Текст книги "What I Thought Was True"

Автор книги: Huntley Fitzpatrick

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Chapter Nine

Back home, I push open the screen door to the familiar sound of Nic running through his Coastie fitness routine—the little grunt he always makes when he picks up a weight, the clatter and puffed exhale when he sets one down. I hardly wanted to get out of bed to meet Dad, but here’s Nico—who I happen to know was out until three in the morning with Vivien—ensuring his physical fitness.

“You are not a normal teenage boy,” I say as I enter the living room, which is like climbing into a gigantic wet sneaker. Em’s curled on the couch, nestled in a blanket with Hideout the hermit crab in his arms and Fabio drooling on his leg, dividing his attention between watching Nic sweat and some Elmo video.

“No.” Panting, Nic rolls to his side, lets the weights he’s been bench-pressing crash to the ground. “I’m better, stronger, faster.”

“Smellier,” I say. “Where’s Mom?”

“Robinsons’,” he grunts, picking up the weight again, his damp, sandy brown hair sticking to his forehead.

Oh, right. Making their house sparkle. On a Saturday. God, Mom. Doctors are on call, not you.

I sit down next to Emory, ruffling his hair. He smells sticky and sweet, no doubt from the bowl of Cap’n Crunch he’s got resting on his lap. He snuggles his head against my shoulder, shoving Hideout under my nose.

“Say good morning to Hideout.”

“Morning, Hideout.” I catch a whiff of spaghetti sauce—Emory sneaks him bites during meals.

For a few minutes, Em and I both watch Nic like he’s theater, while I turn over in my head various casual, subtle ways to bring up the ring. I inhale, bite my lip, blow out a breath a few times. Nic’s too focused on his weight curls to notice that I look like one of the bluefish Dad caught as it flopped around on the rocks.

How would this even work? Would it be a long engagement? Like—they’d marry when he got out of the Coast Guard Academy? Or are they planning to do it now? I’m picturing Viv moving into the bedroom Nic shares with Grandpa Ben and Emory. Or Mom and me having to move out of the room we share and sleep together on Myrtle to give them privacy (though that’s never seemed too high on their list of requirements). Or Nic and Vivien resurrecting the battered old tent we used to pitch in the yard all summer as their love nest. I can’t see them moving in with Viv’s mom and stepdad. Al usually glares at Nic like someone from the Old Testament, and Mrs. Almeida pitches a fit when she even catches them holding hands.

It’s so ridiculously implausible in the light of day. Because it’s all the same—Nic’s focused scowl on the uplift, relaxing into pained relief as he sets the weight down, his faded, torn, “lucky” camouflage green workout shirt, sleeves torn off—everything. Manny must have been talking through his beer brain.

“Do I look like I’ve gained weight to you?” Nic asks abruptly, my staring at him with a crinkled forehead finally getting through.

“Yup, those shorts make your butt look huge.”

He frowns at me. “I’m serious. I’ve been eating over at Viv’s all the time since school got out and her mom’s desserts . . . If I bulk up too much, my swim timing will suck, and those guys will take their edge and—”

“Nico, you’re fine.”

He blows out a breath, lowering the weight and panting.

“Can you hold my ankles while I do crunches?”

I drop to the floor, loop my fingers around his sweaty, hairy ankles. I’ve been doing this for him for years, and the familiarity of it makes me brave again.

“Nico, Manny said– Are you and Vivien—”

“D’you think I should shave my legs?” he interrupts, panting.

“For prom?”

“For speed.”

“I don’t think your pelt slows you down too much, cuz. Nobody else on the team does it.”

There’s a sharp, military-sounding rap on the door. I get up and open it to find Coach Reilly awkwardly holding a plastic bag. He’s so out of context that I blink. I’ve never seen him on the island. Cass, now Coach. It’s a Stony Bay invasion. He thrusts the bag at me as though it’s a bomb with a ticking time clock, then glances around the room, his brows pulling toward each other. “Your ma here?”

I glance into the bag to find it full of romance novels with titles like The Desirable Duke and The Sheik Who Shagged Me. I so don’t want to think Coach reads these.

“My neighbor was gonna chuck ’em. I know Lucia goes for this kind of thing. So . . . she’s not home?”

I shake my head, try not to squint at him. Dad calls Mom “Luce,” only “Lucia” when they’re arguing. But the way Coach says the word, it sounds . . . different. I didn’t think he thought of her as “Lucia”—as anything but my mom, Nic’s aunt. I’m beginning to think I know absolutely nothing about what’s going on with anyone.

“Come on in.” I open the door wider.

He shoulders his way into the room. “Hey, Nic the Brick.” Nic, who’s at the top of a weight curl, grunts a hello.

Emory gives Coach Reilly a distracted wave. Coach ruffles his hair, asks, “When you going to run track for me, Big Blue?”

Em holds out his arms, says, “Whoosh, faster than a locomotive. Speeding.”

“Just what SB High needs, buddy,” Coach says, sitting down heavily on one of the kitchen stools and unzipping his SBH jacket. He looks even more flushed than usual.

“Can I get you some water?” Or a defibrillator?

“Naah. Gwen, gonna cut to the chase. Got a kid on the swim team who’s in a jam. Screwed up in English and flunked that big final. Two-thirds of his grade shot to hell. The teacher will let him retake at the end of the summer. But he needs a tutor. I know you saved Pieretti’s butt with Lit 1 last fall. If Cass doesn’t maintain a good average, he’s off the team. We need him. I figured since he’s right here on the island this summer, it would be easy for you guys to find the time.”

Of course I knew instantly it was Cass. Not because I think of him as a bad student, but somehow the minute I heard Coach say “swim team,” I knew. Cass is getting to be like that one rock on the beach that you stub your toe on every time.

“I don’t think I’m the best person to help him,” I say. “Pam D’Ofrio tutors. And she’s on island too.”

I hear a sound like a cat choking up a hairball. It’s Nic, clearing his throat.

“You okay, Brick?” Coach asks.

Nic coughs again in that same incredibly fake way, then wheezes out. “Need a cough drop. (Hack, hack.) Gwen—can you show me where you keep yours?”

He jerks his head toward Mom’s and my bedroom with these big pleading eyes. Mystified, somewhat irritated, I follow him.

The minute we’re inside, he grabs my forearm. “Do it. Man up and do it.”

I lean back against the door. “Why? If Cass gets booted, your shot at captain is in the bag.”

Nic grimaces. “No way do I want to win like that. Get it handed to me. Besides, Somers ups my game. I do my best when I’m trying to outdo someone. I need that edge.” He’s been looking at me intently. Now his eyes fall to Mom’s ruffled pink-and-brown bedspread.

“Look, I know things are maybe a little”—he rubs his perspiring jawline without looking at me—“whatever. With you and Somers. I mean, pretty damn clear last night, whatever the hell that was. But do this. For us. I need Coach to write me a rec for the academy. He went there. That’s huge. I need it.”

“You honestly think he wouldn’t rec you if I don’t tutor Cassidy? You’ve been on his team since freshman year. Cass and Spence just got on last year.”

“Probably. But I don’t know for sure. I need sure. The CGA is one of the hardest damn institutions in the country to get into. Every boost counts,” Nic says, stretching his arms over his head, revealing armpit hair that may actually be piling several minutes onto his swim time. “C’mon, cuz.”

I fix him with my own intimidating stare. “You will owe me forever for this. I own your soul.”

“My ass, maybe. Not my soul. God, this is just tutoring, Gwen. I’m not asking you to screw the guy.”

My face must change color, because Nic starts stammering. “I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . . I wasn’t . . . That didn’t come out like . . .”

I point a finger at him. “Your soul,” I repeat. “Vivien can have your sorry ass.”

“Deal,” Nick says swiftly. “My sorry soul is all yours.”

When we get back, Coach has sat down next to Emory, and is looking at the pictures in the Superman comic book Em is leafing through, his arm around Em’s shoulders. I skid to a halt, swallowing, and realize I’m not sure when I last saw Dad do that.

Making one last attempt to extract myself from this situation, I ask casually, “Have you mentioned this idea to Cassidy? Because he might not be up for it.” I hear Nic hoist one of his weights again and wonder if he’s going to bop me on the head with it.

Coach spreads his hands. “He’ll be up for what he needs to be up for. This is important as hell. We have a shot at state coming up but only with Somers. On your end, adding tutoring during the summer looks damn good to colleges. You know Somers can afford to pay top dollar.”

Family, money, looking good to colleges. My Achilles’ heels. Assuming you can have three of those.

“Help me out here, Gwen. Take one for the team.”

Even without the Nic pressure, it would be nearly impossible to say no to Coach. He’s a good guy. Everyone knows he was crazy about his wife, who cheered at every meeting, brought hot chocolate for the boys on the bus, and who died last fall.

I take a deep breath. How bad can this be? Obviously, based on yesterday, I already knew I was going to be seeing more of Cass this summer than I’d planned. This is purely professional. I didn’t quit timing the swim team after what happened in March, after all. I just managed to avoid any personal conversation. I can do the same with this. “I’m in.”

Coach claps me on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of me and says he’ll speak to Cass about it. “You two can work it out next time you run into each other.” He punches his hand into the pocket of his jacket, jingling what sounds like loose change. “Gwen? Keep it on the down low. No need to let the world know he’s had any struggle. Once or twice a week should cut it. He’s a smart kid. He’ll do whatever he needs to do to get where he wants to go.”

Yeah. I know.

* * *

* * *

Even though I thought I’d escaped, here I am at Castle’s once again, trying to get out of wearing my little hat with the crown around it.

“Whatcha think of this week’s specials?” Dad asks, nodding at the blackboard.

I’ve parked Emory at a picnic table in the shade and set out finger paints, a situation that could turn critical at any moment.

“Stuffed peppers,” I read out loud from the top of the blackboard. “Maple-basted bluefish?”

“Well?” Dad asks, tipping back on his heels, squinting at the board. “I figure two new specials a day—or every coupla days, just to keep ’em guessing.”

“Dad . . . People come to Castle’s for . . . beach food . . . summer food. Burgers. Hot dogs. Lobster rolls. They’re not going to want to stop off after spending the day at the beach and have maple-basted bluefish. Ever. Where’d you get that, anyway?”

“Food Network,” he says absently, rubbing his chin with his thumb. “We gotta do something. Last time I drove by that damn Doane’s, there was a line all the way down the pier.”

“They sell ice cream and penny candy. There’s always a line. I’m not sure maple-basted bluefish is playing to the same crowd.”

Emory tugs at me with one hand, holding up the other, coated in red paint, like Lady Macbeth. I pull him over to the little outdoor sink at the back and rinse him—and me—while Dad follows, continuing. “Nah, think about it, kid. The season’s here, we get the college kids, the renters. The renters’ kids. They’re doing the marijuana. They get the munchies. They come here—they see the specials. We sell out.”

“Dad . . . if kids get the munchies, they want cheese fries or brownies. Not maple-basted bluefish.” No one wants maple-basted bluefish. Blech.

His gaze sharpens on me. “How do you know this, Guinevere Angelina Castle?”

Um, I’m a teenager? I go to high school? “Health class.”

Dad shakes his head. “Don’t you dare go down that dead-end road, mess with your brain.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I stick to cocaine.”

He scowls. “Well, knock it off. That stuff’s wicked expensive. And pull up your shirt—there.” He jerks his head at my neckline. It’s not even low. I tug it up anyway. Dad tosses me my purple apron, even better coverage, and tells me to man the side booth. “And put on your hat.”

Within ten minutes, we’re totally overwhelmed. Nedda, who must have the patience of all the saints, because she’s worked here for three years, is slaving over the grill. A busload of tourists headed to Foxwoods is taking up two-thirds of our parking lot and three-quarters of our burger supply. A skinny new guy named Harold is languidly manning the fry basket. I’ve got Emory parked at a back table now, with a grilled cheese.

“Gwen, table six, fast. We’re running behind,” Dad barks. “I’ll handle the orders, you hustle ’em out there. We get more tips if a pretty girl does the running.”

Dad rarely dishes out compliments, so they always hit hard when he does. I’m blushing a little as I gather up the tray of burgers and birch beers and head out to six. Which . . . naturally . . . is Cass. And someone who looks a lot like him. Not his dad. Dark-haired, but with the same lean-muscled look and piercing blue eyes.

Cass has his back to me, hands braced on the table. “We’ve been through this a million times, Billy. What more do you want from me?”

“Some sign that you’ll listen to your own brain instead of Channing’s. We all know how well that worked out at Hodges, squirt.”

I suppress a smile at the nickname.

“That was a year ago, Bill—and it was just a joke. That place takes itself way too seriously.”

“A joke that got you out on your ass. Still pretty damn embarrassing for Jake too, since he works there. Spence’s dad might have finessed it so expulsion didn’t show up on his record, but it’s on yours, little brother. For keeps.”

Cass is now digging a thumbnail into the wood of the picnic table. The backs of his ears are flushed. I’m standing there with their food, blatantly eavesdropping. I always kind of wondered why he and Spence came to SBH last fall as juniors. Prepped-out Hodges is where Stony Bay kids go when price is no object.

“Look, you’re smarter than this, squirt. I’d hang it up if I felt like you’d learned your lesson, but you haven’t. This garbage with your grades looks like more of the same screwing up to me. To everyone. I love Spence, but he’ll always come out smelling like a rose. You won’t.”

“You’re my brother, Bill, not—”

“Dad and Mom would tell you the same thing.”

“They have. Constantly. You know Mom, she loves to over-explore. Look, I’m paying my dues—working on the island, mowing freaking football fields’ worth of lawns. I did a dumbass thing, got a few lousy grades. Let’s move on, for Chrissake,” Cass says, standing abruptly. “Shouldn’t the food be here by now?”

He whirls around and almost directly into me. One of the drinks splashes tsunami-style into the plate of fries and onto my apron.

“I—was just bringing you this.” I start mopping at the fries, but they’re hopeless. Then I brush at my shirt, totally frazzled. “I’ll get you some more. No problem. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Is that ours?” his brother calls out.

“I’ll take it,” Cass says, reaching for the tray. “You don’t have to wait on me.”

“It’s my job,” I say. He’s got his hands on the tray, and mine are there too in a kind of flashback to our near-wrestle over the lobsters. And my peacoat, last spring. I drop my hands, wipe off my palms, shove the soggy napkins into my apron pocket.

He stands there balancing the tray in one hand, looking out at the cow pasture that’s directly behind Castle’s, jaw clenched. “You heard all that, right?”

I shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, nothing to do with me.”

He examines my face, then grins. “I call bullshit. You want to know.”

“Ha. Don’t kid yourself. I couldn’t care less what you did then.” My turn to look off at the cows, try to absorb their barnyard zen. “Or now.”

He sets down the tray, slants a hip against the table. His brother’s gotten up and is heading for the service window, no doubt to complain about the ditz who ruined their fries.

“Ever been inside Hodges—aside from the pool area?”

“Other than the girls’ locker room, no.”

“Pretentious as hell for small-town Connecticut.” He shrugs. “Not to mention that you had to call the teachers ‘master’ and ‘mistress’ whatever. Should be called ‘Stodges’ instead of ‘Hodges.’” He tugs at his collar as though the mere memory is choking him.

I’m smiling despite my determination to project complete indifference.

Cass cocks his head at me, folding his arms. “Oh, never mind. Why am I telling you this? You don’t care.”

“Do not do that. Now you have to tell me.”

He rocks back on his heels, smiles. “Careful, Guinevere. You might forget you hate me.”

“I—”

I look over to see if Dad has noticed my dawdling, but he’s apparently in some sort of near altercation with a vendor, who is holding a huge cardboard barrel of ice cream. Automatically, I check the table where Emory was drawing, but he’s not there. Oh God.

The parking lot.

The road.

I whirl around.

Then I feel a soft brush past me, and my little brother steps in front of Cass, head titled. He’s so small, even though he’s eight, that reaching up to Cass’s chest is a big deal. He touches it lightly, moves his finger across it in a slow, snake-like motion. I have no idea what he’s doing.

“Superman,” he says proudly, like he’s seen through Cass’s disguise. He traces the shape again—it’s an S, I realize—and beams at both of us.

Cass looks down, game face on, but not freaked out. I hope.

“Hi, Superman,” Emory repeats, invisibly drawing the shield thing around the S.

I don’t know why he’s doing this. Cass has neither dark hair nor a cape waving in the wind. Maybe the blue of his shirt or the way he stands with his shoulders back, chin lifted.

Now Dad looks over. “Sorry,” he calls to Cass and his brother, who’s returning with a fresh order of fries, then to me: “Gwen, don’t let your little brother pester the customers, for God’s sake.”

“It’s fine,” Cass calls. His brother sets the fries down on the table and immediately Em’s reaching for them.

“Superman,” he repeats, popping one in his mouth and chewing cheekily.

“Em, no!” I struggle as I usually do when people meet him for the first time, whether to explain or just let them take Em as Em.

“My brother is—”

Cass cuts me off. “We bumped into each other on the beach yesterday. He was with your grandfather. I gave them a lift up the hill. They seemed tired.”

I blink. “Before or after your rescue attempt with the lobsters?”

“Before.” Cass winks at Emory, who is eating another fry. “The Man of Steel never rests. Or maybe that’s Jose the yard boy. I get my alter egos confused.”

“Hi there,” his brother says to me, with a short wave. “Bill Somers.”

“This is Gwen Castle, Billy. She’s the one I was saying should tutor me for that English makeup.”

Wait. This was his idea? Not Coach’s?

“Good to meet you. And—don’t pull your punches with squirt here. He deserves it.”

Cass’s ears turn red. He shoots Bill a swift death-glare.

“Gwen!” Dad calls. “Get your little brother back over here. You don’t have time for screwing around.”

Bill tells me it was a pleasure, Cass has retreated into his bland, neutral look, and Emory’s made a major dent in their fries. I stammer out an apology, take Em’s greasy hand, and turn to go, only to run into the solid wall of Dad. He’s got yet another new plate of French fries, not having missed a thing.

“Sorry about this. These’re on the house too,” he says. Then, stern, to me: “Get back where I can keep an eye on you, kid. Emory’s the one who is supposed to need a babysitter.”

God, Dad. I feel my face burning. But Cass is looking down at the ground, not at me, nudging at the pebbles with the toe of his sneaker, all neutral face. Dad’s bristly and defensive, Bill faintly amused. Only Emory is completely at ease. He sidles up to Cass, traces the shield design once again, sweeps his finger in an S. “Superman,” he says.

“I wish,” Cass mutters.