“When is it okay to use violence?” Mario asks at the beginning of class.
As usual, Ray has the kiss-ass answer. “It’s never all right,” he says, and some guys—truth be told, I’m one of them—start making kissy noises. A few others nod.
“Never?” Mario’s left eyebrow heads north. “I was born at night, but not last night. We’re talking about you guys. Do you expect me to believe I worked some sort of voodoo, and you’re cured?”
Ray says nothing, but I suggest, “Self-defense?” and just about everyone nods.
Mario nods too. “All right. Someone physically attacks you, you’re within your rights fighting back. St. Francis of Assisi would probably buy that. You guys, I’ve got a feeling, could come up with some other examples.”
“How about if someone’s attacking an old lady or something?” Kelly asks.
“Grandma’s getting stomped, Mr. Steele does a Van Damme on her attacker. Okay. What else?”
Silence.
“I assume no one here’s okay with smacking a woman every so often to show who’s boss?” Mario asks. There are snickers, but no takers. “You’re sure?” he says. When no one answers, he says, “Good, then we’re making progress.”
More silence, but Tiny cracks his knuckles like he does when something’s bothering him. He doesn’t speak, though, until finally we’re all watching. “What you think you’re looking at?” he demands.
“Something else, Tyrone?” Mario says.
“Yeah. What if she’s dissing you?”
“Dissing you how?”
“Like if she say she’ll pick you up somewhere, and she’s late.”
“Been there,” I say, thinking about yesterday’s journal.
“This happened last week, Tyrone?” Mario says. When Tiny nods, Mario says, “Did Donyelle say what kept her?”
“Maybe.”
“You mean you didn’t listen?” Tiny scowls, and Mario adds, “You thought you already knew?”
“I knew, I knew.”
“What did you know?” Mario asks, patient as an hourglass.
“She was with someone else.”
“She was with me,” Kelly says.
Tiny stays seated but points a big forefinger in Kelly’s direction. “Don’t you be messing with me, Whitetrash!”
“Okay, so we’ve all been there,” Mario says. “The woman in your life is supposed to pick you up at four o’clock. Now it’s four, and she’s not there, and you’re thinking”—gesturing toward Tiny—“you’re thinking … what?”
Tiny blows air out his nose, a sound reminiscent of Moby Dick. “I’m thinking she’d best be there before four-oh-one.”
“Okay,” Mario says. “But now it’s ten after, and it’s hot, and you showered after football practice, but there’s two wet patches starting on the back of your shirt. She’s not there. And you’re thinking…” Mario glances around. “Nick?”
“I’m thinking she forgot,” I say.
“You thinking she forgot? Or you thinking, ‘Dammit, that bitch forgot.’”
“Second one,” I admit. A few chuckles.
“And why is it the second one?” When I shrug, Mario says, “It’s the second because what else are you thinking besides ‘she forgot’?” He leans back. “You’re thinking she found something better to do? Or someone better? She doesn’t care if you melt in this heat because she’s never seeing you again?”
“I’m just thinking she forgot,” I say. But he’s right. I’d probably think all that. I had thought all that.
“Why assume she forgot?” Mario turns to the whole group. “How about, next time your girlfriend’s late, you think of the thousand reasons that might be—other than forgetting or being with another guy?”
Ray’s raising his hand. He’s the only one who still does. The rest of us call out when we talk at all. Mario nods at him, and Ray says, “Like what?”
“How about if you thought, ‘Poor Donyelle must be caught in traffic’ or ‘Gosh, I hope Diana hasn’t had to take Grandma for a heart-lung transplant’ or ‘My lord, what if Caitlin’s car broke down’? Wouldn’t you feel better and—more important—less likely to haul off and smack her, if you thought happy thoughts instead of that same old country song that goes, ‘She’s a bitch, she’s a slut, she’s heartless, she don’t love me no more’? ’Cause once you start hearing that song, you’re in for trouble.”
“But those things didn’t happen,” I say.
“None of it happened,” Mario says. “’Til she gets there, it’s just conjecture and speculation. Her forgetting is part of a bizarro world you create for yourself. And those other things—the car trouble and the dying grandmother—happen in a happier place. Let’s call it Marioland. It’s all fiction, and you’re the writer, so you may as well write something that calms you down as something that riles you up.” We all nod, and Mario takes a clipboard from his desk.
“The reason I mention this is, it’s time you guys came up with your personal Violence Policies.” Mario’s gaze bounces off each of us before returning to his clipboard. “You’ll be held to these policies for the rest of this class. But they may be challenged.”
“Challenged how?” Kelly asks.
“Held to them how?” I ask at the same time.
Mario grins at us. “I’m getting to that. I want you to take a sheet of paper. On one side, write any situation where you feel it’s okay to use violence. On the other, write all the times it’s not. Like, ‘It’s okay to hit someone in self-defense’ or ‘It’s wrong to hit teachers who give me bad grades.’”
“Not so fast on that second one,” Kelly says.
Mario ignores him. “Then, if something happens, you only have to check your Violence Policy to know whether it’s okay to hit Diana ’cause she left water spots on the glasses.” Mario cocks his head toward Ray. “But I warn you, if your Violence Policy says it is, I’ll take issue with it, and you’ll need to justify it. Otherwise, I keep your policy in an envelope, and no one but you looks at it.”
We all start writing. I go with the obvious first, self-defense or when you meet someone outside after school (which hasn’t happened in years), then draw a blank. I turn to the situations where violence is wrong. My eyes drop, and I remember the violence behind before I look ahead. I know what Mario wants me to write, that what happened with Caitlin won’t happen again. I want to say it, but it seems too easy now that she’s gone. And anyway, that’s not what I feel like writing. I glance at Mario. “You really won’t read these?”
He raises a palm. “Scout’s honor.”
At the top of the page, I write:
When I have kids, I will never hit them.
I hope that’s true.
After class, I step outside. A black Trans Am’s waiting, and Leo honks the horn.
“Hey, you got sprung early, huh?” he yells. “Let’s go have some fun.”
Leo, Neysa, and I head to South Beach, where we spend the rest of the day bodysurfing and looking at supermodels on Rollerblades. When I get home that night, I realize it’s the longest I’ve gone without thinking of Caitlin.
But I’m thinking about her now. That’s what Judge Debbie said, after all, “Think about what you’ve done.” I am. I’m thinking about it, and writing about it. But what good is it if Caitlin won’t even talk to me?
In October, I was the perfect boyfriend. The morning after our fight, I showed up on Caitlin’s doorstep with ten teddy bears for her collection. I sent her cards, even wrote a poem once, and peppered her with gifts the rest of the month, ending up with the drama club’s Halloween-o-gram carnation sale when I bought fifty, writing a different message on each card so Caitlin was weighed down with flowers like a beauty pageant winner. Me, I got one from Tom, saying,
Do us a favor. Wear a mask this year.
Halloween, we had lunch at Mr. Pizza, as usual. We flocked there days it was too hot for the beach, attracted less by the food than by our ability to take the place over. The restaurant was small, and two of its three benches belonged to our group. The last, we left for whatever losers straggled in.
Waiting by the counter, Peyton asked how I’d voted in that day’s homecoming court elections. When I shrugged, Peyton said, “You voted for Caitlin and Liana so you and Tom will get reflected glory from having famous girlfriends.”
Did I mention Caitlin was nominated? Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled at her getting that kind of publicity. I wouldn’t be good enough for her anymore. Still, I avoided the issue of how I’d voted, telling Peyton, “Caitlin doesn’t reflect on me.”
“You going to take that from him, Cat?” Peyton asked.
Caitlin smiled. “Oh, he’s just talking. Anyway, you and Liana will win.”
Peyton patted Caitlin’s shoulder and told her it was a big honor for her even to be nominated. Caitlin looked at me for help, but I said nothing. I gripped her arm and steered her to the far side of the room. Then we stopped.
There were people on our bench.
Now, I know it wasn’t our bench officially. Still, we had squatters’ rights born of two months’ staking our claim, and there was plenty of room on the third bench. That’s what Peyton was explaining to the intruders. One problem: The invading army consisted of Derek Wayne (dressed as Beethoven or Mozart—one of those) and Elsa (wearing something feathered, which may or may not have been a costume).
Peyton was saying, “But you don’t get it, it’s our table.”
“You’re right. I fail to understand,” Elsa replied. “Do you have record title, or do you lease monthly?” I figured her comment translated to, “Don’t see your name on it,” but Peyton was totally confused. Elsa said we were welcome to wait. She turned to Derek, and they high-fived.
But Tom took the seat by Derek. Liana was already sitting, probably the reason behind Tom’s swift and wusslike action. I wasn’t about to let Caitlin near Elsa or Derek, so after the others sat, I led her toward the center.
Elsa’s voice filled the room. “Sit, Caitlin. Gooood girl,” and other dog comments. I fed Caitlin a bite of my lunch.
She said, “Not pizza, Nick. I’m on a diet.”
“What for? You’re skinny.” I kissed her. “And beautiful.”
“I want to stay that way.”
But a second later, she snuck a piece of pepperoni.
“Not to worry, Caitlin,” Elsa said, not quite aloud. “You can always excuse yourself if you have the urge to purge.”
“Ignore her,” I said. Derek was staring at us. I fed Caitlin another bite. We crossed arms and ate off each other’s forks until Derek looked away and even our friends started throwing balled-up napkins at us. As soon as we finished, I was out of there, Cat in tow. Since just about everyone had come with us, the table cleared.
In my car, Peyton said, “How sad. A lezzie and a geekoid.”
Caitlin glanced at me then back at Peyton. Finally, she almost whispered, “Elsa Perez is one of my best friends.”
“Yeah, she looked thrilled to see you,” I said. “Why don’t you hang with her? That’s so obviously the cool group.”
From the backseat, Tom tried to change the subject, asking if Caitlin was going to Zack’s Thanksgiving weekend. I started to say of course we were. It would be our “big weekend.” But Cat interrupted, looking at me.
“Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Her voice was soft. “I have to visit my dad then.”
My hand welded to the gearshift, and I eyed the road. Finally, I said, “Fine. Spend the weekend with the great man. It’s been, what? Six months since he called? I’d run before he changes his mind.”
“I have to go,” she said.
I told her to go ahead. But I wasn’t staying home. After all, Key West was a pretty wild town. I hung a right into a space, then got out and slammed the door behind me, finishing with, “You can be replaced!”
I was halfway to school before everyone untangled themselves and Cat ran after me, yelling for me to wait. I kept walking. “Go hang with the geek brigade. You fit right in, you fat loser.”
Behind me, Tom started to say something. I ignored him.
Caitlin said, “I’ll go with you, okay?”
“You have to visit Daddy.”
“I don’t want to now.” She grabbed at my arm, saying, “I want to be with you.”
“I don’t know.” But I slowed, and she draped herself around my shoulders.
“I want to be with you,” she repeated, kissing me.
I kissed her back. “That’s my girl.” I put my arm around her and slid my hand under her shirt. “I have plans for that weekend, you know.”
Caitlin said she knew. Then, she said, “But I’m not sure. I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid of me.” I kissed her. The others caught up by then and followed us, making smoochy noises. I ignored them and focused on Cat, saying, “I’m the only one who cares about you, not your dad, not Elsa. Even these guys are just jealous of you. I’m the only one you can trust.”