What I Thought Was True (15 page)

Mom plops heavily down on the couch as Nic and I describe

what happened with Em, both of us trying to take a bigger

share of the blame as though it’s the last slice of pie.

“This was all me, Aunt Luce. I was stupid-focused—didn’t

even get that he didn’t have a life jacket—”

“No, Mom, it was my fault. I was”—
distracted by Cass in

his swim trunks and this weird truce we keep zigzagging in out out
of
—“not paying attention when I should have—”

“It shouldn’t always have to be Gwen, Aunt Luce. I dropped

the ball completely, ’cause I—” Nic’s face turns red.

“I was the one who was on the dock with Emory—I was

the one who brought him there. With no life jacket.”

Finally, as we both stutter to a halt, Mom sighs, her eyes tak-

ing in Em, already nodding to sleep on the corner of the couch,

long eyelashes fluttering, still clutching Hideout. She brushes

her hand under her eyes, then ruffles Nic’s hair, cups my chin.

“I ask too much of you two, I know. I look at you both, good

kids, and I want you to have everything I ever wanted and

didn’t get. But we can’t let Emory slip through the cracks. We

have to keep him safe. He can’t do that for himself.”

Grandpa Ben, who is punching tobacco into the pipe he

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hardly ever smokes, a rare sign of extreme agitation, points the

barrel of the pipe at me, then Nic, in turn. “Our
coehlo
needs the swimming lessons. We will get the young yard boy. He

talked to me about it the other day.”

Nic bristles. “
I
can teach him. Why do we have to bring in Cassidy Somers?”

“You tried, Nico.” Mom pats his knee. “So did Grandpa. And

Gwen. Sometimes these things are better when it’s not family

doing the teaching.”

“Yeah, remember when Dad tried to teach me to drive?” I

shudder.

“It would have been better if it wasn’t Mrs. Partridge’s fence

you hit,” Mom says. “She still brings it up every single time I

clean her house, the old battle-ax.”

Grandpa holds the lighter to the bowl of his pipe, takes deep

breaths in and out. At last he settles his pipe in the corner of

his mouth and says, “We talk to the yard boy. You”—he points

to me—“you ask him tonight. He is here on the island, yes?”

“At the Field House,” Nic says. “I’ll tell him.”

“No, I need you to drive me to Mass,” Grandpa Ben says.

“My
coelho
had a lucky escape today. Thanks must be said.

Guinevere can work it out with the yard boy.” His brow crin-

kles. “Perhaps we can pay him in fish?”

I wince at the mental image of me slapping a dead mackerel

into Cass’s arms at the end of a lesson. “We’ll work something

out,” I say. “And, guys, his name is Cassidy. Not Jose. Not the

yard boy. Why is that so hard for everyone to remember? Also,

he’s not
that
young. He’s our age. I mean, I think he’s a little older than me but it’s not like he’s ten. I mean, obviously. Look

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at him. And you should remember him anyway, because he

spent the summer here once—that crazy one, with the weather,

and . . . and . . . remember? Not to mention the fact that he’s on Nic’s swim team, for God’s sake.”

Grandpa, Nic, and Mom are all staring as though I’ve

sprouted an additional head. Green, with pink polka dots.

“This the polite one with the abs?” Mom asks.

Grandpa says, “You know how hard it is for us to get to

meets. And all boys look the same with those little caps and

those bathing suits
muito pequeno
.”

They do not.

Emory is still sleeping when I leave, so I haul along Fabio as a

handy excuse to make my visit brief. Cass is not going to want

our aged, flatulent, over-excitable dog hanging out for long. A

quick business transaction, that’s all this needs to be.

But when I knock on the door of the Field House apartment,

it’s not Cass who opens it. It’s Spence. He’s looking particularly toothpaste-ad perfect. It helps that he’s in tennis whites.

“Helloooo,” he drawls, propping the door open with the

heel of his foot and doing his full-body survey maneuver.

Must be a reflex. From what I’ve heard, Spence never does any-

thing—any
one
—twice. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Fabio licks his leg, then nudges against him lovingly, wait-

ing for a pet behind the ears. Spence bends down and scritches

him, and Fabio immediately rolls over on his back.
Traitor
.

“Just had something to ask Cass. He home?”

“Making like Sleeping Beauty.” Spence jerks his thumb

toward a closed door. “I thought I’d get a game out of him, but

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he crashed. Said he just needed a power nap, but it’s been an

hour now. Come on in.”

I tell him I’ll come back another time. Spence, not even

bothering to argue, just dismissing this, opens the door wider.

“I won’t bite. Unless you ask
very
nicely. C’mon. It sucks that he’s a working stiff this summer. He’s tired all the time and not

up for anything decent. Or, more to the point, indecent.”

“Poor guy,” I say sarcastically. Then Fabio is charging into

the room, all eighty-five pounds of him dragging me behind,

launching himself onto the couch in one of his ill-timed bursts

of youthful energy. I need to get him, and me, out of here,

now. Fabio has been known to “mark his territory” on strange

couches.

“Way to make an entrance, Castle. Yeah, it stinks, my

boy being all blue-collar.” Spence sounds completely sincere,

oblivious to the irony of complaining about the evils of

having a summer job to a person who obviously also has

one. “I’d never do that. Weeding, mowing. Lousy way to

spend three short golden months of no school. I’d tell the

old man to shove it. But you know our Cass.
He
does what

he’s told.”

Yeah, especially by you.

“He’s not ‘our’ Cass.” I look around the room. Nasty.

Avocado-green appliances, heinous bright yellow walls,

faux cherry-wood cabinets with the veneer peeling back to

reveal the sticky plywood underneath, fake brick linoleum

that’s cracking and curling up at all the corners. Seashell

has its tennis courts resurfaced annually and spent a fortune

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to have some former golf pro analyze the course. And then

give private lessons. The yard boy’s apartment is apparently

not on the punch list.

“As you wish, princess. Popcorn? I’m starving, and Sun-

dance has nothing else to offer us.” He clangs open the micro-

wave door, shoves the bag in, slams it shut. “This job is sucking

the life out of him. Worse than damn school. Personally,
I’ve
got no intention of doing anything worthwhile this season. I’ve

spent the past two at Middlebury language school or Choate

tennis camp. This can be a sea change. My summer to get tan

and lazy, fat and happy.”

I toy with the idea of making a cutting remark about his

lack of ambition, but, honestly, that all sounds nice if you can

swing it. Except the fat part. Which I can probably manage on

my own.

“I’ve rarely been tan,” Spence continues over the whirring

cycle of the microwave. “Hardly ever lazy. Never fat.” He pulls

the bag out, sucks his fingers, cursing under his breath.

“You forgot happy.”

He shrugs, a dark look crossing his face.

Fabio is still entranced by the couch, which has a big pile of

laundry tumbled on it. Many pink items. It occurs to me that

this is the first time Spence and me have been alone since that

party.

I need something to do with my hands, so I pick up a T-shirt

and fold it, then another, match up a pair of socks, roll them

into a ball.

I hear this exhalation of breath, like a snort, from Spence

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and look up to find him watching me. “How domestic. What a

nice little wife you’ll make.”

I drop the second pair of socks. What am I doing, morph-

ing into Mom? I flush, but when I check Spence’s face again,

he’s just smiling at me, extending the bag of popcorn.

“Something cool to go with?” he offers. “A six of Heineken

was my housewarming gift for Cass. You’re
fun
when you’re

loaded.”

“The swim team tradition, yeah, I know, Spence,” I say. “Like

you’ve said.”

“I apologized for that, Castle. Just being a dick. What I do

best. Well, second best.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.

I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at him, settling for

shaking my head.

“How’s your brother?”

That he would ask, which seems unlike him and also implies

that Cass talked about Emory, throws me.

“He’s fine,” I say shortly. “That’s why I’m here. I want to take

Cass up on his offer to teach him to swim. So you can just . . .

pass that on, and I’ll get going and—”

“Cass nearly drowned when he was eight,” Spence says. “Rip

tide at the beach. We were there with my dad, who was . . . But

whatever, I got the lifeguard and saved him.” He looks at his

watch. “Hell, it’s nearly seven now and I’ve got to be at the club at eight. I’m gonna wake him up.”

He heads toward the closed door. I hurry after him. “No,

don’t. I’ll come back.”

But Spence keeps going and I follow him right into the

bedroom. Which is painted the same eyesore green-yellow as

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the main room, but has walls covered with hand-drawn maps,

signed in a clear, careful hand:
CRS
.

Cass is lying on his stomach, arms wrapped around his

pillow like he’s hugging someone close. His hair’s all rumpled

and his mouth a little open. The sheet comes to his waist, his

back is bare, and I hope to God he is wearing some pink boxers

under there. I start backing to the door, just as Fabio charges

into the room and lands on the bed, and Cass’s butt, with the

kind of flying leap he hasn’t been able to manage at home for

about four years.

Spence bursts out laughing and Cass jerks his head up, big-

eyed. Then he sees me, and Spence, and they widen even more.

It is also the first time the
three
of us have been in any close proximity since that party.

“What’s going on?”

“Dude, definitely your color.” Spence points to the pillow-

case, which is also pink.

“What’s going on?” Cass repeats, looking back and forth

between us. He pulls the sheet more tightly around himself

and there are no creases or folds and I don’t think there is any-

thing under there besides Cass. Fabio licks his shoulder, that

embarrassingly intent dog-licking thing.

“Nothing. I was just leaving.” I grab the end of the leash and

pull, but Fabio plants his legs more firmly and slobbers on the

back of Cass’s neck. Spence laughs, goes over, and gives my

treacherous dog a gentle shove onto the floor.

“No need to rush outta here,” he says. “Chill, Castle. We

could probably all use a beer. I know
I’m
getting one.”

He heads out of the room, leaving me alone with a probably

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naked Cass and Fabio, who chooses this moment to mark his

territory.

On the bottom of the bedpost.

Like it’s a fire hydrant.

Or a lamppost. Outdoors. Far away. Where I wish I was.

I cover my eyes, groan, hear the sheet rustle and Cass say,

“What the—oh!”

“I’ll get a sponge. Take care of that. No problem. He just likes

to pee on things he finds, um, interesting. It’s a bad habit—he’s

old and he has no manners. Or you know, bladder control. I’m

so sorry. Can I die right now?”

Cass’s laughter drowns out the last few words of my sen-

tence.

“Don’t,” he says, after a moment. “A corpse on my floor

would be way worse than this.”

My fingers are still shielding my face. “I’m sorry my dog has

no . . . self-control,” I repeat.

“Well, it would be bad form if
I
did that. But it’s pretty normal for a dog,” Cass says. “You ever gonna put your hands

down?”

“I’ll have to if I’m going to clean that up.” I turn away, pull-

ing at Fabio, who mercifully yields and follows me as I bump

into the doorjamb, then pull the door shut behind me.

“Here,” Spence says, trying to hand me a beer.

“Last thing I need.” I push the frosted bottle away and look

around for paper towels. But there are none, because Cass is

seventeen and Nic would never think to buy any either. No

dishtowels, of course not. What now? In one of Mom’s (or Mrs.

E.’s) novels, the heroine would daintily raise her skirt and tear

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