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I balance the tray on my hip, brush away a strand of hair the light breeze has blown against my lips. “Fine. You?”
“Terrific,” he says. “Great. A good year at Choate. Headed to Princeton in the fall. My dad went there, so that’s . . . all . . . good.” His gaze once again drops to my chest, as though it exerts some sort of magnetic pull.
“Hmm” is the only thing I can think to say.
After Alex ended things last fall, when I imagined seeing him again, I always looked fantastic and he groveled at my feet. I was never wearing my ill-fitting Almeida’s Arrangements T-shirt—complete with mermaid extending a plate of stuffed quahogs—sweating, and with my unruly hair escaping its ponytail. I did not imagine how hard it would be to think of anything to say to him. Maybe I should have remembered how little actual talking we did.
“So.” Alex’s gaze roams down again, then off toward the raw bar. “I just, ah, thought I’d go try the—um—shrimp.”
“Sure,” I respond. “Why not? You’ve already sampled all I’ve got to offer.” This is too much, I know, but as usual, once I start talking, I can’t stop myself. The kiss-off text he sent me still makes me pissed, even nearly a year later.
“Now, look,” Alex says, “I—I—” His eyes dart around the tent again. “I have to . . . I think I hear someone calling me.”
He wheels away from me, walks off—practically sprints.
“That was enlightening,” says a voice in my ear.
I turn and stare into laughing ocean-blue eyes. “Wouldn’t it have been more efficient to castrate him?” Cass continues, filching the last piece of Boursin toast.
“I considered it.” I pick up the butter knife on my tray and wag it at him. “But I didn’t think this was up to the job.”
“Sounds like Alex wasn’t either,” Cass says. “Maybe somebody beat you to the castrating.” Then he reddens, like he just realized we’re talking about Alex’s penis, which I have clearly gotten to know.
When he blushes like that—now it’s spreading from his ears all over his cheekbones—I remember the Cass of that summer on the island. His hair is so many shades of blond now—gold and amber and yellow and dark blond at the roots—but the season he spent on Seashell, he was a towhead with fair, unfreckled skin. It was one of those crazy-weather summers, sheets of rain for days on end, high winds. Instead of the usual activities run by the island “camp counselor” that Seashell used to hire—kayak lessons, bike races, scavenger hunts—they had kids’ movies in the Club House every Saturday night to keep everyone under fifteen busy and distracted. The first time I met Cass, he opened the door for me as we were walking in. Then he turned bright pink.
“His castration would be no loss to anyone, trust me,” I say, and then want to clap my hand over my mouth. Cass may have mentioned Alex’s equipment, but I had to go rate his performance? God. This is not a subject that should be raised between us.
“I know that kid.” Cass squints at Alex’s retreating back. “We were at te
I burst out laughing, then do clap a hand over my mouth. “So . . . tutoring,” I say, trying to straighten out my face. “How many classes, exactly, did you screw up?”
Okay, that was a bit rude. I’m feeling off balance. Cass smells like lemons—I think he’s wearing aftershave. I’ve never seen him formally dressed. Now he’s wearing a tailored blue blazer, sky-blue shirt that brings out his eyes, yellow tie.
I may have been brainwashed by Grandpa Ben’s old movies, set in eras when the clothes made the man. I’m so used to Nic’s stinky rumpled wife-beaters, Dad’s aged plaid fla
Al Almeida walks by with a platter of lobsters, steam rising, and I finally get a grip.
I shift my eyes back to Cass. “The shellfish here? Taken care of,” I say, just to say something. “No need to ride to the rescue, Jose.”
“You’re welcome for that, by the way, Maria. I’m sure you meant to thank me this afternoon.”
“Can I remind you that I didn’t ask for your help?”
Cass’s teasing smile fades. “I know. I’m . . . ah, I’m asking for yours, though. That tutoring? It’s . . . it’s important. I know it’s probably the last thing you want . . .”
I shrug.
“I can pay. I mean, you know that. I flaked out this spring—just wasn’t . . . concentrating. So I basically about flunked out of English lit . . . Spence can screw around and still pull in the grades. He said only a moron could flunk ELA.” Cass shuts his mouth abruptly as if he’s said too much.
I could reassure him. I could tell him it’s no problem. Or that he’s not a moron. Instead I say, “Why do you put up with that guy?”
Cass’s jaw sets, a muscle jumping. “He can be a prick, but he’s a good friend to me.” There’s a note of challenge in his voice, a glove he’s throwing down that I am definitely not picking up. When I say nothing, he adds, “Right. So will you . . . ?” He breaks off, raising his eyebrows.
And now here’s Nic bearing down on us, glaring. “Gwe
It’s been a given for a long time that Almeida’s would go to Vivien, since her stepdad has no kids of his own. Still, I hadn’t exactly seen myself as “her staff.” I get a chilling image of what it would be like to still be wearing my quahog shirt at sixty, no longer the equal, nowhere close, of my own best friend.
“My fault,” Cass puts in. “I was keeping her, figuring out a summer schedule. For tutoring.”
“Yeah.” Nic’s tone is sub-zero, a direct contrast to the angry heat that, for some reason, is burning off him. “Wouldn’t want you to let that slide and end up off the team. Not when we’re so close to state, right, Somers?” Then he turns to me, letting Cass stew in the cloud of testosterone he’s emitting. “Vee needs you.”
Cass leans back a little, studies Nic’s face. “How about you? Getting much swim time? Hear you’re working for Seashell Maintenance too. Go
“I’ll manage,” Nic says, still frosty. He’s standing up straighter, as if to emphasize his two-inch height advantage. “Got the ocean right at hand, twenty-four/seven, after all.”
Cass stares out at the distance, his eyes dreamy, as though he can see the water from here. “I was thinking about that. How we should probably do some training over the summer, especially now that they’re not ru
In the distance, I can see Al waving his hands in despair, jerking his head toward the denuded raw bar.
“We’d better go,” I say, giving Cass a smile so quick it’s more like a grimace.
“Wait.” He touches my shoulder as I turn to go. “Call me. Or you could come to the Field House—to figure out the timing. For tutoring, I mean.”
Nic now has me by the other elbow and is hauling me away. “You are not going to the Field House apartment with that guy,” he hisses, practically shaking me by the arm.
I yank myself free. “What’s with you?” I ask, suddenly worried Nic has been taking steroids or something. “You were the one all hot to have me tutor him!”
“Yeah, well, while you two were in your little football huddle over here, I was pouring water at his family’s table, and some lady was asking Mr. Somers about Cass getting the captain spot on the team this year, saying he was a shoo-in.”
Nic’s face is stormy, almost threatening.
“So what? You’ll get it, Nico. Cool down.”
“No, listen,” Nic continues, flexing his fingers. “Look . . . I feel weird telling you this, but . . . I get to the next table and it’s Spence Cha