Tom stares at me.
I’m in Spanish class Monday, flipping through the pictures I took of our group in Key West. Nothing interesting on the blackboards lately. Still, I need to talk to Tom. Across the room, he laughs with Saint O’Connor, sitting in what used to be my seat. I look back at the photographs.
The Key West trip was two months ago, Thanksgiving weekend. But in my mind, it plays like video of someone else’s childhood. There’s Caitlin and me silhouetted against the sunset at Mallory Square. Another is the group in front of Zack’s parents’ vacation house. I took that one, so I’m not in it. But there’s one of Tom, Saint, and me pretending to dive at the sign that says SOUTHERNMOST POINT IN THE CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES. The images surprise me now. Was I that person? An hour at the Walgreen’s lab made it so.
I look longest at a picture Caitlin took, Tom and me on Zack’s boat. We’re waving our diving masks, best friends. I take that one out, along with three group shots. The one of Tom and me goes on top.
“Señor Andreas, you are doing your workbook, no?” Señor Faure has noticed my inattention.
“I’m finished,” I say.
“Work ahead, then. Do the next chapter.”
“I finished the book. Want to see?”
A few giggles at my nerdliness. Faure shrugs. “Do something quiet, then.”
“That’s what I was doing.”
Faure nods, and I smile at Jessica Schweitzer, who sits next to me. She looks away. I pull a sheet of paper from my looseleaf. Across the room, Saint raises his hand, and I know what’s coming.
“Yes, Señor O’Connor?”
“Señor Faure,” Saint says. “You seen those beaches in Spain?”
Faure nods, and the trap is set. It’s like one of those nature shows, where some clueless mouse or bird crawls right into the Komodo dragon’s path. Right now, Faure is the mouse.
“The Spanish beaches, they are très beautiful,” Faure says in his accent, which is more French than Spanish.
I fold the sheet of paper in half and slip the photographs inside, not looking at Señor Faure. I used to laugh at O’Connor’s jokes. Now, they seem cruel.
“Are the women, like, naked there?” Saint asks.
Faure tugs on his guayabera shirt. “They are topless sometimes, yes.”
“Let me ask you, Señor Faure … why don’t European women shave their pits? I mean, do they reek?”
The rest of the class is laughing, like I used to when Saint would ask Faure the Spanish word for copulate or mammary. I sneak a look at Tom. He’s not laughing, not listening probably, left hand moving on the page before him. I know he’s not doing the workbook. He’s doodling. Five years ago, he saw a magazine contest: Draw the Pirate. He’s been drawing the pirate ever since. I think it’s supposed to take less than a thousand attempts, I told him once. He just shrugged.
Saint’s still going. “How’s a guy keep from getting … excited around all those topless women? I mean, European men wear those faggy Speedos that don’t hide nothing.”
I write Tom’s name on the package of photographs and pass it to my right.
It’s back on my desk before the bell finishes ringing.
“I don’t want these,” Tom says on his way out the door. But I think I see something in his face, just for a second. Like maybe he’s sorry we’re not still friends? But he says, “I don’t want anything from you, Nick.”
“You can’t give me a break?” I hold the photographs in front of me before shoving them into my backpack. “We were best friends for, like, ten years.”
“Were being the operative word. That was before what you did to Caitlin.” He keeps walking.
I follow him. “You’d think your best friend would give you a second chance.”
“I don’t even know who you are.” He shakes his head. “My best friend, Nick, wouldn’t do what you did.”
Then he and Saint disappear into the crowd.
Later, in my room, I rescue the photographs from my backpack. The one of Tom and me is crumpled at the corner, but I smooth it as best I can and slip it into my mirror frame next to five pictures of Caitlin and me. I stare at it a long time.
It was stupid thinking I could work things out with Tom. For the first time since Caitlin dumped me, I face facts: I’m on my own.
After Zack’s party, I became an addict.
Every year, in an assembly for the perkily named Red Ribbon Week, they pass out pamphlets emblazoned with “Just Say No,” spouting the party line: A single joint today, you’ll shoot up in an alley the rest of your life. Yeah, right. But being with Cat was like that. My satisfaction seeing her in school gave way to a need to pick her up every morning. Then, drive her home, days I didn’t have football practice. Or call after practice. Or drive her home, then call.
For Caitlin’s part, she took the locker by mine, a seat on our group’s regular bench at Mr. Pizza, and the appropriately named “hump” seat in my car. And we sucked face, lots of it. This was all before I said I loved her, even though I did. I was a junkie. Caitlin was my dealer and my drug of choice.
The one barrier to bliss was Elsa. Elsa was Caitlin’s best friend and fellow first soprano (whatever that meant), which translated into my driving her to lunch with us. Every day.
The first time Elsa showed up at my car, I thought I’d picked up a homeless person. She was scrawny, with floppy hat and trailing gauze everywhere. She didn’t acknowledge the fact that we’d sat next to one another in English for two weeks. She just looked at me with narrowed eyes, then inspected my backseat like a rodent sniffing for predators. Finally, she said, “Nice car. I suppose you worked overtime at the family farm to afford it? Or are you in Junior Achievement?”
I said, neither. It was on loan from my cousin, Guido, who’s in the joint. I pronounced it jernt, like in a Joe Pesci movie. Hey, I was joking. But Elsa didn’t smile, like she thought as much.
Yet she accepted a seat and rode to lunch with us. Every day.
After three days, I realized Elsa was a permanent guest. I confronted Caitlin before Spanish class, asking her why exactly I had to have lunch with Elsa.
“We’ve sat together at lunch for ten years. I can’t just flake on her.”
“Why not?” I was rooting for flakage.
“’Cause it’s something Zack would do, not me.”
I told her you don’t get to the top of the food chain without eating some bugs. Caitlin fit in with our group, but they didn’t let just anyone join their reindeer games.
The rest of the week at Mr. Pizza, Elsa spent the entire hour either talking to Cat or making comments to no one in particular. “I wonder how much that watch cost his parents,” she’d say to her sandwich. Or, “She’s trying to prove that less really is more,” when Peyton showed off her new crop top. Her hatred for me was obvious and (I won’t lie about this) mutual. By the second week, we greeted each other with barely concealed disgust. Before the summer heat had burned off, I’d had enough. Caitlin and I had to talk.
It happened in the Mustang. We’d dropped Elsa off and were going to study at Caitlin’s. It was raining. The top was up, and the sound of rain on the ragtop made me horny.
Elsa had been in her usual form, dressed gypsy-style though Halloween was weeks away, and somehow, when we ran for the car, she’d managed to wedge herself between me and Cat, sitting in front of the stick shift. She flipped through the radio stations like she owned the car, finally settling on something by this teen group I detest. I said nothing. I’d rather listen to them than Elsa. But she babbled on, ripping me and my friends. Peyton’s too into her boyfriend. Tom’s too into his looks. I’m too into Cat (well, that part was true). And the whole time, her mouth got bigger and bigger until finally you couldn’t see her face at all. Just mouth. I went in. I reached down her tunnel of a throat, past her intact tonsils, and down until my arm disappeared. I yanked out her still-beating heart and hurled it to the street. It bounced away. Elsa gasped her last, and I switched the radio back to Y100.
KIDDING.
The music part was true, though. And Elsa’s yakking, needless to say. I even got out in the pouring rain to let Elsa out. Once she left, I snapped off the radio. Silence, except the rain, splashing the window, making the world a blur. Like I said, rain makes me horny. I draped my arm across Caitlin’s shoulders, fingertips grazing her breasts. Uncharted territory. I waited for Cat to yell stop, but all signals were green, except the traffic light ahead which was—incredible luck—yellow. I skidded to a stop and kissed her, lips moving down her neck. Then, my tongue. A sound escaped her throat. Promising. I reached into her shirt.
“Nick… It’s too soon.” Caitlin pulled my fingers from her shirt and placed them on her shoulder. The car was moving again, and she kissed my cheek.
I told her lots of girls wouldn’t think it was too soon, Ashley, for one.
“You want Ashley?” she asked.
I said maybe so. As if. So I said, no. I wanted her. I just thought we were pretty serious. “I sort of thought I was your boyfriend.”
She smiled. It was the first time I’d called myself that. But then, she said that didn’t mean we were going all the way.
I said, “It’s Elsa, right? She hates me, and you think she may have a point.”
I passed the turn for Cat’s house and got back onto the causeway. Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. The water whizzed by in both windows. Caitlin tried to convince me that Elsa didn’t hate me.
Right. “No, she just hates my friends. And my car. And my clothes. And my friends’ cars and their clothes. Where does she get off anyway, acting like Little Miss Proletariat? That wasn’t a shack I dropped her off at. And if my car’s so godawful, why’s her butt in it all the time?”
We neared the mainland, and I pulled off onto the beach, where people parked nights, in the shadows of downtown Miami. I threw the car into park. “Look, I don’t like you hanging out with her.”
“What?”
“Get rid of her.”
Cat stared at me like I was crazy. Maybe I’d gone too far. For some reason, I remembered her telling Dirk off at Zack’s party. But I wasn’t Dirk. What I was saying was for her own good. So I continued. “Make your choice, Cat. That bitch or me.”
Caitlin touched my shoulder, whispering, “Nicky…”
I shrugged her off. “Her or me? Hang with me and all my friends, or sit in the cafeteria with Elsa and her Disney lunch box.”
I saw I’d hit a nerve with that one. Caitlin stared at the floor, biting her lip. Did she like being part of my crowd more than she liked me? Was it enough to give up Elsa? It was pouring now, and the skinny pines shook like skeletons by the road. I didn’t want Caitlin to call my bluff. I couldn’t lose her, but I was protecting myself. Elsa wanted to break us up. I had to know where I stood. A car whizzed by, swamping us in muck. Caitlin gripped the door handle, on the edge of her seat. The rain was deafening. I leaned to kiss the back of her neck.
Her hand snapped back. “Could I still see Elsa when you aren’t around?”
I kissed her again. “Sure. But I plan on being around more and more. I want to be together all the time.”
Caitlin said she wanted that too. She kissed me and put my hand back where it had been. I tried to continue what I’d started, but my horniness had disappeared. Was I crazy? We were on make-out row, and she was willing now. Too willing. I slipped my fingers between her breasts. No good. I took my hand away. I said, “I’ve got a test in English tomorrow. I’ll take you home.”
Her own hand, which had started to negotiate its way across my stomach, stopped. She drew away. We drove back in silence, me wondering at my sanity.
The next morning, when Caitlin opened her locker, she found a bouquet of white roses inside. I grinned as she did a little dance around the hallway. I hadn’t asked too much. After all, I loved her. And with Elsa off my back, I relaxed. Caitlin saw her a few more times, but soon, she was too busy with me and with my friends. Especially when she got a bid to join Sphinx, Key’s best sorority. They’d never have asked with Elsa clinging like a plantar wart. I knew Cat was excited. All the girls in our group were Sphinxes, and of course, my girlfriend would be part of our group.
The problem was Sphinx took a lot of Cat’s time, going to meetings, doing pledge stuff like baking cookies for the members. Once, she had to sing the alma mater, standing on a cafeteria table. Another time, they made her wear the same clothes three days straight. But at least it was with the right people. My people.