Huntley Fitzpatrick - What I Thought Was True

“You don’t get it, man,” is all Cass says.

“No?” Nic asks.

“No. This is no preferential thing,” Cass starts. Vivie walks up then. Cass glances at her, back at Nic. “These last months . . . this whole last year . . . swim drills were all about you, Nicolas Cruz. Nothing about teamwork. You don’t seem to know what that means. If you deserved to be captain or cocaptain, you’d be lining up behind us. Not acting like this.”

“That’s bullshit,” Nic says. “We all know there’s a fucking I in team . You’re not swimming to make me look good. We’re all after I . So I’m just gonna say it. I need this, Somers. You don’t. Channing? Forget it.”

“You want us to feel sorry for you now? I do. Sundance does,” Spence offers. “Because this West Side Story, us-against-them crap and your shitty attitude is what keeps you stuck, Cruz. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“ You’re lecturing me ?” Nic shouts. “You’re telling me to be fucking satisfied with what I’ve got? That’s rich. You’re the one who has to take everything .”

Viv has her hand over her mouth. Spence steps forward, shoulders square. Cass grabs his arm.

Dom, Pam, Shaunee, Manny are moving away from the fire toward us now, attention snagged. Hooper assumes roughly the same stance behind Nic as Cass has behind Spence, but without the restraining hand. His is raised, placating. Or just unsure what’s going on.

“Be honest with yourself. At least. I haven’t taken a thing from you that you deserved to have,” Spence says calmly. Cass yanks him back a little, jerking him to the side.

“Stop talking, Spence,” he says.

Instead, Spence takes another step forward, pulling out of Cass’s grip. “You don’t deserve any of it,” he repeats to Nic. “None of it. And for sure, not her.”

Nic’s fist shoots out so fast it’s a blur and Spence’s head snaps to the left. He staggers back for a second. We watch him stumble—a surreal, slow-mo movie. Nic charges forward, eyes blazing. Ready to hit him again. Cass moves in between them, fending Nic off with a forearm to his chest and grabbing Spence’s arm tightly, yanking it back.

Vivien brushes past me. I try to clutch at her—don’t want her to get in the way of Nic. He doesn’t seem to be seeing straight. But instead of hurrying to him, she’s wiping at the blood gushing from Spence’s nose with one hand, the other cupped around the back of his head.

Nic stares at them, blinking as though he’s just woken up, then shakes off Cass’s arm, backing toward the parking lot.

“I’m good, don’t worry about me,” Spence assures Vivien.

Spence is assuring Vivien?

“You’re hurt,” she says, her voice cracking.

“Flesh wound,” Spence tells her. And he smiles at her in a way I’ve never seen Spence smile at anyone. “Don’t. God, Viv. Don’t cry. Please. You know that kills me.”

Hooper and I are gaping at them, as is pretty much everyone else.

“Yeah,” Nic says. “This is just . . . Just . . . well . . . fuck this.” He turns around, scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, starts to walk away.

“Holy shit,” Hoop says.

“Go after him, Gwen,” calls Vivien, still wiping away blood. She’s crying. For Nic? For Spence? Not knowing which makes me flash white-hot furious.

“Me? What about you? And you, Spence? What was that? It’s not enough to take his captain shot, you had to go for his girlfriend too?”

“This isn’t like that, Gwen,” Cass says. Spence just stares at the ground.

“This? There’s a this ? And you knew? When were you going to tell me? Ever? What happened to ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Gwen’?”

He’s ruffling his hand through his hair with that same expression he had the night after the Bronco.

Guilt.

Viv’s still crying. Spence is wiping away the blood still running from his nose with the back of his hand. Hoop’s muttering, “I haven’t had enough beer to deal with this.” Pam and Manny and the other island kids are standing around helplessly, murmuring.

And I can’t stop my mouth. “So what did you two do to get this?” I ask.

“What did we do ?” Cass asks, low and furious. “We swam. I deserve this. Spence does. This has nothing to do with money. It’s about teamwork. And you know it. Maybe Nic used to be able to do that. But he can’t anymore. I don’t know why, but you know it’s true. He’s a cheater.”

“Nice, Cass. You’ve taken this away from him. And now you take his integrity too? Classy.”

“I didn’t take anything, Gwen.”

I back up, move away from all this, everything, everyone.

“I didn’t take anything,” he repeats, turning away.

I scramble up to the parking lot. But there is no longer any sign of Nic.

“ Come fly, come fly come fly with me, ” sings Frank Sinatra loudly, in his seductively snappy alto. Emory is swaying to the beat, doing his version of finger snapping, which involves flicking his pointer fingers against his thumbs. He’s got the happy head-bobbing down, though. Grandpa Ben is cooking dinner, waggling his skinny old-man hips in time to the beat. I reach over to turn Frank’s exuberance down a few notches, but still have to bellow when I ask if he’s seen Nic.

Grandpa Ben shrugs.

“He didn’t come back here? Where the hell did he go? Where’s Mom?”

Ben clucks his tongue. “Language, Guinevere. He was not here when I got back from the farmer’s market. Your mother, she is on a date.”

A what ?

Nic’s pulled a disappearing act. Viv’s consoling Spence. Cass knew. And I blew him off, even when I . . . I . . . And Mom’s on a date. Whose life is this???

Grandpa shrugs again, points to the note scrawled on the dry-erase board on the fridge. “ Papi. On a walk around the island with a friend. If you see Nic, talk to him. ”

“If you see him, keep him here,” I say. “I’m going to look for him.”

I grab Mom’s car keys, clatter down the stairs, and am throwing the Bronco into reverse before it occurs to me to wonder how Grandpa Ben managed to translate a “walk around the island with a friend” into a date.

They’re walking side by side. Not holding hands or anything. But side by side is startling enough. Mom with any man but one on the cover of a book is a jolt. I jerk the truck to a halt. “Mom. Coach? Where’s Nic? Have you seen him?”

Mom’s frowning, worried. Coach’s face looks, if possible, even ruddier than usual. He’s out of his element, no whistle, wearing a baggy yellow windbreaker that somehow looks sadder, so much less official than his SBH jacket.

“We were hoping with you. He was headed to that bonfire,” Mom says. “Wouldn’t talk to me. He was wicked upset.”

Wicked . Dad’s word.

“I’ll say,” I snap, trying not to glare at Coach. Who’s just doing his job and not actually responsible for this whole mess.

“Look, Gwen,” Coach says, weary but resolute. “ Inches from winning state this year. We need captains with nothing to prove. Gotta have that. Nic’s a solid kid . . . but these days, he’s no team player.”

“I should have insisted he talk to me,” Mom says. “I tried calling after he left, but I just got that damn voicemail. He never recharges his phone.” She pulls out her own, punches in a number, shakes her head. “Stupid voicemail again.” The creases in her forehead deepen. “Get Vivien,” she tells me. “She’ll know where he is.”