“I’m sorry.” Neysa examines the floor mat.
“I’m sorry,” Leo mocks. “I’m sorry I’m always late. I’m sorry I’m a lying slut. I’m sorry I—”
“It’s okay,” I tell Neysa. “I don’t think it matters if we’re late.” Leo, I ignore. Why is he acting like this? Why is it so familiar?
The Grove traffic is heavy, and Leo swerves, barely avoiding cars to the front and side, eyeing Neysa, not the road. “I don’t appreciate being lied to,” he says. “Or waiting, with your parents giving me the evil eye while you’re out catting around.” Leo floors it through a yellow light, and Neysa clutches the door handle. “Am I scaring you, princess?”
“Quit it,” I tell him.
He glances back like he forgot I was there. “Quit what?”
I look at Neysa. Her eyes plead with me to say nothing. “Quit driving like a maniac,” I say.
Leo slows, saying nothing.
We reach the fairgrounds twenty minutes late. The sun scorches, melting wads of cotton candy and blobs of ice cream dropped on the ground. The air is filled with the odor of hot dogs and burnt sugar, a smell that, like everything else, reminds me of Caitlin. We were at Winterfest carnival the day she left me for good. Leo, Neysa, and I find our booth in silence, a trailer manned by two girls from Palmetto High. Neysa and I get to work. Leo does nothing, just palms the counter, watching Neysa. When a customer is male, she steps back, letting me or one of the Palmetto girls help him. I want to ask why. Why is Leo acting like a poster boy for female chastity? But Neysa’s eyes stop me. She’s afraid of him. No wonder. If he acts like this around people, what’s he like when they’re alone?
The afternoon is slow and I’m slower. Around two-thirty, three guys ask for Neysa. She goes to help them, then stops. Steps back. Leo shoves past.
“Just get the ice,” he says.
“Hello to you too, Leo,” the biggest guy, a rich kid trying to look like a gangsta, says as Neysa obeys Leo’s command.
If looks could kill, the guy would be two hundred pounds of medical waste.
“Hello, Alejandro,” Leo says. “Visiting my girlfriend?”
“Could be.” Alejandro smiles. “Don’t sell yourself short. Maybe I’m visiting you.”
“That’s a given. You visit Neysa, you visit me.” Leo brushes melted ice from the counter and yells to Neysa, “You got that ice yet?”
“Yes.” Neysa hands Leo three cups, not looking up.
“Yes, sir,” Alejandro corrects. “Give my man Leo the respect he deserves.”
Neysa’s lip twitches. “Por favor, Alex,” she whispers. “Please don’t start with him.”
Behind us, the roller coaster’s in gear. Boys laugh. Girls scream, but I don’t listen. A family passes, the daughter hanging from her father’s shoulders. Twin boys in matching Scooby-Doo T-shirts sprint for the shooting gallery. I don’t watch. I hear Leo’s voice. I see Leo’s eyes. I don’t like what I see.
“Why don’t we go,” I say, and the Palmetto girls volunteer to cover for us.
“Because Neysa isn’t through serving her friends.” Leo pulls Neysa to the counter. Ice flies everywhere. “Now, clean it up!” He raises his hand, and she backs away.
“Leoncito, not here.” Neysa’s eyes are huge in her face.
Leo releases her, suddenly calm. “Neysa, your manners. Ask Alex what else he wants.”
Neysa doesn’t move.
“Do it!”
Neysa shakes her head at Alejandro. “What else would you like?”
“To give you a ride home,” Alejandro says, and Leo’s shoulders constrict.
“I have a ride home.” Neysa indicates Leo.
I go to help a family. Through their chatter, I hear Alejandro say, “You stay long enough, he’ll kill you.”
But Neysa pats Leo’s hand. “We understand each other.”
Alejandro shrugs and signals to his friends. They walk away toward the rides, whirling and sick-inducing. Across the midway, a monster in a cape scares passersby, inviting them into his haunted mansion. Three little girls in cornrows hug one another in fright. But I see Leo’s black eyes.
Later, when Leo drops me off, I watch his taillights to the end of the block, then beyond until they’re like distant stars. I don’t plan to see him again.
Ten minutes later, in my room
God, was I like that with Caitlin?
Saint was shirtless, and I was sick about it. A few days before Winterfest, the school’s annual football game and carnival, we had lunch at the beach. Saint was still trying to lose Tom’s suntan tattoo. He’d offered a reward for the culprit’s name, but I never told. Maybe if he’d noticed the dolphin, still branded on Tom’s leg, he’d have figured it out. I was eating Kentucky Fried Chicken strips, trying not to look at Saint, who was letting Peyton spread suntan lotion on his back. Caitlin and I hadn’t argued in close to two weeks. Her amethyst ring glittered in the sun as she ate her usual raw carrots.
“Does it ever occur to you that no one wants to see your armpit hair when they’re eating?” I asked Saint finally, my arm around Caitlin.
“No, it never does,” Saint said. Having spread suntan lotion on every part of his back except Tom’s lettering, he lay on his stomach and let Peyton feed him chicken. Between bites, he spoke to Caitlin. “Heard you at rehearsal yesterday. You got some voice.”
“Rehearsal?” I asked.
“For the talent show.” He turned to the rest of the group, saying, “Bunch of guys are doing an act, and Caitlin’s got a solo.”
“You do?” Liana and I both said at once. Liana started babbling about how wonderful that was. I said nothing, just looked at Cat. She sat only an inch away, but her eyes were elsewhere. Why had she defied me? She knew how I felt, yet she’d gone to an audition and rehearsals without telling me. Didn’t I matter to her? I stared until my eyes felt ready to burst. Finally, someone changed the subject, and Caitlin looked at me. She flinched. I mouthed one word, No.
Caitlin looked away, whining something about hoping I’d change my mind. I ignored her. I dropped my hand from her shoulder and turned to Ashley, who was talking to Peyton. I said, “Say, Ash, I just found out Caitlin’s in a talent show Saturday night. Want to go?”
Ashley stopped talking and flipped her auburn hair. “Of course I’m going. Everyone is.”
“I meant with me,” I said. “Seems the seat next to mine’s open. Seat in my car too.” I leaned close, ignoring Caitlin. If she didn’t care what I thought, I’d teach her a lesson.
“You messing with me?” Ashley asked, so I knew she still liked me.
“No way,” I said. “We’ll have dinner after. Rusty Pelican’s nice.” I cast a sidelong glance at Cat. The Rusty Pelican was our place, where we’d gone for each month’s anniversary. The third one was that week. I could see Caitlin’s lips pressed together, her eyes ready to spill.
Ashley said, “Sure I’ll go.”
“Why are you doing this, Nick?” Caitlin asked.
“Doing what? You’re the one doing it to me.” Everyone pretended to continue their own conversations, but they watched us. I said to Caitlin, “I don’t want you embarrassing yourself in that talent show. You go there, singing like you do, looking like a fat slob, and people will laugh.” I was so worked up, I almost believed what I said.
Caitlin did believe it. She metamorphosed with my words, arms drooping at her sides. She said, “Okay, I won’t sing. It was a stupid idea.”
“I’m only saying this for your own good.” I twined my arm around her waist, loving the feel of her hair against my lips. “Someday, you’ll realize I want what’s best for you.”
“So our date’s off,” Ashley interrupted. “You used me to get Caitlin to change her mind.”
I looked from one to the other. “We can all go together.”
“Like I want to be your second-choice date, Nick Andreas.” But a minute later, she leaned toward me and said in a whisper everyone could hear, “Call me when you guys brea
k up.”
Caitlin said nothing, but her grip tightened around my waist.
My room
I was like Leo.
APRIL 11
* * *
9:30 A.M.—Mario’s class
Something’s wrong with Mario. He’s pacing like a tiger on a treadmill. He hasn’t said much of anything this class. For some reason, my mind turns to Leo. I’ve avoided him since the carnival last week, not wanting to deal with what I now realize is his abusiveness. Who am I to say anything? But I’ve heard his voice, leaving frantic messages on my answering machine. Neysa left him. He wants back in the group so she’ll see he’s changed. No, that won’t help. He doesn’t know what to do.
I don’t either. I ignore the messages.
Now, I watch the train roar past the window. Mario still paces. Kelly asks how many Cubans it takes to screw in a lightbulb, and Mario yells, “Can’t you ever just shut up?”
“What about anger control, Mario?” Tiny’s teeth flash white. “What about your three C’s, or do only we have to abide by that?”
Mario stops pacing. “Yeah, Tyrone, I’m supposed to control myself. And I am. I’m not going around hurting people like some animal, am I? Like…” He sinks into his chair, looking first at the ceiling, then our faces. He’s silent a long time.
“Look,” he finally says, real soft. “It’s a bad day, but that’s no excuse. Everyone read ahead so there’s no homework.”
The others obey without comment, but I can’t read. I don’t know why. I watch Mario instead. He’s turned away, but I sense if I could see his face, I’d see tears. What’s wrong? Probably nothing, a fight with his wife, maybe. But when his receptionist comes in, I hear the word newspaper. I hear Leo’s name. Mario slips, unlooking, from his seat, and I take out my journal to forget the killing questions. What did Leo do? And why is the newspaper calling Mario?
The day Caitlin and I broke up began typically. Tom was a hero. At Winterfest carnival, everyone was talking about how Tom “Samson” Carter had held Columbus High to seven points and won his bet with Liana. We’d lost 7–3, but Columbus scored the touchdown when Tom-the-hero wasn’t even on the field. It was an offensive fumble, recovered by Columbus and run in to score. One guess who fumbled. Good guess. We were out of the regionals, and it was my fault. When Caitlin tried to say it was no big deal, I told her to shut the hell up. And she did.
Saturday morning, we stood in line for the Himalaya, one of those spinning rides that stays on the ground while loud music and g-forces combine to produce thrills, chills, etc. I wasn’t thrilled that day. On the ride, people screamed “Faster! Faster!” and the carnies egged them on. I could have waited forever. I’d dragged myself to the carnival because my friends were going, and if I didn’t, they’d know I was laying low. My fist clenched around Caitlin’s hand. She tensed beside me. Finally, the ride ground to a stop, and everyone stirred in their seats. We were next.
The first people off the ride were Elsa and Derek.
“Nick!” Elsa said with exaggerated congeniality. “I am so glad to see you. I brought you a present.” She flipped a bottle of Elmer’s Glue-All at me. When I reached up to grab it, she said, “Good catch, Nick. I wish I’d given it to you sooner. It might have helped.”
I hurled the bottle back at her and pulled Caitlin onto the ride. I was strapping us into the light blue and white car when Derek yelled something to Cat. Something about only eight hours to showtime.
The ride lurched to a start, and we began our first circuit around the track. Outside, there were faces, people waiting, friends waving, everyone staring and pointing at the loser who’d ruined the season. Caitlin hugged me. I asked her what Derek had meant.
“I don’t know,” she said.
I said I thought she did. The ride music invaded my brain until I could barely recognize my thoughts. My head pounded. Caitlin’s next words were lost in sound and speed. Her mouth moved, her face contorted with the motion of the ride. She looked ugly. I yelled that I couldn’t hear her.
She put her mouth against my ear. “I guess he thinks I’m singing.”
“Why would he think that?”
“My name’s in the program,” Cat yelled.
“Faster! Faster!” the riders screamed. The ride operator screamed back at them to yell louder. The noise deafened. Next to me, Caitlin screamed with the crowd.
I yelled too, but what I yelled was, “You’re not singing!”
Caitlin backed away. “I’m not,” she mouthed. “I told you I’m not!”
I said she’d better not be. I grabbed her arm and held it. The ride lurched and jumped then wound down to the ground. “You’d better not be,” I repeated as we slid to a stop. I pulled her out of her seat almost before she undid her seatbelt. We moved toward the exit. At the gate, Josh Brandon, a skinny, unwashed-looking kid from my chemistry class, knocked against me.
“Hey, Andreas, I ever tell you you’re my hero?” He nudged the redhead standing by him. “Really. It takes guts to play that bad.”
I shoved him back. “You value your life?”
He slipped through the gate, but his obnoxious voice followed me until we reached the cotton candy stand.
The rest of the day was the same, and maybe I was looking for a fight. I found one.
A MINUTE LATER
* * *
Mario’s empty classroom
Mario hasn’t returned by the end of class. The others leave. I put my pen in my backpack, unable to write further, waiting for Mario. My head feels like rap music’s playing inside, and I stare at the ceiling fan. Finally, I hear the doorknob. Mario comes in. “Nick.”
I turn. He stares at the floor, pressing his lips together. Finally, he says, “You were friends … weren’t you, with Leo?”
I nod, remembering our last encounter.
Mario sits by me. His face is weary, his eyes rimmed red.
“It never gets easier,” he says. “When I started doing this, they told me, you win some, you lose some. Always think about the ones you’re helping, but…” His head twitches. “Leo’s dead, Nick.”
The room is silent except for Mario’s voice and the ceiling fan’s hum. Funny how you can know something and yet not believe it’s possible. Whether it’s sheep cloning or space travel. Or the fact that, last night, Leo Sotolongo broke into his girlfriend’s bedroom and put a bullet through her skull. Then he turned the gun on himself. Mario’s words seep through my skin, but my brain is bargaining. I see only possibilities. What if I’d answered Leo’s calls? What if he’d come back to class? But it’s over. Mario’s stopped speaking.
“He never thought there was a problem,” I say.
“You mean he wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of admitting it, even to himself.” Mario’s sad voice is angry too. “It wasn’t the first time he held a gun to that girl’s head. The police gave it back when she dropped the charges, though. He made sure of that. He called last week, said he wanted back into class so she’d take him back. Not that he needed counseling, not him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I can only help people who’ll let me.” Mario watches a train pull by, maybe remembering, as I am, the story Leo told us. “But that’s not enough people.”
I can’t stay. A second later, I’m out the door, Mario’s words still in my ears.
I sprint downstairs, then six blocks to the station. The escalator bears me to the platform. I can’t breathe. And I’m cold. The sun bakes the red-brown tiles, suddenly so close, so bright. I shut my eyes. Neysa. What did she look like, even? But I see Caitlin’s face, Caitlin’s blue eyes, staring.
Could it have been me, me and Caitlin? No. I want to scream it. No! My brain tells me different. You and Leo were the same, it says. Lonely, obsessed. Angry and out of control too. I saw it in Leo, I see it in myself. All I did to Caitlin, everything I said. Of course she’s afraid of me. I’m no different from Leo. I wasn’t, and I’m not.
But can I be?
&
nbsp; Is there time?
The train’s in sight, white light piercing the sun, and I think of Leo’s brother. Then Leo himself, ending it when life became unbearable. It would be easy for me too. Who would care? Not Caitlin, not Tom. Not my father. One final shock, then no more pain. No pain. I feel in my pocket for the ring, Caitlin’s ring. My fingers meet coldness, and I take it out, hold it to the light. Purple prisms reflect around me. The train descends. I clutch the ring. Only the ring supports me. I step toward the tracks. The horn sounds. I hoist the ring to the sky and raise my arm.
Then it’s flying out, out over the track, then crashing to the street below. I watch until, finally, I can’t. The train pulls in but still I see the ring. Hitting ground somewhere below, its stone shattering on impact. The doors open, and I walk inside. I collapse into a seat and stare out the window. Where is it? Where’s the ring? It should be a mile wide, but it’s gone. The train pulls out, and still I look. I try to picture Caitlin’s face, but I can’t.
I only see my own face, reflected in the glass.
3:00 A.M.—beach behind my father’s house
I’m sitting here with a flashlight, Caitlin’s pen, and my journal, which, in addition to being smudged, torn, and rippled, is now pretty much covered in wet sand. I have to finish it, though. I don’t want to, but I have to.
The pain in my brain was at tumor level by evening. Yet, somehow, I had a front-row seat, watching Saint O’Connor and company, in wigs, dancing to “Short Shorts.” Caitlin squeezed my hand, and through the deafening laughter, I heard her voice.
“I love you, Nicky. You don’t have to be a football hero for me to love you.”
I pushed her back, her words like a hand clutching my throat. Onstage, Saint ground his butt. I glanced away. Then, I noticed the dolphin on the calf of one of the wigged dancers. Tom. He wore a red bouffant wig, kicking and strutting with the others—without me. They belonged together. I was the oddball. For the first time in my life, I wanted to go home. Finally, the lights came up for intermission.