Breathing Underwater

by Alex Flinn

  “Does O’Connor ever do anything romantic like that?”

  No answer.

  “I bet he doesn’t. Bet he throws a burger at you and tries to jump you in that clunker of his.”

  “Nick…”

  “The dolphins are still there, Cat, and the beach. And us. We could do it all again.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I miss you, Caitlin. I miss holding you. You know there’s no one else.” I pull the receiver from my face, hating the feel of someone else’s skin oils. I listen, though. Caitlin’s breath quickens, and I say, “How about I meet you there in an hour—just to talk?”

  It takes her a moment to say, “Make it six o’clock.”

  “Six o’clock.” I hang up, fingering the ring in my pocket. In two hours, it will be back on Caitlin’s finger.

  Half an hour later

  I pull out the journal. I’ve gotten used to carrying it around, writing in it. But if all goes well, this will be the last time I write. So, today, I’ll write about something good. There were those too, you know.

  Caitlin was chosen Homecoming Princess. She wore blue and, at halftime, they drove her onto the field in a loaner car from Albritton Cadillac. I sat beside her. Liana was the other princess, so she and Tom were with us. We were making the big loop, and the whole time, I’m remembering the Kennedy assassination films we saw at the Smithsonian during last year’s Close-up Trip. Like, one second, they were smiling and waving. The next, brain city. But Cat turns to me and says, “This is the best day of my life.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes, and it’s because of you.”

  I reached for her hand, loving her and unspeakably sad I didn’t vote for her. Then, Liana had to butt in.

  “It’s not because of him,” she said. “Everyone loves you, Caitlin.”

  Caitlin said, “They love me because I’m thin and I’m Nick Andreas’s girlfriend. A year ago, I couldn’t have rented space at your lunch table, and if I’d shown up, they’d have called me a geekoid or a lezzie like they call my friends.”

  “Peyton’s such an idiot,” Liana said.

  “Then we all are, even me.” The whole time Cat talked, she kept smiling a beauty-queen smile, waving. “Every day since then, we’ve practically run to stake out our table so they don’t sit there. I do it too.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “All I’m saying is it could have been me you were running from.”

  Liana took Caitlin in her arms. “Oh, pobrecita, poor little thing. You’re wrong. It could never be you.”

  “I know what I know,” Caitlin said. “It still could be.”

  We circled at two miles per hour like a buzzard staring down a lunch box full of carrion, and Liana hugged Cat until they looked like a heap of discarded prom dresses. Principal Fernandez’s voice came over the loudspeaker:

  “And in the red Seville STS from Albritton Cadillac, here come sophomore princesses Liana Castro and Caitlin McCourt with their escorts.”

  She said it was the best day of her life.

  MARCH 18

  * * *

  Beach behind my house

  At six-thirty, I’m still waiting for Caitlin. And seven. And seven-thirty. I want to scream at the seagulls to stop screaming or throw myself into the wild surf and never crawl out. And I want to see Caitlin. That bitch. I feel the urge, no, the compulsion to go to her house and make her talk to me. I rise, planning to do it. But Saint’s probably there, waiting. I sink to the sand. I’ll go some other time.

  The sudden rain is a wake-up call, but I don’t move. Some of us are meant to be rained on. I lie back and stare at the sky.

  March 24

  Almost a week since I’ve written. I had this fantasy that I wouldn’t have to write anymore, that I’d get back together with Caitlin and she’d drop the restraining order. Then, I wouldn’t have to go to class or write this journal or anything. But that’s what it was, a fantasy. The reality is, everything’s still a mess. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind writing about this particular memory. It was probably the best night of my life.

  After the homecoming game, the girls retreated to a top-secret location for their sorority initiation, and the guys, in time-honored tradition, crashed it. Five of us piled into my car and drove to Jessica Schweitzer’s house.

  The night was extra dark. My car was filled with the stink of guys fresh from a football game. We pulled off the causeway and into the network of winding side streets. Saint and Zack were arguing about the smell. Zack started out sniffing the air, asking if something had died in the trunk. Finally, he said, “You guys reek.”

  “We smell like men—wuss!” Saint raised both arms and sniffed his pits. “Just because you’re not a player.”

  Zack said, “I know. It brings tears to my eyes—No, that’s your stench doing that.” He demanded to know why we hadn’t showered after the game. Saint said our post-game aroma was the girls’ punishment for blowing us off.

  Finally, I pulled over to put the top down. I sympathized. I’d showered at halftime, warmed the bench second half. I wasn’t a player either, not in any meaningful sense. When I started the car again, Tom held up two liquor bottles, yelling, “Attitude adjustment hour!” He downed half of one before handing it to Zack. By the time it got to me, it was empty, and Tom was singing his brother’s fraternity songs. He got raunchier on the second bottle. Tom didn’t usually drink much.

  We reached the Schweitzers’ street. Everyone shut up except Tom. Stealth was key, so I cut the lights. Tom was giggling; Dane, equally wasted, tried to shut him up. I pulled behind a line of cars. We closed our doors with barely a click and crept across the dark asphalt. Ahead, I saw Zack’s silhouette. He dangled an object. I shined my flashlight and saw it was a camera. “In case they’re naked,” he whispered. We’d all heard about the sorority at U.M. where they danced nude around a campfire.

  “We’re not that lucky,” Saint whispered back.

  I laughed, but my body reacted differently, and I was glad it was dark.

  We reached the house. Lights flickered in an upstairs window. There was a tall orchid tree beside it. Tom stumbled forward and commanded us to help him up. Dane pulled him away—Tom was too trashed for climbing. And Zack griped about how there could be poisonous caterpillars in the orchid tree. Finally, Saint said, “No guts, no glory,” and while the others argued over who was drunker, Saint hoisted himself onto a limb and climbed to the open window.

  I shone my flashlight. The tree sagged under Saint’s weight. He gave us a thumbs-up, and Zack handed Saint the camera. But Saint climbed down a minute later, saying, “Nick, they’re bringing in Caitlin.” I climbed up and looked in.

  Red candles flickered on the windowsill. The Sphinxes, dressed in black, formed a circle with Caitlin, blindfolded and wearing white, at its center. Finally, Whitney Brockman, the sorority president, stepped from the circle. She started talking about the symbolism of the Sphinx and how only the enlightened and pure could know her secrets.

  “Some people will have to settle for enlightened,” Ashley whispered. Everyone giggled. Whitney silenced them with a look. She took this way too seriously.

  Next, Jessica and Peyton brought soap and water. Jessica held the basin while Peyton washed Caitlin’s hands. Whitney talked about how it was the hour for cleansing, physical and spiritual. She commanded each of them to cleanse their minds by telling Caitlin their secrets. “I shall begin.”

  She reached for a candle, and I ducked under the windowsill, smoke stinging my nose. Whitney paused before speaking again.

  “Those weight-loss camps never work, Caitlin,” Whitney said. “You’ll be fat again by summer.”

  She passed her candle to Jessica, who said, “Even thin you’re ugly.”

  I’d have thought it would have been something more “spiritual,” but apparently, the idea was to unload on Caitlin. One by one, each Sphinx told her what they thought about her—and it was never good. I looked up from the windowsill to
see Caitlin’s face. Her lips were parted, but she said nothing.

  When the candle got to Peyton, she said, “You think you’re big ’cause you won Homecoming Princess, but you got picked because the geeks voted for you. You’re Queen Geek, aren’t you, Caitlin? We only keep you around because of Nick.” She passed the candle to Ashley.

  “Speaking of Nick…” The candlelight glowed wildly against Ashley’s auburn hair. “Well, just ask where he got those scratches on his back.” The group laughed as she displayed her long, purple nails.

  I could tell by Cat’s clenching hands that she believed it, all of it. Ashley smirked and passed the candle on. It traveled that wide circle, everyone telling Caitlin how stupid, ugly, and fat she was. Caitlin’s eyes were still covered, but her hands worked on her skirt. Her mouth set and contorted. Even her head seemed heavy for her slim body. My own legs felt massive beneath me, like they’d soon fail and force me to earth with them. Around the circle, Ashley and some others smiled. A few fidgeted. None looked at Caitlin. If they had, they couldn’t have said what they said.

  “We saw your mom last week at Publix.” Morgan Davis nudged her friend, Tiffany. “God, Caitlin, tell her to get some normal clothes and act her age. I’d be so embarrassed if I was you.”

  Tiffany completed the thought. “Really, who does she think she is, Madonna?”

  Cat raised a hand to her eyes, shaking. At the same time, something stung my shoulder. Then, my back. I remembered my friends on the ground and looked. Zack and Saint threw pebbles at me.

  “Give us a chance,” Zack hissed.

  I turned back in time to see Caitlin lose it. Whitney extinguished the candle. The room was silent. Whitney embraced Caitlin and smiled, saying, “But no matter what we say…”

  “We love you anyway,” the group chorused. They descended on Caitlin, hugging and kissing her. Peyton and Ashley held her longest. Cat kept crying. I climbed down and told the guys I thought they were coming out.

  “Way to hog the seat.” Zack gave me a sissy punch. “You didn’t even take pictures.”

  “I’ll buy you a Playboy, you little perv.” I punched him back, but hard. He fell to the ground and looked at me, shocked. Saint demanded to know what was with me, but I ignored him. I snuck to the front of the house, the others following. We peered around the corner, waiting for the girls.

  When they came, the pledges were still blindfolded, six in all, each led by two Sphinxes. Caitlin walked between Ashley and Peyton, her mouth a thin line. Beside them, Liana stood straighter, almost daring anyone to screw with her. The Sphinxes deposited the pledges on the brick doorstep between two columns. They walked toward a grove near where we’d hidden the car.

  “What do we do?” Saint whispered.

  I silenced him with a look, then crept across the damp, dark grass and stood in the flower bed. I felt cold sober. The others followed.

  In the porch light’s glow, Liana nudged Caitlin. “That you, Gatita?”

  Caitlin sniffled.

  “Don’t let them get to you.” Liana started to say something else, but Tom clapped his hand over her mouth. I grabbed Caitlin. Tom jerked his hand away. He stared at it, stunned.

  “You bit me,” he said.

  “You stink,” Liana said. “And you’re drunk.”

  Tom laughed. “Drunk enough to do this!” He slung Liana across his shoulder and went after a freshman.

  By now, they were screaming, but not really screaming. Caitlin didn’t scream at all, though. She ripped off her blindfold and smiled at me as we grabbed the other girls and half-dragged, half-carried them toward the car. They’d stopped shrieking except Melissa Bruce, who beat on Saint so bad, he let go. She ran back to the doorstep.

  “Stupid,” I said to Saint.

  “Hey, I’m not really kidnapping anyone.”

  We ran. Finally, we reached the road’s end and stopped. Someone was sitting in the Mustang. I shined the flashlight. Whitney dangled my keys, Jessica sitting next to her.

  “Not too bright, leaving these,” Whitney said. She rammed them into the ignition and roared down the road. We put the girls down and ran. Liana and Caitlin had their blindfolds off and followed us. The others stood in the dark street until Saint and Zack went back.

  After a minute, Tom said he bet they’d just drive around the block. They wouldn’t steal my car. I said they’d better not, and we slowed to a walk, singing “The Gang Bang Song” for the entertainment of Jessica’s neighbors. When we reached the house, the Sphinxes clustered on the doorstep. My car was near the walkway. I found Whitney and demanded my keys.

  “No way.” Whitney reached for her blouse.

  I told her putting them down her bra wouldn’t help; it would just make it interesting for me. I grabbed her, and she kicked me in the ankle. My leg buckled. Bitch.

  “I don’t have them,” Whitney said. “They’re in the car.”

  “I can’t believe you guys ruined everything,” Ashley said.

  I walked toward Ashley, glaring. I can freeze people out when I want, look at them so icy they think it’s snowing in Miami. I wanted to make Ashley shiver. She’d lied about me to Caitlin. I met her eyes until she looked away. “Who cares?” I said. “This initiation’s too long.”

  “It’s over now,” Whitney said.

  “You mean we’re not being initiated?” Melissa squeaked.

  “You’re in,” Whitney said. “You shouldn’t be, but you’re in. Thank these guys for screwing things up.”

  “You’re welcome.” Saint laughed like he’d said something hilarious. “Who’s up for the beach?”

  Peyton and Ashley both jumped at that. The others, especially the new initiates, held back, watching Whitney until she shrieked at them to leave.

  Everyone started for their cars then, but Cat headed for Ashley. I grabbed Caitlin’s hand. “I’m taking you home.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said.

  “I want to.”

  She squeezed my hand, managing a smile. With a last glance at Ashley, she walked back to my car. The keys hung in the ignition, lucky for Whitney. Tom and Liana followed, trying to convince us to come to the beach with them. I waved them off. I’d seen Caitlin crying, knew how bad she felt about what they’d said to her. I helped her into the car, my lips brushing against her soft hair.

  “You looked ready to leave,” I said.

  “It was silly.” She edged away, but I drew her back toward me. “I thought it would be fun, but it wasn’t. I wanted them to like me. They don’t.” She turned on the radio. I reached over and stroked her fingers. We drove, listening to wind over the bay and an old Eric Clapton song. Finally, Caitlin’s voice emerged from darkness. “Nick, do you think—?”

  “No.” I remembered her crying. When she protested that I didn’t know what she was going to say, I said, “I don’t think anything bad about you, Caitlin.” I kissed her fingers in time with the music. Then, I eased her zipper down and put my hand under her dress, feeling the smooth flesh of her back, then lower. She moved away. I said, “No one’s ever made me feel like this.”

  “Like what? Excited?” Eyeing my straining fly.

  “No.” I laughed. “I mean, yeah, that too, but any girl can get you off. With you…” She gazed at me as I tried to put words together. “It’s like I’ve never done anything wrong.”

  She leaned over then and touched my cheek. I worked my hand under her pantyhose. The song finished. The next one was fast, and Caitlin snapped off the radio. The road rolled on.

  “When’s your curfew?” I asked.

  “I was supposed to stay over Jessica’s.”

  “Stay with me.”

  “You mean sleep with you?”

  “My father’s in the Keys all weekend.” My fingers worked up her thigh. A noise escaped her throat, but she tried to hide it. For a minute, she just stared at the road.

  Finally, she said, “Yes. I want to.”

  “Good girl.” It was one-thirty. The breeze off the bay was final
ly cool, and I touched her. She leaned back, and I knew that tonight, the world would change. She’d be mine forever. Caitlin sighed, and I stopped thinking, focusing on her skin under my fingers, her breath in my ear. I pulled into the driveway.

  MARCH 25

  * * *

  English class

  Wednesday morning, Higgins, in her turbo teacher transport, rides the geek circuit known as Honors English, handing back American Poetry tests. Cries of the wounded fill the air.

  “My parents will kill me!”

  “Lucky you. Mine will take away my computer.”

  Higgins cruises on, oblivious to the carnage. She drops my paper with what, for her, passes for a smile. At least, her waxen red lips gyrate. Maybe. I glance down. A+.

  Yesss! The Kid rides again.

  My GPA is the only facet of my existence that hasn’t nosedived lately. I didn’t care much before, but now, I take whatever crumb of happiness I can salvage. Even in American Poetry. I return Higgins’s simper with a grinlet of my own. Make her day. Behind me, the whispered grievances continue.

  “Like to roll her down the stairs.”

  “How would we get her upstairs?”

  “Details.”

  Higgins taps her fist on the desk. “Your assignment for the weekend: Write a poem in one of the styles discussed.”

  Groans. General agitation.

  “Does it have to rhyme?” Lucille Shulklapper asks.

  “Does it?” Higgins says.

  “Other classes just have to memorize the book,” Amy says.

  “Other classes aren’t getting extra points for honors.”

  Touché.

  “The assignment stands, boys and girls,” Higgins says. “I expect impressive tales of teen angst, and I expect them no later than Monday morning.”

  After class, I drift into the hall, trying to imagine a poetry topic that doesn’t include Caitlin. I’d sworn her to secrecy about the pages of poetry I wrote for her when we were together. But writing about anything else seems impossible. Seeing Caitlin now doesn’t help. Since she flaked on me last week, I’ve spent every molecule of energy not calling her, not seeing her, not crawling in her window at night, though I yearned to see her, longed for her voice, craved her touch.