What I Thought Was True (4 page)

quickly to Mrs. Ellington. “We know each other. Um, not that

well. That is, we’re not friends. I mean . . . We don’t have

that much in common . . . Or know each other at all, really. We

just . . . we go to high school together.” I conclude these rav-

ings, not looking at Cass, and wait miserably for Mrs. Ellington

to decide I’m a lunatic.

Instead, she smiles gently at me. “Schoolmates. How lovely.

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Well, then, I do believe our gentleman caller could benefit

from some of our iced tea. Will you do the honors, Gwen?”

I nod, opening the freezer to scoop out the ice and, with

luck, cool my blazing face. Grateful I don’t have to mess

with all the silverware, I pour tea into an iced tumbler and

hand it to him, trying to avoid any contact with his fingers.

Which means that the sweaty glass nearly crashes to the

ground. Good thing Cass has fast reflexes.

Mrs. Ellington flutters next to him, apologizing for not ask-

ing if he takes lemon and sugar.

“No, just as it pours is great. Thanks.”

“It is terribly easy to become parched in this heat,” Mrs.

Ellington says, “particularly when in the throes of physical

exertion. You must feel free to come by my house at any time

to get something tall and cool.”

Cocking his head at her, Cass gives her his best smile. “Thank

you.”

He chugs the iced tea. I watch the long line of his throat,

look away, wipe my fingers on my cut-offs. My palms are actu-

ally damp. Fantastic.

“Perhaps a refill for him, Gwen? Now, dear boy, why
are

you here? If it is in regard to the bills, those all go to my son

Henry.”

“It’s not that,” Cass says swiftly. “I’m here to boil your lob-

sters.”

My head whips around sharply.

“We’ve been looking to expand our list of services,” he con-

tinues, calm and reasonable. “Competitive times and all that.”

His eyes cut to mine and then away again.

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“Really?” Mrs. Ellington moves closer, as though he’s a mag-

net with an irresistible pull. “How so?”

“Well . . . um, seems as though the yard boy usually just

mows and weeds. And”—Cass takes a long slug of iced tea—“I

think . . . there’s room for more. Dog walking. Grocery runs.

Um . . .” He looks up briefly at the ceiling as though reading

words off it. “Swimming lessons.”

“Enterprising!” Mrs. Ellington exclaims.

Cass tosses her another smile, and then continues. “When I

saw Gwen here heading over with your, uh, dinner, I thought

it might be a good time to show you my technique.”

“You have a
technique
?” Mrs. Ellington clasps her hands

under her chin, a happy child at a birthday party. “How accom-

plished! I wasn’t aware there was any such thing with regard

to lobsters.”

“Technique might not be the right word,” Cass says.

“Where’s your lobster pot?” He asks this with total assurance,

like every kitchen in New England has such a thing. But yes,

Mrs. Ellington does, the exact same huge, spattered black-and-

white enamelware one we have at home. He pulls it out of the

cabinet she opened for him and takes it to the sink, totally at

home, practically toeing off his shoes and kicking back on the

couch.

“You know,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level, “I can

do this. You don’t need to—”

“Sure you can, Gwen. But I’m here.”

I think my eyes actually bug out.
Him
being
here
is exactly the problem. But this is still sort of a job interview; it’s not like I can arm-wrestle him for the lobsters.

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He fills the pot with cold water and sets it on the stove, turn-

ing the gas up high, talking rapidly all the while. “Technique

implies finesse—or skill. This isn’t really that. It’s just . . .” He fiddles with the knob, concentrating on lowering the flame.

“Some people get bothered by the idea of cooking some-

thing alive, you know. Plus, lobsters can make that screaming

sound—I’ve heard it doesn’t really mean anything, and their

nervous systems aren’t well-developed enough to feel pain—

their brains are the size of a ballpoint pen tip, but . . . it can still bother some people.”

Oh, yes, thanks for rescuing me, Cass. I’m just so squeamish.

I don’t
want
to kill lobsters. But I
can
.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Ellington says. “I always made a point of

leaving the kitchen when Cook boiled lobsters. Or chopped

the heads off fish.” She shudders reminiscently.

Cass flashes that melting smile at her again. All charm—the

kind that pulls you in as surely as a hand in yours, and can

hold you back just as firmly, leaving you wondering which is

real, which Cass is true. As I think this, he glances over at me,

straight into my eyes this time, and I’m taken aback by the

expression in his. Readable for once, not guarded the way it’s

been since March.

Direct.

Deliberate.

Challenging.

I turn away, open the refrigerator, take out the bag of lob-

sters, pulling it close to my chest. He reaches for it and I hold

on tighter. He pulls, gently, looking at me quizzically to see if

I really will challenge him for possession of a bag of shellfish.

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I let go.

“Thanks, Gwen.” His voice is casual. “So, yeah, some people

put the lobsters in the freezer for a while to numb them out.

But that doesn’t seem all that much more humane than the

heat, does it?”

He disentangles Grandpa Ben’s rope-mesh sack and sets the

wrinkled brown paper bag that was inside it on the table. One

huge claw immediately gropes out, clunking on the wooden

island. Despite a stint in the Sub-Zero, Lobster A has not lost its mighty will-to-live.

“They say,” Cass continues, dipping his hand into the bag,

“that if you kill the lobster too far ahead of time, it gets all

tough and then it’s no good for eating.”

He twists Lobster A right and left to avoid its clinging claws.

“Look away, Gwen.”

I’m not used to the note of command in that laid-back voice

and instantly fix my gaze out the window on the beach plum’s

fuchsia blossoms, then shake myself. “I can handle this,” I

repeat to Cass. Then, trying to sound brisk and casual: “It’s in

my blood, remember?”

“There,” he says, ignoring me. “Just a quick knife to the

brain and then into the very hot water. No time to feel a thing.”

Mrs. Ellington claps her hands. “That does relieve my mind.

It seems to work. No waving claws. None of that awful sound.”

“I’m done now, Gwen. You can look.” It’s an aside. Quiet,

not mocking.

“I
am
looking,” I mutter, feeling suddenly adrift.

“These guys are, what, one-and-a-half-pounders? So four-

teen minutes or so.” He reaches for the egg-shaped timer on

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the stovetop, deftly twists it. “I can stay and take ’em out if you like.”

I clear my throat. “You can go. I’m fine. I’ll take it from

here.”

“You are a marvel, young man!” says Mrs. Ellington. “I am

delighted by Seashell Services’ new policy. Dare I hope you also

clean fish?”

“I do whatever needs doing.” Cass flicks me a quick glance,

then grins at her again, that wide, slightly lopsided smile that

creases the corners of his eyes. “Thanks for the iced tea. It was

the best I’ve ever had. See you later, Mrs. Ellington.”

He crumples the soggy brown lobster bag and tosses it to

the trash can. It bounces off the side. Without looking at us,

he scoops it up, drops it directly in, then turns down the hall.

His “Bye Gwen” is so quiet it’s barely a whisper. But I hear it.

“What a kind young man,” Mrs. Ellington says. “Handsome

too.”

I examine the lobsters bobbling in the water, now vivid red

and motionless, and stare at the ticking timer. With ten min-

utes to go, I pour Mrs. Ellington more tea and start on Grandpa

Ben’s sauce. She watches, bright-eyed and interested, murmur-

ing occasional comments. “Oh yes, of course. How could I

have forgotten the sour cream? Dear Ben Cruz had this down

to a science.”

I’ll have to ask Grandpa Ben how it is that Mrs. Ellington

knows his secret recipe for lobster salad. Sauce finished, I dump

the rosy lobsters into a colander, running cold water over them

and hoping it’ll cool me down too. I feel weirdly off balance.

“These will be perfect for lunch tomorrow,” I tell Mrs. E.

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over my shoulder, trying to sound breezy. “Unless you want

them for dinner tonight, in which case I can make a butter

sauce. Or hollandaise.”

“Oh no!” she says. “I want Ben’s lovely sauce with chilled

lobster. I will make do tonight. In fact.” She cocks her head,

then calls out, “
Joy!
”

Just as I’m worried she’s lost her mind for real, the door

opens and a tired-looking woman in hospital scrubs comes in

from the carport. “Yuh-huh, Mrs. El? I’m here.”

“Well hello, Joy! This is Guinevere Castle, who is to keep me

out of mischief during the day. Gwen, this is my night nurse.

Joy, will you show her out? I find myself a bit fatigued with all

the excitement of the day.”

Joy leads the way through the porch hallway into the car-

port, hauling her gray hoodie off over her head and hanging it

on a hook on the wall. “So you’re the babysitter.”

That word makes me uncomfortable. “I’m here to keep Mrs.

Ellington company during the day, yes.”

Joy grunts. “You’ll be getting the same amount of money I

am, without medical training. Makes no sense. That son of hers

has more cash than brains, if you ask me.”

I don’t really know what to say to that, so I stay quiet.

“She needs a trained nurse twenty-four/seven, after a fall

like that. Could easily have been a broken hip, and at her age

that can be the beginning of the end, but the family just won’t

accept it. I got no patience with them.”

Maybe you shouldn’t work here then,
I think, and then want to scratch the thought out. Here on island, how many of us have a

choice, really? Joy opens the latticed screen door to the carport

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and I walk out, grateful our shifts won’t coincide much.

Outside, I halt, listening. Over the soft roar and shush of the

waves, I hear the lawn mower thrumming again, farther down

Low Road. Even though it’s the longer way home, I turn uphill

in the direction of High Road.

How am I going to get through a whole summer of con-

stant Cass? I’ll have to ask Marco and Tony what his schedule

is . . . Right. “Tony? Marco? Your yard boy’s a little too hot for me to handle, and now he’s getting on my nerves too, so if

you wouldn’t mind ordering him to wear a shirt? Grow some

unsightly facial hair, pack on a few pounds, and stay clear of

Mrs. E.’s? Thanks a bunch.”

I pick up my pace, and then turn into the small, beaten-down

clearing in the Green Woods at the bend in the road. Maple

trees arch and curl their branches over me, making the path

a tunnel. The air smells earthy and tangy green. These woods

have been the same for hundreds of years. When we were lit-

tle, Nic, Vivie, and I used to play a game where we were the

Quinnipiacs, the first people to live on Seashell. We tried to

tread soundlessly in the forest, one foot in front of another,

not even snapping a twig. Now a turn by a twisted branch,

then another by an old stone shaped like a witch’s hat, and I’m

out in the open again, by the rushing creek that runs into the

ocean, cleared only by a bridge so old that the wood is silver

and the nails rusty dark red. I climb to the apex of the bridge,

look down at the water, clear enough to see the stones at the

bottom but deep enough to be well over my head. I shuck off

the T-shirt I’m wearing over my black sports bra, kick off my

sneakers, climb to the highest point of the bridge, and jump.

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The water is an icy shock, stripping away any fears or feelings. I blast up toward the surface, emerge, take a deep, gasping breath

of air, then plunge back down into the cold depths, push off

from the pebbly bottom, flip toward the surface, turn on my

back, eyes closed, lazily breathing in the difference between

the icy water and the still, summer air.

Rising in me, I know, is what I’ve been trying to avoid. For

months. I open my eyes, let the memory lap at the edges of my

thoughts, then close them again, and give in.

They call it the Polar Bear Plunge, which doesn’t really make

sense because it’s held in the spring—and here in Connecticut,

polar bears are pretty damn scarce.

But ocean water in March in Connecticut is the stuff of

hypothermia. And the Polar Bear Plunge is Stony Bay High

Athletic Department’s big spring fundraiser. There’s always a

bonfire, and the cheerleaders and the PTO bring hot cider and

yell encouragements as the athletes run into the icy water. Par-

ents and people from town show up—to bet on who stays in

the water longest, who will swim out farthest. This year, since

Vivien was cheer captain and Nic on the swim team, which I’d

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been timing for all year, I got up at seven a.m. and went with

them to watch.

The morning was blinding bright and extra cold. There’d

been one of those freakish heavy coastal snowstorms the week

before, and patches of snow still drifted in the tall sea oats. I

wanted to stay in Vivien’s warm car with the heat on nuclear,

but Nic was in swim trunks and Vivie wearing her skimpy

cheer outfit with only Nic’s sweatshirt pulled over it. So I got

out and stood by the bonfire in the name of supporting the

football team, the field hockey team, the soccer team, the base-

ball team, the basketball team, and the swim team.

Plenty of show-offs all around, stripping down and striking

muscle or cheesecake poses to hoots and whistles from the

well-bundled crowd. Hooper, though small, was speedy and

mighty confident for a skinny, pale guy. Ugh, and he was wear-

ing a Speedo. Gross, Hoop.

I clasped my fingers around a foam cup of cider, blowing

into it to feel the warm steam on my face, then heard a rustle

of movement next to me, felt this prickle of awareness across

my skin, and turned. It was Cass. He’d shucked off his parka

and shirt and was now unbuttoning the top of his faded jeans,

revealing navy swim trunks.

I expected him to be out putting on a show like the oth-

ers. Even Nic, hardly an exhibitionist, swirled his sweatshirt

on a finger with a grin before tossing it to Vivien. But Cass was

alone, quietly undressing. Right next to me.

I assumed he didn’t realize who I was. I’d grabbed Mom’s

parka on the way out the door, and with the hood tipped up I

had all the sex appeal of the Goodyear Blimp.

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He hesitated, then kicked his pants and the rest of his dis-

carded clothes into a pile farther from the fire.

“Bet on me, Gwen?”

I looked at him. Shivered. Shook my head.

“You should. Nic and Spence are the flashy ones with all the

strokes, but I’m all about going the distance. And endurance.”

“I’m not the betting kind.” I took a sip of my cider, breathed

in the apple-cinnamon-scented steam, added quietly, “Good

luck.”

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something,

then shook his head and loped off. I tried unsuccessfully not

to follow him with my eyes as he strode through the crowd,

but . . . Those nice shoulders, the V of his upper body tapering

down. I mean, it was purely aesthetic. Who wouldn’t look?

The opening air horn blasted, shrill, ear-splitting. Everyone

plunged into the water. Jimmy Pieretti, ever the comedian,

was wearing a yellow-and-white polka-dot bikini, although I

couldn’t imagine where he found one that fit. Nic got delayed

by Vivie’s good-luck kiss. There was a lot of splashing and yell-

ing and swearing.

“Quit your bellyaching and focus!” Coach Reilly bawled

through his bullhorn. Through the crowd, I saw Cass dive into

the water, then slice through the surf, shoulders and forearms

flashing in a fast crawl. Yes, there were chunks of ice. I mar-

veled at some people’s school spirit. You couldn’t have made

me take that plunge for anything less than world peace or hav-

ing Emory’s medical expenses paid for life.

I walked down closer to the water, where Vivien was jump-

ing up and down with the other cheerleaders.

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“Shake it, shake it, Stony Bay. Swim it, swim it, all the way.”

About twenty kids had already lurched back out of the

water toward the bonfire. Nic was sticking it out, but he looked

crimson with cold. Jimmy Pieretti was evidently going for

“Longest Time Underwater” because I could see his enormous

legs sticking out in a headstand as the crowd shouted, “Jimbo,

Jiiiiiiiiiimbo!” He had to top two hundred fifty pounds, but

that wasn’t enough insulation: his toes were blue.

Coach, a bunch of parent volunteers, everyone was watch-

ing, but I still found myself counting heads, scanning the water.

By the shore my whole life, I’d grown up knowing what the

ocean could give, then take away in a flash.

Where was Cass
? He was popular, but no one was chanting

his name the way they were for Jimmy or even Hoop, who had

dashed out of the water to throw up on Coach Reilly’s shoes.

Where was Cass
? Someone could easily have drowned in this

noisy, yelling crowd, without anyone noticing.

I ran to the edge of the water, shielded my eyes from the

bright sun dazzling off the waves, seeing black spots dancing

in front of me. But no blond head. The race had been going on

for at least five minutes, maybe more.

“Coach. Coach! Where’s Cass Somers?” I pulled at his sleeve

as he raised the bullhorn again, my voice panicky. “Can you see

him? Do you have binoculars?”

“Which one of you morons spiked the cider?” Coach bel-

lowed. “You guys are disastrous. What the hell!”

I yanked at his sleeve again, and he turned, face ruddy against

his thick black hair. “Not now, Gwen.” He tried to sound gen-

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tle. Coach had always been good to me, maybe because my

dad’s restaurant donated food and ice cream for the beginning

and end-of-year rallies. “Got a public relations disaster here. If the PTO finds out about the cider, we can kiss this fund-raiser good-bye.”

“I can’t see Cassidy Somers. He’s in the water somewhere.” I

tried to haul Coach with me into the waves, which were HOLY

FROSTBITE frigid. My skin felt like it was being peeled off with

a thousand knives carved from ice. Coach remained motion-

less, a red-faced Rock of Gibraltar. So I yanked off my parka,

tossed it to the sand, waded in up to my knees, my waist, my

armpits.

“Gwen! What the hell are you doing?” Vivien shouted. “Are

you insane?”

Now everyone was back on shore, except me, in my cling-

ing jeans and soggy hoodie, and there was a splash and Cass

surfaced right in front of me, eyes wide and blue, hair plas-

tered over his forehead, darkened to shifting shades of amber

and gold by the water. He gave his head a shake, tossing his

hair out of his eyes.

“I . . .” My teeth were chattering. My whole body was trem-

bling. Cass too was shuddering so hard, I could feel his legs

buck against mine. “I thought you’d drowned.”

He didn’t say anything, just reached out and wrapped an

arm around my waist, stumbling as he tried to steer me to

shore.

I was shaking and he was breathing hard and fast. I wasn’t

sure who was holding up who, but he’d been in the water lon-

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ger and I had the sense that I was towing him. Coach wasn’t

even watching us, having headed up to the bonfire to cuss out

his wayward team.

“I th-thought you’d drowned,” I repeated when we got to

land. Vivien was holding out one of the big quilts from the

back of her mom’s car. Cass’s fingers swiped at it, but didn’t

close. It was me who grabbed it and shook it open, reach-

ing for his waistband to pull him close to me under the quilt.

Smack against him, I could feel his heart racing.

“Thank you,” he said. “I w-w-wasn’t drowning, but if I

had been, that would h-h-have been an awesome rescue. As it

was, it was plenty am-m-mazing.” His breath was white in the

frigid air but felt warm on my face and now I was conscious

that my hands were tight on his cold waist and I was practically

thigh to thigh with Cass Somers.

Coach came over at this point. “You aced the distance and

length record, Somers. Maybe the personal stupidity one too.”

Cass nodded, game face, neither gratified or abashed. Then

he looked over at me. “Can we g-give G-Gwen the Lifeguard of

the Year award, Coach? She
w-was
trying to save me.”

Coach snorted. “All you two need saving from is your own

foolishness. Didja even kick off your shoes, Castle?”

I wiggled my wet toes in my hiking boots. “N-no.”

“Glad you’re not on my team,” Coach huffed. “You gotta

think on your feet.” He scanned the beach for Mrs. Santos, the

school nurse, but she was bent over Hooper, face concerned.

Coach sighed. “Always that guy,” he said. “Scat, kids. The

bonfire’s not going to do it for you. Go someplace warm. And

lose those sopping clothes, pronto.”

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I
was
someplace warm. Cass’s arm was tight around my

shoulder. It was thirty degrees, tops, but I felt hot.

“Can you drive me home?” he asked. “I came here with

Pieretti and I think he’s w-wasted.” In addition to the chatter-

ing teeth, his voice sounded slurry.

“Well, that was a given,” I said. “Can’t you be the designated

driver? Or, oh, were you drinking too?”

“N-no. My lips are j-just numb. B-but frostbite may be set-

ting in.” He held one whitish blue hand outside the blanket,

flexing it gently, wincing. “I can’t feel my fingers. Doesn’t seem safe to wait. Jimbo’s car’s got a stick shift. Hang on.”

He disentangled himself from the quilt, and my arms, and

walked slowly up the beach toward the bonfire. Vivien imme-

diately scooted to my side.

“What’s going on?” She gathered the quilt folds around me

more securely. “What’s up with you and Sundance?”

“Nothing. I thought he was d-drowning. He wasn’t.” I gave

a short laugh. “End of story.”

“I doubt that.” She ducked around to the other side of me as

Cass returned, carrying his clothes and Converse.

“All set,” he said. “Thorpe is d-driving Pieretti home. You

can drive me—can you handle a s-stick? Pieretti can grab it

when he sobers up. Then I’ll bring you home.”

I found myself saying only, “I can drive a stick,” concentrat-

ing on pulling Mom’s parka back up. After lying on the cold

beach sand, it felt like an ice pack.

“Cool.” He put a hand on my down-covered back, steering

me to Jimmy’s car up in the beach parking lot.

It was a Kia. Why did huge Jimmy Pieretti have the smallest

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car in the world? I squelched my way into the driver’s seat,

shivering again. I’m sure my lips matched the navy-blue vinyl

seats.

“Here.” Cass tossed the keys to me. I snagged them in midair,

and he smiled at me, the sidelong curl revealing his dimples,

crinkling the corners of his eyes, taking his face from perfect

to real. When I turned the keys in the ignition, he snapped on

the hot air, which blasted glacial currents at us.

“It’ll heat up in a minute.”

“That’s okay. I’m f-f-fine.”

“Gwen, you’re a Popsicle.” He dropped his clothes in my

lap. “P-put these on.”

My face heated instantly. “I c-c-can’t do that!”

He folded his arms. “Want me to do it f-for you?” He flexed

his fingers. “As soon as the numbness and tingling go away . . .

But I thought you m-might not wanna wait that long.”

“It’s fine. I’ll just change later.” I notched up the heat a few

more degrees. It seemed to get even colder.

“C’mon. I can’t have your f-freezing to death on my con-

science.” He said all this in a flat, logical tone without glancing over at me. “Just change.”

“Here?”

“Well, I th-thought you might like the privacy of the back-

seat, but whatever my fearless rescuer w-wishes.”

“You want me to take off my clothes in the backseat?” I

echoed, like an idiot.

“C-can’t get warm if you just put the dry clothes on over

wet ones,” he told me, still in that serious, scientific way. “So, yeah, d-ditch yours, put on mine. I’ll wear my parka over my