What I Thought Was True

by Huntley Fitzpatrick

  I open my eyes still wider. “Really? You missed me? Aw, that’s so sweet! I would have come, honest, but I had to stay home with Alex, Jr. He can walk now, and he’s just getting into everything, the little rascal!” I channel Mom for a look of weary maternal pride.

  He pales. “Now . . . wait . . . I—”

  I’m enjoying this, because I am a mean and spiteful person. “Were you like that too, Alex? What a chip off the old block our little cutie is.” I let one hand drift to my stomach and smile, Madonna-like.

  Alex blinks, then shakes his head. “Ha-ha. I’d forgotten your sense of humor. If—er—that had happened, it would have just, uh, been born.” His eyes flick to my cleavage. Two guesses what he does remember. “How, uh, have you been, really?”

  I balance the tray on my hip, brush away a strand of hair the light breeze has blown against my lips. “Fine. You?”

  “Terrific,” he says. “Great. A good year at Choate. Headed to Princeton in the fall. My dad went there, so that’s . . . all . . . good.” His gaze once again drops to my chest, as though it exerts some sort of magnetic pull.

  “Hmm” is the only thing I can think to say.

  After Alex ended things last fall, when I imagined seeing him again, I always looked fantastic and he groveled at my feet. I was never wearing my ill-fitting Almeida’s Arrangements T-shirt—complete with mermaid extending a plate of stuffed quahogs—sweating, and with my unruly hair escaping its ponytail. I did not imagine how hard it would be to think of anything to say to him. Maybe I should have remembered how little actual talking we did.

  “So.” Alex’s gaze roams down again, then off toward the raw bar. “I just, ah, thought I’d go try the—um—shrimp.”

  “Sure,” I respond. “Why not? You’ve already sampled all I’ve got to offer.” This is too much, I know, but as usual, once I start talking, I can’t stop myself. The kiss-off text he sent me still makes me pissed, even nearly a year later.

  “Now, look,” Alex says, “I—I—” His eyes dart around the tent again. “I have to . . . I think I hear someone calling me.”

  He wheels away from me, walks off—practically sprints.

  “That was enlightening,” says a voice in my ear.

  I turn and stare into laughing ocean-blue eyes. “Wouldn’t it have been more efficient to castrate him?” Cass continues, filching the last piece of Boursin toast.

  “I considered it.” I pick up the butter knife on my tray and wag it at him. “But I didn’t think this was up to the job.”

  “Sounds like Alex wasn’t either,” Cass says. “Maybe somebody beat you to the castrating.” Then he reddens, like he just realized we’re talking about Alex’s penis, which I have clearly gotten to know.

  When he blushes like that—now it’s spreading from his ears all over his cheekbones—I remember the Cass of that summer on the island. His hair is so many shades of blond now—gold and amber and yellow and dark blond at the roots—but the season he spent on Seashell, he was a towhead with fair, unfreckled skin. It was one of those crazy-weather summers, sheets of rain for days on end, high winds. Instead of the usual activities run by the island “camp counselor” that Seashell used to hire—kayak lessons, bike races, scavenger hunts—they had kids’ movies in the Club House every Saturday night to keep everyone under fifteen busy and distracted. The first time I met Cass, he opened the door for me as we were walking in. Then he turned bright pink.

  “His castration would be no loss to anyone, trust me,” I say, and then want to clap my hand over my mouth. Cass may have mentioned Alex’s equipment, but I had to go rate his performance? God. This is not a subject that should be raised between us.

  “I know that kid.” Cass squints at Alex’s retreating back. “We were at tennis camp together two years ago. His forehand sucks. Which tells you something right there.”

  I burst out laughing, then do clap a hand over my mouth. “So . . . tutoring,” I say, trying to straighten out my face. “How many classes, exactly, did you screw up?”

  Okay, that was a bit rude. I’m feeling off balance. Cass smells like lemons—I think he’s wearing aftershave. I’ve never seen him formally dressed. Now he’s wearing a tailored blue blazer, sky-blue shirt that brings out his eyes, yellow tie.

  I may have been brainwashed by Grandpa Ben’s old movies, set in eras when the clothes made the man. I’m so used to Nic’s stinky rumpled wife-beaters, Dad’s aged plaid flannels, Hooper’s dubious pattern combos. Dressed-up Cass is like a creature from another planet. One I want to colonize. Oh, God, please stop.

  Al Almeida walks by with a platter of lobsters, steam rising, and I finally get a grip.

  I shift my eyes back to Cass. “The shellfish here? Taken care of,” I say, just to say something. “No need to ride to the rescue, Jose.”

  “You’re welcome for that, by the way, Maria. I’m sure you meant to thank me this afternoon.”

  “Can I remind you that I didn’t ask for your help?”

  Cass’s teasing smile fades. “I know. I’m . . . ah, I’m asking for yours, though. That tutoring? It’s . . . it’s important. I know it’s probably the last thing you want . . .”

  I shrug.

  “I can pay. I mean, you know that. I flaked out this spring—just wasn’t . . . concentrating. So I basically about flunked out of English lit . . . Spence can screw around and still pull in the grades. He said only a moron could flunk ELA.” Cass shuts his mouth abruptly as if he’s said too much.

  I could reassure him. I could tell him it’s no problem. Or that he’s not a moron. Instead I say, “Why do you put up with that guy?”

  Cass’s jaw sets, a muscle jumping. “He can be a prick, but he’s a good friend to me.” There’s a note of challenge in his voice, a glove he’s throwing down that I am definitely not picking up. When I say nothing, he adds, “Right. So will you . . . ?” He breaks off, raising his eyebrows.

  And now here’s Nic bearing down on us, glaring. “Gwenners, Al’s all over Vee because he says you’re slacking off—the whole ‘how are you going to run the show if you can’t keep your staff in line’ deal. You need to get back to work.”

  It’s been a given for a long time that Almeida’s would go to Vivien, since her stepdad has no kids of his own. Still, I hadn’t exactly seen myself as “her staff.” I get a chilling image of what it would be like to still be wearing my quahog shirt at sixty, no longer the equal, nowhere close, of my own best friend.

  “My fault,” Cass puts in. “I was keeping her, figuring out a summer schedule. For tutoring.”

  “Yeah.” Nic’s tone is sub-zero, a direct contrast to the angry heat that, for some reason, is burning off him. “Wouldn’t want you to let that slide and end up off the team. Not when we’re so close to state, right, Somers?” Then he turns to me, letting Cass stew in the cloud of testosterone he’s emitting. “Vee needs you.”

  Cass leans back a little, studies Nic’s face. “How about you? Getting much swim time? Hear you’re working for Seashell Maintenance too. Gonna be able to get your hours in?”

  “I’ll manage,” Nic says, still frosty. He’s standing up straighter, as if to emphasize his two-inch height advantage. “Got the ocean right at hand, twenty-four/seven, after all.”

  Cass stares out at the distance, his eyes dreamy, as though he can see the water from here. “I was thinking about that. How we should probably do some training over the summer, especially now that they’re not running the swim camp at SB—get some of the guys out, keep the team vibe going, get ourselves some wind and water challenges.”

  In the distance, I can see Al waving his hands in despair, jerking his head toward the denuded raw bar.

  “We’d better go,” I say, giving Cass a smile so quick it’s more like a grimace.

  “Wait.” He touches my shoulder as I turn to go. “Call me. Or you could come to the Field House—to figure out the timing. For tutoring, I mean.”

  Nic now has me by the other elbow and is hauling me away. “Y
ou are not going to the Field House apartment with that guy,” he hisses, practically shaking me by the arm.

  I yank myself free. “What’s with you?” I ask, suddenly worried Nic has been taking steroids or something. “You were the one all hot to have me tutor him!”

  “Yeah, well, while you two were in your little football huddle over here, I was pouring water at his family’s table, and some lady was asking Mr. Somers about Cass getting the captain spot on the team this year, saying he was a shoo-in.”

  Nic’s face is stormy, almost threatening.

  “So what? You’ll get it, Nico. Cool down.”

  “No, listen,” Nic continues, flexing his fingers. “Look . . . I feel weird telling you this, but . . . I get to the next table and it’s Spence Channing, buddy-buddy with Alex Robinson. Talking about you. Alex says you were ‘a fun time.’ A fun time? That assclown. Spence just laughs and says you’re a swim team tradition. He’s on my fucking team and he’s disrespecting my cousin. I mean, I’m on the bus, I hear how they talk about girls—all ‘I’d tap that’ and ‘she’s hot, but-her-face’—but this is you, Gwen. Who the hell does he think he is? Who the hell does he think you are?”

  I swallow. My face heats, freezes, then gets hot again. Spence knows who I am. Better than I’d like.

  “Then I have to refill his goddamn water glass, not punch his face in . . .” Nic’s hand curls into a fist and he glares across the room, then looks back at me. “Aw, cuz. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I wasn’t thinking, too pissed off, I—”

  “No big deal, Nico. I have a ways to go before I become a tradition. Plus, I’m going to have a hard time with Hank Klein, unless he breaks up with Scott Varga. But, you know me, I thrive on a challenge.”

  “Don’t, Gwen,” Nic says quietly. “Not with me.”

  I’m silent as we push through the half-plastic, half-cloth curtain that shields the main tent from the makeshift kitchen/prep area.

  “About time, Guinevere!” Al says, thrusting another tray of shrimp and cocktail sauce at me. I take it, pull back the curtain and scan the tent, searching for the navy stripes of Alex’s seersucker jacket.

  It’s sort of like Where’s Waldo . . . there are a lot of blue-and-white striped jackets. Finally I locate him, still sitting next to Spence. But now he’s talking to some redheaded chick on his left and Spence has on his half-amused, half-bored face. Which is his go-to expression, the world-weary aristocrat. He only looks happy when he’s swimming, training, or hanging out with Cass and the rest of his crew.

  He perks up when I appear at his elbow. “Castle! Am I glad to see you. A favor? The bartender’s a little elusive. Snag a bottle of champagne for us here?”

  Brushing a piece of his shiny, very straight dark hair out of his eyes, he gives me his practiced slow smile, the trademark once-over. Spence is good-looking, no lie. But there’s something too sharp. Like you could paper-cut yourself on him without him even noticing.

  I take a deep breath, tightening my grip on the tray. “Not my job, Channing. I just do the setup and pass the food. Plus, you’re underage.”

  “It’s a wedding rehearsal dinner. All rules are suspended. All of them. I just walked by my uncle Red in the backseat of his car with one of the bridesmaids.” He lowers his voice to a loud whisper. “Don’t tell Aunt Claire.”

  Since I have no idea who Aunt Claire or Uncle Red are, this is unlikely. But it throws me off for a second before I say, “I’m not here to wait on you. I’m here to tell you you’ve got the wrong word.”

  An emotion—in this case, puzzlement—actually crosses his face. “Come again?”

  “If I were a swim team ‘tradition,’ Spencer, I would be something that happened repeatedly.”

  Another emotion, a brief flash of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean for you to hear about that.”

  “Maybe next time you should pay more attention to who’s pouring your ice water. Did you really think Nic wouldn’t pass that one on? He may be your teammate, but he’s my cousin. Blood trumps chlorine.”

  Alex has picked up on my raised voice and peeks over, takes in the situation, turns away, clearly distancing himself from any potential “scene.” He hated scenes, probably why he broke up with me by text.

  “I think the word you were going for is mascot. You should work on your vocab, or your SATs are going to tank.”

  I walk away to the sound of Spence’s startled laughter.

  When Vivie and Nic drop me outside our house, I hold my hand up in farewell, climb two steps, and plunk down wearily on the porch. The back of one of my shoes is jabbing into my heel like a blade saw.

  The sky is hazy June-night beautiful, with the moon cutting sharp into the dark, but the stars are nothing but pinpricks. The night breeze is shifting, stirring through the woods, over the water, bringing in the silty, sandy smell of low-tide.

  I look down the High Road. The quartz embedded in the tar glitters in the moonlight. Seashell has no streetlamps. This late at night, barely any windows are still lit in the long line of houses along the road. The Field House is five down from ours. I wonder if Cass stayed late at the party. I didn’t see him as we packed up the van to leave. Partly because I tried really hard not to look. Will he spend the night in town in his sailing-ship house, or here on Seashell? I rub my hands up and down my arms, abruptly chilly in the night breeze, and wonder why I’m suddenly thinking about Cass Somers so much. Gah. Part of the whole point of this summer was to forget him.

  I let myself in through the rattly porch door with the broken latch—the one Nic keeps saying he’ll fix—and the house is quiet, peaceful, so different from all the sound and drama in the tent.

  Mom’s dozed off on the couch, her brow crinkled, still clutching a brightly colored paperback. Leaning over, I pull it out, dog-ear the page she’s on (which I can’t help but notice begins with “Begorrah, ye she-witch, I’ve half a mind to put ye over my knee”), then pull the quilt off the bottom and cover her up. I should wake her, coax her to sleep in her own bed, rather than in the dubious comfort of Myrtle’s exhausted orange plaid arms. But tonight, I want a room with only me and my thoughts.

  I can hear the soft rumble of Grandpa Ben’s snores coming from the room he shares with Nic and Emory. I wish I could peel away the whole evening—last night too—like I do my sticky clothes, erase it in the outdoor shower the way I scrub off the smell of smoke and shrimp.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I was hoping it would just be us,” Viv mutters, after Grandpa Ben has squeezed between the front seats for a second time to adjust the radio to FBAC, “Your Station for the Best in Nostalgia.”

  Grandpa’s drumming his fingers on the window, singing loudly to “The Way You Look Tonight,” with Emory gamely echoing him, “The way your smile just BEAMS . . . The way you haunt my DREAMS.” Both of them are beaming themselves, identical big-toothed grins. I try to shake off guilty resentment that they’re tagging along.

  Yesterday was the longest day in history. I need girl-time with Viv. So I baked brownies early this morning with that sole purpose. My plan was to ply her with sweets at Abenaki Beach and get to the bottom of the ring thing. Viv will spill—I just need to get her alone.

  But just as she was about to gun her mom’s car, Grandpa bounded down the steps with Emory, a large cooler (which I knew from bitter experience would hold a variety of highly idiosyncratic Grandpa Ben items), and a new(ish) metal detector slung jauntily over his shoulder.

  “I feel lucky!” he announces now as we rocket down the hill to Abenaki, seemingly unperturbed by Vivien’s violent swerve to avoid an abandoned Razor scooter lying in the middle of the road, as though it had been tossed there by the tide. “Today, we make our fortune.” He brandishes the detector out the window.

  Vivie and I sit on the short, silvery wooden pier, looking out at the ocean. It’s scattered with sailboats, spinnakers billowing. Grandpa Ben hunts for treasure on the wide sandy beach. Em sits cross-legged, totally preoccupied with a
bucket of water and a shovel. I love this about him—that when he concentrates on one thing, the rest of the world fades away.

  He’s wearing, as always, a Coast Guard–approved life jacket. Despite that, I keep clutching at the back of his T-shirt, or the elastic of his shorts when he bends over too far or tries to peer over the rim of the pier. I’ve had so many nightmares involving the top of his head disappearing beneath the whirling waves.

  Particularly ominous today, the sky is gun-metal gray and the water correspondingly dark. Not the best for sunbathing, which is why we’re on the warm wood of the pier rather than the chilly sand. The occasional sun shooting out around the clouds is heated, but there’s a breeze whipping straight off the water and right into us.

  Emory upends his shovel full of icy water onto my leg, making me gasp. “Em, no!”

  He smiles at me, scoops, pours out another chilly trickle.

  Viv stretches drowsily, her skin already lightly golden against the graying wood of the pier, her small spattering of freckles looking as though someone flicked a paintbrush over her nose. Nic calls it her “constellation” and is always pretending to discover new shapes in it, tracing them with a finger.

  “Nic was so tense after catering. I had to drive him out to the bird sanctuary to . . . calm him down.” She points her toes, stretching further, then scoops her fingers around her instep, lengthening the stretch with a balletic grace.

  “Uh-huh. My cousin, the ornithologist. I’m sure the binoculars got a lot of use.”

  “Well . . . it is secluded there.” Her slightly wicked private smile overtakes the sweet and innocent one she uses in public. “Just Nic, me, and that crime-scene tape they use to keep us from disturbing the piping plovers’ mating season.”

  “You, Nic, and the plovers doing the dance as old as time.” I start giggling. She lets go of her foot and gives my hip a gentle shove.