What I Thought Was True. Huntley Fitzpatrick

too.”

      I hear a sound like a cat choking up a hairball. It’s Nic, clearing his throat.

      “You okay, Brick?” Coach asks.

      Nic coughs again in that same incredibly fake way, then wheezes out. “Need a cough drop. (Hack, hack.) Gwen – can you show me where you keep yours?”

      He jerks his head toward Mom’s and my bedroom with these big pleading eyes. Mystified, somewhat irritated, I follow him.

      The minute we’re inside, he grabs my forearm. “Do it. Man up and do it.”

      I lean back against the door. “Why? If Cass gets booted, your shot at captain is in the bag.”

      Nic grimaces. “No way do I want to win like that. Get it handed to me. Besides, Somers ups my game. I do my best when I’m trying to outdo someone. I need that edge.” He’s been looking at me intently. Now his eyes fall to Mom’s ruffled pink-and-brown bedspread.

      “Look, I know things are maybe a little” – he rubs his perspiring jawline without looking at me – “whatever. With you and Somers. I mean, pretty damn clear last night, whatever the hell that was. But do this. For us. I need Coach to write me a rec for the academy. He went there. That’s huge. I need it.”

      “You honestly think he wouldn’t rec you if I don’t tutor Cassidy? You’ve been on his team since freshman year. Cass and Spence just got on last year.”

      “Probably. But I don’t know for sure. I need sure. The CGA is one of the hardest damn institutions in the country to get into. Every boost counts,” Nic says, stretching his arms over his head, revealing armpit hair that may actually be piling several minutes onto his swim time. “C’mon, cuz.”

      I fix him with my own intimidating stare. “You will owe me forever for this. I own your soul.”

      “My ass, maybe. Not my soul. God, this is just tutoring, Gwen. I’m not asking you to screw the guy.”

      My face must change color, because Nic starts stammering. “I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . . I wasn’t . . . That didn’t come out like . . .”

      I point a finger at him. “Your soul,” I repeat. “Vivien can have your sorry ass.”

      “Deal,” Nick says swiftly. “My sorry soul is all yours.”

      When we get back, Coach has sat down next to Emory, and is looking at the pictures in the Superman comic book Em is leafing through, his arm around Em’s shoulders. I skid to a halt, swallowing, and realize I’m not sure when I last saw Dad do that.

      Making one last attempt to extract myself from this situation, I ask casually, “Have you mentioned this idea to Cassidy? Because he might not be up for it.” I hear Nic hoist one of his weights again and wonder if he’s going to bop me on the head with it.

      Coach spreads his hands. “He’ll be up for what he needs to be up for. This is important as hell. We have a shot at state coming up but only with Somers. On your end, adding tutoring during the summer looks damn good to colleges. You know Somers can afford to pay top dollar.”

      Family, money, looking good to colleges. My Achilles’ heels. Assuming you can have three of those.

      “Help me out here, Gwen. Take one for the team.”

      Even without the Nic pressure, it would be nearly impossible to say no to Coach. He’s a good guy. Everyone knows he was crazy about his wife, who cheered at every meeting, brought hot chocolate for the boys on the bus, and who died last fall.

      I take a deep breath. How bad can this be? Obviously, based on yesterday, I already knew I was going to be seeing more of Cass this summer than I’d planned. This is purely professional. I didn’t quit timing the swim team after what happened in March, after all. I just managed to avoid any personal conversation. I can do the same with this. “I’m in.”

      Coach claps me on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of me and says he’ll speak to Cass about it. “You two can work it out next time you run into each other.” He punches his hand into the pocket of his jacket, jingling what sounds like loose change. “Gwen? Keep it on the down low. No need to let the world know he’s had any struggle. Once or twice a week should cut it. He’s a smart kid. He’ll do whatever he needs to do to get where he wants to go.”

       Yeah. I know.

      Even though I thought I’d escaped, here I am at Castle’s once again, trying to get out of wearing my little hat with the crown around it.

      “Whatcha think of this week’s specials?” Dad asks, nodding at the blackboard.

      I’ve parked Emory at a picnic table in the shade and set out finger paints, a situation that could turn critical at any moment.

      “Stuffed peppers,” I read out loud from the top of the blackboard. “Maple-basted bluefish?”

      “Well?” Dad asks, tipping back on his heels, squinting at the board. “I figure two new specials a day – or every coupla days, just to keep ’em guessing.”

      “Dad . . . People come to Castle’s for . . . beach food . . . summer food. Burgers. Hot dogs. Lobster rolls. They’re not going to want to stop off after spending the day at the beach and have maple-basted bluefish. Ever. Where’d you get that, anyway?”

      “Food Network,” he says absently, rubbing his chin with his thumb. “We gotta do something. Last time I drove by that damn Doane’s, there was a line all the way down the pier.”

      “They sell ice cream and penny candy. There’s always a line. I’m not sure maple-basted bluefish is playing to the same crowd.”

      Emory tugs at me with one hand, holding up the other, coated in red paint, like Lady Macbeth. I pull him over to the little outdoor sink at the back and rinse him – and me – while Dad follows, continuing. “Nah, think about it, kid. The season’s here, we get the college kids, the renters. The renters’ kids. They’re doing the marijuana. They get the munchies. They come here – they see the specials. We sell out.”

      “Dad . . . if kids get the munchies, they want cheese fries or brownies. Not maple-basted bluefish.” No one wants maple-basted bluefish. Blech.

      His gaze sharpens on me. “How do you know this, Guinevere Angelina Castle?”

      Um, I’m a teenager? I go to high school? “Health class.”

      Dad shakes his head. “Don’t you dare go down that dead-end road, mess with your brain.”

      “Don’t worry, Dad. I stick to cocaine.”

      He scowls. “Well, knock it off. That stuff ’s wicked expensive. And pull up your shirt – there.” He jerks his head at my neckline. It’s not even low. I tug it up anyway. Dad tosses me my purple apron, even better coverage, and tells me to man the side booth. “And put on your hat.”

      Within ten minutes, we’re totally overwhelmed. Nedda, who must have the patience of all the saints, because she’s worked here for three years, is slaving over the grill. A busload of tourists headed to Foxwoods is taking up two-thirds of our parking lot and three-quarters of our burger supply. A skinny new guy named Harold is languidly manning the fry basket. I’ve got Emory parked at a back table now, with a grilled cheese.

      “Gwen, table six, fast. We’re running behind,” Dad barks. “I’ll handle the orders, you hustle ’em out there. We get more tips if a pretty girl does the running.”

      Dad rarely dishes out compliments, so they always hit hard when he does. I’m blushing a little as I gather up the tray of burgers and birch beers and head out to six. Which . . . naturally . . . is Cass. And someone who looks a lot like him. Not his dad. Dark-haired, but with the same lean-muscled look and piercing blue eyes.

      Cass has his back to me, hands braced on the table. “We’ve been through this a million times, Billy. What more