What I Thought Was True (7 page)

“Just think about it, Guinevere, smart advice from your old

man.” Dad takes the pole from me, securing the hook. “Embroi-

der 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.”

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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—ensur-

ing his physical fitness.

“You are not a normal teenage boy,” I say as I enter the liv-

ing 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.

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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 the-

ater, 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 Acad-

emy? 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 some-

one 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—

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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 familiar-

ity 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?”

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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 loco-

motive. 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.

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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, clear-

ing 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 per-

spiring jawline without looking at me—“whatever. With you

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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 situa-

tion, 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

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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 com-

ing 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 conversa-

tion. 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.

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<

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 black-

board. “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 . . . sum-

mer 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.”

“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 sea-

son’s here, we get the college kids, the renters. The renters’

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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