What I Thought Was True (18 page)

“Mom and Jake are like me. We can swim in anything, no matter

how cold. Bill and my dad are wimps. They wait till, like, the

beginning of June.” He says this last with complete disgust.

“No Polar Bear Plunges for them, huh?”

Ack, shouldn’t have mentioned that. But . . . jackpot. Eye

contact. Completely untranslatable eye contact, but hey.

I do the elbow-behind-head stretch thing he did earlier. Two

can play at the “I-just-need-to stretch-my-muscles” game. But

Cass is not looking at me, plowing his foot through the sand.

Emory pulls on the bottom of my shirt. “Cookieth,” he sug-

gests. “Cookie. Then Dora Explora. Then bath. Then story. More

story. Pooh Song. Then bed.”

Guess I’ve got my itinerary laid out for me.

Nic’s hardly been home one single evening since school

let out. Mom’s picked up an office building in town that she

cleans two nights a week. Grandpa Ben has the bingo and Mass

and the St. Anthony of Padua Social Club.

I take off my shirt.

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Cass doesn’t fall over like Danny Zuko when Sandy appears

in head-to-toe spandex at the end of
Grease
. Thank God, right, because I’ve always hated that scene. Great message:
When all

else fails, show some skin and reduce the boys to slobbering, quiver-ing messes.

He doesn’t even seem to notice. Just stands there, very still,

jaw clenched, looking out at the water.

Okay, I didn’t want it to be all about my body or even mostly

about my body, but
hello
.

I shake my hair over my face. “Okay, Em, let’s hit the road.”

I bend down to let him clamber onto my back and perform his

trademark chokehold on my trachea. Which is handy because

it means I don’t have to say an additional “good-bye and thank

you” to Indifferent Boy. Or wonder why my throat hurts.

Emory’s mesmerized by
Peter Pan
. I’m wondering what’s up

with Tinker Bell and her jealousy issues. It’s not like anything

was ever going to work out between them. She’s three inches

tall and he’s committed to never hitting puberty.

Speaking of never, why is there never anything to eat in our

house except Nic’s Whey Protein Isolate Dietary Supplement

powder (“Guaranteed to Bulk You Up”), Mom’s freezer-burned

Stouffer’s lasagna, Grandpa’s fish, shellfish, linguica, and pile of farmer’s market vegetables, and Em’s favorite foods—ketchup,

Cap’n Crunch, eggs, frozen French fries, bananas, pasta, more

ketchup?

Why don’t I have any representation in the cabinets and

refrigerator? There isn’t even any sugar or flour . . . and absolutely nothing left over from my baking spree.

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Mostly, I acknowledge, because I really don’t care. I love

food, but shopping for it is one chore that Mom and Grandpa

and Nic do that I am happy to hand over to them.

But that means there’s nothing to drown my sorrows in.

I mean, sure, I like vegetables, but who sits on the couch in

their robe and eats half a dozen pickling cucumbers and a

tomato?

Grandpa chuckles at the rapt expression on Emory’s face as

Peter Pan duels with Captain Hook. He scrapes the bottom of

his grapefruit clean and prepares to fill it with Raisin Bran.

“Girls talk too much,” Peter complains on screen.

“You think so, Peter? Maybe that’s because boys never

explain,” I say back. “So we have to talk because they’re too

busy being idiots who give us the silent treatment.”

Grandpa shoots me an amused look. Then he grins in that

same “those young people and their silly antics” way Mrs.

Ellington did.

I stomp into my room, throw myself face-first on my bed.

Which really isn’t built for that particular cliché and shud-

ders under me, letting out a squawk. Next thing you know I’ll

be sliding down the wall of our shower, sobbing and singing

depressing pop songs into my shampoo bottle.

I scrub my face with my hands. Maybe Spence Channing has

the right idea. Maybe “just sex” is the safest way to go. Because

these . . . feelings . . . hurt. I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought, but I
felt
like something had changed. That Cass and I had finally moved beyond . . . well, just
beyond
. Whether it was smart or not.

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And it probably wasn’t smart.

No, it definitely wasn’t.

Not when I don’t even know which Cass is true.

My first mistake after the Polar Bear Plunge was coming in

Mom’s Bronco. The Bronco is old—like only a year younger

than me. The rear hatch is battered from where we got stuck in

the deep sand once and had to be pushed out by a bulldozer.

There’s something wonky about the underbody, so when you

drive there’s this rattling sound as though major car parts are

about to drop off. When I pulled into the Somerses’ driveway

that night, it was filled with pretty little sporty cars—the Bronco loomed over them the way I tower over most of the girls at SBH.

Some of them were still getting out of the cute cars and

sauntering delicately across the gravel of the driveway. Bring-

ing me to my second mistake.

Clothes.

I didn’t think, I didn’t “plan my outfit.” I knew I should. Viv

kept pulling clothes out of my closet and holding them up to

me, frowning, saying things like, “Did you even try this one

on before you bought it? Mall run!” But doing that seemed so

deliberate, like we were preparing . . . staging for . . . I’m not sure what, but I couldn’t face it. So I was just in jeans and a

black V-neck (okay, low V).

I also opened the door of the Bronco without shutting off

the music, so, since I was distracted while driving over and

didn’t turn off Emory’s CD, it blared
“Baby Beluga in the deep
blue seeeeeeea.”
I hastily flipped the key in the ignition and shoved it in my pocket. From farther up the path, I heard muf-210

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fled laughter, which probably had nothing to do with me, but

I still wanted to turn and run.

I held my wrist up, looked at the neat blocky boy handwrit-

ing, the carefully drawn map. “Saturday. 8:00. Plover Point.”

And I headed in.

Unlike most parties I’d gone to, the music was not at top

volume. There was some sort of hidden sound system, but it

was muted, background music.

Everything was so clean, though. And white. Cream-colored

couches, ivory walls, pale straw rugs . . . pristine. For Cass’s

sake I hoped this wouldn’t turn into some drunken bacchanal,

because those rugs would be almost impossible to get vomit

out of, not to mention red wine if there was any and—

And
I was thinking like the daughter of a cleaning woman.

Just for tonight I wanted to put that aside. I wished I’d

shopped for an outfit. I wished Viv and Nic had come, instead

of laughing mysteriously and saying they had “other plans.”

Then I saw Cass, who was standing at the kitchen island,

taking people’s car keys and putting them in a wicker basket.

He was wearing a buttery yellow oxford shirt untucked over

his jeans. When he saw me, his face split into his most open,

unpracticed smile, the one that grooved his dimples deep and

crinkled the corners of those blue eyes. He leaned forward,

elbows on the counter.

“You came. I didn’t think you would.”

I fan out my hands, presenting myself, game show-hostess

style, suddenly more at ease.

He took me in, head to toe, then said in a mild tone at odds

with the intensity of his glance:

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“You’re trustworthy, right? I don’t need to snag your keys?”

“Totally reliable,” I said, looking around. I knew most of

the kids at the party—from the hallways and the cafeteria any-

way. But in this elegant atmosphere they seemed alien creatures

transported from some A-list universe. Boys I’d never seen in

anything but jeans and T-shirts were wearing black or dark blue

button-down shirts, and the girls were in all that was tight

and clingy—and yet classy. A line I’d never managed to walk

successfully.

I shivered, twisting my hair into a coil at the back of my

neck.

“You okay, Gwen? Not still cold from your historic rescue,

are you?”

“No. Completely recovered.” I tossed my hair over my shoul-

der, succeeding in whacking Tristan Ellis in the face with it.

“Hey, watch it,” he said, palms raised as though I’d chased

him with a machete.

I gave myself a mental shake. “This is so . . . glamorous,” I

murmured to Cass.

“Give it about twenty minutes to fall apart. Let me take your

coat.”

I didn’t want to hand over my tired navy peacoat, which, I

now noticed, had bristly golden fur all over it from Fabio. So I

stepped away from his outstretched hand, clearing my throat.

“To be honest, I didn’t know this was going to be so dressy.

Maybe I should go.”

His voice, already deep, went huskier. “Gwen. Stay. You’re

not intimidated by—” He glanced around the room, then

pointed to some kid who was squirting shaving cream on the

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face of someone who had apparently already passed out. “
That,

are you?”

The shaving cream guy shouted “Boo!” and the other kid

woke up with a jolt, his hands flying to his face. There was the

quick
zzzzt
of a camera phone as someone took a picture.

“No. Of course not!” But I took another cautious step away.

He moved forward again, reaching for my sleeve, gesturing

for me to unbutton the coat. I shook my head. He pulled again

on the sleeve so that we were sort of playing peacoat tug-of-war.

“This coat seems very important to you. Is there something

I should know? You
are
wearing a shirt under it, right?”

“I am,” I said, unbuttoning.

“Damn.”

I hated it when guys talked about me with my top off. Even

guys like Dad’s age did it. Once one of Grandpa’s friends, who

didn’t know I knew some Portuguese. Then Grandpa said some

words to him I
didn’t
know and he apologized for about half an hour. But the thing is . . . I didn’t hate it when Cass joked about it. There was no ick factor. Just this buzz of warmth and cold

skating over me. Then, something more recognizable. Panic.

“I’m not the one who’s always shirtless!”

Cass looked pointedly down at his shirt.

“I seem to be fine now. I don’t remember ever coming to

SBH topless either. Is my memory going? Or are you talking

about while swimming? Because, last time I looked, all the

other guys on the team weren’t wearing shirts either. Why am

I
the one breaking the Gwen Castle dress code?”

Oh God. I might as well have borrowed his Sharpie and

written
“You’re the one I look at!”
on my forehead. I needed a 213

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muzzle. Or a drink. No, that would have an anti-muzzle effect.

Plus, I’m not good with that and I’d wake up with shaving

cream all over my face.

I didn’t know why I’d felt so comfortable with him in the

car and was such a basket case now. Because we weren’t alone?

Shouldn’t I be
more
nervous about being alone? Shouldn’t I be wishing more people would crowd into the kitchen so that

I wouldn’t grab him and push him up against the Sub-Zero

and—

I spotted Pam D’Ofrio across the room, waved as though I

hadn’t seen her in five hundred years rather than five hours,

thrust my coat at Cass, and headed off.

He let me go, but every time I turned around, I met his eyes,

as if he’d been waiting for me to look. After about twenty min-

utes, he came over, took my hand. “I’m going to show Gwen

the house, Pam.”

He led me through, pointing out rooms, a long curving

staircase, down a paneled hallway. “Jake’s old room. This was

Bill’s, but he’s married now with a daughter, so he doesn’t

come to stay very often. Mine’s down this way.”

I expected him to take me to his room. Of course I did. So

I wasn’t surprised when he opened the door, flipped on the

lights. The first thing I was struck by was how relatively clean

it was. Bed unmade, maybe a half-dry towel or two tossed

around, but no piles of smelly abandoned clothes. The next by

how perfect it was—pale blue walls, darker blue sheets, a dark

blue coverlet with dark green stripes, curtains to match. There

was a big, well-stocked aquarium, blue lights flickering.

On the wall was a mirror that looked like the portal of a

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ship. The bed was big, made of oak, with old-fashioned dol-

phins carved into the sides, and the walls were covered with