by Alex Flinn
Cat started paddling toward the boat. I yelled, “Eleven miles per hour, Cat!”
Liana glared at me. “It’s a nurse shark. They’re harmless.” She swam after Caitlin.
“She doesn’t have to go.” I followed them while everyone else dove down to investigate. Caitlin hung with one foot on the boat’s ladder.
“Don’t scare her, Nick,” Liana said. Then, to Caitlin. “It won’t hurt you, Gatita. Come and see.”
“I’m not the one pushing her,” I said.
“Oh, right. Mr. Patient and Understanding. You forget, I know you, Nick.”
Liana joined Caitlin where she hung. Around us, heads popped through blue water, everyone talking about how cool the shark was.
“Come on, Cat,” Liana said. “Let’s go together.”
“I said, don’t push her,” I said.
“Butt out.”
“I’ll go,” Caitlin said. “I’ll go, okay?”
Liana extended her hand, and before I could join them, they were under. I spit out my snorkel and followed, down, down, past the living purple coral to the gray world below. The shark was still there, barely visible, lurking huge and silent within an outcropping of rocks. I saw eyes, beady and close, nose like a dog’s snout. Though it could have killed us with one swift chomp, it only floated, bright round eyes meeting mine. Caitlin hung back. She and the shark watched each other. Finally, she realized it wasn’t going to jump out like an amusement park monster, and she swam closer.
We were down there ten seconds, maybe. Liana left, and I started to feel my lungs give out. I was gulping to make myself feel like I had air, exhaling like crazy. Unable to last longer, I grabbed Cat’s hand, and we swam for the surface. My lungs felt thick. Caitlin came up an instant later.
“I did it,” she said, like a kid who’d eaten a bug on a dare. “I can’t believe it. Wasn’t she beautiful, Nicky? I just know she was a girl shark. And I wasn’t afraid. Me. I wasn’t afraid. Can we go again?”
Cat was practically panting, but her eyes shone. I looked up at the boat. “I don’t know. We’ve been in over an hour. Everyone’s having lunch.”
She didn’t argue, just said, “Oh, well. At least, I saw her,” and swam toward the boat. She threw off her flippers and ran to Liana, thanking her for making her go. I was forgotten.
“You did it, Gatita.” Liana snuck a glance at me. “I just believed in you.”
After lunch, sandwiches prepped by the Schaeffers’ maid, we settled in. I’d oiled up and insinuated my body next to Cat’s, balling a towel over my trunks in anticipation of the borderline sick sex dreams that come from sleeping in sun. I closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to take me. I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I pulled an eye open. It was Tom. “’Sup, bruthuh?”
He put a finger to lips and gestured toward Saint, who looked like a beached rhinoceros on his stomach. Tom crept toward him and whispered something in his ear. No response. Tom whipped out a zinc oxide stick and started writing. When he finished, he stood back so I could see. I laughed. He’d inscribed JUSTIN 4EVER! in zinc on O’Connor’s unsuspecting back, assuring Saint a semipermanent skin shrine to the god of tween-age girls. O’Connor would not be a happy camper when he woke up.
I said no way was I sleeping now, but Tom said, “Don’t worry. Next one’s for me.” Tom flopped on a towel and started drawing on his leg with zinc. No one stirred. Pretty soon, Tom the artiste had drawn a creditable dolphin, the school mascot.
“Do you do Billy the Marlin too?” I asked.
Tom laughed. “For a price.”
“What price?”
“Information. Noticed you and…”—he gestured toward Caitlin—“shared a room last night. Bed too, I’d imagine. You doing her?”
Cornered, I grinned. “I prefer to think of it as the ultimate physical expression of our spiritual oneness.”
“Which involves what—doing her?”
“If you want to be gross.”
“And proud of it.” Tom slapped my shoulder, letting me know I needed more lotion. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t tell me your first time.”
“One good reason.” Tom looked around then lowered his voice. “I am pure as a newborn babe.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not. Liana’s saving herself for marriage.”
“Think Cat wasn’t?”
Tom leaned on his elbow. “You didn’t … force Caitlin or anything?”
“’Course not. Just let her know she wasn’t the only girl around.” I reached for Tom’s Panama Jack, glancing at Caitlin. Her eyes were closed, her face motionless. “You can’t be so whipped. You have to call the shots.”
Tom sat up. “I just heard that. Who you calling whipped?”
“A guy who’s whipped.”
Tom was on me. I put up a fight, yelling, “You trying to get some from me because you can’t get it anywhere else?” No one stirred. We fought harder, like we used to fight when we were kids. He pinned my arms. He was laughing, but I could tell he was a little serious too.
“Am I still whipped?” he yelled.
“Like cream. Which incidentally is—”
I didn’t finish. He pulled me up and dragged me to the side of the boat. “Still?”
I nodded.
He hoisted me onto the rail. I kicked him a few times before I stopped struggling and grinned at him.
“You know, this is interesting,” I said. “I read somewhere that purity brings superhuman strength.”
“Asshole!” Tom pushed me into the ocean.
I fell, head-on, and got a throatful of salt water. When I surfaced, spitting out the ocean, my first words were, “Still whipped.”
Tom jumped almost on top of me with a splash that should have awakened everyone. We both treaded water a minute. He said, “You know, I’m glad you were first. You had so much more to prove.”
MARCH 29
* * *
10:30 P.M.—my desk, third straight hour
Teammates
Whistles shrill high, let the skirmish begin.
Bodies colliding, sun stings my naked eyeballs.
Feinting, then attacking, they struggle to win,
But I’m on the sidelines apart from the crowd.
Your eyes meet mine and see only reflection.
Your legs piston, powerful, a hero once more;
And I stand alone, drenched in sweat and untold secrets;
But slapping your hand, saying everything’s fine.
I stare at the lines my hands, apparently incommunicado with my brain, have typed. I’m screwed if I turn this in. Football seemed like a safe topic. I chose blank verse because my mind was equally blank. At least, I thought it was. But I ended up writing, about Tom, things I hadn’t even thought I’d thought.
An hour later, the poem’s still in my face. My brain is an abyss. I try, but the only images I can channel are of Caitlin. Caitlin dancing on Duval Street, Caitlin’s hands fanning green waters, Caitlin swimming in the moonlight. I blame the journal. It’s become my torment and my salvation, the cable that binds me to the past by being my sole reality. And somehow, when I see it on paper, it becomes more real than when it’s just in my head. I should stop writing. Mario doesn’t look at it, and it makes me think pointless thoughts, wonder if things could have been different. With Cat? With Tom even? If I’d told Tom how it was at home, would it have changed anything? He was my best friend. Could he have helped?
No. He’d have laughed at me.
I shove the poem into my backpack and take out my journal. I’m back with Caitlin. Except I don’t want to be where I’m going now.
The road north was straight and long. The mangroves surrounding it stank like stale beer. Cat and I were alone, me memorizing the license number ahead, an out-of-state tag that said FISHIN, Caitlin wearing sunglasses, eyeing the five o’clock sky. Why was she so relaxed? She wasn’t stuck driving, that’s why, wasn’t driving down
this two-lane road behind FISHIN, who traveled below the speed limit. Jesus Christ. I sped up, almost tapping his bumper. Cat opened her mouth and shut it. Good choice.
One-word signs lined the road:
PATIENCE
PAYS
ONLY
TWO
MILES
TO
PASSING
ZONE.
I had no patience. Two miles took five minutes because of FISHIN. Finally we hit the passing zone, and I gunned past five cars, barely slipping in front of the last. We were near the Seven Mile Bridge. I could see water ahead. Caitlin stirred beside me, fiddling with her sunglasses.
Finally, she said, “Nick, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
She moved away. “About Friday on Duval Street. How you were drinking, how you acted.”
I clutched the wheel. Friday was pretty much a blur, although Tom and Dane had reamed me for getting us thrown out of that bar. “How I acted?”
“Nick … you know I love you.”
“But?”
“Sometimes, you act like someone else.” Caitlin looked away. I stared forward, but my heart was ramming into my ribs. Did she want to break up? “Sometimes you’re not nice to me,” she concluded.
“Not nice, huh?” I said. She could not leave me. Cat turned toward the window.
“Sometimes, it’s like you don’t trust me,” she said.
She was trying to break up. Who was it? Saint? Maybe even Zack? My tires met the bridge, two lanes suspended between sky and water. The ultimate no-passing zone. Only an occasional car drove the left lane, but visibility sucked. Sun turned water tangerine. Caitlin fidgeted.
“I said you don’t trust me.”
“I heard you. I’m deciding how to respond.” She could not leave me. As I hit the word respond, I pulled to the left, veering into the southbound lane. Then, I floored it past three cars. A southbound Volvo station wagon slammed its brakes within yards of us. The driver was honking, yelling. I pulled back into the northbound lane and flipped him off. I looked at Caitlin. Her mouth hung in midscream. I laughed.
“Do you trust me, Cat?” She was silent. I leaned closer. “Did I ever tell you about my mother?” Caitlin recovered enough to shake her head no, and I said, “I was four, five, I’d lie awake nights, listening to her and my dad fighting, him hitting her.” I looked at Caitlin. “You want to hear this?”
She nodded.
“I thought we’d pack up and leave someday, her and I. I lived for that day.” On the wheel, my knuckles were white. “Then, one morning, I wake up, and she’s gone, never came back. She ran from the monster and left me there with him.”
Caitlin removed her sunglasses. “I’m sorry, Nick.”
“So you talk about trust, it’s pretty important. I mean, when the one person you trust just picks up and leaves…”
Caitlin’s hand slipped across my shoulder. I tried to shrug her off, swerving left into traffic, then back. Terror filled Caitlin’s eyes. Her nails ripped my flesh.
“Trust me, Cat?” She could not leave me. I swerved again. “’Cause if you haven’t figured it out, life doesn’t mean much to me. Without you, it’s worthless.”
A flock of seagulls headed across my windshield. She could not leave me. I swerved again, this time counting three before I veered back. She could not leave me. Caitlin screamed at me to stop.
“What’s the matter?” When she didn’t answer, I swerved again. “Oh—this. Maybe you’re right.”
I straightened the wheel, looking beyond her to the orange and green water east of the bridge. Silence. I didn’t swerve. Nothing. We were halfway across. Caitlin relaxed.
Suddenly, I said, “Think I could make a right here?” Right was into water. I made like I’d do it, crash through the guardrail, then down. Caitlin screamed. She grabbed for the wheel. I shoved her away so her fingers clawed the air. She tried again, gripping both my hands. The car swerved left into the path of a Bronco towing a boat. I pulled it back. My mind knew what she was doing, but my eyes didn’t. I couldn’t see her. She was shrieking. God, shut up! Her voice deafened me, and it was all around, in my ears, making me lose all control. She tried to grab the wheel. Blind and deaf, I drove, sun hot on my face. I had to get her off me. God, I just had to get her off me. Get her off me! Get off me! Get off!
Next thing I knew, I was driving on land. I couldn’t tell you whether it was minutes or hours later. Caitlin hung across the seat, head cradled in her fingers. My hand throbbed, and I knew I’d hit her. I’d hit her. I was tired. She’d worn me out, but the anger inside me dissolved, replaced by that regret. But I’d had to stop her. She’d been irrational, overwrought, shouldn’t have touched the wheel. She could have killed us. I looked at her. The seat was the length of a football field. Caitlin faced the window. She was so beautiful. Ahead was a red pickup with a Jesus fish. It was going at a good clip, but when we reached the next passing zone, I overtook it and a few other cars. Cat stiffened. I merged back into traffic and reached to stroke her hair.
She lifted her head, cautious as a runner stealing home, and stared.
“Are you all right, Caitlin?” I asked.
When she didn’t answer, I repeated the question.
She shook her head. “You hit me.”
I told her no. I hadn’t. I mean, she was grabbing the wheel. We’d almost creamed the Bronco. I had to get her off me before we got killed.
“Because you were driving off the bridge,” she said.
I laughed and said she knew me better. I was just screwing around, like when we kidnapped them from Jessica’s. I’d never do it for real. Besides, we’d have crashed the guardrail, and I’d have gotten killed for wrecking the car.
“But you hit me, Nick.” She leaned out the window toward the sideview mirror to see if her cheek was getting red.
And it was. I didn’t expect it to be red, but it was—a little. I hadn’t hit her hard, just enough to get her off me. I said, “Don’t you know you shouldn’t grab the wheel when someone’s driving?”
“But I thought—”
She was pretty shaken. Mad maybe? I pulled her close. “Sorry I freaked you out, Kittycat. I forget you aren’t used to guys. You don’t know we play rough sometimes.” She kept protesting, and I said, “You know what I was thinking? I wanted to buy you a ring. You know, like a symbol, since we’re going together. What’s your birthstone?”
Still, she stared like her life was flashing before her eyes. “You hit me, Nick.”
I kissed her. She drew away, and I pulled her back. “Your birthday’s in February, right? I’ll ask the jeweler what the stone is.”
I held her close until she stopped struggling. The sun was down, but it wasn’t dark enough for a moon, and we crossed bridges connecting the islands, Big Pine Key, Plantation Key, Key Largo. Then we drove through mainland Miami a while. When we reached home, the sky above Rickenbacker Causeway was black, and Caitlin slept on my shoulder.
MARCH 30
* * *
8:00 A.M.—Miss Higgins’s classroom
I want to be Ludwig when I grow up.
I admire Beethoven’s musical flair;
And won’t mind when children sneer in disgust;
At my pickled expression, gorgon hair.
The opening quatrain of a sonnet by Derek Wayne. Higgins slumps in her wheelchair. Me, I’m freaking. I heard nothing about reading these poems aloud. No way can I read this. No way. Derek winds to a close (wish he’d written something longer), and Elsa volunteers.
“Mine’s a haiku, Miss Higgins,” Elsa says in her most self-important voice. “It’s called ‘Unseen Violence.’” She reads,
The dragon’s lurking,
Hidden behind eyes of green
At a desk so near.
My blood jumps like a fumbled ball. People have been leaving me alone lately, but by syllable twelve of Elsa’s poem, every eye meets mine. God, I hate her. I glance sideways, let my eyes sear into hers. She smirks.
I remind myself to breathe. Higgins looks from Elsa to me, then back.
“See me after class, Elsa.” She turns to me. “We may as well have yours, Nicholas.”
“Call on someone else.”
“I’m calling on you.”
“I can’t read mine.”
Snickers. Higgins’s horseshoe-shaped eyebrows rise still higher. Shock treatment. “You didn’t do the assignment?”
“Dog ate his homework,” Elsa whispers.
I look at Higgins. “I did it. I just can’t read it here.” Elsa’s stuffing knuckles into her oversized mouth. “It’s … personal.”
“All creative writing is personal, Nicholas.”
“My poem’s not about Beethoven or dragons.” I manage a sneer at Elsa. “I didn’t hear you say we had to read it.”
Higgins tents her fingers, sizing me up, and for a second, I think she’ll cut me a break. No such luck. “If you didn’t complete the assignment, I’m afraid I’ll have to—”
“Give me an F?” I say. “Fine.”
My forehead is tight. I do not want an F. An F is irreparable. With an F, my final grade will be a B, something I’ve never gotten in English. And my father will freak.
But that’s in the future. Right now, there’s only slow death by humiliation if I read.
After class, I wait. I consider begging Higgins to let me write something else, but Elsa’s at her desk. Words like self-control, appropriate, propriety slither from Higgins’s lips, and Elsa nods, saying she had no idea we’d be reading aloud. Still, when she faces me, she’s smiling.
“Was your poem about Caitlin?” she whispers, passing my desk.