The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 2

My mother was waiting when I got home. She tried to act nonchalant, as though she had not been wearing a hole in the carpet patrolling by the windowpane awaiting my arrival. The dining room door was ajar, with its large window looking onto the street. We only use the dining area at Christmas, or on the rare occasion friends or relatives came to visit. All the best cutlery stacked away in drawers, and plates with fancy designs piled high in a glass cabinet, like a well-preserved museum, albeit with pants drying on the radiator. We did our eating at the kitchen table. It made little sense to me. When he lived here, my brother and I co-existed in the cramped boxroom.

"Oh, there you are," she said, feigning surprise. "So, how did your day go?"

"Yeah, all right."

"What's this new place like?"

"It's a school."

"The teachers, they're—"

"All right."

"And you didn't have any of your..." She plucked a bobble from the sleeve of her white knit woollen jumper, "...episodes?"

"No." Annoyed, but trying not to show it.

The worried wrinkles on her brow seemed to melt away. "Thank heavens for small mercies. Anything exciting happen?"

"Nope."

"You're a mine of information, you are."

"What you want me to say? It's school, not a scene in a Tarantino flick."

"A what?"

"I got talking to a fella called Robbie. He seems—"

"You made a friend?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I didn't... now your brother, he'd talk to the devil himself. But you're..."

"That's right," I said, "I'm the quiet one." Or moody one, or sensitive one. It depended on the situation. I never understood my parent's eagerness to point out the differences between my older brother and me. You're like chalk and cheese is the usual line. This attitude is symptomatic of a deeper malaise in society; people focus more on our distinctions than on similarities. I preferred to celebrate the commonalities we share. Might be because I'm an Aquarius. They say Aquarians yearn for the universal recognition of the brotherhood of man. Not that I place too much faith in astrological signs. John Wayne Gacy's a Pisces. Pisces are renowned for their empathy and compassion.

"There's nothing wrong with being quiet," my mother said. She sighed. "If your brother was more like you, he wouldn't be in half the trouble... drive a saint to drink, he would..." Her voice trailed off, her eyes a mixture of anger and sadness. Seconds later, she snapped back to reality. "Tell me you didn't wear that jersey to school. You look a right gouger."

I shrugged.

"Why didn't you wear the nice new jacket we bought you," my mother said. "What's the matter? You don't like it?"

"It's fine," I said. An outright lie. Okay, it wasn't that bad. Except it was beige. Beige; a common metaphor for bland or boring. What fifteen-year-old wants to project that image? Especially a skinny one with pasty skin. Beige makes me look washed out and scary, like a character from The Nightmare Before Christmas. But I would never tell her that. Not when she had returned to work after a twelve-year absence, solely to help pay toward my tuition. Even considering it brought a hot flush of guilt.

Ah, guilt, the cornerstone of a catholic upbringing. Along with shame. I vividly remember our priest banging on about shame from the pulpit in his starched white vestments, the vein in his temple bulging, arms flailing like a TV evangelist on PCP. He spoke about shame like it was a virtue. And how we should be ashamed of our sinful ways because it showed God our contrition.