Breathing Underwater (13 page)

“You know you have the best voice around.”

“Oh, sure.” But she returned his smile, encouraging him, like she’d take on anyone who’d have her. Slut. They could probably hear my heart by then, so I did the stupid, clichéd thing. I cleared my throat. Cat jumped. Both turned and looked at me
.

“Nick,” Cat said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Guess not.” She thought I was stupid
.

She came over and tried to lead me toward Derek. I wouldn’t budge
.

“You two know each other?” she asked
.

Derek eyed me. “We’ve met.” He turned to Caitlin. “I didn’t know you and Nick … dated?”

“Now you do,” I said. Without another word, I pulled Caitlin out the door, and we walked to the car in silence. It was closing in on five, and the parking lot was empty. Caitlin took my hand. I jerked it away. In my mind, I saw her touching Derek’s shoulder, her hair against his face. Our footsteps were loud as a marching band in the motionless parking lot. I stopped beside my car. I felt so weak, so used. She was making a fool of me, and I couldn’t stop it. Finally, the words built up to the point where they exploded from me. “Why didn’t you throw him down and screw him right there?”

Caitlin stopped, backed away. “What?”

“You know what. The way you were coming on to him.”

“Are you crazy?” she said. “It was
Derek
.”

The air was thick, heavy. “That’s it. I’m crazy. I saw you. I saw you flirting with him, touching him. I saw him looking at you.” I raised an arm. It was a gesture. I wasn’t going to hit her, was I? But she flinched. I knew I was yelling, but I didn’t stop, like that fat, hot air made me yell, made me say, “Slut! I can’t let you out of my sight, can I? You can’t be trusted, you bitch!”

Caitlin turned to me. “You can trust me. How can you say this?”

“How can
I
?” Like I didn’t know better. “How can
you
be like that with other guys when you said you loved me? Are you lying about being a virgin? Sweet little Caitlin—you play hard to get with me, but you’d spread your legs for him, wouldn’t you?”

I grabbed her arm. The anger inside me was alive, and it made me want things, crazy things. Part of me wanted to hit her. The other part wanted to force her against the car and take what she wouldn’t let me have, what I knew she was giving him. I felt every hair on my head, every pore of skin ripping open, and I yelled, “You sleeping with him, Cat? Is that where you learned what we do together—from other guys?”

She didn’t speak. I gripped her arm harder. “Is it?”

“No.” She stared at me, and once she spoke, she kept repeating, “No, no…”

Sick of her, I dropped her arm and walked away. “Forget it. I’m leaving.”

I got in the car and elbowed the door locked, still not looking at her. I gunned the motor and started to pull out of the parking space
.

Then I saw Caitlin
.

She stood, crying. No cars in sight. No one to see or hear or care. Caitlin’s hair hung in her face, making her look small. She clutched her arm where I’d held it, but I could see a red mark spreading under her hand. I had done that. God, I was like my father, just exactly like him. I had this strange feeling in my brain, like I’d lost something irreplaceable. I pushed it away. Caitlin came to the window. I rolled it down, and her words spewed out in a gush of tears. Looking at her, I felt like crying myself. And I never cried
.

“I’m sorry, Nick,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I won’t do it again. There was no one but you, ever. I never … you’re the only boy I ever kissed.” She knelt to look at me. “Please give me another chance.”

She was apologizing. I’d hurt her, and
she
was sorry. Maybe I hadn’t really hurt her. She was worked up, but she’d be okay. I’d make it okay. I opened the door and took her in my arms. “I’m sorry too, Cat. You know I’d never hurt you.” I kissed her, first her face, her lips, then her arm where it kept getting redder. I wanted to kiss every hair on her head to keep her with me. “Sometimes, I get crazy. It’s just, I’d die if I lost you.”

“I won’t do it again.” Caitlin’s tears soaked my face. “I won’t do anything to make you mad again.”

“It’s okay.” She was all right. I hadn’t hurt her. Nothing had changed. In a way, it felt good, knowing she’d forgive anything. Safe. Still, I wouldn’t risk it again. I’d be the perfect boyfriend. Now that I knew she loved me, it would be easy
.

I held her until every tear was gone
.

“When is it okay to use violence?” Mario asks at the beginning of class.

As usual, Ray has the kiss-ass answer. “It’s never all right,” he says, and some guys—truth be told, I’m one of them—start making kissy noises. A few others nod.

“Never?” Mario’s left eyebrow heads north. “I was born at night, but not
last
night. We’re talking about
you guys
. Do you expect me to believe I worked some sort of voodoo, and you’re cured?”

Ray says nothing, but I suggest, “Self-defense?” and just about everyone nods.

Mario nods too. “All right. Someone physically attacks you, you’re within your rights fighting back. St. Francis of Assisi would probably buy that. You guys, I’ve got a feeling, could come up with some other examples.”

“How about if someone’s attacking an old lady or something?” Kelly asks.

“Grandma’s getting stomped, Mr. Steele does a Van Damme on her attacker. Okay. What else?”

Silence.

“I assume no one here’s okay with smacking a woman every so often to show who’s boss?” Mario asks. There are snickers, but no takers. “You’re sure?” he says. When no one answers, he says, “Good, then we’re making progress.”

More silence, but Tiny cracks his knuckles like he does when something’s bothering him. He doesn’t speak, though, until finally we’re all watching. “What you think you’re looking at?” he demands.

“Something else, Tyrone?” Mario says.

“Yeah. What if she’s dissing you?”

“Dissing you how?”

“Like if she say she’ll pick you up somewhere, and she’s late.”

“Been there,” I say, thinking about yesterday’s journal.

“This happened last week, Tyrone?” Mario says. When Tiny nods, Mario says, “Did Donyelle say what kept her?”

“Maybe.”

“You mean you didn’t listen?” Tiny scowls, and Mario adds, “You thought you already knew?”

“I knew, I knew.”

“What did you know?” Mario asks, patient as an hourglass.

“She was with someone else.”

“She was with me,” Kelly says.

Tiny stays seated but points a big forefinger in Kelly’s direction. “Don’t you be messing with me, Whitetrash!”

“Okay, so we’ve all been there,” Mario says. “The woman in your life is supposed to pick you up at four o’clock. Now it’s four, and she’s not there, and you’re thinking”—gesturing toward Tiny—“you’re thinking … what?”

Tiny blows air out his nose, a sound reminiscent of Moby Dick. “I’m thinking she’d best be there before four-oh-one.”

“Okay,” Mario says. “But now it’s ten after, and it’s hot, and you showered after football practice, but there’s two wet patches starting on the back of your shirt. She’s not there. And you’re thinking…” Mario glances around. “Nick?”

“I’m thinking she forgot,” I say.

“You thinking she forgot? Or you thinking, ‘Dammit, that bitch forgot.’”

“Second one,” I admit. A few chuckles.

“And why is it the second one?” When I shrug, Mario says, “It’s the second because what else are you thinking besides ‘she forgot’?” He leans back. “You’re thinking she found something better to do? Or some
one
better? She doesn’t care if you melt in this heat because she’s never seeing you again?”

“I’m just thinking she forgot,” I say. But he’s right. I’d probably think all that. I
had
thought all that.

“Why assume she forgot?” Mario turns to the whole group. “How about, next time your girlfriend’s late, you think of the thousand reasons that might be—other than forgetting or being with another guy?”

Ray’s raising his hand. He’s the only one who still does. The rest of us call out when we talk at all. Mario nods at him, and Ray says, “Like what?”

“How about if you thought, ‘Poor Donyelle must be caught in traffic’ or ‘Gosh, I hope Diana hasn’t had to take Grandma for a heart-lung transplant’ or ‘My lord, what if Caitlin’s car broke down’? Wouldn’t you feel better and—more important—less likely to haul off and smack her, if you thought happy thoughts instead of that same old country song that goes, ‘She’s a bitch, she’s a slut, she’s heartless, she don’t love me no more’? ’Cause once you start hearing that song, you’re in for trouble.”

“But those things didn’t happen,” I say.

“None of it happened,” Mario says. “’Til she gets there, it’s just conjecture and speculation. Her forgetting is part of a bizarro world you create for yourself. And those other things—the car trouble and the dying grandmother—happen in a happier place. Let’s call it Marioland. It’s all fiction, and you’re the writer, so you may as well write something that calms you down as something that riles you up.” We all nod, and Mario takes a clipboard from his desk.

“The reason I mention this is, it’s time you guys came up with your personal Violence Policies.” Mario’s gaze bounces off each of us before returning to his clipboard. “You’ll be held to these policies for the rest of this class. But they may be challenged.”

“Challenged how?” Kelly asks.

“Held to them how?” I ask at the same time.

Mario grins at us. “I’m getting to that. I want you to take a sheet of paper. On one side, write any situation where you feel it’s okay to use violence. On the other, write all the times it’s not. Like, ‘It’s okay to hit someone in self-defense’ or ‘It’s wrong to hit teachers who give me bad grades.’”

“Not so fast on that second one,” Kelly says.

Mario ignores him. “Then, if something happens, you only have to check your Violence Policy to know whether it’s okay to hit Diana ’cause she left water spots on the glasses.” Mario cocks his head toward Ray. “But I warn you, if your Violence Policy says it is, I’ll take issue with it, and you’ll need to justify it. Otherwise, I keep your policy in an envelope, and no one but you looks at it.”

We all start writing. I go with the obvious first, self-defense or when you meet someone outside after school (which hasn’t happened in years), then draw a blank. I turn to the situations where violence is
wrong
. My eyes drop, and I remember the violence behind before I look ahead. I know what Mario wants me to write, that what happened with Caitlin won’t happen again. I want to say it, but it seems too easy now that she’s gone. And anyway, that’s not what I feel like writing. I glance at Mario. “You really won’t read these?”

He raises a palm. “Scout’s honor.”

At the top of the page, I write:

When I have kids, I will never hit them
.

I hope that’s true.

After class, I step outside. A black Trans Am’s waiting, and Leo honks the horn.

“Hey, you got sprung early, huh?” he yells. “Let’s go have some fun.”

Leo, Neysa, and I head to South Beach, where we spend the rest of the day bodysurfing and looking at supermodels on Rollerblades. When I get home that night, I realize it’s the longest I’ve gone without thinking of Caitlin.

But I’m thinking about her now. That’s what Judge Debbie said, after all, “Think about what you’ve done.” I am. I’m thinking about it, and writing about it. But what good is it if Caitlin won’t even talk to me?

In October, I was the perfect boyfriend. The morning after our fight, I showed up on Caitlin’s doorstep with ten teddy bears for her collection. I sent her cards, even wrote a poem once, and peppered her with gifts the rest of the month, ending up with the drama club’s Halloween-o-gram carnation sale when I bought fifty, writing a different message on each card so Caitlin was weighed down with flowers like a beauty pageant winner. Me, I got one from Tom, saying
,