What I Thought Was True (20 page)

and his fingertips were slipping up my sides to my bra. It had

a front clasp and his hands went
right there
, unerring. Then he moved them aside, muttered, “Sorry,” against the side of my

mouth. “I . . . I . . . God, Gwen.”

“Mmf,” I responded logically, slanting his chin to angle his

jaw toward me, pulling his lips to mine again.

Don’t talk.
If he talked, I’d think, and stop those fingers, which were edging my bra straps down and off, smoothing

a slow caress back up my forearms, trailing goose bumps in

their wake.

Cass broke the kiss. His eyes were bright sea blue, pupils

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wide and black. I stared at him, stunned, consciousness slowly

returning, which he must have seen in my face because he

pulled back.

He cleared his throat. “Stop?”

Shaking my head emphatically was wrong. A mistake. Cer-

tainly, so was me flipping up the arm rest and moving closer.

Which resulted in Cass pulling me right into his lap.

I took my hands out of his hair (warm at the roots, frost

cold at the tips) and reached down. What was I doing? I was

doing exactly what Cass was, and my fingers folded on his as

he pulled the lever to recline the seat and BOOM I was lying

on him and his hands were all over my back, then swirling my

hair aside so he could put his open mouth on my neck.

Oh my God. Cass Somers had lightning-fast reflexes and

some magic potion coming out of every pore that dissolved

self-control, caution, rational thought.

It was all gone and the only thing I could think was that it

was the best trade I ever made.

I was the one who practically crawled into his lap. I was the

one whose hands slid first up under his shirt to all that smooth

skin. After a few more minutes, he was the one who stilled my

fingers with his own. “Gwen. Wait.” He shook his head, took

deep breaths. “Slow down . . . We’d better . . .”

He sat, tugging me up with him, and said, “Let’s go back to

the house. I’m not thinking clearly.”

I should not have said, “So . . . don’t. Think clearly.”

But I did say that.

He looked at me, startled, a little blankness and a little—

what was it?—in those blue, blue eyes. I didn’t take the time to

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define it. I shrugged off my shirt, pushed myself farther onto

his lap and reached down for the button of his jeans.

“Gwen—”

“Shh.”

“I don’t—”

“But I do.”

And we did.

In the Bronco, afterward, we lay entangled on the passenger’s

seat. Cass stretched a long arm down to the ground for his

discarded parka, picked it up one-handed and draped it over

us. I rested my cheek against his chest and listened to the echo

of his galloping heartbeat. He slid his finger up and down

from my knee to my thigh, a dreamy slow motion. I didn’t

feel self-conscious or like I wanted to get away fast, the way I

had with Alex. For the first time all those phrases I’d heard but

never believed—“it felt right” and “you just know”—made

sense.

He shifted his hand to my spine, ran slowly up the line of it,

smiling a little, as though he enjoyed every bump and hollow.

He took another deep breath, then ducked his head to kiss my

forehead. “Thank you.”

I didn’t think that was strange, then. It melted me even

more. It seemed so Cass, born to be polite, acting as though

I’d given him a gift, rather than that we’d opened one together.

I pulled his face close, nudging his cheek with mine.

“You always smell like chlorine, even when you’ve been out

of the pool for ages,” I whispered.

“Probably in my pores. I swim every day.”

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“Even when the season’s over?”

“Every day.” He started twining one of my curls around

his finger, letting it slip out, wrapping it again. In a strange

way this seemed as intimate and personal as what we’d just

done, that he still wanted to touch me, after. “Uh—we have an

indoor pool . . . so . . .”

“I feel gypped on the tour. I didn’t see the pool.”

“Didn’t really think it was a great idea to point it out—in

case anyone was following us. Before you know it, half the

high school would have been in there with their clothes on.

Or off.”

I looked down at myself, pulled the parka up a little more,

suddenly remembering how little I was wearing.

“Don’t do that,” Cass whispered. He readjusted the parka

down, stroked my back with his index finger.

I buried my nose in the hollow of his throat, inhaling the

chorine, the hint of salty sweat.

Then, for some reason, maybe the clean scent of him,

the image of that spotless house abandoned to the rest of the

partygoers, while we stayed in this bubble, came into my

head.

“Are your guests going to be in there ransacking and pillag-

ing your home while I’m out here waylaying the host?”

His chest shook under me. “There may be a bit of ran-

sacking. Probably a massive treasure hunt for Dad’s liquor

cabinet. And, for the record,
I
waylaid
you
.” Despite the joke, he sounded a little worried, so I sat up.

“We’d better go in.”

Semi-uncomfortable moment while I hunted for my bra,

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and he ducked his head, looking away as he tucked in, zipped

his jeans. But not bad awkward, sort of nice awkward, espe-

cially when he reached over to pull close my pea coat, knotting

the tie at the waist, then took my hand and opened the door.

“After you.”

“You are so polite, it’s terminal,” I said. “You should see

someone about this. You’re a seventeen-year-old guy. You need

to do more grunting and pointing.”

“Truth? I’m feeling sorta speechless right now.”

By this time we were walking up the driveway, the sound

of our feet crisping on the icy gravel. Then it happened. We

must have tripped the motion detector and floodlights came

on, illuminating us bright as day. Or someone flipped a switch.

I never knew which. But anyway, suddenly we were bathed

in dazzling white-blue light and pummeled by the sound of

clapping, cheering, hooting. “Way to go, Sundance!” shouted a

voice I couldn’t identify, and there was laughter.

And then a voice I did recognize gave a long, low whistle,

and Spence called, “I know I told you where to go to lose your

V card, Somers. But I didn’t think you’d cash it in so fast. Nice

work.”

I stumbled on the icy driveway, wobbly heel flipping, turn-

ing incredulously to Cass, while in the background there was a

chorus of
Ooooo
’s and
Were you gentle with him, Gwen
’s. He was blushing so fiercely it prickled my own face with heat. And

suddenly “Thank you” took on a whole new meaning. I pulled

my hand from his, shaking my head, backing away, waiting for

him to deny it. But instead he looked at me, then down at the

ground, broad shoulders hunched. I saw it in his eyes.

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Guilt.

And everything that had felt warm and good and happy

crumbled.

I walked away. What else could I do?

Behind me, I heard Cass say, “Shut up,” but I just kept walk-

ing.

Walking. Which is what I should do now, walk away from con-

fusing teenage boys. Let the sea breeze blow them—him—

right out of my head. I hoist myself off my abused twin bed.

I hadn’t bothered to change out of my bikini after Em’s swim

lesson. So on goes Mom’s shirt and a pair of Nic’s workout

shorts—from the clean folded pile on Myrtle, not the redolent

heap moldering in the corner of the room.

Grandpa’s wearing his plaid robe. Which means he’s staying

in. Which means I can go out without Em. At last, a free night.

I’ll go find Vivie. I peer out the window at her driveway. Both

her mom’s car and the Almeida van are there. She’s got to be

home.

Whistling for Fabio, I jingle the leash. The old guy barely

raises his head from the floor long enough to give me a “you’ve

got to be kidding, I’m on my deathbed here” look, then col-

lapses back down.

I shake the leash again. Then he notices the leftover linguica

on Emory’s plate and—alleluia—it’s a miracle. He’s still chew-

ing in that sideways way dogs have when I get to the porch.

Skid to a halt.

Cass is coming up the steps, hands shoved in the pockets of

his tan hoodie, blond hair blowing.

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He stops dead when he sees me.

I’m frozen, the door half open.

Cass is here at my door.

What is he doing here at my door?

Did I conjure up him out of that memory?

“Just come for a sail with me,” he says abruptly. Then adds,

“Uh. Please.”

Behind me, I hear Grandpa Ben warning Peter about the

crocodile:
“Olhe para o crocodilo, menino.”

Emory’s piping voice:
“Crocodilo menino!”

Maybe I’ve forgotten English too. “Come for a what? In

what?”

He points at the water visible over the tree tops, where you

can see the tiniest of white triangles and a few broad horizon-

tally striped spinnakers gleaming in the warm slanted light.

The sun is lowering, but there’s about an hour before it sets

for good.

“One of those little things out there. But mine’s at the dock,”

he says, moving his index finger back and forth between us.

“You. Me.” Fabio licks Cass’s barefoot toes. He’s bending down

to nudge Fab behind the ears. “Not you, bud. No offense.”

“Because his bladder can’t be trusted?” I finally find my

voice and a coherent thought.

“Because I only have two life jackets.”

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Luckily for both of us, Cass does not turn out to be a Boat

Bully—what Nic, Viv, and I call those guys who get on a boat

of any size and suddenly start barking orders, throwing around

nautical terms, and acting all Captain Bligh.

He doesn’t say much of anything except “It’s chilly out there.

Got a sweatshirt?” until we get onto the dock, and even then,

it’s mostly technical. He tells me to bend on the jib, which I do

after some brief direction.

Am I going to be stuck out on the water with the silent

stranger or the charming Cass? And why am I even here, when

before he could barely speak to me?

Over on one side of the beach, there’s a grill smoldering,

and Dom and Pam and a few of the other island kids are gear-

ing up for a cookout. I could go over, sit down, fit right in.

But the island gang doesn’t seem to notice us. Cass ignores

them as well. His nose is sunburned and I have this urge to

put my index finger on the peeling bridge. When he ducks his

head, busy with the mainsail, I can see that the top of his hair

is bleached white blond, almost as fair as when he was eight.

He works quickly, efficiently, still without saying anything.

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I catch him looking up at me through his lashes a few times,

though, smiling just a little, and the silence begins to seem

more tranquil than tense. I’m compelled to break it anyway.

“Your boat?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You bring it out from town?” Did he have time to do that?

Did he shower? I lean discreetly closer to try to tell. Should
I
have showered? I passed my time wallowing in self-pity rather

than body wash. He looks very clean. But then, Cass always

looks that way.

He shakes his head, tosses me a life jacket. Fastens his own.

Squints his eyes against the sun as he looks out at the water.

“You have a mooring? Here?” Moorings on Seashell are

strictly controlled, and there have been incidences of actual

fistfights over who gets which spot. Or any spot.

“Dad,” Cass offers, in a neutral tone. “Ready?”

I’ve been around boats most of my life. But mostly motor-

boats, which have sounds and smells and movements all their

own. You always get a whiff of gasoline when you back up

to head out, see a slick of it rainbowing on the surface of the

water, then the surge forward and the bang, bang, bang up and

down of the bow if it’s choppy. When I raise the jib and Cass

the mainsail, it’s so noisy, lots of clanging and the sail flapping around. Then the wind catches and they billow out, the hull

kicks up and forward, spray flying in our faces, and we head

toward the open water. I’m unprepared for how silent, how

serene, it is then. There’s almost no sound at all except the scavenger seagulls dive-bombing and the thrum of a prop-plane

high, high up, heading out to the distant islands.

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Cass asks if I know about ducking my head under the boom

when the boat comes about, and I do. He shows me by exam-

ple how to hook my shoes and lean back.

The water is thick with boats of all kinds, huge showy

Chris-Crafts and Sailfishes skimming along the water. Far away

there’s some sort of ferry headed somewhere and what looks

like a tanker far out on the horizon.

“Do we have a destination?” I ask.

“Here,” Cass says, as though we aren’t whizzing through the

water, as though we were just in one spot. “Unless you’d like to

go somewhere else. Another direction.”

The wind is whipping now, blowing my hair into my eyes,

across my lips. I pull it back, twist and knot it at the back of my neck. Cass looks at me, riveted, as though I’ve performed some

rabbit out of the hat trick. But all he says is, “Ready about.” One turn, and we’re flying along. It’s like being one of Nic’s stones

skimming over the surface of the ocean without ever landing

hard enough to sink. Out here, the water is a deep bottle green,

foamed by whitecaps, and I want to reach out and touch it,

dive in, even. This is better than jumping . . . more exhilarating, more breath-stealing, more of a release, just . . .
more
.

I’m smiling so hard my cheeks are starting to hurt. I check

Cass’s face. He’s intent on the water, the tiller, all focus and

game face. I need to tone it down. He was so weird before. And

he’s still not talking.

But then, he clears his throat and says, “Thanks. For com-

ing. Sorry I was”—he nods back in the direction of shore—“a

douche on land.”

“Yeah,” I say, “what was going on there?” Then add hur-

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riedly, “If it’s about the lessons, you don’t have to do them.

We’ll understand. I mean, even just that one was great and it’ll

probably come more easily now. He just needed to get over

being afraid.”

“It takes longer than an hour to get over being afraid. It’s

not that at all. I was just . . . thinking about stuff. Nothing about you two. A family thing.”

I remember him using that same phrase after The Great

Hideout Save.

“Should I ask if you want to talk about it?”

The jib flaps a little and he tightens the line, almost uncon-

sciously, without even having to look, then clenches and

unclenches his hand, looking down for a second before quickly

returning his attention to the crowded waters around us. “That

conversation with my brother you, uh—”

“Eavesdropped on?”

He flashes me a smile. “Yeah, just like I did with ol’ Alex

at the rehearsal dinner. But yeah, that talk is one I get a lot at home.”

“I got that impression. You going to tell me what your Big

Sin was now?”

He moves the tiller to the left, getting us out of the line of

fire of a Boston Whaler with a bunch of girls in bikinis in it. “I got a million of them.”

“Mostly alongside Spence?” I say, then regret it, expecting

him to snap something about us having that in common, those

Spence sins, or just shut down completely.

But he says, “Yeah. We started together at Hodges in kinder-

garten. It wasn’t so bad then, but the older you get, the more

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it su—the worse it is. I mean—the rules, and what they think

is important and just all this—shi—garbage. He hates that as

much as I do and cares less about pretending he doesn’t. So we

started messing around—” He hesitates.

“Define messing around.”

Cass shoots me a smile. “Not like
that,
obviously. Just stuff—

like—there’s this big statue of the guy who founded Hodges—

marble, in a toga, with a wreath—”

“Hodges was founded in Ancient Rome?”

“Asinine, right? So, sophomore year, Spence and I would,

you know, put a bra on it or a beer in its hand or whatever. We

did that for a few weeks, and then they caught us.”

“Don’t tell me they kicked you out for that. You’d have to

do way worse to get booted from SBH. The last kid who was

expelled set all the choir robes on fire while sneaking a ciga-

rette in the chorus closet.”

“Yeah, and from what I hear about that one, he was smashed

and it wasn’t exactly a Marlboro he was smoking. That guy

managed to pull off all three strikes and you’re out in one day.

Chan and me . . . not that efficient. So, yeah, disrespecting our

illustrious founder”—he makes air quotes around those two

words—“strike one. Then we borrowed the groundskeeper’s

golf cart and almost drove it into this little pond they had.”

“Small-time, Somers.” I lean back, folding my arms across

my chest. Until I realize how stupid that probably looks with a

life jacket on. And that I’m totally borrowing his gesture. Isn’t

mirroring a mating signal in the animal kingdom? Soon I’ll be

rolling over and exposing my soft underbelly.

“Now I’m supposed to impress you with How Bad I Am,

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Gwen? Is that what it takes? Okay, so the dining hall looks

like . . .” He drags on his earlobe, searching for words. “Hog-

warts. No, worse, like where Henry VIII would go to eat a whole

deer leg or whatever. Or Nottingham Castle. So, Spence and I

figured we ought to up the authenticity of the whole medie-

val thing. We borrowed a key from the custodian—snuck in at

night with a couple bales of hay and these big wolfhounds that

Spence’s dad had. And a chicken or two. This pot-bellied pig.

Long story short, the headmaster was not as much of a fan of

historical accuracy as you’d think. That was that. Strike three.”

I’m laughing. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re going to

have to work a lot harder to go to hell. Or even jail.”

But he’s unsmiling, clenching that fist again.

“Oh God. I’m sorry. I just don’t think that’s so bad. Honestly,

if they had a sense of humor. I mean, I’m sure your family is

very funny, I mean, not like funny-strange but like they—”

“I get what you mean. And they do have senses of humor.

But, uh, not about getting expelled. From a school that your

dad and your brothers and your mother and grandmother all

went to. Not to mention that my brother Jake is on staff there, a

coach. None too cool to have your loser little brother booted.”

Loser? Cass?

“Ouch. I’m sorry.” I rest my hand on his, the one on the

tiller, leave it there for a second, feel this shiver—each nerve

ending, one after another, vibrating with awareness—spread

up my arm. I yank my fingers away, busy them in twisting my

hair back into a knot again.

“But I’m not. I’m
not
sorry.” His voice rises, like he’s drowning out someone else’s voice, not just the waves. “That’s the

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thing. Getting out of there was . . . right. It was not the place

for me. SBH is—I like Coach better, the team is better, the

classes are fine . . . I’m happy to be where I am.”

“Your family’s still mad? After all this time?”

I have this image of Cass’s dad bringing a bunch of us—

summer kids, island kids, whoever wanted to come—out

in their Boston Whaler that summer. He’d take a pack of us

tubing or waterskiing, things we island kids never got to do.

Keep going out all day to make sure everyone who wanted a

chance got one. He let us take turns being in the bow, hold-

ing on tight as it rose up and slapped down, soaking us with

spray. And once, when I stepped on a fishhook at the end of

the pier, he carried me all the way back on his shoulders

to the house they were renting so he could clip it off with

pliers and ease it out, telling me these horrible knock-knock

jokes to distract me.

“They’re not mad,” Cass says. “‘Disappointed.’”

In the universal language of parents, “disappointed” is

nearly always worse than “mad.”

“After a year?” I ask. I should change the subject. The knuck-

les of Cass’s fist are white. Clench. Unclench.

“After yesterday. My grandmother and my mom went and

talked to the headmaster a few days ago. He said he regretted

kicking me out, since he knew I would never have done that

stuff myself, that it was all Spence’s bad influence. Which it

wasn’t. But he said if I apologized and admitted I wasn’t the

one who came up with it, I could get back in. Which would

be great for my transcript and probably get me into a better

college and . . . you know the drill.”

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His voice has deepened, mockingly, on the last sentence.

Clearly a lecture he’s heard often.

And I do—I know the drill. I know it exactly. Realizing I

do, that I get it, is like cold, hard ocean spray in the face—a

shock, but then sort of soothing. Sure, no one’s imagining me

winding up at some Ivy—but it’s that same sense of what’s

next. I look at Cass now, at his hair blowing all those shades

of blond, at his eyes, focused, determined, the stubborn set of

his mouth. And this is the hardest, weirdest part of not being

that barefoot girl and that towheaded boy running down the

sand to the water, all legs and elbows and unself-conscious.

Suddenly, you edge your way to the end of your second ten

years and BOOM. Your choices matter. Not chocolate or vanilla,

bridge or pier, Sandy Claw or Abenaki. It’s your whole life.

We’re suddenly
this close,
like Nic said, to the wrong move. Or the right one. It matters now.

His blue eyes are grim. I slip my hand over his now fisted

one again. He turns his head sharply, closer to mine.

Then the Boston Whaler full of bikini-clad girls sweeps a

wide horseshoe, zooms past us one more time. One of the

girls is waving the top of a bright orange bikini in the air,

sun gleaming on her wet skin. No sweatshirt for her. Or life