What I Thought Was True(69)
Shutting my eyes, I tip my face up to the sun and the wind, then open it to find that we’ve lost the gust and the boat is still, except for rocking a bit in the wake of some huge powerboat that just sped by, full of guys wearing aviator sunglasses.
“So, this island girl thing. What’s that?”
“C’mon, Cass. Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m the one needing remedial English help, Gwen, I am dumb.”
I turn to him incredulously. He stares back at me. His eyes 237
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seem to see all the way into me, and pull something else out.
“The last thing you are is dumb, Cass. I mean . . . here on island . . . we’re the . . . well, you know how there are townies and non-townies in Stony Bay?”
“I guess,” he says vaguely, as if he really doesn’t know.
“Well, island kids are the townies and then some. Especially if we’re girls. We’re like summer amenities.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cass jerks up on one elbow, eyebrows lowered.
“That we’re picnic baskets. Useful, even kind of nice to have when it’s hot and you’re hungry. But who wants a picnic when summer’s over?”
Cass clearly doesn’t know what to say to that. Or there’s actually some sort of wind and water crisis that involves intense concentration and not looking at me at all. Lots of rope hauling and a few orders barked at me in some sort of sailor lingo I don’t understand, which he translates after a beat or two of my silent incomprehension.
“So you are a Boat Bully after all,” I say.
“Huh? Can you take the tiller for a sec—yeah, like that.” His warm hand steadies mine, heat settling in, then lets go.
“You’re one of those guys who gets all nautical and bossy on the water.”
“I am not. I just know what I’m doing here. Just keep hold-ing that steady. I’ll get the wind back soon.”
Since I don’t know sailing, I have no idea whether he actually needs to pull and loosen and adjust all these things or if it’s just a way to tune out. But then he looks at me, smiles, and the sparkle of the water is reflected from his eyes. “Don’t worry.”
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I find myself answering, “I’m not worried.”
And I’m not. I’m not worried. I’m not awkward. I’m not self-conscious. I’m not anything except here. It feels like forever since I’ve been “here” without being “there” and “there too” and “what about there.” But none of those exist. Just me, Cass, and the blue ocean.
He starts to say something, but whatever it is gets drowned out by the roar of an enormous Chris-Craft surging by, leaving a tidal wave of foaming wake behind it.
We toss back and forth against the sides for a second before Cass decides it’s probably a life-saving decision to get out of the line of oddly thick traffic on the high seas. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many sails and spinnakers and wakes. Is there a race? Or is everyone as reluctant to have their time on the water end as I am?
We sail in silence until the sunset turns the sky streaky Ital-ian ice colors: raspberry, lemon, tangerine—all against blue cotton candy. Then we head home and dock the boat. I climb out, hand him my life jacket.
“I’d walk you home, but I’d better get this back out to the mooring before dark.”
I say I understand. Though I actually want him to walk me home. In the dark.
“Tomorrow night at six,” Cass says.
“Is?”
“Tutoring. You can’t put it off forever, Gwen.” He holds out one hand, its back facing me, and ticks things off on his fingers. “You told me how Old Mrs. P. Likes Things Done. I boiled your lobsters—”
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“I thought we’d agreed not to bring that up again.”
“I’m making a point,” Cass says. “You helped me with the hedge. I took you sailing.” He’s ticked off four fingers now.
“You gave Emory a lesson . . .”
“That’s not in the equation. We’re even now. I know you like to be one up, Guinevere Castle. So time for you to tutor me and find out just how stupid I am.”
“I’ve never thought you were—”
He holds up one finger. “I really do have to go,” he says.
“Tomorrow. At six. Your house.”
“Why not the Field House?” Why am I now wanting to be alone with him?
“Besides the fact that it’s messy, disgusting, and smells like dog piss?” Cass asks. “Your grandfather told me all about the job he had as a teenager sharpening knives. I don’t know Por-tuguese, so I can’t be totally sure what he said next . . . but I got the idea he’d be dropping by with some sharp ones if we were alone in my apartment. Six. Your house.”
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Chapter Twenty-three
My brother can not stop talking about the swimming lessons. As Grandpa is putting him to bed he tells and retells the story: “I was brave. Went in the water. Superman helped, but I was brav-est.” The next morning he wakes me up, shoving his suit at me, bending down to remove his PJ bottoms. “More lesson today.”