wall. Caitlin and I separated. We cleared the pool and ran through the maze of rooms
.

Mayhem. Total mayhem. We stood, dripping, in the Schaeffers’ bright white dining room. Except it wasn’t white. Someone had spray-painted all over it. Chairs were overturned, backs broken off. The crash had been the chandelier. It lay between the table legs, having broken through the glass top. Crystal shards carpeted the room. In the center were three guys from school, juniors. They wouldn’t have been invited. All had greasy hair and tattoos. One wore a goatee, another a dog collar with I LOVE SATAN painted on. They were pretty cut up from the chandelier. Still, they giggled like maniacs
.

“Come on in, water’s fine,” said the guy with the goatee. His name was Dirk. I recognized him from junior high, where he’d spent assemblies picking his zits and eating them
.

“Oh God,” Caitlin whispered next to me. I slipped my arm around her. Then, people went in all directions. Someone, Tom maybe, looked for Zack. Some pushed through and joined in the trashing. Within seconds, they’d laid waste to the living room too. Most of us just stood there. But Caitlin looked frightened, so I tried to guide her back toward the patio
.

“No,” Caitlin whispered. Then, louder, so everyone heard. “No, you can’t do this. You can’t just trash someone’s house.”

The chaos stopped. Everyone stared at Cat like she was from outer space. Dirk came at her, stoned and cursing. He eyed Cat in her still-dripping swimsuit
.

“We’re just having fun, baby.” He touched her waist. She made a sound like a hurt bird. “We could have fun with you, you little—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t finish, because my fist met his jaw. Then, I was on top of him, waling on him, not seeing his face, just the paint-mottled walls and Caitlin. And Dirk’s hand, touching her, hurting her. My breath in my ears drowned out the crowd sounds around me. Glass splinters ripped my skin. My fists flew, hitting and hitting him until finally his face was the colors of those walls, and I felt arms lifting me off him. Tom. It was then I noticed Dirk had stopped fighting. He moaned, so he must have been conscious
.

Tom told me to get up. Zack had called the police
.

Cat stared. I looked down and saw what she was looking at. Blood. Splinters of glass jutted from my arms, and my body was speckled red. Funny thing, it didn’t hurt. But had I screwed things up with Caitlin? She took my hand wordlessly. I followed her through the white-tiled halls to the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet seat. She ran her fingers down my arms, looking for glass. I flinched
.

“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked
.

“No. I’m sorry, Caitlin. I screwed up. I saw him touching you, and I lost control. I couldn’t stand—”

She put her fingers to my lips. “Don’t apologize. It’s so incredible what you did. No one’s ever fought for me, but you…” Her voice trailed off. She stroked my arm, picked out each shard of glass in her way, then used a washcloth to blot the blood. I relaxed under her touch. For a second, I was four years old, going to my mother with a skinned knee and having her tell me not to be a baby. But now, it was Caitlin’s face, her voice in my ear, whispering, “You’re a hero, Nick. You’re my knight in shining armor.”

I stood. My arms still bled, but I didn’t care. I pulled her close
.

I was right. Hers was the kiss that mattered
.

That night, in bed

I flip through the journal again, remembering. Funny, how I can remember stuff that happened months ago, even little things she said or did, like it was yesterday. I guess it’s ’cause she’s still so important to me.

I put down the journal and reach for my clock radio. The same words were written on the blackboard fifth period and again in seventh. There, the teachers erased it, but since Higgins doesn’t use the board, it stayed there all day. I set the alarm to go off an hour early. I’ll get to school by seven to obliterate the words.

Tom stares at me.

I’m in Spanish class Monday, flipping through the pictures I took of our group in Key West. Nothing interesting on the blackboards lately. Still, I need to talk to Tom. Across the room, he laughs with Saint O’Connor, sitting in what used to be my seat. I look back at the photographs.

The Key West trip was two months ago, Thanksgiving weekend. But in my mind, it plays like video of someone else’s childhood. There’s Caitlin and me silhouetted against the sunset at Mallory Square. Another is the group in front of Zack’s parents’ vacation house. I took that one, so I’m not in it. But there’s one of Tom, Saint, and me pretending to dive at the sign that says
SOUTHERNMOST POINT IN THE CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES
. The images surprise me now. Was I that person? An hour at the Walgreen’s lab made it so.

I look longest at a picture Caitlin took, Tom and me on Zack’s boat. We’re waving our diving masks, best friends. I take that one out, along with three group shots. The one of Tom and me goes on top.

“Señor Andreas, you are doing your workbook, no?” Señor Faure has noticed my inattention.

“I’m finished,” I say.

“Work ahead, then. Do the next chapter.”

“I finished the book. Want to see?”

A few giggles at my nerdliness. Faure shrugs. “Do something quiet, then.”

“That’s what I was doing.”

Faure nods, and I smile at Jessica Schweitzer, who sits next to me. She looks away. I pull a sheet of paper from my looseleaf. Across the room, Saint raises his hand, and I know what’s coming.

“Yes, Señor O’Connor?”

“Señor Faure,” Saint says. “You seen those beaches in Spain?”

Faure nods, and the trap is set. It’s like one of those nature shows, where some clueless mouse or bird crawls right into the Komodo dragon’s path. Right now, Faure is the mouse.

“The Spanish beaches, they are
très
beautiful,” Faure says in his accent, which is more French than Spanish.

I fold the sheet of paper in half and slip the photographs inside, not looking at Señor Faure. I used to laugh at O’Connor’s jokes. Now, they seem cruel.

“Are the women, like, naked there?” Saint asks.

Faure tugs on his guayabera shirt. “They are topless sometimes, yes.”

“Let me ask you, Señor Faure … why don’t European women shave their pits? I mean, do they reek?”