Breaking Point (15 page)

I started to protest, but he motioned us onto the patio, where Meat immediately joined a clump of jocks swapping sports stories in the corner. I followed Charlie. He fished two beers from a cooler and handed me one. “You need it,” he said.

I started to open it. The rough metal top bit my hand. I tried not to show it, but Charlie saw. He took the bottle, popped it open against the counter—which was some kind of rock—then, his own. He handed mine back.

I drank it fast. Charlie held his, not drinking. He eyed a group of cheerleaders, juniors I didn't know. They all wore thong bikinis, and one blonde looked back at Charlie. She waved.

Charlie laughed. “Need me to open one of those for you too?”

I laughed too long, felt sick. I downed the rest of the beer, and Charlie handed me his untouched one.

“You okay awhile?” he said.

No
, I wanted to say.
Are you kidding?

But I said, “Sure,” and he walked off to join Meat and his friends by the Jacuzzi.

I went the other way. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amanda. She wore a red tank suit, the kind swimmers wore, and her hips gyrated to music from inside the house. I thought she saw me. She didn't smile or wave, though. I walked closer, past the pool, to the patio railing overlooking the beach. When I passed her, I said, “Hey.”

“Hey.” She turned back to Kirby.

Down below, the waves broke, white foam against black. Could I go back to where Amanda stood? No way. I twisted my head, searching for Charlie. Nowhere. I edged closer to Amanda's group and stood on the perimeter a second. When she still didn't turn, I moved on, to the coral steps that led down to the beach. I watched the white foam again for what seemed like hours. Where was Charlie? Why was I even there?

“Hey.”

I turned.

The girl was pretty, with long, dark hair and a tiny bikini. I'd seen her around school, but we'd never spoken. She wasn't part of Charlie's group. A butterfly tattoo spread its wings between her breasts.

“Hello?” she said.

I realized I'd been looking at her breasts. I forced my eyes up. “Hey.”

“Want to dance?”

“No one's dancing.”

“So? There's music. We'll start something.”

She took my arm and led me closer to the steps. Her body locked onto mine. She was tall too, and her long, bare legs brushed mine, hips close, leaving me breathless. She smelled of the beach. She swayed to the music's beat. My left hand stole down her back. The other hand was trapped between us, close, so close to her breast. My knuckles brushed the outline of the tattoo. It was a fake. Why was she dancing with me? I felt so buzzed, not just from the beers, but from the music and the surf, the heat of her.

“What's your name?” I asked finally.

“Caroline.” She leaned closer, breasts pressing into my hand. Oh, God.

“I'm Paul.”

“I know.”

The song ended, and she pulled from me. “Gotta go. Thanks for the dance, Paul.”

“But—”

But she was gone, faster than she'd been there, running down to her group of friends. I began to follow. When I reached the top of the stairs, I heard her say, “Did it.” She laughed and pretended to brush herself off. “Not that bad. He only drooled a little. Your turn, Courtney. Truth? Or dare?”

“I'll take truth. Can't handle that kind of dare.”

My fist clenched around the handrail, the beach swimming below. Their shrieks of laughter burned in my ears. I turned and went into the house.

I had to find Charlie. It was his fault I was there, so he had to take me home. In the living room, I looked left, then right. Finally, I saw him on the stairway. With a girl. The cheerleader who'd waved at him, Lauren, the tiny one who topped the pyramids. They kissed. She laughed and untucked Charlie's white tank top, letting her hands slide across his chest. Charlie kissed her again, led her upstairs. I went for another beer.

This time, I chose a can, reaching through the ice and water and slush until my hands hurt from the cold. I found a lounge chair in the dark near the wall and settled down to drink it. I hated being there. I hated Gate. I hated them all, even Charlie. I thought of the note,
Ask Charlie
… But that was just Binky, being jealous. I lay back. My feet felt heavy. I tried to will myself to get up for another beer.

“Hi, Paul.”

In the dim light, her face took a second to register. Just a second. It was Amanda.

“Want to walk on the beach?” she said.

“Is this a dare?” Instantly, I was sorry I'd asked.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I pretended to take a sip from the empty can, then crumpled it.

“So, do you?”

She was so pretty, even in the dark. She held out her hand. I took it, stood. Then, we were across the patio, going down past the laughing group and Caroline. House music faded. Surf music took over. Our feet hit sand, and she removed her sandals, so I took off my own shoes too. I gripped Amanda's fingers. Was I hurting her? I loosened up. She laughed and pulled me a few steps down the sand.

“Saw you dancing with Caroline Rodgers before.”

“Oh.”

“She's a bitch.”

“Yeah.” I swung her arm, watching her hand travel up, past my face, then tried to step closer without her noticing. Impossible. “Thought you weren't talking to me. I mean, you didn't say hello before.”

She moved closer. Then, closer still, until there was no blackness between us. She reached up, arm circling my shoulders, my neck, her tongue, somehow, part of my head. For an instant, I tried to stay back, not let her feel my hard-on against her. But only for an instant. Then, her mouth pressed in, and I forgot about Caroline and Charlie, Binky, Mom, and everything, everything but Amanda's mouth, her body on mine.

When we finally separated, she said, “Still worried about whether I said hello?”

I started to say no, but she kissed me again. I crushed in toward her. We sunk down, down into the black sand. My body felt about to explode. Surf pounded my ears, sand like ice against my heat. My hands knew what to do, and I was on her, on her. And there was nothing else.

“Amanda?”

I could have ignored the voice forever, but Amanda stiffened.

“I hate to interrupt.”

Then don't
. I couldn't stop my hands, fumbling with Amanda's bathing suit. But Amanda sat up, pushing me up with her. It was Kirby.

She repeated, “I hate to interrupt.” Her voice making it clear she didn't care. “But it's past midnight.”

“So?”

“So, you know my parents get home at one.”

“Shit.” Amanda stood, brushing sand from her legs and butt. She turned to me. “Kirby was a ba-a-ad girl. She's grounded, but we snuck out while her parents were at the club.” She started toward the stairs, Kirby following.

“Wait!” When they turned, I said, “Can I call you?” I couldn't believe she was leaving.

“I'll see you in school.” Amanda ran to the stairs and practically jumped over the group sitting there. I watched her. When my eyes reached the top step, they met St. John's.

Somehow, I knew he'd been watching the whole time. Had the whole thing been to make him jealous?

That night, lying in my sleeping bag in Charlie's room, I felt Amanda, like she was still beneath me. Charlie's voice came from the darkness above.

“Have a good time?” I could hear his grin.

“It was okay.”

“Okay? Heard you were rounding third with Colbert on the sand.”

I didn't correct him. “Don't know. I think she's just using me to make St. John jealous.”

“So?” Charlie laughed. “You need to learn, Paul. Life's on the barter system. We all use one other. It's just a matter of getting something you want in return.”

“Right,” I said.

Just before I fell asleep, I wondered what Charlie wanted from
me
.

“Hello.”

I hadn't thought about David much since I'd become friends with Charlie. But the Monday after Pierre's party, I saw him again.

It was my own fault. I mean, I could have avoided him. He was in his usual spot, near the bell tower where I used to see him with Trouble. Charlie had a tennis match that afternoon, and, stuck waiting for my mother to drive me home, I'd decided to walk around campus. Now, I saw that my old tree stump was occupied. David sat on it, reading a book.

He'd lost weight since I'd last bothered to look at him. And gained acne. His skin was pale, almost translucent, like David was not of this world. Like a messenger from the hereafter.

“What are you staring at?” he said.

“Nothing.” I turned my gaze away. “What are you reading?”

He looked at me a second. Then, instead of handing me the book or just telling me what it was like a normal person, he read:

“Pretty,” I said, when he stopped reading and looked at me like he expected a response.

But as the word left my lips, I knew it was the wrong one. The poem was disturbing.

“You think so?” he said, like he knew I didn't. “Emily Dickinson. Ever feel that way?”

“No,” I said. But sometimes I did, didn't I? “Do you?”

“Yeah.” He stared at the poem a long time, like he was reading it again. “We used to live in Georgia, near my mother's people. It wasn't perfect. We were always poor. But, at least, there were others there like us. Then, my uncle told my father about a job here in Miami. ‘A prep school,' he said. ‘Where David would have the finest education—to make something of himself.' So, we left there and came here.”

“That sucks.” Thinking of all the times we'd been uprooted for Dad's career.

“Yeah, I've tried to talk them into letting me move back, live with my grandparents. But they won't.”

There was a long silence. I thought of the poem again:
to justify despair
.

“Why don't you…?” I stopped, looking for the right word, the right way to put it. “Couldn't you try to act … normal?”

“You mean act like them?” he said, and behind him, I heard the cheerleaders spelling something. I think it was
K - I - L - L!

“Well … yeah.” Except I'd wanted to say it some other way. “I mean, so they'd leave you alone.”

“Nope.” But he looked like he wanted to say something else.

“Why not?”

“I tried that. It didn't help. The price was too high.”

“But they'll just keep picking on you.”

“It won't be much longer,” he said. The cheerleaders had finished their cheer, and I just heard David. “Not much longer.”

And suddenly, I couldn't handle being around him anymore. Not for a second. I looked at my watch. Four o'clock. “I have to go,” I said. He nodded and went back to his book.

But walking back to find Mom, I kept hearing David's words in my ears:
It won't be much longer
.

Tuesday, it rained all day. Hurricane season was supposed to be over, but this storm was trying to jumpstart it. All gray morning, rain pounded the classroom doors. Old Carlos scrambled around, putting towels under cracks, and someone started a rumor that we'd get to leave early. Someone else picked up on it, and by third period, it was all over school. Between classes, we ran from one room to another because the rain pushed under the breezeway roofs, misting everything in sight.