What I Thought Was True (17 page)

“Everybody helps with Em,” I say—although lately it’s

mostly been Grandpa and me—and my voice is choky, hardly

recognizable. “What’s different now?”

“Castle’s. I gotta start doing breakfasts. Put in more outside

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tables. All costs money. I don’t have extra.”

My knuckles are white around my fork. “Nic’s extra? Or

would that be Emory?” I look over at my little brother, his hair

sticking up in front because there’s a bit of syrup in it, kicking his foot in time to “We’re a Couple of Misfits.”

Dad scrapes back his chair, shifts over to stroke the back of

my brother’s neck. Em tips his neck back, leans his head against

Dad’s open palm.

Dad stares at me over his shoulder. “No, he’s not extra.

Screw my life.”

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I am a huge cliché.

I am a teenage girl at the mall.

I am a teenage girl at the mall trying on bathing suits.

I am a teenage girl at the mall trying on bathing suits even

though she has a perfectly good one from last year that fits fine.

Worst of all, I am a teenage girl at the mall trying on bathing

suits even though she has a perfectly good one from last year

that fits fine and hating how she looks in every single one.

It doesn’t help that I am also a teenage girl who baked two

batches of sugar cookies and a pan of congo bars last night as a

chaser for dinner with Dad. I’m trying not to think about how

few leftovers there were this morning. Nic must have scarfed

some when he got in late, right?

Aren’t these stores supposed to
want
to make us look good?

Then what’s up with the cheapo overhead lighting that high-

lights every single flaw and creates a few extras for good mea-

sure?

Cliché #5: I am a teenage girl with body issues.

Which get worse in bathing suits. (#6)

And I’m doing this for a boy. (#7)

Well, not because he asked or anything. Not that he had

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time to do anything but blush after I blurted,
“Were you wearing
anything under there?”
and then did a bat-out-of-hell from his apartment. But Spence must have passed on the reason for my

epically awkward visit to the Field House, because this morn-

ing Grandpa Ben came in from his early morning walk.

“I met the young yard boy getting to work. He had trouble

starting the mower, so I showed him the tricks. He said he

would tutor Emory in the swimming today at three.”

Did he say anything else? Did he mention me? Did he . . . Yes,
right, absolutely. He lined up the tutoring, then said, “By the way,
Mr. Cruz, I think you should know that I have reason to suspect your
granddaughter was picturing me naked.”

I’ve got a perfectly adequate bathing suit but it’s a one-

piece and black and bears a distinct resemblance to Mrs. E.’s

beachwear. I suspect dressing exactly like an octogenarian is

a fashion don’t when you’re seventeen. On the beach. With a

gorgeous boy.

Who’s simply giving swimming lessons to your brother.

Out of the goodness of his heart.

I wheedled the use of Dad’s truck out of him, saying I

needed it to take Emory to speech. Though, really, it was more

that I felt he owed me one after last night’s bleak lecture, stark as black-and-white headlines on a newspaper. Your brother =

your future. No amount of sugar, butter, and flour can quite

get the taste of that out of my mouth. Then Grandpa wanted

to come along because there’s almost always a few yard sales

happening on Saturdays in Maplecrest.

Which brings me to the non-clichéd part of all this.

“Guinevere! Your brother has lost his patience with this store

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and I am losing it with him. Have you gotten what you need?”

Yes, my grandfather is right outside the changing rooms.

Also . . . my little brother.

“Not yet!” I call.

I can hear Grandpa move away, trying to dicker down the

price of a cast-iron frying pan. “You cannot mean to charge

so much for this. It’s brand-new. It hasn’t been seasoned yet. It

will take years of cooking in it and wiping down with the olive

oil to be worth the price you are asking.”

Then I hear him calling, alarmed, for Emory, who I know

must be doing his I’m-bored-in-this-store routine, hiding in

the center of those circular racks of clothes until Grandpa spots

his feet.

I’ve tried on four tankinis. I think I read once in one of

Vivien’s magazines that, like, ninety percent of the guys on

the planet hate tankinis. Which can’t be right. I mean, I’m cer-

tain men herding goats in Shimanovsk don’t care one way or

another. And if they include the men who want every part of

a woman except her eyes covered, that’s unfairly skewing the

percentages and—

I reexamine the pile. No, and no, and Jesus God, let me for-

get how
that
one looked.

“Almost done,” I call feebly.

Forget it. I’ll just wear the black one-piece. It’s not like it’s a date. I mean, he told me about it through my grandfather.

I wonder how long it took him to stop blushing. When I

left, throwing some excuse about Fabio over my shoulder, I

heard him come out from his bedroom and Spence ask, “What

happened to your
face
?”

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Outside there’s a commotion and a “You can’t come in

here!” and Grandpa Ben saying “
Acalme-se,
” and thrusting this bikini in through the side of the curtain.

A bikini.

Vivien wears bikinis. Viv even wears string bikinis. She looks

great in them because she has exactly that sort of body . . .

all lanky and coltish and boyish-but-not. She says she doesn’t

look good because she hasn’t got enough on top, but she has

to know she pretty much does, or she would stick to What the

Well-Dressed Senior Citizen Will Wear, like me.

“
Apenas experimente, querida,
” Grandpa calls. “Just try it.”

I don’t know if it’s because of the color, which is this mossy

green, which sounds nasty, but spring moss, brighter than

olive, but still deep and rich. Or because I can hear the sales-

woman outside getting more and more agitated and I’m afraid

she’s about to call security. Or because . . . well, I don’t know

why, but I try it on.

It’s not a string bikini. It’s not an itsy-bitsy bikini. It’s sort of retro, but not in a really obvious way.

In it, I don’t look like Vivien in her bikinis. I don’t look like

one of those swimsuit models posing knee deep in the Carib-

bean with this shocked expression like, “Hey, who put all this

water here?” I don’t look “nice.” I look, in fact, like The Other

Woman in one of Grandpa Ben’s movies. The one who saunters

into the room to the low wail of an alto saxophone. I look like

a Bad Girl.

For the first time, that seems like a Good Thing.

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Of course, that was hours ago and I left my courage in the

dressing room of T.J.Maxx.

I bought the bikini.

But here I am on the beach wearing a long T-shirt of Mom’s

(Mom’s! At least I’ve bumped down a generation or two, but

still!) while Cass gives Emory his first lesson.

And basically ignores me completely.

Which is fine. He’s here for Em.

He gave me this nod when we first got to the beach and I

slid Emory off my back.

A nod.

A nod is sort of like acknowledging that there’s someone

present with a pulse. It’s the next best thing to nothing at all.

Boys do not nod at girls they have any feelings for.

Wait—

Do I even want Cass to have feelings for me? Please, come on.

How can I possibly . . . after everything?

He’s here for Em.

I nod back.
So there, Cass. I see your impersonal greeting and
return it. Just don’t check my pulse.

Because . . . because even though I should be used to Cass

on the island and Cass in the water, and his sooty eyelashes and

curling smile and his dimples and his body . . .

Jesus God.

I close my eyes for a second. Take a deep breath.

Cass squats down next to my brother. “So, Emory. You like

cars?”

Never good with direct questions, Em simply seems con-

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fused. He looks up at me for clarification. Cass bends and

reaches into the backpack by his foot, pulls out a handful of

Matchbox cars and extends his palm.

“Cars,” Em says happily, stroking the hood of one with a

careful finger

Cass hands him one. “The rest are going to be diving into

the water, since it’s such a warm day. So what I’m going to

need you to do is come on in and find them.”

My brother’s forehead crinkles and his eyes flick to mine.

I nod. Cass reaches for his hand. “Here, I’ll show you.” Em

cheerfully lets go of my fingers and glides his hand into Cass’s.

“What are you doing?” I ask nervously. I have this vision of

Cass throwing the cars off the pier and directing Emory to dive

in after them.

“Just getting him used to me, and the water,” he says over

his shoulder. “It’s okay. This is what I did at camp. I know this.”

Em looks skinny and pale next to his wide shoulder, tanned

skin.

I follow him, unsure. Am I supposed to hang back and let

Cass do his thing, or look out for Emory? In the end, habit tri-

umphs and I stick close.

There are only a few people on the beach, some of the

Hoblitzell family, people I don’t know who must be renters. As

usual, I can see a few eyes flick to Emory and then skip away

with that
something’s not right with him
expression. It doesn’t happen often . . . he’s a little boy and people are mostly kind.

But the saleslady at T.J.’s yesterday kept talking to me or Grandpa when Emory was touching stuff. “Get him to understand that

he’s not allowed to do that.” I wanted to slap her.

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At the tideline, Cass halts and Em echoes him, digging his

toes into the wet sand. For about five minutes, Cass does noth-

ing, just lets the waves wash over their feet. Then he reaches

forward, placing one of the cars a little way out in the water.

“Can you get down now on all fours and reach this?” All his

attention is on the little boy, as though he’s forgotten I’m there.

It reminds me of the way he is at swim meets, turned inward,

concentrating completely on the task at hand.

Maybe that’s it. It’s not weird between us. He’s concentrating.

Which is what I want. It’s not as though I’d like Cass focused

on me while Em sinks below the waves. Exactly the way
I
did with him.

For forty-five minutes the game continues. Each car is a little

farther out in the water. Cass lies on his stomach. “Can you do

like me?”

Emory obeys without question or hesitation. I’m worry-

ing because the slight waves are slapping closer to his face

and Em hates that—always yells when we scrub his face in

the bathtub.

“Okay now. Last rescue. You do it one-handed. You hold

your nose like this to keep the water out and reach far. If

you get a little wet, just squeeze your nose tighter and keep

reaching. But you have to close your eyes while I put out the

last thing.”

Em’s eyelashes flutter shut, his fingers pinching his nose.

Cass drops something into the water about ten inches out

and
smack,
a wave slaps right across my brother’s lowered face. I jump up from where I’d been sitting, wait for the howl

of outrage and terror. But all I see is a flash of red and blue

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clutched tightly in Emory’s hand, held aloft triumphantly,

and the smile on his face.

“Way to go, buddy. You saved Superman.” Cass straightens

up, then raises his hand for a high five. Em knows those from

Nic, so he presses his hand against Cass’s, then scrambles over

to me, waving his treasure.

It’s one of those plastic Superman action figures with a red

cape and the blue tights, a little worn, some of the paint scraped off the manly square features. But Em doesn’t care. He carefully

traces the
S
on the chest, his lips parted in awe, as though this is a miniaturized live version of his hero.

“How ’bout another try in a few days? Maybe we could do

this twice a week. It’s better if the gap between lessons isn’t

too big,” Cass tells me, putting an elbow behind his head and

stretching, like he’s getting the kinks out.

Em has extended Superman’s arms and is flying him through

the air, his face lit with joy.

“That’d be great! Fantastic.”

I sound way too enthusiastic. “I mean . . . Fine. It would be

fine. Emory would like that.”

It’s all about Emory, after all.

Silence.

More silence.

Cass bends down and starts carefully restoring the Match-

box cars to his backpack, drying them first with the (yes, pink-

ish) towel around his neck

“Okay then,” I say. “I should get him home. He’s probably

tired.”

Cass makes one of those noises like “Mmmph.”

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“Thanks for the lesson, Cass.”

“No problem.”

“?”

“—”

“It’s really hot today.”

“Yep.” Sound of bag zipping.

“How was the water?”

“Ask Emory.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Subjective question,” Cass says, standing up, one-shouldering

the backpack, and finally venturing beyond monosyllables.