What I Thought Was True

  “It will be fine,” Grandpa said stoutly. “Your Vovó, Glaucia, she has been fighting germs her whole life.”

  But this needed more than Clorox and Comet, of course. Vovó got sicker, and the story for Mom was that she was working longer hours—that’s why she wasn’t coming by as much, looked a little thinner, and I stopped being worried and got scared.

  So I told Mom. It felt like she started crying then and cried for the rest of the summer.

  It was the angriest I’ve ever seen Grandpa. He threw a pan—he never did things like that—his eyes as wide with shock as my own when it hit the floor, eggs and linguica spattered everywhere. And yelled at me, all these words I’d never heard, strung together in ways I couldn’t understand. Except for that phrase, because it wasn’t the last time I heard it. “Histórias de outras pessoas.” Other people’s stories—Mom would say it later, when Nic and I scrambled to pass on some bit of Seashell gossip, some nugget of information to talk about at dinner. Deixe que as histórias de outras pessoas sejam contadas por elas—are their own to tell.

  Grandpa reaches out for me now, nudges his knuckles beneath my chin. Once, twice. But I don’t nod back. I feel a little sick. We’ve never brought that up. The whole topic, my part in it, ended when he threw the pan. Or later that evening when he bought me an ice-cream cone, cupped my chin in his hands and apologized, then said, “We will not speak of it again.”

  “Pfft,” he says now, thrusting his hand rapidly through the air as though shooing away flies. “Enough. Enough of the long face. Here, querida.” He hunches back on his hips, reaching into his pocket, pulls out his customary roll of bills, held together with a rubber band—the wallet is only for pictures—extracts two fives and hands them to me. “Go out with the young yard boy. Be happy.”

  “What about the Rose of the Island?”

  “To grow in the salt and the heat and the wind, very tough, island roses.”

  “You sound like a fortune cookie, Grandpa.”

  His eyes twinkle at me, and his broadest smile flashes. “Rose is strong, Guinevere. With other things not known for sure, I would rely on that. And here is your boy now.”

  Grandpa waves enthusiastically at Cass, strolling up with his hands in his pockets, as if flagging down a taxi that might pass him by. He makes a big production of ordering Cass to sit down on the steps, inspecting his blisters, then punching him on the shoulder with a wink. “Take the pretty girl and go now.” As we walk away, he calls one last phrase after us. “Even though they look like that, eu a deixo em suas mãos.” Heh-heh-heh.

  What? I trust her in your hands?

  Oh God. What happened to the knife salesman?

  “You sure you don’t know any Portuguese?” I ask.

  “We really have to work on your greetings, Gwen. ‘Hey there, babe’ would be a lot better.”

  “I’m not going to call you babe. Ever. Answer my question.”

  “Nope. All I got was that he sounded happy. Phew. Thought he might have heard”—he jerks his head in the direction of the Ellington house—“the Henry Ellington story. Almost got you in big trouble there.”

  I’m so grateful that this story is mine right now that I turn, pull him close so quickly, I can hear a startled intake of breath, see a little spot he missed on his chin shaving, see that the base of his eyelashes are blond before they tip dark. “I’d say you’re worth the risk.”

  “Forget what I said. Your greetings are great. Perfect.”

  I’m just about to touch my lips to his when I hear a loud “None of that funny business here!” and realize we’re in front of Old Mrs. Partridge’s yard. Where she’s also standing, rooting through her mailbox impatiently.

  I try to move back, but Cass’s hand snakes behind me, holding me in place. “Good evening, Mrs. Partridge.”

  “Never mind that, Jose. None of this in a public street.”

  “Not the best spot for it,” Cass allows. “But it’s such a beautiful summer afternoon. And look at this girl, Mrs. Partridge.”

  “Look at this girl somewhere else,” she says crossly. But there’s just a shade of amusement in her voice and she leaves without further harassment.

  I stare after her, amazed. “How did you do that?”

  “She’s only human. Seems kind of lonely,” Cass says. “Now, where were we?”

  Friday, early evening, we take the sailboat out again, anchor in Seldon’s Cove and are lying, Cass’s head on some seat cushions and a life jacket, mine on his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat in my ear. Since Seldon’s is protected by two spits of land encircling it in a C, the motion of the water is gentler than in open water, as though we’re being rocked in a giant cradle.

  I close my eyes, see the sun glow orange-red through my lids, feel Cass’s thumb, the skin healing but still rough, trace up the side of my arm, sweep back down, then along the line of my other arm. I start to squirm, ticklish.

  “Steady. I’m mapping you,” he says, close to my ear, moving his touch to my jawline, then along my lips to the little groove above them.

  “Useless fact,” I say. “That’s called a philtrum.”

  “Useful fact,” Cass counters. “Maps came before written language.” Now he’s tracing the line of my chin. Under my ear, down, sweeping back. My chin? Not anywhere anyone has been interested in before. I’m resisting the urge to grab his hand and put it somewhere more risky.

  “I’ve heard of math geeks, but map geek is new.”

  “Maps are the key to everything,” he says absently. “Gotta find your direction.” He clears his throat. “Hey, Gwen? I know that guy—the one who was at the house with Mrs. E.’s son. Spence’s dad buys old paintings and stuff from him.”

  “Is he a sleazebucket?” I ask. “Because I think Henry Ellington might be.”

  The whole story, what I’ve seen, what I think I know, comes tumbling out—

  Except. The check. Burning a hole in my pocket. A cliché I wish were true—that it would just ignite, drift out as ashes, blow away over the ocean, instead of lurking in the pocket of whatever I was wearing that day. Because I never did—I never threw it out.

  “Would you tell? If you knew a secret that could hurt someone you cared about?”

  Cass’s brow furrows. For a second his fingers tighten on my chin.

  “Ow,” I say, surprised.

  “God, sorry. Cramp. You mean, you mean if I were you? About this?”

  “If Mrs. E. were your grandmother or something and you saw what was going on?”

  He looks past me, out at the water for a moment as though reading the answer from the waves. “Hm. Tough one. It’d be a different situation then—family instead of someone you work for. ‘Not my place’ and all that crap.”

  “Uh-oh,” I say, smiling at him. “You’re admitting you have a place. Seashell’s brainwashed you at last, Jose.”

  “This is my place.” He settles his head more forcefully on the cushion, nestles my head more firmly onto him. “Right here.”

  As if I’m a destination he’s reached, searched for. The X on a treasure map. “Cass . . . does this mean . . . Are we . . . ?”

  My words are coming slowly, not just because of the lazy afternoon, the lullaby rock of the water, but because I have no idea which ones to use. I’m fumbling with how to put it, what to ask, hoping he’ll somehow read my mind, fill in the blanks—

  “What’s Nic afraid of, Gwen?”

  “Um, Nic? Not much. Why?”

  “Because he’s doing the same thing with swim practice you were doing about tutoring me. And I know in his case it’s not fear of succumbing to my deadly charm. I keep texting him to set up a time when we, he and Spence and me, can get on with it. We need to practice as a team, the three of us. He keeps blowing me off. Spence too. But I can deal with Chan. I need you for Nic.”

  “It’s really important to Nic. Getting the captain spot.”

  “That’s why I don’t get the blow-off. It’s important to all of us. Nic has no monopoly.
”

  “But he needs . . .” Here I falter, stumbling on the old lines. Nic needs it more. If he falls or fails, there’s no safety net. But then there’s Cass’s brother Bill, saying how Cass has to work harder, how he won’t come out of things smelling like a rose.

  His voice roughens, less drowsy. “Speaking of what matters, in case you haven’t figured it out—this does. Us. To me, anyway. Your cousin and I are not going to be blood brothers. My best friend may not be your favorite person. Fine. But no more reversals of fortune—not with you and me.”

  He says this last sentence so forcefully, I’m a little stunned. When I don’t answer instantly he moves to sit up, looks me in the eye. “What?”

  “So are we . . . ?” Dating? A couple? Together? “Seeing each other? It’s not that you have to take me home to your family or—”

  Cass groans. “Are all island girls this crazy, or did I luck out?”

  I sigh. “Well, you know. Picnic baskets.”

  “Gwen. I mean this is in the nicest possible way. You will never be a picnic. Which is one of the things I lo—” He stops, takes a deep breath, starts again: “Can we just put the whole picnic basket thing away with the lobsters? For the record, to be clear, we’re doing this right.”

  “The man with the maps.”

  He shakes his head, moving to his feet, tipping back against the railing of the boat so he can pull out the lining of first one of his pockets, then the other, then extend his open palms. “Map free. Know what that means? Need SparkNotes? You’re my girlfriend, not my picnic basket, or any other screwed-up metaphor.”

  He says all of this firmly, his logical voice.

  After a minute or two, he adds, “I mean . . . unless I’m your picnic basket.”

  I laugh. But he’s not even smiling. He seems to be waiting for something. And I don’t know what it is. Or exactly how to give it to him. Instead I say lightly, “I think of you more as a Dockside Delight.” I slide over, lean into him, my hand tight against his heart, wishing that how I feel could just flow between us that way, without getting tangled up in words.

  On the way home after sailing we don’t say much. I’m yawning—a long day of being in the sun and the water—and so is he. We hold hands. It feels perfect.

  It’s only after I’m home, scrubbing off in the outdoor shower, that I realize he never did tell me what he thought the right thing to do was.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Spence and Cass are on their way over to Sandy Claw, and Nic’s already swimming drills. He’s working on the one that helps your elbow-bending at the start of the pull, which involves swimming with his fingers closed into a fist. His eyes are tightly shut too, giving him this look of total absorption, complete intensity.

  The sky’s sharply blue, summer at its shiniest, sun glinting off the waves, horizon bright with spinnakers, schooners, every size of boat at home on an ocean big enough to contain them all. As I’m squinting out at Nic, Viv slides into place next to me, her dark hair wind-blown and loose today, none of her usual contained styles. Our legs swing side by side over the edge, like old times. “He never forgets,” she says, touching the pile of flat stones next to the piling. “That Nic.”

  “He was looking around to claim his kisses before he got started.”

  She casts a quick look out at the water, then starts chipping at her nail, flicking at one of the little flowers painted on her ring finger. “Has Nic seemed . . . okay to you lately?”

  I’ve never needed to be Switzerland, respecting boundaries and borders with Nic and Viv. When we were younger, we all told one another everything. When they became a couple, there were different retellings, from Nic to me, from Viv, but it was all the same story. Now . . .

  I didn’t think, ever, that I’d have to scramble about which truth to tell. I never thought “other people’s stories” would apply to the three of us. We are one another’s stories.

  “Tense,” I finally say. “With you too? I thought maybe he was being weird with me, because of . . . well, because of me being with Cass. Has he talked about that with you?”

  She shrugs, chews her lip. I recognize the look on her face, the “torn between loyalties” one.

  “He’s sort of macho-macho with Cass, giving him these ‘don’t lay a finger on my cousin’ looks . . .” I say, trailing off so she’ll talk.

  “Yeah.” Viv sighs. “He’s pretty testosterone-heavy lately.”

  I wait for her to make a joke about not minding that, but instead she asks, “You don’t think he’s . . . on anything, do you?”

  “On . . . you mean drugs? Like steroids? God no. This is Nic, he would never . . .”

  I know that’s not it. But . . . Nic’s moodiness, his darkness, his obsession with weight lifting, the tension with Dad . . . No. He wouldn’t.

  Vivien doesn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the water, on Nic. He’s now rolled over and is doing the backstroke, his form so perfect, it’s almost mechanical, like the wind-up scuba Superman who swims doggedly in Em’s baths.

  “He would never,” I repeat again. “You know that, right? You know him. Better than anyone.”

  I pull on her hand, bringing her gaze back to me. Then I realize it’s like I’m asking her for reassurance when I should be the one giving it. I put my arm around her, give her a little shake. “Nico doesn’t even take aspirin.”

  She’s picked up one of the rocks, studies it, turning it over and over. Dark orange, worn smooth by countless waves, marked by holes. A brick. Probably from the steps of one of the houses on Sandy Claw, unwisely built on the beach, long ago swept out to sea in some forgotten hurricane. “You’re right. Ugh. Don’t pay attention to me. Al got the contract to some big political thing and was spazzing out all over me today. I kept calling Nic to talk and getting bounced to his voicemail. I thought maybe he was . . . I don’t know. Doing the same thing with me that he does with your dad. Mike was calling him the other day when Nico was helping me pack up for a clambake and he kept checking his phone but not picking up. I’m just being paranoid.”

  “Yeah, Dad . . .” I shake my head. “Do you guys talk about that?”

  Viv’s pretty green eyes are sad. “Not much.”

  I reach out my pinkie, hook it around hers. “At least we’re good. Right?”

  She knots her pinkie with mine, pulls, still staring out at the water. “Yeah . . .”

  “Viv. Look at me.”

  She turns immediately, gives a reasonably accurate version of her glowing smile. “We’re golden.”

  I pick up one of the skipping stones, spiraling it over and over in my hand. The mica in it flashes bright in the sun. I slant it and skip it out to sea.

  Once, twice . . . It goes all the way to seven, touching down lightly, glancing up, winging out hard, far, far, far, the farthest I’ve ever skipped.

  Viv nudges me with her thin brown shoulder. “You gonna grant some kisses now? Come on, babe. I want to see how much you’ve picked up from Cass Somers.”

  I roll my eyes. “Ever think maybe he’s learning from me?”

  Someone clears his throat, and—fantastic—there are Cass and Spence. Cass has his game face on, and Spence a similarly untranslatable expression. How the hell did they walk this close on the dock without us hearing? Nic climbs up the ladder from the water, scattering droplets as he shakes his head like Fabio after a bath.

  Spence: “Getting a jump on us, Cruz? Hear you like to do that. Shave a few seconds off your time. Any way that works for you.”

  Nic (deadpan): “Just more dedicated, I guess.”

  Cass (neutral): “How many drills did you do already?”

  Nic (shrugs, like he’s so fit it doesn’t matter): “Some.”

  Cass: “A few more, then.” (Glancing at Spence) “What do you think, Chan, crossovers? Or single-arm drill?”

  Spence: “Single-arm, since Cruz has this entering too early problem . . . so he’ll wind up driving down instead of extending forward and that’ll increase his drag an
d slow the whole team down.”

  Impressive the way they can make drill techniques into insults.

  “Boys,” Vivien says to me, loudly enough for the three of them to hear. “We’re so lucky we’re not male, Gwen.”

  “At least two out of three of us agree with you, Vivien,” Spence says smoothly, then winks at her.

  Viv looks at Nic’s somewhat thunderous face, makes a shooing motion toward the water, then claps her hands together briskly. “Get on with it, guys. I think you all need to cool off.”

  “Hang on,” Cass says to the other two. He takes my hand and pulls me over to the corner of the pier, out of earshot of the others. Bends to my ear. “Let’s declare the ‘who’s teaching and who’s learning’ thing a tie. You can one-up me in other ways.”

  “Hedge clipping?” I ask.

  “Not my first choice.”

  “Come on, Romeo,” Spence calls. “Vivien’s got it. We all need to relax here and do this.”

  “Speak for yourself,” offers Nic.

  “I do, Cruz,” he says flatly. “Always.”

  Viv clambers to her feet and I’m right there with her. At least we can still read each other’s minds. She puts a comforting hand on Nic’s back and I place mine on Spence’s, and then Cass comes up next to us, and Viv and I shove all three of them into the water at once. I laugh. But Viv is pinwheeling, too close to the edge, eyes wide. She grabs at me—I flinch back—and we both go over in a tangle of arms and legs, until all of us are splashing and spluttering in the water, and it’s almost impossible to tell which slippery body is whose until you see their laughing face.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Far too beautiful to go back indoors,” Avis King says determinedly. “I propose we have our reading session on the beach instead of some stuffy porch.

  A chorus of agreement from the ladies, although “stuffy” is the last thing anyone could call the Ellington porch.

  “I personally am in favor of being rebellious and forgoing my nap today. My word, Henry is becoming fussier than any old woman. He called last night to make sure I was going to rest from one to three. I dislike being nagged,” Mrs. Ellington says crossly.