The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 24

The trapdoor creaked under my feet, the noose tightened around my neck.

"I was playing football, sir. I got smacked in the head. I looked back and saw Murphy. I thought he'd done it and I was mad, so I swung at him." Said sullenly, never once even glancing in my direction.

The principal stared at me. "This how it happened?" I nodded, stunned. Apologised, and made a penitent face for his benefit.

We both got detention and a warning about our conduct.

Every so often, during biology class, I would glance sideways. Fanning's bluish black-ringed eye showed signs of swelling. I wasn't proud of my actions. But the bitter stinging memories were too raw for regret, either.

I had that familiar feeling of wanting to be alone. Wished the world around me would dissolve.

A while later, I got called to appear in the guidance counsellor's office. I made my way slowly up the stair, imagining what fresh psychological torment lay in store.

A tall, cadaverously thin woman with flaming red hair sat behind her scarred wooden desk sifting through papers. I knocked. The door was open. She beckoned me into the poky, sparsely furnished room, telling me to close the door over.

I took a seat next to the large gunmetal grey filing cabinet and waited, watching dust dancing in the rays of light streaming through the panelled window.

She started by saying the principal had informed her about the fight. "You are in the top ten per cent of students in the school, Aaron. We did not expect this type of behaviour from you."

There it was, that word; Expectation. The cross I carried throughout my life. It seemed everybody expected me to be something. Nobody care a damn what I wanted.

I shrugged.

She started talking about the fight. What possessed me? People like me used my brains, not my fists. Her words floated around my ears. I focussed on the lone cup-shaped feather leaved red tulip wilting against the side of the blue vase on the desk. The green stem ripped from the fertile earth, deposited in water to wither and die.

"What do you want to do with your life?"

Do with my life? I hardly knew who I was anymore, let alone what I wanted to be.

She removed the biro from her lips. "You should be thinking about college."

Should; another of those words. You should be this, should do that. I was tired of hearing how I should be. What they expected me to be. Sick of having other people define my life. I nodded. Experience had taught me this was the easiest way to expedite a lecture.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"What...yeah..."

"These things are important."

"Yeah..."

"The decisions you make now impact the rest of your life."

"I know I know. College. Career. Marriage. Kids. Retirement. Death."

"Do you feel your life lacks purpose?" Jesus, why don't you ask me if I read Camus?

"You mean, am I depressed?"

"Yes."

"I, eh, well, sometimes..." I immediately regretted my candour.

"Is this something you wish to discuss?"

"No."

That did not prevent her from launching into a long-winded and earnest speech. The gist of which, was anything I said within the confines of these four walls would be kept in the strictest confidence. It was her job as a guidance counsellor to protect her students. Mental-health issues should not get swept under the carpet. How I needn't feel alone.

I found myself staring at the tulip again.

"Should you change your mind, my door is always open." Her face showed sympathy. Her sharp eyes scrutinised my features, hoping to uncover my covert thoughts.

"I'm okay." I'd had about enough of sharing. And my trust levels were not exactly at an all-time high.

She opened out a side-drawer and rummaged through the contents, producing a printed card. "This is a friend of mine. He works for the Eastern Health Board. St. Brendan's Hospital—"

"Grangegorman—the mad-house."

Her lips tightened. "It is a mental health care facility."

A tulip by any other name is still a tulip. "You want me to see a shrink?"

"A psychiatrist. He's a good man. And an excellent listener. He can help determine if there are any underlying issues causing your condition."

The biggest issue causing my condition was people not minding their own goddamn business.

She smiled. "It's free." Well, whoop-dee-doo. So, it won't cost me a thing to have a complete stranger tell me I'm abnormal.

I pocketed the card. It seemed the easiest way out.

Head swimming, I left her dingy office. Would this desperate day ever end?

When lunch break came around, I did what I usually did. I joined Keith and Roley by the steps. A force of habit.

We stood in a ring, silent as the stones in Stonehenge.

"I didn't mean for everybody to find out about..." Roley scratched his eyebrow.

I eyed the lighted cigarette nestled in his fingers. "Save us a drag."

He looked at me for a moment. "You smoke...now..."

"What's with the pictures?" Keith said. Unlike the counsellor, he didn't play with words. He said what he meant, which was no help.

Out of nowhere, I got hit with a burst of divine inspiration."Oh, them. Funny story, that. Robbie landed an audition for a movie. A thriller about a detective hunting a serial killer. In the opening scene, the police find a naked body in the woods."

The disbelief on their faces transposed to signs of genuine interest.

"It's not been cast yet. Got me thinking, y'know, why not..." It looked like they might buy it. So, I sold the shit out of it.

"It's a non-speaking role, but it pays three grand. Plus, they fly you to London. Then, take you over to Oxford to shoot the scene. Put you up in a swanky hotel, the works."

The more I talked, the more invested I became in the story. I was like a criminal-defence attorney, creating reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury, offering up a plausible theory to muddy the waters. If they couldn't be a hundred per cent certain, then they couldn't convict.

"Alan Rickman plays the detective."

"Who?" I glanced around. Noel and two others sidled up to our little group.

"The fella from Die Hard," I continued. "It's called Bright Midnight. Shooting starts six months from now. November, y'know for that wintery atmosphere." In the court of public opinion, the jury loves nothing more than a tearful apology or an entertaining lie.

"Don't you need training to be an actor?"

"I'll be playing a corpse. All I need to do is measure my breathing while the camera's on."

"You're really gonna be in the movie?"

"Robbie's sending the pictures to his agent. And she will pop them off to the casting director, and who knows?"

Naturally, there were more follow-up questions. My confidence in my duplicity was complete, and I volleyed back the answers like a tennis pro. It was game, set, and match, long before the bell rang. I had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

As we filed upstairs to the Geography room, I overheard Noely telling another classmate, "he's gonna be in a film with Bruce Willis." I allowed myself a sly smirk. I didn't need a doctor, I needed an acting coach. Hell, after today's performance, I could give Robbie a run for his money.

Robbie's face swam into my thoughts. I shut my eyes, trying to squeeze the image from my mind. Almost tripped over a step.