I scan the room, mentally awarding the prize for Most Likely to Kill Someone in a Traffic Altercation. Six-way tie. Our instructor, a fat, cherubic-looking guy named Mario Ortega, explains the rules.
“I don’t make many rules,” he says. “Those I do make, I expect followed. Arguments to the contrary, you can take to the judge.”
He smiles quickly, like he’s joking, but his eyes don’t smile with him.
“Rule one,” he continues, “is, be honest. Without that, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Honest,” says a voice. “I don’t do rules much.”
This comes from the skinny blond kid two seats down. You know the type. Only an illegible tattoo keeps him from looking nine years old. He runs a penknife under filthy nails. It sounds clichéd to call him a redneck, except the back of his neck is at least bright pink. His face matches it. I’d bet there’s a pickup truck with a gun rack out in the parking lot.
“You don’t, do you?” Mario asks. “Well, if you have a problem, you can leave.” Mario slaps a palm to his forehead. “Oh, I forgot! You can’t leave. I guess we’ll have to open our minds, Mr....” Mario checks his list. “Mr. Kelly, I believe.”
“Kelly’s my first name,” the redneck says, and I suspect from Mario’s smile he knew that. Kelly glares at all of us, and I silently thank whatever deity was on duty the night my parents saw fit not to give me a girl’s name. “No cracks if you know what’s good for you.”
“We don’t put each other down here,” Mario says, turning his attention back to the group. “That’s another rule. The rest are pretty simple, and since you’ve got no choice, you’ll follow them. Next one is, be on time.”
As if on cue, the door flies open. The guy who opens it looks in no particular hurry. Like most of the group, he’s about my age, but he’s normal compared to the rest of them. Better than normal, maybe. Tall and dark, with a take-no-shit walk, he apologizes, his cool voice conveying no actual contrition, and sits by Kelly.
“How perfect,” Mario says. “I was just explaining my quirk about punctuality.” Mario consults his list again. “You must be our lost lamb, Mr. Sotolongo.”
“Leo Sotolongo.” Leo displays two rows of white teeth. “I’ll be good from now on, Teach. Promise.”
“Fine.” Mario looks away before Leo finishes speaking. “Rule four: no drugs or alcohol. Rule five: participate in class discussions.”
The Psycho across the circle stabs a pencil into his palm. It must hurt, but he doesn’t even flinch. Me, I have no intention of talking. I have enough problems without some Ph.D. deciding the reason Caitlin and I fought has something to do with my father using me for a punching bag all these years. That’s an old story. Been there, done that, heard it on Oprah. I figure the time spent here will be an excellent period to devote to Serious Thought—say, memorizing the periodic table of elements. The mountain of a black guy beside me—obviously a result-oriented individual—nails my feelings when he says, “We get a grade on this?”
The rest of the group nods as one, except the Psycho, who’s still trying to impale himself on his number two lead, and Mario says, “Well, I guess it’s pass/fail. You don’t participate, I cut you loose. For you court-ordered people, that means starting over again. Or face the consequences.”
The consequences being hard time. The big house, the pokey. Got the message. I nudge the big guy. “Notice he didn’t say how much we had to participate?” He nods.
“That brings us to the most important rule.” Mario eyes each face. I turn away, sure for a second he sees everything I don’t want him to. “You will take responsibility for your actions. I’m not the court system or your girlfriends. So, I won’t accept ‘I was drunk’ as an excuse. If everyone who got drunk beat up on someone else, we’d all have black eyes every day. And being plain old pissed off’s no defense either. If you think your girlfriend’s the biggest slut in the world, leave her. Don’t hit her. You are responsible for your violence. You won’t get better ’til you come to terms with that.”
“But what if it really wasn’t our fault?” The big guy echoes my thoughts again.
“How so, Mr. Johnston?”
“It’s Tyrone. My friends call me Tiny.”
Tiny weighs at least two fifty. His hair is shaved on the sides, and the sleeves of his Tasmanian Devil T-shirt are rolled back to expose his muscles. There are enough chains around his thick neck to drown someone smaller. What kind of damage could a guy that size do to a girl?
“I mean, I’m the one who’s abused in my relationship,” Tiny continues, cracking his quarter-sized knuckles. “Donyelle might look small, but she’s got the power. Women always do. I told her if she kept beating on me, I’d do her some damage. Finally, I had to bust her mouth just to show I meant business.” He flops his palms onto his lap. “They arrested the wrong person, but they don’t care, long as they keep us people in line. And they pressed charges even though Donyelle told them we’re engaged.”
I feel myself nod. “I hear you,” I say. Caitlin never hit me, of course, but what about mental torture? What about getting a guy so crazy he has to use his fists—hands—in self-defense?
“How’d you feel, hitting her?” Mario’s voice comes through the crap in my brain.
“I didn’t wanna hurt her,” Tiny says. “But sometimes a man’s gotta stand up for himself, right?”
“You said we were supposed to be honest!” a voice cuts in before Mario can answer.
The statement comes from the Psycho. While Tiny was talking, the Psycho’s been doing some serious shaking. Now he looks up at us.
“What?” Tiny says.
“He said we’re supposed to be honest.”
“I am being honest!” Tiny straightens himself to his full height.
“No.” The Psycho shakes his head a few times too many, but he’s too crazy to be afraid of Tiny. “Not you, big guy. Me. ’Cause I don’t know what honest is. I don’t want to tell a lie, but I don’t know.” He takes head in hands, singing, “I don’t know, don’t know … don’t know…” A tear oozes from each eye, and the guy to his right is on the corner of his seat. Mario comes between them, putting an arm around the Psycho’s shaking shoulder.
“What’s your name, son?”
“A.J.,” he manages before beginning to sob again on Mario’s shoulder, great heaving shudders. Mario whispers in his ear.
I tune them out. Hearing them might make me be like them.
Several minutes later, A.J. winds down, and Mario turns to us. “Anyone else feel like that?”
“Like what?” Kelly again. “I have no idea what this waste case is saying.”
Mario shrugs. “Like your life’s a big act. Like you’re trying to be a man when you’re just a scared kid, trying to keep under control when you really want to scream, cry, maybe hit someone. Ever feel like you’re breathing underwater, and you have to stop because you’re gulping in too much fluid?” A.J. begins to sob again. Mario gestures toward him. “This is what we were going to do anyway.”
“What?” Kelly demands, folding the penknife. “Cry?”
“Reflect on the errors of our ways that landed us here, Kelly.”
“Ain’t it obvious? We all hit our girlfriends. Class dismissed.”
“Not me,” Leo, the guy who was late, says. “I didn’t hit anyone.”
“That’s a laugh,” Kelly says, snorting. “Spics all hit your women. Spic women think it’s their mission to get hit.”
“You mind repeating that?” Leo’s fists clench.
Kelly sits upright. “You telling me your daddy don’t hit your mama?”
Before Leo can answer, Mario says, “Enough! I know you’re all tense, but that will be the last time we mention anyone’s mother. Let’s cool it with the ethnic slurs too.”
“And if I don’t?” Kelly says.
“You’ll be spitting out some teeth, Miss Kelly.” Leo answers for Mario. “Not that it won’t be an improvement.”
And Kelly’s on top
of him. Leo’s up an instant later, one hand on Kelly’s neck, holding him away from his body. He shoves Kelly into the wall. Chairs fly as we clear the way. Someone starts chanting, “Fight! Fight!” Others take it up. Kelly’s gasping for breath. A vein bulges in Leo’s forehead, but otherwise he holds Kelly like he’s nothing. Mario steps between them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders and shouting, “Calm down,” his voice becoming softer as he eases them apart.
“I’ll have no violence in my group, Mr. Sotolongo,” Mario says when Leo finally sits.
“You’re blaming me?” Leo’s voice is cold. “Little turd attacked me.”
“I know that. I also know your record and the charges against you.”
“Man!”
“I’ll have no violence in my group,” Mario repeats as the accountant bolts for the door.
And then there were seven.
It takes several minutes for everyone to calm down, but, finally, Leo’s in a chair by mine, and Mario’s next to Kelly.
“Go on, Mr. Sotolongo,” Mario says. “You have the floor.”
“That’s it. I didn’t hit anyone.”
“What brings you here then?”
“You know the charges,” Leo throws back at him.
“I’d like to hear your version.”
“My version? My girlfriend’s parents hate me.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“’Cause I took it from her.”
“It?”
“Her virginity,” he says. “Mama and Papa wanted their baby to stay pure ’til she died, at least. Trouble is, she didn’t want to stay pure.” Laughs and nods from some of the group. “I screwed up their plans. I must’ve threatened her. Raped her.” He tips back his chair. “Bullshit. She sold me out, lied so she wouldn’t get in trouble. But I’ll get Neysa to drop the charges.” He smiles and flips his jacket collar. “So, I won’t be coming here much longer.”
Leo scans the circle, his eyes finally meeting mine, and suddenly I wish I was him, so calm, so confident everything will work out. At least, I want to be someplace else, not laying my life open to these assorted losers. But that isn’t happening, so I stand.
“I never hit anyone either,” I say, trying to replicate Leo’s cool. “My relationship with Caitlin wasn’t violent. It was damn near perfect.”
“And you’re here because…?” Mario says. When I shrug, he says, “What does the court say you did? Start with your name.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I’m Nick, sixteen, and like I said, I don’t know why I’m here. I lost it once and slapped my girlfriend. That’s it. One lousy slap.”
I’m finished, and I start to sit. Mario stops me.
“What’s a slap, Nick?”
“You don’t know what a slap is?”
“I’m wondering how hard you hit her.”
I shrug, but Mario’s expression makes me answer seriously.
“Not very. A slap, like I said. Open hand. Her face didn’t turn red or anything.”
“So you hit her in the face.”
“No. I slapped her in the face. Look—” I pace a few steps before I catch myself. “I shouldn’t have, okay? I know that. But she pissed me off this one time. Once.”
“What was the fight about?”
“It was stupid.”
“So stupid you hit her? Doesn’t sound stupid to me.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. She hates me. None of my friends are talking to me, including a guy I’ve known since kindergarten, because of one crummy slap.” I sit. Mario still dogs me.
“Sounds like your life is ruined, Nick.”
“Pretty much.”
“Don’t you want to make sure it doesn’t happen again?”
Mario leans across the circle, but I avoid his eyes. I hear blood pounding through my ears and I do feel like I’m breathing underwater. I touch the amethyst ring in my pocket, the one I bought Caitlin. “Whatever.”
The Psycho—A.J.—bursts into tears again. I try not to look because looking makes me hear my father’s voice—the voice that’s always, always telling me how bad I screwed up, what a loser I am. I can’t deal with his voice. And when I look past the pain in my head, there’s Caitlin after it happened. The trust and everything she said she felt for me, gone. Over. “Whatever,” I repeat.
I have to have Caitlin back. She’s the only one who can silence the voice in my head.
Later that day
It’s easier to pick up the pen this time. After all, Caitlin’s all I think about anyway.
I didn’t see Caitlin again until seventh period, which was fate. When I walked into Spanish class, Caitlin stood by Señor Faure’s desk, holding a transfer. She chose a chair two rows ahead and one seat to the left of mine, the perfect angle for me to see her rest her hand against her cheek, or watch as the tip of her pen entered her mouth. God, I wished I was that pen. I wished, also, to be one-tenth as cool as people thought I was—cool enough to talk to her.
A few minutes into reviewing irregular verbs (which I already knew, thanks to our parade of Spanish-speaking housekeepers), I felt a nudge. Tom pushed his notebook toward me. He’d written:
Stop staring. You look like a serial killer.
Bite me, I wrote back.
His notebook was under my nose again:
OK. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Are you going to ask her out?
I looked away. I’d been considering the question, but there were others. What would I say? What if she wasn’t interested? Or had a boyfriend? What if I puked my guts up, and she couldn’t hear me through the gurgling? What if she laughed?
After class, I shoved my book into my backpack and bolted. Tom followed, trying to convince me to talk to her. I told him I’d decided he was right. I’d pass on Caitlin. But Tom said like hell I would, after slobbering the whole hour. He blocked the door, saying, “Go for it, Nick. You’re not that ugly, man.”
I said he was pretty funny, for a corpse.
Tom said he’d take her, if I wouldn’t. He ran a quick hand down the length of his hair and walked to Caitlin’s desk. I ducked into the hall to watch the sea of humanity roll by. There were no windows there, so although it was bright outside, my mind was gray. I couldn’t believe Tom would hit on a girl I liked. He’d get her too. Like I said, Tom got everything he wanted.
When we were kids, Tom and I used to tell people we were twins. I wished it was true. My father would go on the warpath, and I’d head for Tom’s. Did his family wonder why I came over so often? I tried not to care.
When we got older, I realized no one could ever mistake us for brothers. Sure, we’d started out the same size, but Tom kept growing. Now, girls regularly embarrassed themselves over him—hanging at his locker or giggling when he passed them in the hall. I figured he kept me around to pour Gatorade at his victory parties. Mostly, though, Tom’s face filled two dozen picture frames at the Carters’ house. Mine wasn’t on anyone’s desk.
And perfect Tom was talking to Caitlin. He didn’t even like her, but she was sure to like him. I wouldn’t stand a chance. I pushed the door open. She was laughing—big trouble for me.
Tom stood. “Caitlin, meet Nick. He wants to have your baby.”
“Or we could just go to the mall,” I joked. I started to walk away, but Caitlin caught my eye and held it.
“We can talk about it,” she said, then seemed surprised at her one-liner. There was a long silence before words sort of tumbled out. “I saw you in the parking lot today. Cool car. Did you and your dad fix it up or something?”
“Something,” I said, wondering if she’d noticed me or my car. I decided it didn’t matter.
Tom suggested we discuss it on the way home.
“Does Nick want to give me a ride home?” Caitlin asked. She said it to Tom but kept looking at me.
Her eyes were blue. The room had cleared, and even the hallway was quiet. It dawned on me Tom hadn’t asked her out, he’d been holding my place while I found my nerve. Caitl
in was into me, not him. The planets were orbiting in a different order. I stopped myself from grinning. Cool Nick took over. I said, “Sure, if you want.”
When we reached the car, Tom made a big deal of getting in back, legs bent up, so Caitlin could sit next to me. She chattered on about her defective tongue which, she swore, made it impossible to roll her r’s. Her tongue looked perfect to me. Finally, Tom changed the subject. “Caitlin, you know Zack Schaeffer? He’s giving a party Saturday, back-to-school. I’m taking Liana Castro. You two should go. We could double.”
“You’re taking Liana?” I said. She was one of the few girls not openly drooling over Tom.
“Now, who are you taking?” he asked, grinning.
Tom and Caitlin looked at me until I said, “You want to go?” hoping to sound like her answer didn’t matter. “With me, I mean?”
“I knew what you meant. I’d like that.”
And Caitlin smiled. I wanted to put her smile in my pocket to look at over and over.
JANUARY 17
* * *
My room
The second week of Mario’s class, I oversleep, awakened only by thunder roaring across the beach. I’m late. I dress and run down the marble stairs, my hand brushing the butt of the ridiculous naked woman–shaped pillar on the landing. When I pull the front door open, rain slaps me in the face.
Where the hell is my car?
I gape a second, unmoving. Then, I run into the downpour, searching, like maybe the car’s playing hide-and-seek with me. But it would be hard to miss a car that red. It’s gone. I stand there, getting wet. Finally, I sprint back upstairs to my father’s bedroom, planning to—I don’t know—tell him? Impossible. That would mean waking him. Instead, I dial the police, still clutching my journal for class.