What I Thought Was True(34)

Emory dumps some water on Cass’s leg. It slides smoothly down the muscles of his calf. I close my eyes, open them to see Cass watching my face intently.

“You mean in exchange for the tutoring?” I hurry to ask.

“No,” he says. “That would be a whole separate deal.”

“What tutoring?” Vivien intercedes, firing me a “you didn’t tell me this!” look. Which I return in spades. In my case, we’re talking a few summer evenings. In hers, a lifetime commit-ment.

“Gwen agreed to help me get back on track in English.” He reaches for Em’s again-empty bucket, heading down the steps for a refill. Which means his voice is muffled as he adds, “You can’t put it off forever, Gwen. We need to figure out logistics.”

He comes back up, hands the bucket to my brother, then stands there for a second, looking at me. “As in your place or mine?”

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A horn blasts from the parking lot. Vivien’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Gotta go. Let me know where, okay?” He slides by me, pulls a red towel I hadn’t noticed before off the slats of the pier.

He cracks the towel into the wind, wraps it around his waist, then tosses over his shoulder: “Decide about the swim lessons.

I may be no genius in Lit 2, but that I can do.”

Okay, I watch him go. The whole length of the pier and then into the beach parking lot, where Spence Channing’s con-vertible is idling like a big silver shark. How long has he been there?

A long low whistle and Vivien is fanning her face, then mine. “Whew. Is it hot here or is it just me?”

“There’s going to be a whole season of this.” I open the cooler, peer into it and finally fish out a granola bar for Emory, rather than . . . a can of sardines or a cantaloupe. “What the hell will I do?”

“That Avoid Him At All Costs plan of yours? I’m not sure he signed off on it.” Vivien tilts her head, staring into the parking lot as the car backs up and surges forward, too fast, of course, because it’s Spence and rules don’t apply to him. “Maybe you should give him another chance?”

“You were the one who told me to watch out!”

“I know.” She hunches her shoulders, shivering a little as another chilly breeze comes off the water. “It’s just maybe . . .

maybe you’re watching out for the wrong things.”

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Chapter Twelve


Mom catches Nic and me before we head out the door Mon-day morning. “Did Mrs. E. talk about how often she’s going to pay, Gwen? It would help a lot if I knew if it was every week or every two. And what about you, Nico? Marco and Tony still pay by the job? And did Almeida’s give you some at the end of the night, or . . .”

Nic and I look at each other. A barrage of money questions first thing in the morning can’t be a good thing.

“Like always, Aunt Luce. They bill the houses and then the owners send the checks. But Almeida’s paid.” He heads back into his room, returning with a roll of bills neatly wrapped in an elastic band. “Yours is in here too, Gwenners.”

I reach out my hand, but Mom’s faster. She takes the bills and begins leafing through them, her lips moving as she silently adds the denominations. Finally, she gives a satisfied nod, divides the money carefully in thirds, returning some to Nic, some to me, slipping the rest into her purse.

“Anything wrong, Mom?”

She blinks rapidly, which, if she were a poker player, would be her tell. “Nothing,” she says finally.

“Sure, Aunt Luce?” Nic asks, tapping each of his shoulders 117

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in turn. “Broad shoulders. Ready to listen. Man of the house and all that.”

Mom ruffles his hair. “No worries, Nico.”

Once she leaves, Nic and I have only to exchange a glance.

“Damn, what now?” he says.

I shake my head. “If she starts taking in laundry, we’ll know something’s up.”

Taking in extra is what happened last winter when the hot water heater melted down, the Bronco needed brake work, and Emory needed an orthotic lift in one of his shoes because one leg is slightly shorter than the other. Grandpa Ben also began spending a lot more time at bingo nights, honing his card shark skills.

“Shit.” Nic rubs his forehead. “I don’t want to think about this. I just want to think about food and sex and swimming and sex and lifting and sex.”

“You’re so well-rounded.” I whack him on the shoulder with a box of Cheerios.

“I’m not supposed to be well-rounded,” he says, through a mouthful of last night’s leftover pasta. “Neither are you. And cuz . . . you can’t tell me you don’t think about it.”

“I don’t think about it,” I answer resolutely, concentrating very hard on pouring milk into my cereal.

Nic snorts.

We look up as the screen door squeaks open to see Dad standing there. He looks pissed off and for a second I’m afraid he overheard our conversation. Not a story he needs to know.

But then he drops his aged khaki laundry duffel inside the 118

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door, kicking it to the side wall with one foot. “Screen door’s still broken,” he mutters, scowling.