What I Thought Was True

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  “Decent,” Dad says. “Put a little more arm into it next time.”

  He grins at me. For a moment, I feel this surge of affection for him and I want, the way I wanted yesterday with Mom, to tell him the whole story . . . the boys and Nic and Vivien and the ring and . . .

  But we’ve never talked like that. So, instead, I reel my line in, hopeful for an instant as it snags hard on something, until I realize it’s just a clump of kelp.

  “Pal, look.” Dad clears his throat, squinting as he stares out at the far horizon. “I’m gonna give you something my folks didn’t give me when I was your age.”

  Not a car. Not a trust fund. Dad’s parents were, as Mom puts it, “unfit to have pets, much less kids.”

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “You can bait that hook and hand me my pole. What I’m going to give you, Gwen, is the truth.”

  Here’s where, in one of Mom’s books, or the classic movies Grandpa Ben likes, it would turn out that Dad was actually royal but estranged from his family. That I was the next heir to . . . My imagination gives out at this point from sheer futility.

  Dad casts, a perfect arc, line shimmering, glimmering out into the sea. “What’re you waiting for, Gwen? Get going!”

  So I shove slimy squid onto another hook and cast out myself. I know I do it well. Strange how you can be good at something that doesn’t mean anything to you at all. But it’s always mattered to Dad. The times we spend fishing are some of our best, most peaceful. When he’s on the water, all Dad’s rough edges smooth out, like he’s sea-glass.

  “You got your mom’s brains, and her looks. Sweet Mother of God, she was a beauty. Stopped your heart, seeing her.” He rubs his chest, looks out at the water, and then goes on. “You got those and my guts. You’re a hard worker and you don’t belly-ache about every little thing.” He pauses, wipes his fingers off on his faded shorts. “But the only chance you have of getting anywhere with any of that is to get the hell off this island.”

  “I love Seashell,” I say, automatically. True and not true. I tip my face up as the first fingers of the sun stretch across the water. My feet in their worn flip-flops are cold, the chill of the rocks seeping through the thin rubber soles.

  “Yeah, love,” Dad says. “That’ll get you nowhere fast. Look. I’m not going to sit here moaning about the mistakes I’ve made. What’s done’s done. But you’ve still got time. Chances. You can have . . .” He stops, his attention snagged by a distant sailboat. Dad checks out sailboats—the big beautiful ones like this Herreshoff gliding by, ivory sails bellying in the wind—the way some of the guys at school check out cleavage.

  “Can have what, Dad?”

  He throws back a gulp of coffee, grimaces again. “More.”

  I’m not sure where he’s going with all this. Dad’s not really one for self-reflection. He concentrates on casting out his line, jaw tense.

  After a few minutes he continues. “Here on Seashell, it’s always going to be us against them, and let’s face it—it’s gonna be them in the end, because ‘them’ gets to choose what happens to ‘us.’ Get off island, Gwen. Find your place in the world. You got a ticket in your hand already with the old lady losing her marbles.”

  My line sways, spider-webbing in the water. Dad catches me by the elbow with one hand, and then carefully reels in my line, calloused warm hand over mine. “She’s loaded and she’s losin’ it. You’re gonna be there every day. Her family isn’t. Make the most of that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s redoing her will this summer. I heard her nurse, Joy, talking about it on line at Castle’s. Her son wants to take over power of attorney, so she’s tying up the legal stuff . . .”

  “Dad, that has nothing to do with me.” Is he really suggesting what I think he’s suggesting? I feel like throwing up, and it’s not the combination of frozen squid and empty stomach. I look at Dad’s ducked head, incredulous.

  “For God’s sake, the damn fish took the bait right off the line without me even feeling a tug. Bastard. Put some more on, pal. What I’m saying is you’ve got the goods to go places. Do it for me. Do it for your ma. Just be real smart, is all I’m telling you. Pamper that old lady within an inch of her life. Her family’s off in the city, she’s on her own. Better you wind up with a nice little chunk a change than them, the way I see it.”

  “Dad . . . are you saying . . .”

  “I’m telling you to keep your eyes open for opportunity. Mrs. E.’s not noticing stuff around her house the way she used to—and she never was one of those ones that knew exactly how many silver crab claw crackers she had, not like some of the fruitcakes your mom cleans for.”

  I close my eyes, picturing Mrs. Ellington’s porch, the engraved silver of the tea service, the polished antiques, the leather-bound, gold-embossed books in the bookshelves. Her family legacy.

  This is my legacy? Does Dad actually believe that the only way I’m likely to have anything is to grab somebody else’s? What happened to all his lectures about hard work and the people who got ahead were the ones who sucked it up and put their nose to the grindstone, and . . .

  “Dad?”

  I can’t seem to come up with anything more to say. He stares out at the water, at the distant horizon, eyes somber. I keep chopping bait, sliding it on the hook, bending and casting out. I remember Mrs. Ellington watching that separation of sea and sky during our interview, Nic, Viv, and I doing the same last night, and for the first time I realize that none of us are seeing the same thing. That all our horizons end in different places.

  “So, I need you to fill in for me at lunchtime today. This won’t be a usual thing. But I just had to fire this kid—too much of a moron and always showing up late and high. I’m shorthanded for this afternoon. We’re gonna get slammed. Can you pinch hit? I’ll pay you overtime, even though it’s not a holiday. C’mon, pal.”

  “I have a rehearsal dinner with Vivien and Almeida’s tonight. Plus watching Em all day. And Mrs. Ellington starts Monday. I can’t work all the time.” Visions of any summer lazing are quickly fading to black in my head.

  “If you play it smart, like I said, you won’t have to.” He brushes zucchini bread crumbs off his faded olive green shorts, crumples the now-empty foil wrapper and sticks it back in the cooler. “But today, I need you. The first few weeks I’m figuring out who the bad apples are. And you’re my good egg.”

  “Dad. About what you said. I mean, about Mrs. Ellington—”

  “Just think about it, Guinevere, smart advice from your old man.” Dad takes the pole from me, securing the hook. “Embroider it on a pillow. Spray-paint it on your wall. Just never forget it: Don’t be a sucker. Screw them before they screw you.”

  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.”