by Alex Flinn
Ray’s eyes could melt glass. Leo doesn’t look away.
“You think you know who I am?” Leo demands. “My mother married Hector when I was three, telling us what a good man he was. From the beginning, I heard screaming, lying in bed at night. By the time he started hitting her in front of us, there were two more kids, a Mercedes, and my brother and me at Wentworth Academy.
“Felix and I were twins. He was a few minutes older, but I was bigger, so I was in charge. We shared a room and had a secret language we used in school until they put us in separate classes. Even so, when Felix broke his finger playing ball, my own hand hurt so bad I couldn’t write. We weren’t identical, though. I look like my mother. Felix had our father’s blue eyes.”
My mind wanders to Tom, and suddenly, I ache for a brother. Beside me, Leo’s still talking.
“Hector had it in for Felix. He used to take me and my half brother and sister to get McDonald’s or whatever, but he’d leave Felix home. I’d try to stay home too, but Felix would say, ‘Go ahead. I’ll just get reamed if you don’t.’ So I’d bring him back whatever I got, candy or toys from birthday parties. One time, I brought back ice cream. It melted, chocolate all over Hector’s leather seats. Hector sprung a leak then, screaming, ‘You little bastard! You did this for your shit brother!’ He drags me to our room. My brother’s making a model car, and Hector says, ‘Hit him.’
“‘No!’ I said. But Hector’s by my ear, screaming ‘You weakling, you turd! I’ll smash him worse if you don’t!’ and finally, my fist moved without me. I blacked my brother’s eye.”
“This is such crap!” Ray yells in my ear. “He’s making this up as he goes along.”
Leo starts toward him, but Mario says, “Simmer down, Ray.” He holds up his hand, and when Ray sits, Mario says to Leo, “Go ahead.”
Leo sits, and I watch him. “That was when we were nine. After that, Hector knew how to hurt us. Hector wanted me to like him, but I hated him because of Felix. So if Felix did something wrong, Hector made me beat him up. Or sometimes, he made Felix hit me, and he’d scream, ‘Don’t let him beat you! Fight back, little girl!’ Like I was his prize rooster. And finally, I hated Felix because he got me in trouble. I stopped playing with him, stopped bringing things home, wouldn’t even talk to him at school. I had my own friends.
“The violence stopped then. Hector had what he wanted. But when we were twelve, Felix swallowed a bottle of pills. My mother took him to the doctor, and they made him puke, sent him home like nothing happened. By then, I hadn’t spoken to my twin brother in over a year.”
Leo stops, running a hand across dry eyes, and Mario says, “You okay to go on? You don’t have to.”
“I’m fine,” Leo says.
“I don’t want to push you,” Mario says.
“You aren’t,” Leo says. “I’m fine.” Leo continues, his voice even, like reciting the multiplication table.
“The day Hector and I were supposed to be partners at his father-son picnic at work, I woke up, feeling sicker than I’d ever felt. Ten minutes later, I look out the bathroom window over the driveway. There’s a police car outside. The doorbell rings, and I go downstairs, stand behind Mama.” Leo jabs a finger at Ray. “She’s talking to one of your kind. He tells her my brother’s dead, like he was asking for donations to the Police Athletic League. I ran back upstairs. I knew Felix was there. But when I got in our room, his bed was made. Even his bear … the brown teddy bear he’d hidden from Hector was sitting on top of his turned-down blue sheet. He made the bed and walked to the train station—that one right there.”
Leo gestures toward the window, and we all look out at the elevated train. He pushes his knees forward and rests his elbows on them, looking at us as if he expects us to speak. There’s nothing to say. Outside, the train roars by. I watch it, listening to the background music of Leo’s voice.
“At the funeral, I saw my mother pretend to cry, her friends pretending to comfort her. The priest prayed God would spare Felix’s soul, and people shook their heads because he’d committed such a grievous sin. I hated them. I hated the ones who sympathized, and I hated the ones who judged. Mostly, though, I hated Felix for being weak. I hoped Father Michael was wrong about his soul being saved.”
Leo stands and walks to Ray, eyes burning. Ray looks away.
“So that’s how spoiled I am, Policeman. And you’re right. My parents never hit me.”
We’re all silent a moment, hearing the hum of fluorescent lights. Finally, Mario starts to talk, pulling together what we’ve said, how it affects our other relationships. I want to listen, but I can’t stop thinking about Leo’s story, even though what Mario says applies to me. Finally, Mario closes his notebook, saying he hopes we’ll think about what we discussed. Then, he dismisses us.
I’m almost out the door when I hear Leo say, “Neysa and I have a date tonight. With any luck, this will be my last day here.”
“I hope it’s not,” Mario replies. “That’s quite a tale you told. I’d imagine someone with a story like that has a lot of anger stored up.”
I turn in time to see Leo smile. “Do I look angry?”
“You are angry,” Mario says. “Only reason you told that story’s ’cause you were angry with Ray. You need this group even if you won’t admit it.”
“Well, I’ll go on needing it,” Leo replies, starting to walk away.
Mario stops him. “My uncle Gustavo used to say, ‘If you’re halfway across the lake, it’s just as easy to swim forward as swim back.’”
“Don’t say?” Leo turns. “Tell Uncle Gus I hitched a ride to shore.”
The following week, Leo isn’t there.
Caitlin hadn’t been too hot for me to meet her mother, and one look told me why. Tom and I knocked on the McCourts’ pink door (which we’d found by walking up the pink walkway, past the pink plastic flamingoes), and before you could say acrylic nail, a woman was on us like an obese kid on the last Twinkie.
While Caitlin tried to ease us out the door, her mother gushed about how she’d been longing to meet us, then demanded, “Which one of you adorable creatures is Nick?”
“Guess that’s me,” I said. It should have been pretty obvious since I was holding Cat’s hand. Caitlin was squeezing the life out of mine.
Cat’s mom looked like Cat, but younger. No, really. Her makeup wasn’t to hide age. It was like a whole new face, including painted-in eyelashes. Ripe grapefruit halves peered from a purple crop top while a denim miniskirt exposed tanned legs. A father with a shotgun would have been less threatening. A Doberman would have been less threatening.
No such luck. Mrs. McCourt’s eyes dissected me, checking off clothes, watch, Nikes, before smiling. “Caitlin said you were handsome, and she was right.”
“Thanks.” I think.
Done with me, Mrs. McCourt turned her ample searchlights on Tom.
“And you must be Lacey Carter’s boy.” She squeezed Tom’s biceps. “Your mother and I have spoken extensively about my giving makeovers at the club.”
Caitlin said, “We have to go, Mother.”
Mrs. McCourt told Caitlin not to embarrass her. She moved still closer to Tom, and Caitlin tried to get between them. Mrs. McCourt gave Tom’s arm another squeeze. “Besides, it’s not often we have male visitors. Boys haven’t exactly been rioting on your front lawn, have they, Caitlin?”
Finally, Tom mumbled something about needing to pick up his date, and we got away. Getting into the car, I noticed something around Caitlin’s neck, a silver bead chain with charms, trendy and stupid. I fingered it, leaning across the seat to look.
“Did your mom give you that?” I asked. Her mom was embarrassing, and so was the necklace.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just doesn’t look like something you’d wear.”
She touched it. “I got it in the Grove with Peyton. I think it’s cute.”
“You think wrong,” I said. “It doesn’t go with what you’re wearing and
it’s totally blue-collar. It makes your neck look too short for your body too.”
Caitlin didn’t move.
“Take it off,” I said.
“Nick…” Tom’s voice from the backseat.
“What?” I slammed my arm down on the backrest and faced him. “What is your particular problem?” I turned back to Caitlin. “I said, take that stupid thing off.”
“It’s all right, Tom.” Caitlin removed the necklace and held it up. “Maybe it doesn’t work with this outfit. Peyton chose it.”
“Last thing you need is to dress like Peyton,” I said.
Cat hung the chain around the stick shift. We drove a block before I plucked it off and threw it out the window. Cheap metal hit pavement with barely a clink. I put my arm around Cat. She moved away.
I pulled her closer. “Don’t you want to be close to me? That’s what love is all about.”
Caitlin didn’t respond, but she didn’t shy away.
FEBRUARY 23
* * *
Hallway behind the Fruitopia machine
The roses are white, veins of green through their petals, a plastic vial of water attached to each stem. I glance over my shoulder then turn the dial on Caitlin’s lock. 4-34-0, same as always. It gives way.
In the empty hallway, I study the contents, books crammed in, a card from Liana. A stuffed bear straddles Caitlin’s history text. Behind me, something clicks. I turn. Just the clock. It’s five minutes into first period. I lay the bouquet across Caitlin’s books, close the door soundlessly and set the lock to zero.
Happy birthday, Kittycat.
Later that day
It wasn’t like I’d never screwed up with Caitlin before. I had. But before, I’d always been able to get her back. I just had to keep trying.
The evening had been a bad one. Caitlin had barely spoken to me since I threw her necklace out the window. She’d whispered with Liana, laughed at Tom’s dumb jokes, and ignored me. I could tell she couldn’t wait to get home, but I couldn’t take her there. If I took her home now, it would be over for sure. Out of ideas, I dropped Tom and Liana off then pulled into my own driveway. I walked around and threw open Caitlin’s door.
She didn’t move. “Take me home, Nick. My curfew’s—”
“I know when it is. Just stay fifteen minutes, okay?”
Caitlin’s eyes searched my face, the car, the deserted street, and I saw anger replaced by resignation. She’d go. I grabbed her hand and pulled her from her seat and down the gravel path before she could change her mind.
The iron gate behind my father’s house was painted white each spring, but it was October, and the metal was weathered by sea-spray, heavy with paint-covered rust. I pulled it. The latch creaked open. Our feet met cold, dry sand. I slipped off my shoes and motioned to Caitlin to do the same.
Again, she begged me to take her home. I could hear tears in her voice.
“Fifteen minutes,” I repeated. I was lying, but it didn’t matter. She’d either forgive me everything or hate me forever. “Please, Caitlin.”
Caitlin sighed and threw her sandals by the gate. I tried to take her hand. She pulled it away but followed me down the shelly slope until we reached the shore. There were never many stars there, but the light-bleed from downtown lit our way. I led her to an outcropping of rocks by the seawall, away from the main beach. I pointed at the water and whispered to her to watch. I waited. Ahead was nothing but black water. Caitlin started to look away, but I pointed again.
Finally, a dorsal fin emerged, a bottlenose, a tail flipping through surf. Then another. Two dolphins played in the night ocean. They disappeared and surfaced again. I nudged her. “Worth it?”
She ignored me, staring straight ahead for another few minutes. I was freaking. This was all I could give her, all I had, all I was. If she couldn’t understand why I’d brought her here, it was over. Over.
But finally, curiosity took hold, and she said, “How did you know they’d be here?”
I told her they always were. I’d first seen them when I was eight.
I leaned back on the sand, trying to figure out the best way to tell the story so she’d know what it meant. Finally, I said, “I was camping out, lying here almost asleep, when I saw a dark shape behind these rocks. At first, I didn’t know what it was. Then, it moved and I saw it was a man. Big guy, maybe six feet tall, hair all around his shoulders. A homeless person, I figured.
“He demanded to know who I was, what I was doing here. I tried to sound brave when I wasn’t. I told him my name, and that this was my house.
“He laughed. He said I didn’t act like it was my house. In fact, it was his house.”
I snuck a look at Caitlin. She was listening, interested. Good.
“He came closer,” I said. “His voice sounded rusty, like he hadn’t said a word in years. He told me how he’d built the house in 1925. ‘You were nowhere to be found, my boy. A Johnny-come-lately, I’d call you. Or an intruder.’ He pointed to the water. ‘Why, that dolphin’s been here longer’n you have.’
“I started to smart off, saying there were no dolphins around, except at the Seaquarium. But before I could finish, one leaped through the air like someone had held up a fish. I stared at it, then him. I asked him how he’d done that.
“He whispered, ‘She knows me. Showed up after the big hurricane of ’26.’
“He told me his name was Desmond Rodgers. He’d come to Miami in 1925. Before that, he was a Manhattan banker who’d hit it big in the stock market. But his wife, Gabrielle, had tuberculosis. The doctors recommended a warm climate, so he’d moved to Key Biscayne—wilderness, then—and built a mansion by the sea.
“He pointed toward my father’s house, and a light appeared in a third-floor bedroom. Probably the maid, but I was eight years old, so I saw ghosts. Meanwhile, the dolphin was hanging in the water like it was listening to the story.”
I leaned back, remembering. Caitlin’s voice interrupted me.
“I’m not stupid, you know.” She drew away. “I’ve heard this story before. It’s an old legend, so I know it didn’t happen to you, Nick.”
Nailed. She was right, of course. I was lying. And she didn’t understand why. I barely understood myself. I reached for her hand, and she pulled it back. She stood and started to walk away.
“Wait!” I said. “I don’t think you’re stupid. I just… I had to get you to stay. I couldn’t let you be mad at me. I had to explain … but it’s true about this house, the dolphins. I’ve been watching them all my life.”
“Really?” She looked back at me then into the water. Finally, though she tried to hide it, I saw her smile. “I’d heard the story, but I didn’t believe it. And I never saw the dolphins before.”
“They’re here.” I edged forward, on my knees before her. “Here, with me. I never told anyone else the story. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think I was a wuss.”
I realized it was true, not just some line I was handing her to get her back. It was like I’d always wanted the story to be true, and Cat made it so. I said, “Please come back, Caitlin.”
She nodded and sat a few inches from me. “Tell me then.”
I reached for her waist. She pulled away but let me hold just her fingers. I continued with the story.
Desmond and Gabrielle had lived in the house only nine months. Gabrielle’s health was improving, and they thought maybe they’d leave soon. But the storm changed everything.
There was no television those days, no tracking maps with computer animation or weathermen screaming to board up the windows. So when the wind started howling, no one knew what it was. By midnight, coconuts hit the roof, and at one o’clock, some windows broke. But the house was secure. So at two, when the winds calmed and Gabrielle wanted to check on Wotan, their German shepherd, Desmond rolled over and went to sleep.
I paused dramatically at that point and moved nearer to Caitlin. She snuggled close. The dolphins’ sound rose and fell. I went on with my story.
&nbs
p; The winds began again. The calm had been only the eye of the storm. But the next morning, when Desmond woke, he was alone. He called for Gabrielle. No answer. Finally, he ran onto the beach.
In the yellow light, everything had changed. Palm trees overhung the sand like bridges. There was debris everywhere. No Gabrielle. Desmond saw someone’s roof a little ways along the beach. Underneath was Wotan’s body. When Desmond looked at the shoreline, he realized his house was the only thing still standing.
I turned to Caitlin. “Desmond walked for hours, calling Gabrielle’s name. Nothing. Finally, as night fell, he heard a sound from the sea. He hoped it was Gabrielle. Instead, there was a dolphin jumping in the surf. Strange thing was, there’d never been dolphins near Key Biscayne before. Days later, a reporter photographing damage by the lighthouse found a woman’s body washed ashore. It was Gabrielle.”
Caitlin slid next to me. My fingers stretched to touch the ends of her hair. My other hand was trapped in hers.
For years, there was just the one dolphin. One dolphin and a lonely old man in his mansion. Then, one day, the old man disappeared. No one ever saw him again. But from that day, there have always been two dolphins in this cove. “My father bought his house from the bank when I was a kid,” I told Caitlin. “But I’ve never brought anyone here to see the dolphins but you.”
I stopped talking, feeling a force like invisible hands, pulling me toward Caitlin. I leaned to kiss her. She kissed back, and I knew I was forgiven. We sat, listening to the roar of the surf.
Finally, Caitlin said, “I wasn’t mad at you.” In response to my yeah, right look, she added, “Well, not mostly. I was freaking about you meeting my mother.”
“Why? She’s beautiful.” I was trying to make Caitlin feel better.
Caitlin twisted her head, maybe to see if I was serious. “That’s the problem. Her life revolves around being pretty.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. An eternity putting on makeup, doing her hair. Hours reading Vogue and even my Seventeen if I don’t hide it. And in her free moments, she works on me—all these suggestions about my hair, my makeup, saying I should lose five more pounds. ‘I wish I had your youth,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t waste it like you do.’ And I believe her. She was coming on to Tom tonight. He’s fifteen, she’s forty. I was so embarrassed.”