Huntley Fitzpatrick - What I Thought Was True

“Superman,” he says proudly, like he’s seen through Cass’s disguise. He traces the shape again—it’s an S, I realize—and beams at both of us.

Cass looks down, game face on, but not freaked out. I hope.

“Hi, Superman,” Emory repeats, invisibly drawing the shield thing around the S .

I don’t know why he’s doing this. Cass has neither dark hair nor a cape waving in the wind. Maybe the blue of his shirt or the way he stands with his shoulders back, chin lifted.

Now Dad looks over. “Sorry,” he calls to Cass and his brother, who’s returning with a fresh order of fries, then to me: “Gwen, don’t let your little brother pester the customers, for God’s sake.”

“It’s fine,” Cass calls. His brother sets the fries down on the table and immediately Em’s reaching for them.

“Superman,” he repeats, popping one in his mouth and chewing cheekily.

“Em, no!” I struggle as I usually do when people meet him for the first time, whether to explain or just let them take Em as Em.

“My brother is—”

Cass cuts me off. “We bumped into each other on the beach yesterday. He was with your grandfather. I gave them a lift up the hill. They seemed tired.”

I blink. “Before or after your rescue attempt with the lobsters?”

“Before.” Cass winks at Emory, who is eating another fry. “The Man of Steel never rests. Or maybe that’s Jose the yard boy. I get my alter egos confused.”

“Hi there,” his brother says to me, with a short wave. “Bill Somers.”

“This is Gwen Castle, Billy. She’s the one I was saying should tutor me for that English makeup.”

Wait. This was his idea? Not Coach’s?

“Good to meet you. And—don’t pull your punches with squirt here. He deserves it.”

Cass’s ears turn red. He shoots Bill a swift death-glare.

“Gwen!” Dad calls. “Get your little brother back over here. You don’t have time for screwing around.”

Bill tells me it was a pleasure, Cass has retreated into his bland, neutral look, and Emory’s made a major dent in their fries. I stammer out an apology, take Em’s greasy hand, and turn to go, only to run into the solid wall of Dad. He’s got yet another new plate of French fries, not having missed a thing.

“Sorry about this. These’re on the house too,” he says. Then, stern, to me: “Get back where I can keep an eye on you, kid. Emory’s the one who is supposed to need a babysitter.”

God, Dad. I feel my face burning. But Cass is looking down at the ground, not at me, nudging at the pebbles with the toe of his sneaker, all neutral face. Dad’s bristly and defensive, Bill faintly amused. Only Emory is completely at ease. He sidles up to Cass, traces the shield design once again, sweeps his finger in an S . “Superman,” he says.

“I wish,” Cass mutters.

The first thing I see when I get home, sticky with spilled soda and French fry grease, are Nic’s big bare feet sticking over the edge of Myrtle. Vivien is crouched over them in dark purple bikini bottoms and a low-cut black tank.

Good God. It’s four in the afternoon and they’re in our living room. On the couch under the wedding picture of my no-doubt-virginal grandmother. Not exactly the time or place for . . . having a foot fetish? Please tell me my cousin has clothes on. I clear my throat.

Vivie glances up, smiles, completely unembarrassed, then bends back over Nic’s toes.

And blows on them.

“Uh, guys?!” I say. “Maybe you could . . . take it somewhere else. Officially dying here.”

Nic sits up—thank God, dressed. “I’m doing penance,” he explains. “Making up for my sins.”

My glance shoots to the crucifix, my grandmother’s sweet, serious face.

“Uh . . .” I haven’t moved from the doorway. Viv sits back on her heels, squints at Nic’s foot, and then picks up a bottle of—“Oh my God, you guys, really!” I practically shout—clear nail polish and begins applying it to Nic’s other foot.

Nic looks at my face and bursts out laughing. “You look so incredibly freaked out,” he manages, then starts laughing again.

“Nico, hold still!” Vivie slaps at his leg.

“Gwen, Gwen, listen. Viv and I were schlepping a bunch of fish chowder over to the Senior Lunch at St. Anselm’s, and Speed Demon here is doing her thing—”

“I was only going fifty.”

“In a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, Vee.” He nudges his toes lightly into her stomach, turns back to me, more serious now but still smiling. “She’s wigging out because we’re late and she doesn’t want Al to get all over her—but I can hear the chowder sloshing and if my little felon here racks up any more tickets she’ll be answering to the law, never mind Al.”

Viv wrinkles her nose, sticks her tongue out at him. “You totally exaggerate how bad my driving is.”

“Uh, no, I don’t. You’re a maniac. And I like having you in one piece. So she’s barreling along and then we get to this stoplight and the light turns green and the truck in front of us isn’t moving. So Vee leans out the window and says, ‘What are you waiting for, asshole?’ and flips the driver off.”

“God, Viv,” I interrupt. “Don’t do that. We’ve told you like a billion times. You never know when you might run into some psychopath.”

“Exactly. ’Cause this guy gets out of the car and he’s like eight feet tall, three hundred pounds, tattoos, leather vest, chains, and he is effing furious. He comes over to the window and gets in Viv’s face and says, ‘Gonna repeat that?’”

“And I, like, burst into tears,” Viv says. “I’m picturing him killing Nic and then God knows what he’d do to me. My life is flashing before my eyes.”

“So I know I need to talk this guy down because I sure as hell can’t take him down.”

“But it’s the way you did it, Nic. He gets all chummy and buddy-buddy with this jerk.” Viv’s voice deepens. “‘So sorry, man. My honey here is a little touchy today. Normally she’s sweet as pie but she gets kinda high-strung at that time of the month, you know what I’m saying?’ And then this Neanderthal is clapping Nico on the back all-man-to-man and saying yeah, he has a wife and four daughters and he’s thinking of getting an RV that he can park in the driveway because their cycles are all the same and on and on and on—”

I’m laughing now, and so is Nic again. “Well, he did save you,” I point out.

“Yeah, but then they spent ten minutes telling women-are-cray-zee stories, which, I’ll have you know, Nic completely made up. He’s telling the guy that I once threw a pizza at him because he got the wrong toppings. That I threw his ball cap in a wood chipper because I was jealous of the time he was spending watching Sox games.”

“But again, I did save you,” Nic says, reaching for her hand.

“By making me sound like an out-of-control crazy hormonal bitch,” Viv says. “So having to get a pedicure is his penance for being Captain Macho. And so is wearing flip-flops next week so Hooper and Marco and Tony can admire his pretty tootsies.”

“They do look dreamy, Nico,” I say. “And anyway, if she were really mad at you, she would’ve gone for pink.”

Vivie winks at me—and then pulls a bottle of Day-Glo fuchsia polish out of her purse. “That was just the undercoat,” she says.

“Aw.” Nic ruffles her hair. “You’re so cute when you’re all riled up, honeybun.”

“Watch it, or you’ll get a manicure too.”

He leans over and kisses her . . . and kisses her . . . and kisses her. On and on and on. I might as well be in the next county.