What I Thought Was True (16 page)

9/4/13 8:02 AM

off a bit of her petticoat. But this would never happen to one

of Mom’s heroines because this is the sort of thing that only

happens to me.

Spence scratches his head, takes a pull of beer. “Aren’t you

all supposed to be the wild island kids? Doesn’t anybody get

hammered around here? Ol’ Nic Cruz is like a Boy Scout or

something. And your friend Vivien—I’ve never even seen her

at a party.”

“She and Nic pretty much like their parties private,” I say.

“It’s not as if you and Cass are draining the kegs all the time

either.”

In the end, I settle for toilet paper, knock firmly on the bed-

room door. Spence, apparently losing interest in the whole

drama, turns on some basketball on the small TV.

“C’mon in.”

Cass has his back to me, pulling on well-worn jeans, but-

toning the fly. How well they hug should be the last thing on

my mind right about now. And yet. God.

I mop up and then keep scrubbing the nearly dry floor

because I am now so embarrassed I don’t know what to say.

He’s also quiet and I can’t see his face and that makes me even

more nervous, so I do that thing I do and blurt out the first

thing that comes to mind.

“Were you wearing anything under there?”

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“Okay!” Viv calls, pulling over to the side of the road as I’m

walking home from the Field House of Humiliation as the sun

is finally sinking into the sea. She’s leaning over to whip open

the passenger-side door. “Enough’s enough. Get in the car.”

“Is this a kidnapping?”

“Yes. In. Now.”

I jingle Fabio’s leash. “You sure?” Vivie knows all about Fab’s

bad habits.

“I think he’s into marking wood and fabric. Not vinyl.

And besides, I just delivered twenty pounds of spicy mussels

in garlic broth and chorizo in this car
after
getting stuck at the bridge for forty minutes beforehand. Fabio can’t make the

stench much worse. Get in now before I have to get forceful.”

I slide in, studying her sideways. “Do you have a weapon?”

The brakes squeal as Viv backs up, too fast, then charges

forward, even faster. “My weapon’s my driving, and we both

know it. I’m going to drive around with you until you tell me

what the hell is going on between you and Cassidy Somers. I

thought he was going to throw you down on the pier.”

“It’s not like that. Jeez, Vivie, slow down.”

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“Gwen, it
is
like that. That guy looks at you as if he’d like to spread you on toast.”

I start laughing. “Toast? What?”

Vivien chuckles. “Okay. That was random. But I work in

catering—we think in food. You know what I mean, though.”

She shoots me a squinty-eyed look. “Because you’re doing it

right back at him, baby.”

“Well, he jumped in the ocean to rescue a stuffed animal.

Most guys would have shrugged. I was grateful. He was being

nice.” I kick my feet up on the dashboard and the faulty lock

on the glove compartment flips it open. At least eight speeding

and overdue parking tickets tumble out onto the already clut-

tered passenger seat floor.

Vivien shakes her head, short, tight wound pigtails whip-

ping against her cheeks. “Nico keeps telling me and telling me

he’s going to fix that thing.”

“You’d be better off fixing the tickets, pal.”

She shifts in her seat, staring me down. “Yeah, no chang-

ing the subject.
Nice?
First off, that wouldn’t be the first word I’d pick for the way you guys look at each other. Also, you’re

deciding not to hate him now? When did that happen?” She

lowers her voice to a dramatic pitch. “And exactly how? Details,

Gwenners. You’re totally breaking the friend code.”

I see the opening I’ve been waiting for and pounce. “Maybe

you better recite that code for me one more time.”

“I must be informed of any and all events in your life as they

happen. Most particularly, we must dissect and analyze every

single one of them to pieces. Especially when we’re talking

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about your love life. How else am I supposed to know when to

come over with a bunch of Ben and Jerry’s and when to take

you lingerie shopping?”

“Ugh,” I say. “Count me out of that one. I’d rather face a

firing squad than the mirrors in Victoria’s Secret.”

“I hate it when you down yourself, Gwen. You’re changing

the subject
and
missing the point. I’m your best friend. I must know
all
.”

I fold my arms. “Must you, now?”

“Totally.”

“Is that supposed to be mutual?”

“Of course. Since when haven’t I told you every little thing

about me and Nic? He’s still pissed off that I told you about

that thing he does with his thumbs.”

“Gah, I could have done without knowing that. Jesus,

Vivie . . .” I play with a stray thread at the bottom of my cut-

offs. “Ring shopping?”

Pink slowly floods her cheeks, then moves down to the base

of her throat. “I was wanting to talk to you about that.”

“Well, why didn’t you? I’m right here! We see each other

every day! You couldn’t have said, ‘Hey Gwen, pass me another

brownie and FYI I’m engaged to your teenaged cousin’?”

Viv shifts lanes without signaling, prompting a violent

round of honking from the car behind her. “I . . . thought

you’d think it was weird.”

“Well, it
is
weird. But what’s weirder was you not saying

anything! And Nic not saying anything!”

“What about
you
not saying anything? How long have you

known, anyway?”

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“Forever. Like two weeks.”

Shouldering the car off to the side of the road, Viv turns to

me. “Look. I’m sorry. Nic and I just decided to keep it on deep

down low. God knows if Al heard he’d freak the hell out. So

would my mom. I’d be in . . . I don’t know . . . a convent in

no time.”

“You didn’t trust me to keep the secret?” I ask more quietly.

Her expression changes, hardens somehow. “No. I know

you can keep secrets. Seems to be your specialty, matter of fact.”

What
?

“I don’t know
myself
what’s going on with Cass!” I blurt

out. “How can I tell you about it when I don’t even know what

to tell myself?”

“I’m supposed to help you figure that out,” Viv says. “That’s

in the friend code too. But I wasn’t talking about Cass. I was

talking”—she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders—“I

was talking about Spencer Channing. When were you going to

tell me about
Spence Channing,
Gwen?
Ever?
”

I slide down in the car seat. I can’t even look at her, my

best friend in the world. This is somehow worse than Nic

knowing. I clap my palms to my cheeks to cool my face down.

“Viv . . . you’ve always had Nic. Always. You’ve always been

solid together. Always. After what happened with Cass . . . not

to mention me being so stupid about Alex and my dad finding

us. I thought you’d . . .” I clear my throat, but can’t find any

more words.

“You thought I’d . . . ?” Vivien reaches out to pull my hands

down, turning my chin so she can look me in the eye.

“Think I was a slut. And if you thought that . . .” I pick at a

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piece of flaking vinyl. Vivien just keeps looking at me, until I

finally say, “Then maybe it would be true.”

She bumps her head back against the headrest.

“Which is stupid, I know, but whatever,” I say.

“God, Gwen! Really? Come on! I would never think like that

about you. I’ve had a lot more sex than you have. Am I a slut?”

“But it’s not like you and Nic. It’s not True Love. It’s . . . just sex.”

She looks at me for a long time, eyes troubled. Then asks,

“Are you sure? Does Cass know that? Did Spence?”

I ignore the part about Cass. “
Just sex
is what Spence does!

All he does. He was the one who came
up
with that attractive phrase.”

She makes a face. “That’s weird. Makes it sound like he

doesn’t even like it. And he’s supposed to be this huge player.

Was he, um, good?”

“What? I don’t know. I don’t remember too well,” I confess.

She makes a face. “That sounds like a no to me. How about

Cass?”

I shrug. “I feel weird talking about this. Like I’m scoring

them. ‘And the ten goes to . . . while the other two get consid-

erably lower marks.’ Now I
really
feel like a slut. Plus there was Jim Oberman, freshman year.”

“Oh, stop.” She whacks me on the shoulder. “No one even

remembers that. Plus, all you did was make out with Jim. And

it was pretty much all him. He was a loser who had to amp it

up to sound like more. The thing is . . . It’s just . . . I’ve only had Nic. No basis for comparison. I just wonder . . . a little . . .

sometimes. I mean. Hardly ever. But, you know.”

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My jaw practically drops. I never thought Vivien even
saw

anybody but Nic. I don’t think
he
sees any girl but her. I’ve never even heard him call anyone else pretty. Except me, which

doesn’t count.

“About any guy in particular?” I ask carefully. Then I think

Oh God, what if it’s Cass?
I mean, how could it not be? Look at him. But that would be beyond awkward.

“No!” she says hastily, flushing. “Of course not! Why would

you think that?”

“Because it’s hard to wonder about some abstract guy.

Unless he’s like a celebrity or something.”

“Well, yeah, that’s sort of a requirement if you have a pulse,”

Vivien says. “But no one I know. At all. Forget I mentioned

it . . . And, shit, don’t tell Nic.” Her voice is suddenly urgent.

“Promise me you won’t.” She reaches out and grabs my sleeve.

“Swear, Gwen. Never ever let Nic know.”

“I don’t think he’d be jealous, Viv. He knows your heart’s

his. Always has been. Always will be.”

“That’s right,” she says firmly. “Completely. Always.” But

there’s a little waver in her voice and she doesn’t look me in

the eye.

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This could be bad. Very bad.

Dad’s house is on the water. I mean . . .
on
the water. It’s on the marshy, open-to-the-ocean side of Seashell, near Nic’s and

my jumping bridge. You walk from the road through a patch

of woods and then out across some double planks to his house,

which is on wooden pilings, so it’s six or seven feet over the

marsh to get to the tiny porch and his little ramshackle red

house with buoys hanging outside, and fishing rods always

stacked by the door.

“Hurricane bait,” Dad calls it, but kind of with love. He got

it cheap from this island guy who was moving to Florida, just

at the right time, when he and Mom were splitting up, the year

after Em was born.

Tonight, when I take Em for our weekly dinner with Dad,

I put his life jacket on, just to cross that tiny three-slab-long

stretch of sun-dappled water. Even Emory thinks this is crazy.

He keeps shoving at the straps, saying “Gwennie, off.”

I’m pretty sure, to him, the whole falling off the dock thing

was much worse for Hideout.

I can smell pancakes as we come up the path. Dad always

does the breakfast for dinner thing. He gets sick of actual lunch

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and dinner, after churning them out at Castle’s all day and

night. I’m carrying Emory, who may not have a fear of the

water but seems to hate setting foot on the ground now.

“How’s the old lady?” Dad calls as we come in. “And what

the hell is your brother doing in that thing?”

There it is.

I miserably explain about the fall. Mom and Grandpa

didn’t blame me aloud . . . but this is much worse than not

fixing a broken door. Dad’s not exactly one to hold back on

the criticism.

Kneeling down, Dad unbuckles the life jacket, then hands

Emory a plate of scrambled eggs with ketchup frosting.

“Hideout fell in. Superman save him,” Em summarizes

cheerfully, settling down at the card table where we eat.

“Yeah, fine.” Dad clears his throat. I left out the Cass part of

the story, so he no doubt thinks that’s just another one of Em’s

dreams. “Guinevere.” He stands, looks at me. “You screwed up,

but you didn’t lose your head. Still, the kid doesn’t need a life

jacket on dry land. You’ll get him all worried.”

This time I do tell him about Cass and the lessons.

“Somers . . .” Dad says doubtfully, rubbing his hand against his

stubbled chin. “Like Aidan Somers? The boat-building guy?”

“His son.” I turn to the cabinet, pull out more plates, haul

out the syrup, start moving it all to the table.

“Rich kid,” Dad says flatly. “Don’t know about
that
. Besides, why isn’t your cousin doing this, Mr. Big Swimmer?”

“Nico already tried to teach him, Dad, and wanted to try

again.3 Grandpa said no, he said it was easier to learn from

someone who isn’t family.”

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Dad grunts. “That’s hogwash. I taught Nic to change a tire,

pitch a tent, drive. He learned all that just fine.”

“Well,” I venture. “You’re not technically related to Nic. I

mean—he’s mom’s nephew, but—”

“Technically?” Dad says, dumping more eggs onto a plate

and tossing the pan into the sink with a muffled sizzle. “I took

that kid under my roof when he was a month old, changed his

diapers, took him to the ER when he broke his arm, paid for

his whole life. That makes me family, the way I see it.”

He hands me the big serving plate of pancakes, eggs shoved

to the side, mutters “Technically!” again, and sits down at the

table, immediately picking up his fork.

“What’s your interest in all this?” he asks, scraping his chair

in with a loud squawk.

“Wha—?” I’m blushing again, picturing Cass asleep on his

stomach, the smooth, taut lines of the muscles in his back, the

look on his face when I blurted that question, his eyes flashing

wide and ears going bright pink. Little boy Cass that summer,

cheeks puffed, blowing a dandelion wish for me when I told

him my secret about Vovó.

I stack pancakes on Em’s plate, adding butter and syrup.

Cutting them up neatly and precisely, tasting a forkful to make

sure it’s not too hot. Avoiding Dad’s eyes.

“How well do you know this guy?” he finally asks against

my silence, whacking the bottom of the ketchup bottle to dis-

lodge the last dregs.

Better than I should. Not at all. I knew him the summer we were
seven. We go to school together.

“He’s on the swim team with Nic.”

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Dad’s impatient. “How well do
you
know him?” he repeats.

There’s a warm, silty breeze blowing in from over the salt

marsh, but I have goose bumps. Does Dad know?
What
does

Dad know? We’re best off when I’m his pal, like when I was a

kid. He stopped hugging me the year I turned twelve and sud-

denly looked much less like a kid than I still was. Every once

in a while, he’ll look at some outfit of mine and say some-

thing like, “Pull your shirt up . . . there,” gesturing at my chest without looking at me. That time with Alex on the beach . . .

he hardly knew what to say. Started with “Nice girls don’t—”

and then went mute. He hasn’t mentioned it since. But it’s not

forgotten. I can see it in his eyes.

“Gwen?” Dad’s voice is sharp now.

“Be nice to Gwennie,” Emory urges. He leans on one fist,

trailing a square of pancake through a lake of syrup. He has a

milk mustache.

“Look, I’m not asking for the kid’s résumé. He’s the yard

boy. I’m sure Marco and Tony checked him out. But if I’m

going to trust him with my son in the water, I want to know

he’s responsible.”

Well, not with hedge clippers, that’s for sure. And not with . . . not
with . . .
I can’t think of an answer that isn’t totally inappropriate. My life lately seems to be an endless series of mortifying

encounters. I push my pancakes around on my plate.

“Simple question, simple answer.” Dad’s snapping his fin-

gers at me. “Gwen! You’re zoning out like your ma.”

“He’s responsible,” I say, glancing up.

“All I need to know. I’ll take your word for it, he’s a good

egg. Finish your pancakes. I made a ton because I thought Nic

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would be coming. What’s the excuse this time?”

Nic has skipped the last three dinners. His reason tonight

was vague: “Tell Uncle Mike I have something really important

I have to do.
Really
important.”

Pretty obvious why he’d want to bag out this time, but Nic

is usually more gifted with justifications.

More engagement ring shopping? A marriage license? A blood

test? A doctor’s appointment
?

Viv and I have broken the ice. But every time I open my

mouth with Nic I close it again without saying a word, this

weird twist in my gut. He’s practically my brother and he can’t

tell me? How come he and Viv can both confront me about

Spence, but I can’t do the same to them?

Snapping fingers. It’s Dad again. “Where
are
you tonight,

Gwen?” He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s wrong? What’s

going on with Nic?”

Em’s forkful of eggs and ketchup hovers halfway to his

mouth. He peeps back and forth between us, big brown eyes

alarmed.

I parrot Nic’s lame excuse, that same spiral in my stomach.

I want to say,
I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know why I
don’t know. And just talk to him and find out and fix whatever it is.

Please just fix it
, but what comes out is, “Yeah, what
is
going on with you and Nic, Dad? Why are you being such an asshole to

him?”

Silence. Dad frowns over his plate, dicing pancakes with

precision, his knife scraping loud.

“Asssshole.” Emory samples the new word, drawing out the

s
sound, one of the ones he struggles with.

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“Just our luck. He got that one down perfectly. Nice work,

Gwen.” Dad forks a few more pancakes onto my plate.

“Now you’re being one to me. I mean it. What’s the deal

with you two?”

“Your cousin needs to grow up.”

“He’s got another year in high school, Dad.”
I hope
.

“When I was his age—” Dad begins.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You had shitty luck and—”

“Stop talking like that in front of your brother,” Dad thun-

ders. Em shrinks back in his seat, reaching out a maple-sticky

hand for me. I grab on to it, squeeze. Dad grumbles, he doesn’t

roar. What
is
this?

“What I mean is, is that what you want for me and Nic?

Just what you had? What about all that stuff you said at Sandy

Claw?”

“Eat your pancakes,” Dad huffs, shoving a forkful into his

mouth. “At least, without your cousin here there’s enough to

go around. That kid eats like there’s no tomorrow. I swear, half

the money I give your mom goes down his throat.”

“You’re mad at him for having an appetite now? What in

God’s name?”

Dad has the game face Mom never will, but I see guilt flash

across it. “You don’t understand,” he says.

“No. I don’t. Help me out. What’s your deal here?”

He reaches for the plastic gallon of milk, sloshes more into

his glass. “It never gets better, kid. Bills, bills, bills. Your little brother’s got asthma. He’s got physical therapy. He’s got speech

therapy. He’s got occupational therapy. Insurance covers some,

but the damn bills just keep on coming.”

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“I know, Dad. But what does that have to do with Nic? He

didn’t cause any of that.”

Dad clears his throat, looks over at my little brother; abruptly

stands and flicks on the television, shoving in a DVD. Em looks

at him uncertainly for a moment, but then he curls up in

Dad’s big recliner, cuddles Hideout against his cheek, soaks in

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Any day can be Christmas

for Emory. Dad sits back at the table, leaning toward me to say

quietly, “I bust my butt all the time and every dollar that comes

in flows back out like I’ve got a hole in my pocket. I don’t play

the numbers, I don’t smoke or spend it at the bar. I’m careful

with the cash, Gwen. And it still doesn’t matter a damn.”

“So cutting Nic loose will help?”

“You know I won’t do that. Gimme a break. I look out for

what’s mine. Like I do with Em. Even if the kid is nothing like

me.”

The words hover in the air.

Dad shovels another forkful of food into his mouth.

I feel sick.

Emory has Dad’s brown eyes. He has his crooked big toe.

Dad’s smile, though he uses it much more often. Anyone, any-

one, would look at them and know they were father and son.

But Dad left. He doesn’t see the day-to-day. He doesn’t see Em

tilt his head against Grandpa Ben’s shoulder, huskily singing

Gershwin lyrics as they watch another Fred-and-Ginger movie.

He doesn’t see Emory hurry to the refrigerator to pick out

Mom’s bagged lunch when he sees her pulling on her sneakers

in the morning. He doesn’t see Emory carefully align his fin-

gers to respond to Nic’s high fives, his face glowing with big-

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boy worship. He hears how hard it is for Em to talk, the draggy

slowness in his voice. He sees that his face is sometimes blank

of everything, and even we who love him best can only guess

what’s happening inside. He sees everything that makes him

different and nothing that makes him Emory. I feel sick, yeah,

but I also feel sorry, so sorry for my father.

“My family . . . we’re not the Brady Bunch, but everyone’s

always been all there, if you get what I’m saying.”

I think I may throw up. “Emory’s all there.”

“C’mon, Gwen. Your aunt Gules is a nutcase, but she’s

not . . .” He’s been sitting straight but now seems to deflate

a little. “Not like your brother. No one we know is like your

brother. I just don’t know how the hell this happened.”

“Do you know how many things have to go right to make a

perfect baby, Dad?” I hold out my hands, settle each finger into

the next, slotting them both together. “It all has to—”

His hand closes on mine, rough from work, freckled from

the sun. “No, I don’t. I don’t know that sort of thing. I don’t

want you to know either, for Chrissake. Just stay away from

all that. I only know your brother is never going to get better.

There’s always going to be something. Ben’s getting on. Your

mother takes crap care of herself. Every time I turn around Nic

is working on his body or out messing around with Vivien.

With plans to light out for God knows how many years after

that. That leaves you and me, pal.”