What I Thought Was True(26)

“I—”

I look over to see if Dad has noticed my dawdling, but he’s apparently in some sort of near altercation with a vendor, who is holding a huge cardboard barrel of ice cream. Automatically, I check the table where Emory was drawing, but he’s not there.

Oh God.

The parking lot.

The road.

I whirl around.

Then I feel a soft brush past me, and my little brother steps in front of Cass, head titled. He’s so small, even though he’s eight, that reaching up to Cass’s chest is a big deal. He touches 88

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it lightly, moves his finger across it in a slow, snake-like motion.

I have no idea what he’s doing.

“Superman,” he says proudly, like he’s seen through Cass’s disguise. He traces the shape again—it’s an S, I realize—and beams at both of us.

Cass looks down, game face on, but not freaked out. I hope.

“Hi, Superman,” Emory repeats, invisibly drawing the shield thing around the S.

I don’t know why he’s doing this. Cass has neither dark hair nor a cape waving in the wind. Maybe the blue of his shirt or the way he stands with his shoulders back, chin lifted.

Now Dad looks over. “Sorry,” he calls to Cass and his brother, who’s returning with a fresh order of fries, then to me: “Gwen, don’t let your little brother pester the customers, for God’s sake.”

“It’s fine,” Cass calls. His brother sets the fries down on the table and immediately Em’s reaching for them.

“Superman,” he repeats, popping one in his mouth and chewing cheekily.

“Em, no!” I struggle as I usually do when people meet him for the first time, whether to explain or just let them take Em as Em.

“My brother is—”

Cass cuts me off. “We bumped into each other on the beach yesterday. He was with your grandfather. I gave them a lift up the hill. They seemed tired.”

I blink. “Before or after your rescue attempt with the lobsters?”

“Before.” Cass winks at Emory, who is eating another fry.

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“The Man of Steel never rests. Or maybe that’s Jose the yard boy. I get my alter egos confused.”

“Hi there,” his brother says to me, with a short wave. “Bill Somers.”

“This is Gwen Castle, Billy. She’s the one I was saying should tutor me for that English makeup.”

Wait. This was his idea? Not Coach’s?

“Good to meet you. And—don’t pull your punches with squirt here. He deserves it.”

Cass’s ears turn red. He shoots Bill a swift death-glare.

“Gwen!” Dad calls. “Get your little brother back over here.

You don’t have time for screwing around.”

Bill tells me it was a pleasure, Cass has retreated into his bland, neutral look, and Emory’s made a major dent in their fries. I stammer out an apology, take Em’s greasy hand, and turn to go, only to run into the solid wall of Dad. He’s got yet another new plate of French fries, not having missed a thing.

“Sorry about this. These’re on the house too,” he says. Then, stern, to me: “Get back where I can keep an eye on you, kid.

Emory’s the one who is supposed to need a babysitter.”

God, Dad. I feel my face burning. But Cass is looking down at the ground, not at me, nudging at the pebbles with the toe of his sneaker, all neutral face. Dad’s bristly and defensive, Bill faintly amused. Only Emory is completely at ease. He sidles up to Cass, traces the shield design once again, sweeps his finger in an S. “Superman,” he says.

“I wish,” Cass mutters.

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Chapter Ten


The first thing I see when I get home, sticky with spilled soda and French fry grease, are Nic’s big bare feet sticking over the edge of Myrtle. Vivien is crouched over them in dark purple bikini bottoms and a low-cut black tank.

Good God. It’s four in the afternoon and they’re in our liv-ing room. On the couch under the wedding picture of my no-doubt-virginal grandmother. Not exactly the time or place for . . . having a foot fetish? Please tell me my cousin has clothes on. I clear my throat.

Vivie glances up, smiles, completely unembarrassed, then bends back over Nic’s toes.

And blows on them.

“Uh, guys?!” I say. “Maybe you could . . . take it somewhere else. Officially dying here.”

Nic sits up—thank God, dressed. “I’m doing penance,” he explains. “Making up for my sins.”

My glance shoots to the crucifix, my grandmother’s sweet, serious face.

“Uh . . .” I haven’t moved from the doorway. Viv sits back on her heels, squints at Nic’s foot, and then picks up a bottle of—“Oh my God, you guys, really!” I practically shout—clear 91

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nail polish and begins applying it to Nic’s other foot.

Nic looks at my face and bursts out laughing. “You look so incredibly freaked out,” he manages, then starts laughing again.

“Nico, hold still!” Vivie slaps at his leg.

“Gwen, Gwen, listen. Viv and I were schlepping a bunch of fish chowder over to the Senior Lunch at St. Anselm’s, and Speed Demon here is doing her thing—”