BREATHING
UNDERWATER
alex flinn
DEDICATION
In memory of my father,
Nicholas Kissanis
CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
JANUARY 5
JANUARY 10
JANUARY 17
JANUARY 21
JANUARY 26
FEBRUARY 7
FEBRUARY 9
FEBRUARY 12
FEBRUARY 14
FEBRUARY 23
FEBRUARY 28
MARCH 1
MARCH 7
MARCH 18
MARCH 18
MARCH 25
MARCH 28
MARCH 29
MARCH 29
MARCH 30
MARCH 30
MARCH 30
APRIL 1
APRIL 2
APRIL 4
APRIL 11
A MINUTE LATER
APRIL 12
JULY 11
JULY 11
SEPTEMBER 2 (MY SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EXCERPT FROM DIVA
EXCERPT FROM BEWITCHING
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
BACK ADS
BOOKS BY ALEX FLINN
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
JANUARY 5
* * *
Justice Building, Miami, Florida
I’ve never been in a courthouse before. But then, I’ve never been in such deep shit before, either. The metal detector screams when I walk through, and a security woman tries to check my pockets. I pull away.
“These what you want?” I dangle my keys an inch from her nose, getting in her face. She backs off, scowling. I throw them into her yellow plastic basket and walk through again.
“You were supposed to give me those first,” she says.
“Sorry.” I’m not.
Behind me, my father flings in his keys. “You’re always sorry, Nicholas, always forgetting.” Then, he looks at the security woman, and his expression becomes a smile. “Miss, if you would please be so kind to tell me where is this courtroom?” He hands her the notice for my hearing.
She smiles too, taken in like everyone else by his Armani suit and Greek accent. “Second floor.” She looks at me. “Restraining order, huh?”
“Trouble with his girlfriend.” My father shakes his head. “He is sixteen.”
I stare forward, remembering a day on the beach, Caitlin laughing, a white hibiscus in her hair. Was it only a month ago? God, how did we get here?
My father nudges me onto the escalator, and it bears me up, high above the white-tiled floors and the metal detector, far from the security woman’s gaze. We reach the top, and he shoves me through a green door.
The courtroom smells like old books and sweat. Brown benches, like church pews, face the witness stand. On the front wall, gold letters read:
MIAMI-DADE COUNTY, FLORIDA
WE WHO LABOR HERE SEEK ONLY THE TRUTH.
Fine, if you know what the truth is. Caitlin sits with her mother in the center pew. Dressed in white, her blond hair loose, she looks like something from our mythology book, a nymph, maybe, pursued by a beast. Guess I’m the beast. I pass her.
“Why are you doing this, Cat?” I whisper. “I thought we had something special.”
Caitlin examines her knees, but I can tell her eyes are brimming. “Yeah, Nick. I thought so too.”
“Then, why—?”
“You know why.” She moves to the other side of her mother.
I must stand there a second too long, because my father shoves me forward. I take a seat in the fourth row. He leaves a gap between us, opens his briefcase, and removes a thick folder. Work. I try to catch his eye. “Do you think they’ll—?”
His eyes narrow in annoyance. “Nicos, this is important.” He gestures at the folder.
I look away. From across the room, I feel Caitlin’s mom staring and Caitlin trying not to. So I concentrate, really concentrate, on making my face a mask. I’m good at that. People at school—my ex-friends, even Tom, who used to be my best friend—see me how I want them to: Nick Andreas, sixteen-year-old rich kid, honor student, coolest guy around. All fake. Only Caitlin knew the truth about the warfare with my father. She knew how humiliating it was warming the bench in football all season.
Telling her that stuff was a mistake. It’s easier to fake it. When you fake it for sixteen years, it becomes part of you, something you don’t think about. Maybe that’s why I can hold a smile when the judge—a female judge who’s sure to take Caitlin’s side—enters and Caitlin takes the witness stand. I grin like an idiot as the bailiff swears Caitlin in and a lawyer in a gray polyester skirt begins asking her questions.
“State your name,” the polyester lawyer says.
“Caitlin Alyssa McCourt.”
Polyester points to the paper she’s holding. “Is this your statement, Miss McCourt?” Caitlin nods. “You’ll have to voice your answers for the record.”
“Yes.”
“Is it your testimony you were involved in a relationship with the respondent, Nicholas Andreas?” Yes. “Is he here today?” Yes. “Point him out, please.”
Caitlin’s finger stretches toward me. I meet her eyes, try to make her remember all the good times. Bad move. Her tears, brimming before, spill out, unchecked. A tissue is offered. Polyester keeps going.
“Was the relationship a sexual one?”
Caitlin’s hands twist in her lap. “Yes.”
“Was the sex consensual?”
Cat says nothing, glancing at her mother. The question takes me by surprise. Does she mean to lie about that too, make it rape, what we did together? It wasn’t. Polyester repeats the question, and Caitlin says, “I heard you. I was thinking.” She looks at her mother again and wipes another tear. Her chin juts forward. Finally, she says, “Yes. It was consensual. Nick and I … I loved him.”
In her seat two rows away, Mrs. McCourt shakes her head. Now, Caitlin stares forward.
“What happened December 12?” Polyester asks.
I look at the wall, my attention suddenly riveted by a palmetto bug, feelers writhing. I could kill it if I wanted.
“He hit me.”
The bug slides to the floor.
I don’t listen much after that, just watch Caitlin’s mouth move. My father plunks a hand on my shoulder, saying something I don’t hear. Anyone looking would think he’s patting my back, but his fingers claw my skin. Excuse me, Your Honor, but I’m bleeding. ’Scuse me while I kiss the sky. The lyrics run through my head with all the other suddenly meaningless information. Will this be over if I say it’s all true? Deny it? Apologize? Cat’s mouth moves until I wonder if she’s reciting the alphabet, the Lord’s Prayer, the Pledge of Allegiance. No way could she say that much bad stuff about me. But when I tune in a few seconds, I hear her, agreeing with everything Polyester says I did, not explaining, not giving any background, just agreeing. It was a slap, I want to tell them. One slap, when she pushed me way too far. I never beat her up, would never hurt her. I loved her, love her still. Doesn’t she remember anything good about us? I do.
Caitlin clutches the tissue like a white flag. She doesn’t use it again until Polyester’s final question.
“Are you in immediate fear for your safety as a result of your boyfriend’s actions?”
Caitlin wipes her eyes, but when she speaks, her voice is strong.
“Yes. I am.”
Polyester has no further questions.
“You may step down,” the judge tells Caitlin. Then, Madame Judge turns to me. “Anything you’d like to
tell the court, Mr. Andreas? You aren’t required to testify.”
I’m on the witness stand before I realize what my father said before. “Don’t say anything.” I try to avoid his gaze, but I’m drawn to it by sheer will. He telegraphs a message: You’re in big trouble, kid.
My father and I look alike. I don’t remember my mother much—she left when I was five—but I’m sure I don’t look like her. My dark hair and dimples come from my father’s gene pool sure as the baby lizards running across our garden path look like Papa Lizard humping on the hibiscus. Still, I search the mirror for differences, anything to avoid seeing him in myself. His eyes are bad enough. Those green eyes can do more damage than his fist, and I see them in my own eyes every day.
Yet, it’s my father’s eyes I notice now, my father I’m trying to please when I speak on the witness stand, lying despite the oath. I wonder if God is listening, if God exists.
“I never hit her. Caitlin’s making this up to get back at me for breaking up with her. She’s nuts.” My face hardens. The mask takes over. “She doesn’t need a restraining order. She’s flattering herself if she thinks I’d waste my time.”
I start to step down, knowing I screwed up big-time. The judge’s voice stops me.
“Stay there, Nick.”
I sit. Where does she get off calling me Nick? A brass nameplate identifies her as THE HONORABLE DEBORAH LEHMAN. What if I called her Debbie, maybe even Debs? So, Debs, what’s your take on separation of powers? It wouldn’t matter. Judge Lehman is destined to hate me. Young, but not pretty, brown eyes swimming behind thick glasses. I see her as a schoolgirl, lenses covered in fingerprints, waiting for the day she can screw someone like me. Her next words prove my point.
“You think you’re pretty cool, don’t you?”
What can you say to that?
“You can stop with the who me look. You may think I don’t know you, but I do. I see you every day, you and other boys like you in your Abercrombie & Fitch khakis, privileged boys who live on Key Biscayne and have everything handed to them.”
Sounds like you’re seeing things. But I don’t let myself say it. Control is part of faking it.
“You’re not the least bit sorry, are you?” Judge Lehman persists. “You tell me your girlfriend’s crazy. She’s lying. Sweet little you could never do such a thing. Right, Nick?”
The mask doesn’t like the direction this is taking. “Right.”
“Wrong,” Judge Lehman says. “Because you see, Nick, I can read minds. I see inside you, and I don’t like what I see.”
I fake a smile. “I’ll get going then.”
“Sit!”
Judge Lehman reaches for a paper on her desk. “I’ll grant the request for a restraining order. If you contact Caitlin McCourt, talk to her at school, if you so much as look at her funny in the hallway, you go to jail. We understand each other?”
The mask constricts. Jail? For what? But I say, “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
Judge Lehman smiles a bit. “Good. To make sure it’s not, I’m also ordering six months’ counseling, classes on family violence and dealing with anger.”
Six months for a slap. Well, that’s fair. “Whatever.”
“And since you’re having a hard time understanding how you got into this mess, I want you to tell me. Along with your counseling, you’ll keep a journal, five hundred words per week. In it, you’ll explain what happened between you and Caitlin McCourt, from the first time you saw her until today. You can write your version or the truth. I don’t care. I like fairy tales. I won’t even read it unless you want me to. But every week, you’ll bring that journal to class and show your counselor you’ve written, that you’re thinking about what you’ve done. If you’re very lucky, maybe you’ll learn something.”
“You can’t just convict me based on my clothes,” I say. “Ever hear of due process of law?”
“Smart kid.” She looks surprised. “Did you give your girlfriend due process before you hit her?” Before I can answer, she bangs her gavel. “Court’s adjourned.”
I jump down from the witness stand and ram my fist into a wall. It doesn’t go through, and it doesn’t even hurt, but the bailiff threatens to call security. “Don’t bother, I’m leaving.” I storm up the aisle. Mrs. McCourt smiles. Cat watches my father, and when I glance over, I see why. His face looks like it’s on fire. Still, I follow him out, my hand finally uncurled enough to ache.
We walk to the parking lot. The January air is barely cold, and my father’s green Jag’s parked between two spaces. He unlocks it, and I get in. He slams his door and shoves the key into the ignition.
“You had to talk, did you?” he says over the motor. “You just had to open your big, fat mouth.”
His hand moves from the steering wheel, and I feel myself flinch. Coward. When I look again, his manicured fingers rest, harmless, on the gearshift. I say, “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“You always are,” he replies. “And yet, you always say the wrong thing, always the stupid thing. This is why you always fail.”
I don’t fail, I want to say. But, for an instant, I remember Caitlin’s face, and I know my father’s right about me.
“I didn’t know what to say,” I try to explain.
He flips on the classical station. Screeching violins fill the air, and the conversation’s finished.
Later that day
To: Judge Debbie Lehman
From: One Rich Key Biscayne Kid in
Abercrombie & Fitch
Re: My side of the story (as if you care)
That’s what I’ve written so far, and I’ve been sitting two hours. I can’t believe I have to write five hundred words a week. Five hundred words—that’s like major literature. Having screwed around the last hour trying to decide whether to write in the style of Isaac Asimov (that version featured Caitlin as a Venusian chick with one eye and three breasts) or Dr. Seuss (“I am Nick/Nick is sick/Nick tells Debbie to…” well, you get the idea), I need to get down to it. Though it means remembering things I’d rather forget, I finally decide to write the truth. It doesn’t matter anyway.
Tuesday morning, second week of sophomore year, I approached Key Biscayne High’s Mercedes dealership of a parking lot driving a red 1969 Mustang convertible, my father’s belated birthday gift. Tom rode shotgun. His long blond hair blew in the breeze, and he pretended not to flex his muscles to impress whatever girls might notice. In other words, nothing unusual was happening, nothing to hint at what was coming: the end of Nick Andreas as I’d known him.
Tom and I had been best friends since first grade. That’s when I’d figured out that Tom’s peaceful house was the best place to escape my father. I didn’t tell Tom that, of course. He’d never understand. It wasn’t that I blamed Tom for getting everything he wanted. I couldn’t do that because he was such a great guy. But then, we’d all be great guys if we had his life.
That day, he was trying to talk me into asking out Ashley Pettigrew. I told him she wasn’t my type.
This confused Tom. “Who cares?” he said. “She’s hot for you.”
I asked him if that was all he thought about.
Tom nodded and said, “That’s what I like about you, Nick—no competition for girls. You’re the only guy I know who actually aspires to die a virgin.”
His words were still hanging like a cartoon bubble when I saw Caitlin. She emerged from the mob of JanSport-toting zombies. I stared a second. Then, a second longer. I knew her. The words dream girl, stupid and corny as they were, popped into my head. This was her. The One. It was ninety-three degrees out, but she didn’t wear shorts like everyone else. She actually wore a dress. Still, I noticed the outline of her breasts, her legs brushing together. Other girls wore silver earrings shaped like crosses or hoops. Hers were pearls. She moved out of range, and I turned to Tom.
“That’s the one I want,” I said.
Tom was back to looking at his biceps. “Who?”
I pulled down Tom’s arm and pointed
. “The blond in the blue.”
He looked. “Her? You’re so kidding me. That’s Caitlin McCourt. Remember, from kindergarten? And every grade after that.”
“She didn’t look like that in kindergarten.”
“She went to fat camp this summer. Everyone’s talking about it.” He stopped staring at himself long enough to give me a funny look. “She’s a geek, Nick. She’s in chorus, for God’s sake. And she’ll get fat again.”
I didn’t answer. I was picturing the way Caitlin McCourt moved, walking away. I wanted to touch, even smell her. How would her skin feel under my lips?
Tom went back to talking about Ashley, and I’d get nowhere with him. So I eased into a parking space. I figured if I ran, I could maybe track Caitlin down before class. Not that I knew what I’d say. Leaving the top down, I sprinted to the building while Tommy Boy was still examining his pecs.
I put down my pen. Four hundred ninety-nine words is all I can manage. I’ll write the extra word next week.
JANUARY 10
* * *
In my worst nightmares
I do not belong here.
Picture this: seven guys in a circle, like a prayer group or something, in a room that overlooks the Metrorail train tracks. The walls are covered with nightmares—wild modern art that looks like those old John Carpenter horror movies on late-night TV. The population is scarier. There’s everything from a guy with pierced cheeks to a scrawny accountant type who looks like he made a wrong turn on the way to a Rotary Club meeting. We do have two things in common: First, we’re all pissed about being in Family Violence Class. Second (I think I can go out on a limb), we’re eyeing this guy across from me, who’s staring at the floor and ceiling, eating his fingernails to the nub, and rocking back and forth. I try not to gawk. You never know what sort of weapons a psycho like that could have. But it’s like a car wreck or a girl with enormous breasts. You have to look. Now he’s clenching his fists, shaking.