What I Thought Was True (2 page)

My eight-year-old brother is not autistic. He’s not anything

they’ve mapped genetically. He’s just Emory. No diagnosis, no

chart, no map at all. Some hard things come easy to him, and

some basic things he struggles with. I wrap my arms around

his waist, his skinny ribs, rest my chin on his shoulder, feeling

his dark flyaway hair lift to tickle my cheek, inhaling his sun-

warm, little-boy scent. “This is the one with the funny song,

remember? The sunny funny-face song?”

At last Em settles, snuggled with his favorite stuffed animal,

Hideout the stuffed hermit crab, in his arms. Grandpa Ben won

him at some fair when Emory was two, and he’s been Em’s

favorite ever since.

I nudge aside Fabio, go outside to the front steps, because

I just can’t watch Audrey Hepburn being waifish and wistful.

At nearly five eleven, nobody, no matter how nearsighted, will

ever say I’m waifish.

Squinting out over the island, over the roofs of the low,

split-level houses across from ours—Hoop’s squat gray ranch,

Pam’s dirty shingled white house, Viv’s pale green house with

the redwood shutters that don’t match—I can just barely catch

the dazzle of the end-of-day sun off the water. I lean back on

my elbows, shut my eyes and take a deep breath of the warm,

briny air.

Which reeks.

My eyes pop open. A pair of my cousin’s workout sneakers

are inches from my nose. Yuck. Eau de sweaty eighteen-year-

old boy. I elbow them off the porch, onto the grass.

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The screen door bangs open. Mom slides down next to me,

a carton of ice cream in one hand, spoon in the other. “Want

some? I’ll even get you your own spoon.”

“Nah, I’m fine.” I offer a smile. Pretty sure she doesn’t buy

it. “That your appetizer, Mom?”

“Ice cream,” she says. “Appetizer, main course, dessert. So

flexible.”

She digs around for the chunks of peanut butter ripple, and

then pauses to brush my hair back from my forehead. “Any-

thing we need to talk about? You’ve been quiet the past day or

so.”

It’s ironic. Mom spends most of her spare time reading

romance novels about people who take their clothes off a lot.

She explained the facts of life to a stunned and horrified Nic

and me by demonstrating with a Barbie and a G.I. Joe. She took

me to the gynecologist for the Pill when I was fifteen—“It’s

good for your complexion,” she insisted, when I sputtered that

it wasn’t necessary, “and your future.” We can talk about physi-

cal stuff—she’s made sure of that—but only in the abstract . . .

Now I want to rest my head onto her soft, freckled shoulder

and tell her everything about the boys in the car. But I don’t

want her knowing that anyone sees me like that.

That I’ve given anyone a reason.

“I’m fine,” I repeat. She spoons up more ice cream, face

absorbed. After a moment, Fabio noses his way through the

screen door, staggers up to Mom, and sets his chin on her

thigh, rolling his eyes at her beseechingly.

“Don’t,” I tell her. Though I know she will. Sure enough,

Mom scrapes out a chunk, tapping the spoon on the deck.

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Fabio drops his inches-from-death act and slurps it up, then

resumes his hopeful post, drooling on Mom’s leg.

After a while, she says, “Maybe you could walk down to the

Ellingtons’”—she wags the spoon toward Low Road—“say

hiya to Mrs. E.”

“Wait. What? Like a job interview? Now?” I look down at

my fraying cut-offs and T-shirt, back at Mom. Then I run inside

and come back with my familiar green-and-pink mascara tube.

I unscrew it, flicking the wand rapidly over my eyelashes.

“You don’t need that,” Mom says for the millionth time,

nonetheless handing me her spoon so I can check for smudges

in the reflection. “No. I pretty much told her you’d take the

job. It’s a good one. But I don’t know how many other peo-

ple already know about it. And such good pay. Just get there,

ground floor, remind her who you are. She’s always liked you.”

This is why, three minutes later, I’m toeing on my flip-flops

when Grandpa Ben hurries out, his shock of curly white hair

tousled. “Gwen! Take this! Tell Mrs. E. they are from Bennie

para a rosa da ilha,
for the Rose of the Island.
Mando lagostas e
amor.
I send her lobsters and love.”

I look down at the moist paper sack encased in Grandpa’s

faded rope-mesh bag, from which a pair of lobster antennae

wave menacingly.

“Grandpa. It’s a job interview. Sort of. I can’t show up with

shellfish. Especially alive.”

Grandpa Ben blows out his breath impatiently. “Rose loves

lobsters. Lobster salad. Always, she loved that.
Amor verdadeiro
.”

He beams at me.

“True love or not, these are a long way from lobster salad.”

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One of the lobsters is missing a front claw but still snapping

scarily at me with its other one.

“You cook them, you chill them, you make the special sauce

for her to eat tomorrow.” Grandpa Ben thrusts the bag at me.

“Rose always loved the
lagostas
.”

He’s aged in the years since Vovó died, more so since

Dad moved out and he moved in. Before then, he seemed as

unchanging as the figureheads on a whaling ship, roughly

hewn, strong, brown as oak. But his face seems to sag tonight,

and I can’t stand to say no to those eager chocolate eyes. So I

bundle the mesh sack onto my wrist and head down the steps.

At nearly six o’clock the summer sun is still high in the sky,

the water beyond the houses bottomless bright blue, glinting

silver with reflected light. There’s just a bit of a breeze, and,

now that I’m out of range of Nic’s shoes, the air smells like cut

grass and seaweed, mingled with the mellow scent of the wild

thyme that grows everywhere on the island.

That’s about all we have here. Wild thyme, a seasonal com-

munity of shingled mansions, a nature preserve dedicated to

the piping plovers, and the rest of us—the people who mow

the lawns and fix and paint and clean the houses. We all live in

East Woods, the “bad” part of Seashell. Ha. Not many people

would say that exists on the island. We get woods at our back

and can only squint at the ocean; they get the full view of

the sea—sand tumbling all the way out to the water—from

their front windows, and big rambling green lawns in back.

Eighty houses, thirty of them year-round, the rest open from

Memorial through Columbus Day. In the winter it’s like we

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year-rounders own the island, but every spring we have to give

it back.

I’m halfway down Beach Road, past Hooper’s house, past

Vivien’s, heading for Low Road and Mrs. Ellington, when I

hear the low thrum of a double lawn mower. It gets louder as

I walk down the road closer to the water. The rumble builds,

booming as I turn onto Low Road, where the biggest beach-

front houses are. The maintenance shack on Seashell—the Field

House—has these huge old riding mowers, with blades big

enough to cut six-foot-wide swaths in everyone’s yard. As I

pass the Coles’ house, the sound stutters to a halt.

And so do I.

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At first I just have to stare, the way you do when confronted

with a natural wonder.

Niagara Falls.

The Grand Canyon.

Okay, I’ve never been to either, but I can imagine..

This summer’s yard boy has climbed off the mower and is

standing with his back to me, looking up at Old Mrs. Partridge,

who’s bellowing at him from her porch, making imperious

sweeping gestures from left to right.

“Why can’t you folks ever get this?” shouts Old Mrs. Par-

tridge. She’s rich, deaf, and Mom’s number one candidate for

undetectable poison. Not only are all the people who work

for her in any capacity “you people,” most of the other island

residents are too.

“I’ll work on it,” the yard boy says, adding after a slight

pause, “ma’am.”

“You won’t just
work
on it, you’ll do it
right
. Do I make myself clear, Jose?”

“Yes.” Again the pause. “Ma’am.”

Old Mrs. Partridge looks up, her mouth so tight she could

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bite a quarter in half. “You—” She jabs her bamboo cane out

at me. “Maria! Come tell this boy how I like my lawn mowed.”

Oh hell no
. I take a few steps backward on the road, my eyes straying irresistibly to the yard boy.

He’s turned to the side, rubbing his forehead, a gesture I

recognize from Mom (Old Mrs. Partridge can get a migraine

going in no time). He’s in shorts, shirtless . . . broad shoulders, lean waist, tumble of blond hair bright in the sun, nice arms

accentuated by the bend of his elbow. The least likely “Jose” in

the world.

Cassidy Somers.

Oh, I should keep backing away now instead of what I actu-

ally do, which is freeze to the spot. But I cannot help myself.

Again.

Snagging the shirt draped over the handlebars of the lawn

mower, Cass wipes his face, starts to mop under his arms, then

glances up and sees me. His eyes widen, he lowers the shirt,

then seems to change his mind, quickly hauling it over his

head. His eyes meet mine, warily.

“Go on!” Mrs. Partridge snaps. “Tell him. How Things Are

Done. You’ve been around here long enough. You know how I

like my lawn. Explain to Jose here that he can’t just mow it in

this haphazard, higgledy-piggledy fashion.”

I feel the sharp edge of a claw nudge under my arm and

slide Grandpa Ben’s bag to the ground behind me. This is bad

enough without lobsters.

“Well,
Jose,
” I say firmly. “Mrs. Partridge likes her lawn to be mowed very evenly. Horizontally.”

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“Horizontally?” he repeats, tipping his head at me slightly,

the smallest of smiles tugging the corner of his mouth.

Cass. Let’s not go there.

“That’s right,” I say. “Jose.”

He leans back against the mower, head still cocked to the

side. Old Mrs. Partridge has caught sight of Marco, the head

maintenance guy on the island, making his final rounds with

the garbage truck, and temporarily deserts us to bully him

instead, railing about some hurricane that’ll never make it this

far up the coast.

“
You’re
the yard boy on island this summer?” I blurt out.

“Wouldn’t you be better off—I don’t know, caddying at the

country club?”

Cass lifts two fingers to his forehead, saluting sardonically.

“This year’s flunky, at your service. I prefer yard
man
. But apparently I don’t get a choice. My first name has also been

changed against my will.”

“You’re all Jose to Mrs. Partridge. Unless you’re a girl. Then

you’re Maria.”

He folds his arms, leans back slightly, frowning. “Flexible

of her.”

I’ve barely spoken a word to Cass since those spring par-

ties. Slipped around him in school, sat far away in classes and

assemblies, shrugged off conversations. Easy when he’s part of

a crowd—
that
crowd—striding down the hallways at Stony

Bay High like they own it all, or at Castle’s yesterday. Not so

simple when it’s only Cass.

He’s squinting at me now, absently rubbing his bottom

lip with his thumb. I’m close enough to breathe in the salty

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ocean-scent of him, the faint trace of chlorine. Suddenly that

cold spring day is vivid in my mind, closer than yesterday.
Don’t
think about it. And definitely not about his lips.

He ducks his head to see my eyes. I don’t know what mine

show, so I direct my gaze at his legs. Strong calves, lightly

dusted with springing blond hair. I’m more conscious of the

ways he’s changed since we were kids even than the ways I

have.
Good God. Stop it.
I shift my gaze to the limitless blue of the sky, acutely aware of every sound—the sighing ocean, the

hum of the bees in the beach plum bushes, the distant heart-

beat throb of a speedboat.

He shifts from one leg to the other, clears his throat.

“I was wondering when I’d run into you,” he offers, just as I

ask, “Why
are
you here?”

Cass is not an islander. His family owns a boat-building

business on the mainland, Somers Sails, one of the biggest on

the East Coast. He does not have to put up with the summer

people. Not like us—the actual Joses and Marias.

He shrugs. “Dad got me the job.” He leans down, brushing

grass cuttings off the back of his leg. “Supposed to make a man

of me. School of hard knocks and all that.”

“Yup, we poor folk make up in maturity what we lack in

money.”

A flash of embarrassment crosses his face, as if he’s suddenly

remembered that, while we both go to Stony Bay High, I don’t

have a membership at the Bath and Tennis Club. “Well . . .”

he says finally, “it’s not a cubicle, anyway.” His sweeping gesture takes in the gleaming ocean and the swath of emerald-green

lawn. “Can’t top the view.”

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I nod, try to picture him in an office. I’m most familiar with

him near the water, poised to dive into the school pool or, that

one summer, hurling himself off the Abenaki dock into the

ocean, somersaulting in the air before crashing into the blue-

black water. After a second I realize I’m still nodding away at

him like an idiot. I stop, shove my hands in my pockets so vio-

lently I widen the hole in the bottom of one and a dime drops

out onto the grass. I edge my foot forward, cover it
.

Done with browbeating Marco, Old Mrs. Partridge tramps

back up the stone path, points at Cass with a witchy finger.

“Is this break time? Did I say this was break time? What are

you doing, lolly-gagging around? Next thing I know you’ll be

expecting a tuna sandwich. You, Maria, finish explaining How

Things Are Done and let Jose get to work.” She stomps back

into the house. I step away a few paces. Cass reaches out a hand

as if to stop me, then drops it.

Silence again
.

Go,
I tell myself.
Just turn around and go
.

Cass clears his throat, clenches and unclenches his hand,

then stretches out his fingers. “Uh . . .” He points. “I think . . .

your bag is crawling.”

I turn. Lobster A is making a break for it across the lawn,

trailing the mesh bag and Lobster B behind. I run after it,

hunched low, snatch up the bag, and suddenly words are spill-

ing from my mouth as freely and helplessly as that dime from

my pocket. “Oh I’ve got this job interview, sort of . . . thing,

with Mrs. Ellington—down island.” I wave vaguely toward

Low Road. “My grandfather knows her and wants me to make

lobster salad for her.” I shake the lobsters back into the bag.

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“Which means I have to, like, boil these suckers. I know I’m

a disgrace to seven generations of Portuguese fishermen, but

putting something alive into boiling water? I’m not— It’s

just— I mean, what a way to go—” I look up at Cass, expres-

sionless except for one slightly raised eyebrow, and clamp my

mouth shut at last. “See you around,” I call over my shoulder,

hurrying away.

Nonchalant. Suave.
But really, are there any nonchalant, suave good-byes that involve unruly crustaceans? Not to mention

that the Good Ship
Pretense of Nonchalance
sailed several blath-erings ago.

“Will I?” Cass calls after me. I pick up my pace but can’t

resist a quick reverse look at him. He just stands there, arms still folded, watching me scurry off like some hard-shelled creature

scrabbling over the seafloor. Except without the handy armor.

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