Huntley Fitzpatrick - What I Thought Was True

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 do you want from me?”

“Some sign that you’ll listen to your own brain instead of Channing’s. We all know how well that worked out at Hodges, squirt.”

I suppress a smile at the nickname.

“That was a year ago, Bill—and it was just a joke. That place takes itself way too seriously.”

“A joke that got you out on your ass. Still pretty damn embarrassing for Jake too, since he works there . Spence’s dad might have finessed it so expulsion didn’t show up on his record, but it’s on yours, little brother. For keeps.”

Cass is now digging a thumbnail into the wood of the picnic table. The backs of his ears are flushed. I’m standing there with their food, blatantly eavesdropping. I always kind of wondered why he and Spence came to SBH last fall as juniors. Prepped-out Hodges is where Stony Bay kids go when price is no object.

“Look, you’re smarter than this, squirt. I’d hang it up if I felt like you’d learned your lesson, but you haven’t. This garbage with your grades looks like more of the same screwing up to me. To everyone. I love Spence, but he’ll always come out smelling like a rose. You won’t.”

“You’re my brother, Bill, not—”

“Dad and Mom would tell you the same thing.”

“They have. Constantly. You know Mom, she loves to over-explore. Look, I’m paying my dues—working on the island, mowing freaking football fields’ worth of lawns. I did a dumbass thing, got a few lousy grades. Let’s move on, for Chrissake,” Cass says, standing abruptly. “Shouldn’t the food be here by now?”

He whirls around and almost directly into me. One of the drinks splashes tsunami-style into the plate of fries and onto my apron.

“I—was just bringing you this.” I start mopping at the fries, but they’re hopeless. Then I brush at my shirt, totally frazzled. “I’ll get you some more. No problem. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Is that ours?” his brother calls out.

“I’ll take it,” Cass says, reaching for the tray. “You don’t have to wait on me.”

“It’s my job,” I say. He’s got his hands on the tray, and mine are there too in a kind of flashback to our near-wrestle over the lobsters. And my peacoat, last spring. I drop my hands, wipe off my palms, shove the soggy napkins into my apron pocket.

He stands there balancing the tray in one hand, looking out at the cow pasture that’s directly behind Castle’s, jaw clenched. “You heard all that, right?”

I shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, nothing to do with me.”

He examines my face, then grins. “I call bullshit. You want to know.”

“Ha. Don’t kid yourself. I couldn’t care less what you did then.” My turn to look off at the cows, try to absorb their barnyard zen. “Or now.”

He sets down the tray, slants a hip against the table. His brother’s gotten up and is heading for the service window, no doubt to complain about the ditz who ruined their fries.

“Ever been inside Hodges—aside from the pool area?”

“Other than the girls’ locker room, no.”

“Pretentious as hell for small-town Connecticut.” He shrugs. “Not to mention that you had to call the teachers ‘master’ and ‘mistress’ whatever. Should be called ‘Stodges’ instead of ‘Hodges.’” He tugs at his collar as though the mere memory is choking him.

I’m smiling despite my determination to project complete indifference.

Cass cocks his head at me, folding his arms. “Oh, never mind. Why am I telling you this? You don’t care.”

“Do not do that. Now you have to tell me.”

He rocks back on his heels, smiles. “Careful, Guinevere. You might forget you hate me.”

“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 it lightly, moves his finger across it in a slow, snake-like motion. I have no idea what he’s doing.