Breathing Underwater

by Alex Flinn

  Elsa hesitates, starts to speak.

  I say, “Leave it.”

  Miss Higgins’s eyes meet mine with a look I can’t figure out. “Very well. But whoever wrote it neglected the comma.”

  She reaches above her head and chalks one between GO and my name. Whether she’s deflecting attention or digging me a deeper hole, I laugh with the others. It sounds real. Then, to complete the illusion, I smile, raise my hand like nothing’s wrong. When Higgins calls on me, I point to my copy of Wuthering Heights.

  “Miss Higgins, in chapter three, when Cathy’s at the window, is that supposed to be a ghost, or is Lockwood still dreaming?”

  Higgins raises a sparse eyebrow. “What do you think, Nicholas?”

  I can’t go on like this, that’s what I think. Losing Caitlin was bad enough without everyone hating me. And suddenly, my thoughts return to Tom. Talk to Tom. Years of friendship must be worth something. If I could only get Tom to forgive me, everyone else would follow. And with Tom’s help, maybe I could get Caitlin back too.

  But I say, “I guess it was a ghost. Like, maybe if people are in love like Cathy and Heathcliff, nothing can separate them, not even death.”

  Beside me, Elsa snickers, but I ignore her. I finger the ring in my pocket and reach under my desk for the journal. I don’t care about English. I just want to remember when things were better. Like that first night with Caitlin.

  The driveway to Zack’s house was two blocks long, and since we were late, we walked it. Five minutes of gravel crunching under sandals. Finally, the trees parted, and Caitlin gasped. I let myself grin. The invitation was a lot of what I had to offer Cat. I got invited to all the cool parties. I’d hoped she’d be impressed. The house was huge, white, like the Disney version of a Southern plantation.

  Caitlin looked from the house to my face. “I didn’t know Zack lived someplace like this. I’ve known him all my life, but I never thought he was … rich.”

  She said the word like it burned her throat. I snuck closer, still unready to make the grab for her hand. I told her Zack’s family had just hit it big the year before.

  “That explains why Zack blows off his old friends,” she said, then added, in response to Tom and Liana’s questioning looks, “He started hanging out with you guys, and now, he won’t talk to me or Elsa, people he’s known since kindergarten.”

  I told her no one really liked Schaeffer. We only let him hang with us because he had a hot tub and minimal adult supervision.

  Caitlin said, “I get it. But for once, I’d like to be the one blowing people off instead of the one being blown off.”

  “A noble goal,” I said. I threw open the front door and led her into a white-and-glass living room big enough for a pep rally. We walked through French doors to the patio. The hot tub was full of people in bathing suits that might come off before the evening was over. Almost everyone else circled the inkblot-shaped pool, though a few lurked in a corner, smoking grass. I avoided that area—one thing I don’t do is drugs. Tom patted my backpack.

  “What’s in here?”

  I told him beer, wondering if Caitlin would disapprove. Maybe I hoped she would. I mean, I didn’t want a girl who drank. Still, I added, “I just wrote cerveza on Rosa’s shopping list, and here it is.”

  “You the man!” Tom laughed, then added, to Liana, “Rosa’s the housekeeper. What is she, Nick, number twenty-five?”

  “Thirty-two,” I corrected.

  “So hard to find good help,” Liana said.

  I ignored her, watching Peyton walk by in a bikini that barely covered her nipples. She had rings on her toes and in her belly button, and Saint O’Connor, Key’s Neanderthal star quarterback, followed, dragging his tongue on the ground. How could he let Peyton wear that in public? Caitlin, I noticed, wore a long skirt with a white linen shirt knotted over her tank swimsuit. Good. Though I wouldn’t have minded seeing her in an outfit like Peyton’s, I didn’t want anyone else to. I swung my arm, fingers touching hers. For an instant, I saw her shiver. I grabbed her hand. She laughed then smiled at me, and even in the darkness, I felt my skin broil.

  “Want to go swimming?” I asked, figuring a shock of cold water would do me good.

  “If you do,” she said.

  “I don’t care.” I led her to a stone bench, still cradling her fingers like feathers. Why was I so jacked up just holding this girl’s hand? I told myself to chill.

  Caitlin’s eyes scanned the patio. “Good. I hate bathing suits. At camp, I always thought people were staring. And the girls here are so beautiful.”

  I squeezed her fingers. It was so cool that she didn’t know how pretty she was. When I found my nerve, I said, “You’re the most beautiful girl here.”

  She rewarded me with a smile. We stared at each other, me palming a Bud Light can until I felt a big paw on my shoulder. I smelled Doritos, saw red hair, teeth coated with orange cheese crap. Saint O’Connor. I put the can down. Saint raised a big arm to high-five, then clasped my hand instead.

  I knew he was just looking for beer. I pushed my lips into a smile and withdrew my hand from Saint’s and the other, more reluctantly, from Caitlin’s. I handed Saint a can, offering Caitlin another. She shook her head. Saint looked like he’d just noticed her.

  “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.

  JANUARY 26

  * * *

  Spanish class

  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 pape
r 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?”

  The rest of the class is laughing, like I used to when Saint would ask Faure the Spanish word for copulate or mammary. I sneak a look at Tom. He’s not laughing, not listening probably, left hand moving on the page before him. I know he’s not doing the workbook. He’s doodling. Five years ago, he saw a magazine contest: Draw the Pirate. He’s been drawing the pirate ever since. I think it’s supposed to take less than a thousand attempts, I told him once. He just shrugged.

  Saint’s still going. “How’s a guy keep from getting … excited around all those topless women? I mean, European men wear those faggy Speedos that don’t hide nothing.”

  I write Tom’s name on the package of photographs and pass it to my right.

  It’s back on my desk before the bell finishes ringing.

  “I don’t want these,” Tom says on his way out the door. But I think I see something in his face, just for a second. Like maybe he’s sorry we’re not still friends? But he says, “I don’t want anything from you, Nick.”

  “You can’t give me a break?” I hold the photographs in front of me before shoving them into my backpack. “We were best friends for, like, ten years.”