What I Thought Was True

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  “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 St
eel 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.

  Chapter Ten

  The first thing I see when I get home, sticky with spilled soda and French fry grease, are Nic’s big bare feet sticking over the edge of Myrtle. Vivien is crouched over them in dark purple bikini bottoms and a low-cut black tank.

  Good God. It’s four in the afternoon and they’re in our living room. On the couch under the wedding picture of my no-doubt-virginal grandmother. Not exactly the time or place for . . . having a foot fetish? Please tell me my cousin has clothes on. I clear my throat.

  Vivie glances up, smiles, completely unembarrassed, then bends back over Nic’s toes.

  And blows on them.

  “Uh, guys?!” I say. “Maybe you could . . . take it somewhere else. Officially dying here.”

  Nic sits up—thank God, dressed. “I’m doing penance,” he explains. “Making up for my sins.”

  My glance shoots to the crucifix, my grandmother’s sweet, serious face.

  “Uh . . .” I haven’t moved from the doorway. Viv sits back on her heels, squints at Nic’s foot, and then picks up a bottle of—“Oh my God, you guys, really!” I practically shout—clear nail polish and begins applying it to Nic’s other foot.

  Nic looks at my face and bursts out laughing. “You look so incredibly freaked out,” he manages, then starts laughing again.

  “Nico, hold still!” Vivie slaps at his leg.

  “Gwen, Gwen, listen. Viv and I were schlepping a bunch of fish chowder over to the Senior Lunch at St. Anselm’s, and Speed Demon here is doing her thing—”

  “I was only going fifty.”

  “In a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, Vee.” He nudges his toes lightly into her stomach, turns back to me, more serious now but still smiling. “She’s wigging out because we’re late and she doesn’t want Al to get all over her—but I can hear the chowder sloshing and if my little felon here racks up any more tickets she’ll be answering to the law, never mind Al.”

  Viv wrinkles her nose, sticks her tongue out at him. “You totally exaggerate how bad my driving is.”

  “Uh, no, I don’t. You’re a maniac. And I like having you in one piece. So she’s barreling along and then we get to this stoplight and the light turns green and the truck in front of us isn’t moving. So Vee leans out the window and says, ‘What are you waiting for, asshole?’ and flips the driver off.”

  “God, Viv,” I interrupt. “Don’t do that. We’ve told you like a billion times. You never know when you might run into some psychopath.”

  “Exactly. ’Cause this guy gets out of the car and he’s like eight feet tall, three hundred pounds, tattoos, leather vest, chains, and he is effing furious. He comes over to the window and gets in Viv’s face and says, ‘Gonna repeat that?’”

  “And I, like, burst into tears,” Viv says. “I’m picturing him killing Nic and then God knows what he’d do to me. My life is flashing before my eyes.”

  “So I know I need to talk this guy down because I sure as hell can’t take him down.”

  “But it’s the way you did it, Nic. He gets all chummy and buddy-buddy with this jerk.” Viv’s voice deepens. “‘So sorry, man. My honey here is a little touchy today. Normally she’s sweet as pie but she gets kinda high-strung at that time of the month, you know what I’m saying?’ And then this Neanderthal is clapping Nico on the back all-man-to-man and saying yeah, he has a wife and four daughters and he’s thinking of getting an RV that he can park in the driveway because their cycles are all the same and on and on and on—”

  I’m laughing now, and so is Nic again. “Well, he did save you,” I point out.

  “Yeah, but then they spent ten minutes telling women-are-cray-zee stories, which, I’ll have you know, Nic completely made up. He’s telling the guy that I once threw a pizza at him because he got the wrong toppings. That I threw his ball cap in a wood chipper because I was jealous of the time he was spending watching Sox games.”

  “But again, I did save you,” Nic says, reaching for her hand.

  “By making me sound like an out-of-control crazy hormonal bitch,” Viv says. “So having to get a pedicure is his penance for being Captain Macho. And so is wearing flip-flops next week so Hooper and Marco and Tony can admire his pretty tootsies.”

  “They do look dreamy, Nico,” I say. “And anyway, if she were really mad at you, she would’ve gone for pink.”

  Vivie winks at me—and then pulls a bottle of Day-Glo fuchsia polish out of her purse. “That was just the undercoat,” she says.

  “Aw.” Nic ruffles her hair. “You’re so cute when you’re all riled up, honeybun.”

  “Watch it, or you’ll get a manicure too.”

  He leans over and kisses her . . . and kisses her . . . and kisses her. On and on and on. I might as well be in the next county.

  Still, it’s good to know that this exists—true love—in my world. And not just in Mom’s books.

  Al Almeida is telling us what he expects of his catering crew tonight in a hushed, urgent tone, shifting his eyes to each of us in turn. The group of us is in a respectful circle outside the turreted canvas tent set up for the rehearsal dinner on Hayden Hill, the highest point of Stony Bay, windblown, exclusive, overlooking the water but from far, far away. We soberly observe him, appropriately dressed in our black-and-white outfits, peasants at the gates of the palace. Al’s intimidating, actually, with beetle-y brows and military-short hair. “All right—listen up.” He checks his watch. One of his watches. He always wears one on each wrist.

  “Showtime is in ten minutes. Seven o’clock. We’ve got a ton of littlenecks. Sorta skimpy on the oysters and the jumbo shrimp, but we’ve got extra-large for backup. You”—he points at me, Vivien, Melissa Rodriguez, and Pam D’Ofrio—“keep that raw bar stocked and ready. Empty spaces look cheap, and they don’t want cheap.” He pauses, lowers his voice further, and adds, “The bride’s family’s loaded, groom’s is running on fumes and Mayflower ancestors. Something to prove there.” He glares at Vivien, who has taken Nic’s hand and is absently kissing his palm. “You, young lady—pay attention. This will be up to you when all’s said and done.” Viv drops Nic’s hand and stands at attention, mock-saluting her stepdad. She throws me a quick glance, flipping her braid and nodding down at her left hand, where her middle finger is discreetly extended. Viv gets along with Al, but oh, how she hates his lectures.

  “You”—Al points to Nic—“keep the water glasses stocked and the ashtrays empty. Dominic—keep the wineglasses full. Two-thirds. Not completely. Don’t trade places.” He glares at Nic and Dom, who is Pam�
��s older brother. “You’re twenty-two, Dominic; you’re underage, Nic. We don’t need any legal hassles.”

  He turns back to Vivien, Pam, and me. “Keep those apps coming. We want them to fill up on the passed hors d’oeuvres before we bring out the lobster. Got it?”

  We nod.

  Al jerks his chin in satisfaction. “Go get ’em, team.”

  He always adds this at the end, as though he’s suddenly morphed into Coach Reilly.

  I’ve helped cater for Almeida’s for years and in all that time, I’ve never seen anybody I knew well at any of their events. Stony Bay is a small town, but the people I know don’t have events catered. Unless you count takeout from Castle’s.

  Tonight my luck runs out.

  I’ve finished passing out the garlic toast with Boursin and sundried tomatoes—only one lone straggler left—and am going back for another trayful, looking around for Vivien so I can complain about the man who just spent ten minutes staring down my shirt while demolishing the tray, when, for the second time today, I bump right into someone. “Shoot, oops,” the guy says, at the exact moment I say, “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was—”

  Then I stop dead. Because it’s Alex Robinson, tall, dark, and elegant as he was last summer. Despite how things ended, I get goose bumps. But Alex . . . he’s looking at me with absolutely no acknowledgment on his face, like I’m some random side dish he didn’t order and is wondering how to send back. Is it possible he doesn’t recognize me? How many half-Portuguese girls did he hook up with last summer?

  “Oh. Uh. Hi.” Alex wipes at the slosh of ice water I’ve spilled on his blue-and-white striped seersucker jacket. “It’s, uh, Gwen, right?”

  That’s a bit much. I debate saying “No, Suzanne.” Instead, I widen my eyes. “Do we know each other?”

  Alex blinks at me, a preppie owl. “Er . . .”

  I school my face to look patient and baffled.

  His eyes dart around, finally settling back on me. He clears his throat. “Look, I know it’s Gwen. Your . . . your mother was cleaning our house today. I thought maybe you’d come along with her.”