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.